The Last Gift

By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rating: Strong R (language, content, violence)

Classification: S, A, T, MSR

Summary: The damage even a deception made out of love can create, the
importance and resurrection of hope, and the journey back from the edge
of despair.

Spoilers: This is NOT flickfic.  The events of the movie are not dealt
with in this story, but you *could* still assume that they’ve happened
if you really want to.  It doesn’t matter much.  Redux II gets spoiled
all to hell though.

Author’s Notes: So as not to confuse anyone, I must explain something. 
This story is told with scenes that are presumed to take place in a
*present* and a *past* situation.  The present scenes are in (oh, here’s
a big shocker) present tense (first person), and the scenes taking place
in the past are in past tense (third person).  It's really very simple,
I just don’t want anyone who reaches the first instance of timeline
jumping to go “Wait, I don’t get it.  What’s going on?”

***Rather important: To those readers who will reach a certain part of
this story and begin thinking that I have left a keyword out of my
classifications (who will then get angry and decide not to read further)
– don’t worry, it’s not what it sounds like, and the confusion is
resolved before the end of part one.

Archive:  Gossamer is fine, but I do *love* a little note for anywhere
else.

Longer notes, rambling diatribe, and profuse thanks at the end.

~~~~
The Last Gift (1/14)
By: Morgan

“And this of all my hopes
This, is the silent end”

- Emily Dickinson

~~~~

The ancient Greeks had a myth about the creation of the world.

In it, the first man was created from mud, and he was an almost perfect
being.  The gods, with their infinite pleasure taken by meddling in the
affairs of men, decided to create the first woman.  They gave her the
name Pandora, the word that meant “all gifts.”

Before they sent this woman down to live amongst the mortals, they gave
her the gift of a brilliant gilt box.  It was huge and ornate, speaking
of untold riches that must have been held within.  The gods gave this
gift to the woman with only one instruction – that she *never* open the
box.  They gave no reason save the superiority of their knowledge, and
while the warning they gave her was grave, in the end, it was not
enough.  For although the woman was innocent and well intentioned, she
possessed the flaw of curiosity.  Heedless of her warning, she opened
the box to peer inside.

With the lid thus loosened, the contents of the box spilled from their
captivity.  Freed from their prison were all the evils of mankind.

Greed.

War.

Pestilence.

Hate.

Famine.

Envy.

Spite.

Revenge.

Horrified, the woman rushed to close the lid.  She was, however, too
late.  All the evils had escaped.  Glancing into the box one last time,
she searched to see if anything remained.

At the bottom of the box, tucked away in the corner, was one remaining
item.

It was not evil like its companions; it did not rise and attempt to
break free of the box.  It was small and enduring, possessing strength
to rival that of its foes.

The last gift left was hope.

~~~~

I grew up in a strong and loving family, never lacking for love or
support.  It seemed that nothing could ever harm me.  I possessed the
hope of the very young – the belief that we are all inherently good
beings, that there will always be peace and justice in the world we
inhabit.

All too soon, this young hope fades.  As we leave the shelter of our
families, and journey out into the world beyond, we come into contact
with things that challenge our ability to hope.  We see death and loss. 
Sadness and grief burden our hearts.  We learn the reality of living and
forget what it means to hope with innocence.

When I first joined the X-Files, I still possessed much of that young,
naive hope.  I walked into that office with wide eyes and an assurance
that the world would always be the strictly ordered place I had come to
trust.  I believed that nothing could shake the foundation of my beliefs.

I was wrong.

Yet even after experiencing things that should have given me cause to
abandon all my ability to hope, I held onto that gift.  I grabbed onto
it with a tenacity that amazed even me.  I had lost my innocence but not
my humanity.  Hoping for a better future, for the day when we would find
justice on some level, was the only thing that kept me going through
those years.  Even when Mulder sank into depression and yielded to
despair, I possessed hope enough for the both of us.

They say that when Pandora opened her box, she let loose the evils of
the world and that the only thing remaining after her mistake was the
grace of hope.  They say that this is why we carry it with us always,
why, despite what horrible obstacles life may throw in our way, we
somehow persist on with the dream of a better day.  Hope is supposed to
be the most enduring of human qualities, our link, along with love, to
humanity.

I fear the truth of that myth.  I fear the idea that once hope is gone,
nothing else can remain.  I fear these things because of one harsh truth.

I have lost my hope.

It has been a slow process, but I can name the exact day on which it
began.  I can point with painful clarity to the precise moment at which
my reserves of hope began to erode away into dust.

The process began with the sound of thunder shattering a rain soaked sky.

~~~~

The rain streaked the heavens with shades of gray and black.  Clouds
hung low and ominous from the sky.  Their presence heralded the specter
of death.  It was as if even the sky knew the truth, that this day was
one of mourning, that the people below were immersed in a darkness to
rival that of the sky.

At three o’clock, the mourners began to arrive.  Their cars wound up
along the dampened path to stop near the bottom of a hill.  The
occupants emerged from their vehicles and proceeded across the wet
grass, weaving amongst the headstones.  Only a handful of mourners were
present.  They walked with slow and hesitant steps, almost as if to
delay the inevitable.

As they neared the crest of the hill, the small crowd saw something they
had not expected.  Standing beside the fresh memorial was a familiar woman.

Her fiery hair was wet and dark with the onslaught of the rain. 
Dampened strands plastered and stuck themselves to her face.  Raindrops
trailed over the contours of her cheeks, taking the place of the tears
she refused to cry, falling eventually to land upon the gray of her
suit.  Tiny dark circles stained the charcoal a deeper hue.

One of the mourners, shocked momentarily by the woman’s presence, rushed
up to her with an umbrella.  Coming up behind, sheltering her under the
black shield held firmly in his hand, he spoke in an attempt to break
her gaze on the monument.

“Agent Scully, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She didn’t turn around; didn’t even seem to acknowledge the presence of
the man behind her.  Instead, when she spoke, it was as if she was
speaking only to herself.

“I thought,” her voice was lifeless, “that maybe if I came here, I would
be able to feel him.”

The man behind her closed his eyes at her words.

She continued without pause.  “I thought that it might give me some
peace if I could just feel like he wanted me to let go, like he was
really gone.”  She stopped to draw in a shuddering breath. “But he’s not
here.”

The man behind her was unsure of what to say.  He didn’t know the words
that would be capable of easing her grief.  This woman, this strong,
independent woman, who was one of the most amazing agents he had ever
had the privilege to command, was falling apart.

Struggling, he finally spoke.  “You can’t give up, he wouldn’t want that.”

If she heard his words, she gave no indication.  She simply stood, back
straight, eyes fixed, without motion.

A loud clap of thunder pierced the silence on the hill.  The unexpected
sound caused the man to blink, breaking his study of the woman.  When he
focused his gaze upon her again, she was turning away from the stone. 
With slowly measured steps, she walked past the crowd of mourners,
ignoring their concerned stares, and moved to enter her car.

Standing at the top of the hill, the man watched her car move steadily
away, receding into the distance until it was no more than a tiny speck
on the horizon.

~~~~

The last emotion I felt with clarity was pain.  It wasn’t a physical
pain.  At the time when it occurred, I was free from physical pain for
the first time in many months.  I had just recently gained my life
back.  For the first time in such a long time, I once again held the
promise of a future within my grasp.

I think that’s why I felt the sting so deeply.  After my cure, I felt
like I had been given a second chance.  The doors of possibility were
swung wide to the wind, and I was no longer afraid of what lay behind
them.  I was ready to move forward, ready at last to see what my future
held, what *our* future held.

When he died, my future died with him.  He had held it in the palm of
his hand unknowing and in death had never released his grasp.

The pain of that loss, of the little death I suffered as those parts of
my soul were ripped away, was the last feeling I can truly remember
experiencing.  I remember thinking then that I would give anything for
the pain to go away, that being numb would be far preferable to living
with such suffering.  Looking back, I wish that I could still feel that
pain.  I wish that I still had the ability to perceive such emotion.  If
that were possible, even if all I could experience was grief, at least
it would mean I was still alive, at least it would mean that I wasn’t
simply a hollow shell.

I feel hollow.

I walk through the days with ease.  I get up, go to work, come home,
watch TV – but I am not really alive.  To all the others, all the people
who watched me with such concern during the days after his death, I seem
to have moved on.  I seem to be coping – finally.

At first, I convinced myself that there was strength in emotional
distance, that the ability to shut down the grief and move forward with
stoicism was what he would have wanted, what was best.  With blindness
born of the need to prove the righteousness of my decision, I stubbornly
clung to the belief that burying the pain was the only option left to
me.  I vowed to live on for his sake.
 
So now, years later, I go through the motions of living – an automaton
operating only because I have no other choice.  I know that had our
positions been reversed, had I preceded him in death, he would not have
transformed as I have.  He would have allowed that pain to swallow him
whole.  His death would surely have followed mine in short time.

Mulder always was the dramatic one, always so ruled by emotion.  How
long would he have lasted without me?  How far could he have gone before
collapse?  Not long, I suspect.  Yet I know, I believe, that he expected
me to live on without him.  He wanted this, needed it, expected it of me.

And so, I live.  Despite the consequences.
 
The checkgirl is staring at me now, wondering why I gaze so listlessly
off into space.  I think I’ve missed something she’s said.  She’s
looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to do or say something. 
Dumbly, I realize that she is waiting for me to pay for my groceries,
that I have been staring at her for God knows how long in an incoherent
daze.

The trip home is automatic.  I have driven these streets so many times
that my car could almost steer itself.  I find my way from the store to
the parking space in front of my building without so much as a
complicated thought.

Stepping from my car, I am assaulted by the harsh mid-February chill. 
The sky is dark and heavy with snow.  I can smell its crisp scent
hanging in the cold air.  Clumps of dirt-brown slush cling stubbornly to
the grass from the last storm.  I step around them, as I make my way up
the walk of my building.

After the funeral, I couldn’t return to my old apartment.  The walls of
that place were hung heavily with the memories of an abandoned life.  I
couldn’t remain trapped by that place and moved after only two weeks,
staying with my mother until an appropriate location could be found. 
This building is older, the heat is less reliable, and the faucets drip,
but it suits a purpose.

As I place my bags on the ground before my door and fish my keys out of
my pocket, I feel something strange.  Usually, after returning home, I
feel nothing but the dull prospect of another night spent in front of
the TV or sitting to read from science journals.  Somehow, this night is
different.

I enter the apartment while trying to dismiss this thought.  Nothing has
changed.  The walls are still beige; left painted in the non-descript
color my landlord chose.  The rooms are still dark, with the only light
emanating from a small lamp left on in the hall.  Nothing is different…

except for the shadows.

There are too many shadows in this room.  There is a difference in the
appearance of the dark that fills my living room.  I know this room; I
know its shadows.  Something is strange.

Then, one of the shadows moves.

I stand frozen in time while the darkness transforms.  The shadows bend
and blur while mixing with light.  The darkness shifts to take on an
image – the image of a man.

The last thing I register, after seeing his face illuminated by the weak
light of that tiny lamp, are the words he speaks.

 “I’m so sorry.”

~~~~
End Part 1/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (2/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

“I spoke to you that last winter morning
Watching the wind smoke snow across the ice
Told of how the beauty of your spirit, flesh,
And smile had made day break at night and spring
Burst beauty in the wasting winter’s place.

“You did not answer when I spoke, but stood
As if that wistful part of you, your sorrow,
Were blown about in fitful winds below,
Your eyes replied your worn heart wished it could
Again be white and silent as the snow.”

- Galway Kinnell

~~~~
 
The painful sound of a ringing, yet unanswered, phone met her ears for
the sixth time in under an hour.  Worried as she was, she finally pulled
on her boots and made her way out to the car.  She hadn’t seen him in
two days, and had assumed he was avoiding her.  The last time they had
seen one another, things had been awkward to say the least.  Their
relationship was in a state of precarious unbalance, and she wasn't sure
how it had even ended up there to begin with.

On the drive over, she almost turned back multiple times.  She tried to
convince herself that there was nothing wrong, that his absence was due
to the strain on their relationship.  But she knew.  Deep down she
sensed it.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t the usual sense she felt when he was in danger.  This time was
different somehow.  Ordinarily, when he was hurt or in trouble, she felt
an almost physical pain, a humming deep within her chest that could only
be stopped when she stood again by his side.  This time, it was as if a
void had opened in her chest instead.  She was terrified of what that
could mean.

Contemplating the implications of how she was feeling, she pressed the
gas pedal down as far as possible.  The engine made a sound of stubborn
protest before accelerating to where she needed it to go.

By the time she reached his door, she was on the verge of a panic
attack.  She never even considered knocking, simply taking out the key
he had given her and letting herself in.

The sight that greeted her did nothing to ease her mind.

His apartment looked perfect.  Nothing untoward, nothing out of place,
no sign that anything could be wrong.

It was too perfect.

There was no characteristic clutter, no dirty dishes sitting in the
sink, none of the usual Mulder signs that she had come to associate with
his everyday life.  She could have dealt with anything else.  A
ransacked apartment, an empty apartment, either of those would have been
preferable to this.

Nothingness was unacceptable.

His apartment looked like it was frozen – his presence completely gone. 
It was more than the simple uncharacteristic neatness that seemed to
have overcome the place.  It was deeper than that.  There was a
desolation to his apartment that she had never felt before.  It was as
if his presence had been totally erased from this space.

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she turned around to fully examine
the room in which she stood.  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed
something unusual.  Sitting in the direct center of his perfectly clean
coffee table was a carefully placed object.  Moving closer to
investigate, she gasped.

It was a photograph.  A picture of the two of them, taken a year ago. 
They had been pouring over some evidence with the Gunmen when Frohike
had surprised them both.

He had taken the picture when they weren’t looking.

< “Smile, Dana!” >

The flash had been a shock.

<“Watch out, Frohike.  She’s armed.”>

Her smile had been genuine.

<“You should be more careful.  You could give a girl a heart attack
sneaking up on her like that.”>

She stared at the picture.  Was this how they looked to other people? 
Heads bent close together, eyes locked on one another, smiling in a way
no one else would ever understand – could ever understand.  It was a
nice picture, they looked so happy.

<“You two don’t smile enough.”>

Her eyes filled with unexpected tears.  She'd never known that he had
this.  He must have asked Frohike for it later on.

Why was it sitting here, in the middle of this table, as if waiting for
her to find it?

She turned around in the empty apartment and shuddered.  The blank walls
stared back, chilling her to the core.   Her fingers traced the edges of
the photo, pressing the ridge of paper into their tips.

Stubbornly, she blinked back the tears that slowly filled her eyes. 
Where the hell was he?  Had he ditched her again?  Left her behind to
pick up the pieces and wait patiently for his return?  Did he expect her
to smile sadly and patch up his wounds, setting him back on the path
they sometimes shared?

If that were the case, she would be angry, she would scream and rant and
maybe – maybe – this time would be the last.  Maybe this would be the
last straw that finally pushed her away.

But she didn’t feel as if she had been ditched.  The familiar anger
hadn’t begun to gnaw at her emotions.  Instead, she was scared. 
Terrified with a fury that stunned her.

Mulder was missing.

~~~~

There’s a light trying to filter in underneath my eyelids.  I squeeze
them shut against the invasion, trying desperately to stave off
consciousness.  I have been dreaming, and I do not want to wake.

The light, however, is insistent.  It refuses to be ignored.  I open my
eyes slowly, allowing them to adjust to the prospect of waking.  For a
moment I am confused – desperately, fuzzily, confused.  I wonder if I
only dreamed a thing that I so long ago gave up wishing could be true.

The confusion doesn’t last.  He is watching me quietly from across the
room.

I furiously blink back the fog that enshrouds my vision and stare at
him.  My first instinct is to run to him, to throw myself into his arms
and sob out the years of heartache against his chest, to let loose the
flood of tears I have not yet allowed myself to shed.  I squash this
instinct as soon as it surfaces.  I cannot run to him without an
explanation, a reason for after all these years, after suffering for so
long, a reason for why he should return to me now.

I see the truth of what’s happened with a clarity that dawns simply. 
He’s not dead.  He never was.

He left me.

Perhaps I knew this all along.

And the only thing I can think of to say, the only thing I can think to
do, is just that – to ask him why.  My voice is cold and dead around the
words.   “Why, Mulder?  Why come back?”

He actually looks shocked by my question, as if he had never imagined I
would need to know that answer.  “Because you’re in danger,” he says
simply.

Pausing a moment, I regard his statement and then laugh bitterly.  The
laughter bursts from a place so riddled with pain that it doesn’t
resemble any sound that could ever be made in joy.  My laughter is the
sound of shattering glass, the high pitched noise of three years worth
of suppressed anger.

He appears taken aback by my outburst, and looks at me as if he doesn’t
know who I am.  The truth is, he doesn’t anymore.  The woman he knew,
the woman I was three years ago, is so long buried even I’ve forgotten
who she was.

He doesn’t say anything.

I study him then, sitting near me, slumped in a chair with long legs
spread out before him.  He looks older, more battered and haunted than I
remember.  Lines etch his face, and the faintest scattering of gray is
visible in his dark hair.  He has aged beyond the three years he has
been gone.

“Listen, Scully.  I know how hard this must have been…”

“Shut up!”  I interrupt, not able to allow him to continue, hatred
suffusing my words.  “Don’t you dare tell me that you understand.”  The
rage swells within me.  “You had a choice.  You chose this fate; that
was a gift I was never given.  If you’ve suffered, at least it was a
suffering of your own choosing.”

His eyes flare now, bursting with something I have never seen in them
before.  “You think I had a choice?!”  His tone is dark and angry.  “I
never had a choice.”

I wait for him to continue, expecting him to say more.  For some reason,
he doesn’t.  Instead, he rises from the chair and moves over to stand
before my closet.  Reaching up, he pulls down my suitcase and begins to
throw things into the bag.

I have no idea what is going on, and I am enraged.  “What the hell are
you doing!?”

“Packing.”  He says it without an explanation.

There is no way I can take any more of this.  In one night, the world as
I knew it has been dashed to shreds beneath my feet.  With his
appearance, the future as I saw it unfolding before me has disappeared
and changed into nothing.  That future may have been bleak, but at least
it was certain.  I rise swiftly from the bed and move to grab his
reaching arm.

His eyes dart down to mine as I speak.  “And where the hell do you think
I’m going?”

“Scully, I can’t explain anything right now.  We don’t have time.”  He
looks at me expectantly, hoping I will accept this.  There is no way in
hell I am going along that easily.

“No way.  Not until I have an explanation.”

He drops the clothes he is holding in his hand and reels to grab both of
my arms right below the elbows.  With a tug, he pulls me up to face him;
his breath is hot and humid against my skin.  A violent shudder runs
through my body at his proximity.  How could I possibly have forgotten
the full intensity of this?

“They’re coming for you, Scully.  They’ve taken back their promises and
they’re coming to take you back.”  He speaks those words with terror in
his eyes, and I know he believes them.

I am confused.  “Who…”

He cuts me off.  “We don’t have time.  They’ll come tonight.”  He turns
away from me now and resumes his packing.  “You can’t bring much, not so
that they’ll notice.”

I am in shock, without the ability to process all that is happening so
quickly.  Needing to take some sort of control, I push him away from my
suitcase.  “I can pack my own bags.”  The words are bitter, but that is
all I can feel.

He steps away, giving me the space to finish up.  Standing a few feet
away, he watches me.  When I look up at him, his eyes are damp, filled
with longing and something else.  He reaches out to touch my face.  I
flinch, and a look of such intense agony passes over his features that I
can feel the scorch of its burning.

Wrenching myself away from his gaze, I shut the top of my bag.  “I’m done.”

He looks at me wordlessly.  We both know that words have died between
us, time has seen to that.  With his eyes riveted to the bag on my bed,
he snatches it up and heads for the front door.  He knows I will follow,
he does not even look to assure himself of it.  And I do, I follow him
as I have always done.

~~~~

When I lift my head from where it has been pressed up against the
window, there is a dull throb under my skin from the pressure of the
hard glass.  I rub my eyes, attempting to push away the cloud of dreams
still clinging to my eyelids.

The green lights of the dashboard reflect against his skin, lighting it
in a way so familiar it brings a rush of memories to my mind’s eye.  How
many times have I sat as I do now, beside him on a highway, miles
ticking away beneath the wheels of a shared car, that green glow casting
the already pronounced angles of his face into even sharper relief?  How
many hours have we spent in silent communion?

The answer is almost innumerable.

I used to treasure those long road trips.  They were hours spent
together, without interruption.  On those winding, limitless highways we
spent hours alone and shared a connection I never grew to understand
completely.  We could talk of nothing for hours, but more often than
not, we spoke of nothing at all.  Those silences were never
uncomfortable, never strained.  I never searched blindly for idle
conversation to fill a yawning void.  Between Mulder and I, such common
difficulties were non-existent.  The indescribable ties that bound us
ran so deep that words seemed almost superfluous.

The wonder of that truth was that it was one we were both distinctly
aware of.  There is no greater joy in life than the shared knowledge
between two people that the connection they share is singular.  No more
complex a feeling exists than the shared awareness of a bond that you
both believe will span lifetimes.  When such a life-altering
relationship forms, when you finally come into contact with a person you
know has been destined to share your life with you, when the knowledge
that no matter what happens, in some form or another, you can never be
separated from that person again is present, you immediately treasure
that bond above all others.  You will risk your life to defend it.  You
will sacrifice your beliefs.

And like that, in shared awe of the complexity of the myriad emotions
spun between us, Mulder and I traveled thousands of miles.   Never truly
lovers, but ever so much more than that simple term in many respects.

I always felt safest in his company – truly sheltered – with the firm
knowledge that he would lay down his life to protect me.  I would often
sleep away the long miles, and sometimes, just before drifting off into
unconsciousness, I would feel the slight pressure of his hand upon my
arm, his fingers brushing the hair from my temple, or the comforting
squeeze of his hand upon my own.  Ghost touches, given in the belief
that I was unaware.  Safe touches, the only ones we could allow given
our difficult circumstances.

I would steal glances.  From the concealment of false sleep I would
watch him, reveling in the indescribable peace of simply being together.

I watch him now, in a similar fashion to those long ago stolen looks,
but the sense of simple peace is gone from this moment.  The beauty of
what we once shared now has the weight of too much sorrow heaped upon
it.  Sitting beside him, I feel alone in a way that is more frightening
than any of the years I spent believing in his death.  That I can be a
mere two feet away from him and feel nothing but the coldness of my rage
is a terrifying revelation.

He knows I am watching him.  I am sure of it.

“Where are we?”

For a moment, he looks as if he won’t answer, as if for some reason the
answer to my question is too much information to volunteer.

“Somewhere in West Virginia.”

I don’t acknowledge his answer.  Instead, I simply turn my head back to
the flat blackness beyond my window.

I can feel his eyes upon me, and I am somehow thankful that at least
this awareness hasn’t faded between us.  I refuse to meet his gaze,
directing my eyes anywhere other than to meet his.

There are a million questions and demands raging through my head, all
requesting equal attention, and my weak mind seems too numb, too taxed
beyond the point of reason, to sort any of those statements into a
semblance of order.  Needing some answer, some idea of what is to come,
I ask to the easiest question I know, leaving all the other more
complicated queries to sit unattended.

“Where are we going?”

From my view of gently rolling hills and a barely visible scattering of
trees lining the dark roadside, I hear his response.

“I’m not really sure.”

Not sure.  He’s not sure.  That’s comforting.

“Well then, what the hell are we doing driving aimlessly through the
night?”  My words are angry, laced with audible venom.  I cannot mask
the emotions that storm within me.

The cadence of his voice when he answers is low and threatening, rough
and scratchy.  “I’m just trying to get us as far away from danger as
possible.”

An old, unabandonable concern snaps unwanted into my thoughts.  Glancing
at the clock on the dash, I see that it is past four in the morning.  We
have been driving for nearly eight hours.

Purposefully hiding any tint of compassion in my voice, I ask,
“Shouldn’t you stop and rest soon?  It’s after four.”

A ragged sigh slips from his lips.  “Yeah.  We’ll stop at the next motel.”

Thankfully, the nearest motel is just off the next exit.  We pull into
the parking lot and Mulder gets out of the car to check us in.  I make
no move to follow him.  This is his journey.  I am only here because I
have nowhere else to go. I will leave him to determine the direction for
now.  He emerges from the tiny office, gliding across the parking lot
with the grace I so often admired in him.  A dark silhouette against the
pale moonlit sky.

I don’t question when he brings both of our small bags into one room. 
It seems pointless, a triviality long past the time of importance.

He doesn’t speak to me, simply moving past me to enter the bathroom. 
There is the sound of running water and the rustle of clothes.  When he
reappears, there is a glance tossed fleetingly in my direction and a
painful light in his eyes that makes me flinch.  I evade it carefully
and clench a tight fist while behind me I hear the bedclothes shift as
his body settles upon the mattress.

Moving towards the bathroom, I close my eyes in anticipation of sleep. 
I am tired, so very tired, and I hope that tonight – maybe – the demons
will allow me a moment of peace.

It is a stupid thing to hope for.

The sheets are rough beneath my tired limbs.  A wide expanse of
untouched mattress lies with the duty of separating me from Mulder’s
sleeping form.  I stare at the wall opposite the bed.  In the dark of
the room, with the lights off, it is a distant black mass.  I close my
eyes and breathe in the musty smell of the pillow cradling my head. 
Dust and something grimier invade my senses as the smell of ratty motel
bedding lulls me into an uneasy sleep.
 
~~~~

The smell of decay overwhelmed her senses as she stepped into the old
warehouse – damp and thick.  The towering walls that surrounded her
reached up to touch a vaulted ceiling high above her head.  Images of
gothic cathedrals flitted through her mind, as she stared up along the
ancient walls.   Their soaring surfaces were black with accumulated
grime and mold.

Huge and oppressive, the building moved to consume her.

She took in a deep breath of the musty air, filling her lungs with the
hope this place represented.

Earlier during the day, Skinner had received an anonymous tip.  The
caller had given the location of an abandoned warehouse where they
claimed Mulder was being held.  When Skinner had asked for proof, they
had given him Mulder’s badge number.  Not much of a lead, but more than
nothing, and nothing was all they'd had since this began.  Staring
listlessly out the front window of her home, unable to manage anything
more than that simple act, she had received Skinner’s call.

They had been searching for Mulder for over six months.  Despair had
given way to hopelessness, and only her allegiance to Skinner had
allowed the case to stay open.  But she knew that there was a limit to
his influence. There was only so long he could keep searching with no
indication that the search would ever end.  Already, she knew of
pressure being applied to abandon the investigation.

There was no evidence to examine – no clues to follow.  Old cases had
been studied, old enemies considered.  Starting with their most recent
involvements and working back in time, they had analyzed every detail of
Mulder’s past.  No solid links to his absence had been found.

Logically, it was assumed that his disappearance was another
construction of the faceless men responsible already for so much
suffering.  And with similar logic, all parties concerned knew with
dreadful certainty that those men did not take something and leave clues
behind to its whereabouts.  Mistakes like that weren’t to be abided by. 
Men targeted by that nameless faction weren’t meant to be found.

And despite this logic, Scully remained secure in her belief that he
*would* be found.  She could not wrap her mind around the belief that he
was gone forever.  Deep within her, she still felt the pull of him that
she had always believed only death could possibly sever.
 
Her fellow agents looked upon her in pity.  The malice and ridicule she
had sometimes seen in their eyes was replaced by something she found
even more distasteful.  They felt sorry for her, but it was not the pity
felt for a colleague, or for someone who’s suffering you know could
easily be your own.  No.  The people who surrounded her looked upon her
as a guilty widow – a woman whose traitorous actions had lead to her own
downfall.  She was a tragic figure, a sad spectacle, a lesson to those
who thought fleetingly of pushing the edges into things best left
undisturbed.

And their feelings for the man they searched for were considerably less
sympathetic.  He had always been an outcast, a pariah, he had challenged
too many of them to win their favor by his suffering.  The common
consensus was that he had finally received what they all knew had been
coming.

They watched poor, tragic Scully, whose intelligence and promise had
been destroyed by a fatal mistake, who abandoned her hopeful career in
favor of a man all knew was destined for failure.  They watched as she
trudged determinedly onward in search of a man few believed would ever
be found.  Surrounded by agents who viewed her through these tainted
eyes, Scully held up the back of a swat team conducting the search of
the warehouse.

Rounding a corner, she came to face a large staircase.  The cast iron
swirls formed a thin skeleton that ascended several stories towards an
upper level.  Placing a tentative foot upon the bottom step, she
abandoned her planned cautiousness as she heard a shout ringing from the
floors above.

Carried by feet that moved without her control, heedless of the
precarious nature of the structure that rattled beneath her heavy
footfalls, Scully raced to the top of the stairs and searched for the
source of the shouting.

It was not difficult to find.

In a small room, hidden at the back of the second floor, a group of
agents had assembled.

Standing just outside the doorway, she froze.  She did not want to enter
the room; she did not want to know what secrets it housed.  There was a
stench of dread moving from the confines of that room, it washed over
her and assured her of terrible things soon to be revealed.  If only she
could remain where she was, eyes closed, unable to move forward.  Surely
not knowing was better than what she felt certain she would discover
within that room.

Opening her eyes, she saw Skinner moving towards her with a look of
concern written on his stern features.    Unwilling to appear the
weakling, she sucked in a deep, unsteady breath and held it firm within
her lungs.  Teeth clenched tight, she took a step forward and entered
the room.

The place was beyond the definition of small.  Somewhere, at the back of
her mind, she numbly guessed that it had once been used as a storage
space of some kind.  The ceiling was so low that many of the agents had
been forced to stoop in order to fit through the doorway.  The room was
thick with the same grime as the outside rooms, and had a thin,
dirt-blackened mattress tucked away in one corner.

Adding to the terror of the place was an almost tangible feeling of
sorrow.  The walls of the tiny room dripped with pain and suffering that
smothered her perceptions.  The place stank of death.

On unsteady feet, she moved to stand before the crowd of agents gathered
in the center of the room.  Like Moses and the Red Sea, the men parted
before her.  They watched her with silently expectant eyes, waiting for
her to break.  Walking down the human path, wrapped in the strength of
their gaze, she faced the object of their attention.

In the middle of the floor was a large pool of blood.

It didn’t take her years of medical training to realize that the victim
could not have survived this much blood loss.  Any agent in the room
would be able to distinguish that.  She also knew with a sickening
certainty whose blood it was.

She closed her eyes against the sight, fusing her lids together in an
attempt to block out its meaning.  Her breath seemed to have stopped in
her lungs.  The giant breath she had taken and held before entering the
room refused to be released.  Her awareness of the men and the room
around her faded into nothing.  There was only the hollow sound of blood
rushing in her ears and the coppery smell of the puddle at her feet.

~~~~
End Part 2/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (3/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

“a wind has blown the rain away and blown
the sky away and all the leaves away,
and the trees stand.  I think i too have known
autumn too long.”

- e.e. Cummings

~~~~

I wake to find him gone.

Wishing that it were possible to hide forever in the safety of sleep, I
roll my still weary body from the bed.  There is an old-fashioned
digital clock, the kind with shifting black numerals that slide by with
a steady click, and it stares at me proclaiming the late hour. It is
just after six PM.  I have slept over twelve hours

I feel heavy with the depression of not having seen the sun in too long.

The wall across from me is painted a dirty beige that I long ago began
believing was the universal color chosen for cheap motels.  I stare at
it in some sort of warped fascination. It is a blank surface that could,
in appearance, be any number of motel walls from my past - our past. 
It's barren facade swallows me whole, as the door opens and I hear the
familiarity of footsteps that cannot be forgotten.  I turn slowly to
meet out the sight of him.  He is facing away from me, laying items out
on the table near the heavily curtained window.

Knowing I stare, he speaks.  “I got breakfast.”  He says the word with
an almost-sarcasm intended towards the odd time of day during which we
eat our *breakfast.*

Watching him lay out paper plates and tiny cardboard containers of
greasy eggs and over-buttered toast, I fill myself with the pain of
absorbing his image.  It is self-punishment, I know.  Studying him
awakens an ache that burns.  But I cannot help myself.  It is why I am
even here, after all.  I am powerless against my connection to him, my
strange, haunting need of him.

To say that I once loved Mulder would be a simplification of an emotion
whose complexity is difficult to truly grasp.  It was infinitely more
and bewilderingly less than love.  It possessed a dedicated passion that
no love affair could ever rival.  We clung to one another for reasons
that were honest in their purity and sad in their desperation.  That our
relationship was intrinsic to our natures was a fact immediately
understood by both of us.  We recognized it with clarity and never spoke
of the implications.  That we would die for one another was of such
basic simplicity it was never even considered.

We understood the sad depression of the tragedy tying us together.  We
were each all the other had, all that was left after the destruction of
a never-ending battle.  Bound by a spiritual bond that death could not
threaten, an arrangement created by factions we raged against, and
separated by regulations imposed by both our superiors and ourselves, we
were more dedicated than any fabled lovers and more distant at times
than the worst of enemies.  We were together in a mutual aloneness that
was both chosen and predestined.

And now, the tattered threads of that ancient connection sway about in
fitful winds that swirl within the gulf opened between us.

I find that I cannot move from my place on the bed.

Mulder has seated himself at the table and now sips coffee from a
Styrofoam cup.  He stares at it with the attentiveness that is
recognition of the fact that the time has come for explanations.

Without looking at me, he begins.

“There is so much that words cannot explain.”

I accept this, knowing it is a sad truth.

He continues.  “For whatever good it does, and I expect that it will do
none, I left for your sake.”

I absorb his statement, trying with desperation to keep my anger in its
place. “For my sake?”  I do not succeed completely.

“Your cancer,” a painful, memory-laden pause, “the man who saw fit to
give me the cure, he did it for selfish reasons.”

He is not making sense, and I fidget with the impatience of wanting a
quick explanation.
 
Sensing my restlessness, he forges ahead.  “When he was presumed dead,
the payment he had desired of me for the delivery of your recovery
seemed forgotten.  The turmoil caused by the revelation of Blevin’s
deception, the disappearance of Cancerman, I foolishly believed that I
could have you back without some compensation being demanded of me.”

He pauses again to collect his thoughts.  “The man who handed me your
cure, who returned your life, did so with the intention that I turn to
the dark side.  He wanted my allegiance, a betrayal of my own beliefs.” 
A deep breath.  “I don’t know what I would have done.  You were dying. 
I wanted to die in your place.”

I know this is true.  I have felt similar feelings for him.  How long
ago lost those emotions seem.  There was once a time when I risked death
every day for the gift of Mulder's trust, when my life became secondary
with his teetering in the balance.  His faith in me, mine in him, they
pushed me over the edge of sensibility, past the realm of disbelief, and
I went willingly every time.

“It seems that the deal offered to me was never sanctioned by the powers
above.  They never intended for you to recover.  In retrospect, I’m
surprised it took them as long as it did to decide that as long as you
*were* cured, whether they had designed it or not, that some price
should finally be extracted from me.”

Some grim understanding dawns, bringing with it heaviness in my stomach,
a bitter taste on my tongue.  “A price.”  Not a question from my lips –
an acknowledgement.

A price.  A disappearance.  One life for another.

His voice is low now, rich with the acceptance of a fate that is
glaringly unfair.  “They knew I would accept.  There was never any
question.”

I rise from the blankets, swallowing stale air into burning lungs,
turning away from him to pace restlessly along the side of the bed.  “So
you disappeared, you abandoned your life to save mine.”  My words are
bitten out in a careful monotone.  I will not surrender to anger.  Not yet.

“I had to.”

I continue with the appearance of having not heard him.  “You allowed
everyone to believe you were dead.”

“You were the only thing that mattered.”

His voice does not register.  “You knew I would suffer.”

“But you would also live.”

I will not hear his rationalizations.  “You abandoned me.”

“I saved you.”

Saved me.

Saved me.

He saved me.

Saved.  Me.

He saved me!  From what?  From the truth?  From a choice?  From death
delivered by nameless men?  Did he fear their victory?  Did he save my
life?  They've won now, anyway.  They've won by my suffering, by his, by
turning us into these dismal shadows of our former selves.  Did he save
me?  Not really, and I can see now that he couldn't save himself
either.  Reeling on sharp heels, I break from a steady path and turn
swiftly on him.  The anger has won.  I concede my defeat.  Fury drenches
my features and tone.  “I *never* asked to be saved.  It should have
been my choice, too!”

He stares at me with sad determination.  “You never would have allowed it.”

I am inches from him now, seething before his seated figure.  “You are
damn straight I never would have allowed it!”

I breathe deeply and then let loose with a scream behind my words. 
“Were you so blind, were you incapable of understanding, how could you
not realize that your death would kill me as certainly as any
illness!?"  I feel nothing but the sting of betrayal.  Pure and raw,
simple and comforting.

“Or were you just too selfish to see?  You knew you couldn’t live
without me, you wanted to save me so desperately because of the pain it
would bring you to see me die.  It never entered your mind that by
allowing me to believe that you were dead, you were forcing me into the
very situation that you yourself were trying to avoid.”

I am speaking softly now, such contempt in my tone that it would
frighten me if I weren't clinging to it like a lifeline.  “How could you
do that, Mulder?  How could you avoid your own suffering by creating mine?”

He looks up at me, so close that our breath mingles.  The fires behind
his brilliant eyes have been extinguished.  “You were the strong one,
Scully.  You could live without me.  I always knew that.  I knew you
would continue on, even if it hurt at first.”

I want to slap him, to raise my fist and smash it down with a crash so
that the pain and anger can have a physical manifestation.  How dare
he?  I seethe.  “And yes, Mulder, it did hurt at first.  But you were
wrong about one thing.  It never stopped hurting, the pain never went
away.  It just retreated within, eating at me, tearing at me.  Even
absent from my life you didn’t let go, and I was faced with the prospect
of living out the rest of my life with the knowledge that the ache would
never go away again.”

I stare directly into him, not bothering to shield the wrath and grief
in my eyes.  “How could you do this to me?”

His mood shifts with a speed that awes.  The fires in his eyes reignite
and flare unchecked.  Rising to tower over me, his hands grip my arms
below the elbows tightly.  I have never heard the oppressively dark tone
that now shadows his voice.  “Make no mistake, Scully,” his words are a
growl, “I did die three years ago.  As surely as if an assassin’s bullet
*had* pierced my heart.”

He lowers his face closer towards mine.  Our eyes merge and my
perceptions narrow to include only the two of us.  “There was no easy
choice, no simple decision.  All paths open to me led down roads filled
with loss.  I made a choice, the only choice I knew how to make at the
time.”

I don’t want to hear this.  I don’t want to hear any of this.  It’s too
much. Too much to absorb; too much to reconcile.  I want my control
back.  I want the life I once knew returned to me.  Fury is impossible
to control and pain saps my energy with every breath.  I don’t like what
I’ve become.

The room swims momentarily in my perceptions.  I force it back into
focus with the question that still needs to be asked, even if the
answers to the ones already voiced have not been found.  I whisper
fiercely, he is close enough that loud words are unnecessary.  “So why
are you back?  What exactly are we running from?”

Releasing me abruptly, Mulder sinks back into the chair behind him. 
“Even after these past few years, I managed to stay in contact with the
guys back at the Lone Gunman.  I needed to have some link, some way of
finding out whether they honored their side of the bargain.”

I interrupt.  “And they haven’t?”

There is fear in his words, a hesitancy, as if they can hear us speaking
right now.  “They did… for a while.”  A soft pause.  “But recently they
decided that the deal they made was no longer as tempting as another
prospect.”

I can barely force the question.  “What prospect?”

He regards me with appraising eyes.  “You know, Scully, of all the test
subjects forced into the experiments and procedures you’ve endured,
you’ve survived the longest.”

There is a sick irony on his face and in his words.  “In fact,” he
continues, “you’ve survived *considerably* longer than the other test
subjects.  So much so that you have become a statistical abnormality – a
weird variable worthy of analysis.”

He is staring down into his open palms now.  “Besides,” he murmurs,
“they no longer consider me a threat, I caved to their demands and
everyone who would once have helped me believes I am dead.  You are an
interesting lab specimen to them now, and also a woman who has always
known too much for their comfort level.”

I can feel the tremors beginning to ripple through my body.  The terror
finds its way into my eyes and throat.  “They want to take me back.”

“By now, your apartment has already been searched.  They were supposed
to have secured your return tonight.  I almost didn’t make it in time.”

I feel sick.  Nausea crashes over me, and the bitter taste in my throat
swiftly becomes the sting of rising bile.  I swallow heavily, forcing it
down.  Lead drifts through my veins making me feel lifeless and cold. 
So cold.  Swaying on my feet, I see the look of concern on his face and
steady myself quickly.  Refuge is offered in the shape of the chair
opposite to him at the table.  I sink into it and it is a numb support
beneath me.

He has returned to the task of laying out our meal.  From where I stare
at the grainy wood of the table we sit at, I can see him place a cup of
coffee before me.  Blindly, I take a sip.

Cream, no sugar.

Sometimes, the little things are the easiest to remember.

We do not speak again.  The words have run dry.  There is too much here
to struggle with, too many things we cannot handle.  Any more words
between us would collapse the tenuous grip on control we both cling to.

I stab fiercely at a plate of limp scrambled eggs.

~~~~

Strange how the highway calms me now.

As a child, the tedious car trips spent moving from state to state as my
father’s career shifted us around the nation were a constant annoyance. 
Now they give me much needed time to think.

I don’t know where we are headed, and I don’t think that Mulder does
either.  He is operating on instinct alone, thinking on his feet,
concentrating only on where the next few hours will lead us.  I can
understand this.  How can we think of what the future will be?  We are
both in a state of perpetual shock.

I realize now that Mulder never intended to return to me.  The future he
had planned for himself was as bleak as the one lay out before me.  But
in yet another flash of comprehension, I understand that like me, it was
easier to deal with that bleakly certain future than to face such
emptiness as we do now.  Now we both swing about in unanchored limbo,
unsure of where the next gust will carry us.  Only, even the comfort we
once would have offered one another is absent now.  Alone we face
uncertainty.

Still tired somehow, even after all the hours I have slept recently, I
realize that this is to become our routine for the foreseeable future. 
Driving at night, sleeping away the day in cheap motels, striving for
invisibility.

Mulder is driving again, and I wonder when I should offer to take the
wheel.  He won’t be able to handle driving constantly.  Besides, we can
get farther if we both take driving duties.

With a start, I find that dull acceptance of this situation has settled
over me.  This is what has become of my fate; this is the future I now
inhabit.  Strangely, feeling nothing but the unsteady motion of
proceeding through what I cannot change has happened easily.  My mind is
so numb by the shock of recent events that acceptance has become
unavoidable.  I am thankful that this numbness has settled; it makes
things easier.
 
Watching the little reflective disks that shine up in a steady
procession along the highway stretching out before us, Mulder interrupts
my reverie.

He speaks quietly.  “We’re being followed.”

A ball of dread forms and uncoils in my belly.  They’ll kill us both. 
There is no question of that.  Or, if not that, then they’ll kill him
and take me away like some lab rat, to be picked at and prodded until my
usefulness is exhausted.  I would rather die than face that prospect.

I feel the pull on the car as Mulder pushes up our acceleration.  The
speedometer rises and with my eyes planted on the rearview mirror,
searching for indication of what Mulder has said, I am blinded by the
sudden glare of headlights.  The sound of a rapidly moving engine flares
behind us.

Mulder’s hands grip the steering wheel fiercely, knuckles whitening
around the brown leather.  With anxious eyes, I watch as our pursuers
pull around and to the side of us.  With dawning terror, I realize their
intention.  They mean to force us from the road.

“Hold on.”  Mulder’s sharp command registers, and I secure the seat belt
around my waist, grabbing tightly to the dashboard.  I have held on for
only a moment before the car veers fiercely with the gnash of grinding
metal.  Tires squeal, and the road swirls before me.  The muscles in
Mulder’s arms pull with the strain of keeping our vehicle on the road.

Taking the offensive rather than allowing us to be bullied about the
highway, Mulder cuts the steering wheel sharply to the left, ramming the
other vehicle with a swift counter punch.

I watch as the dark car swerves and steadies, recovering quickly from
our attack.  Too quickly.

Before Mulder can steady his hands again, we receive another blow to our
side.  It is too soon; he is not ready.  Our car shimmers and slides,
tires burning up on the asphalt.  A spray of gravel cascades up in front
of my window, striking the glass with a harsh scatter, as our right side
trips over the sharp ditch forming the side of this highway.

An involuntary scream yelps from my throat.  Mulder is cursing with soft
vehemence under his breath.  “This car is too fucking small!”  He speaks
aloud, not directed at me.  “I don’t know how much abuse it can stand up
to.”

Another blow and another rapid drop, as we are forced again from the
road.  I can feel Mulder’s fear; it compliments my own.

Valiantly, he attempts to strike back again.  The motion he performs
while shifting the wheel to the left is significantly sharper than
before.  My body jerks painfully within the restraints of my seatbelt.

I don’t see the reaction of the other car; I am too busy steadying
myself.  All I hear is the sound of protesting tires and a familiar hiss
of gravel along the side of the road.

Up ahead, the roadway narrows.  A small metal bridge spans the obstacle
of a narrow stream.

I see Mulder reel in a sharp gasp while I feel myself do the same.

Our opponents have found their way back onto the road just as we reach
the bridge.  Not knowing what he will do, I watch Mulder anxiously.

The highway takes on a new hum as metal moves rhythmically beneath our
car.  Time seems to slow.  I close my eyes, feeling the motion of the
car, waiting for the next blow.

I reel with a burst of motion.  Our car shimmers to the left.  Steel
crunches, rubber burns.  I open my eyes to see the results of Mulder’s
new attack.  He is driving up against the car beside us with a deadly
gleam in his eyes.  That look alarms me.  For the second time since his
return, I see an emotion in Mulder that is unfamiliar and frightening.

Our two cars duel along the bridge, sides grinding into one another. 
Only Mulder’s force of will keeps us on our metal path.  With another
sharp twist, Mulder’s hands push the steering wheel and the other car to
the left.  The bridge is coming to its end.  The low metal railing is
tapering off.

I hear a high squeal of sharp metal tearing, steel snapping.  Our
pursuer’s car is caught by the shove of our attack over the side of the
bridge’s rail.  Its protective barrier digs into the underneath of their
car.  Delivering one last burst to the side, Mulder sends them over the
edge and into the rise of an embankment.

We don’t have time to recover.  Our car is still caught in the
aftershock of motion as a deafening blast and the sear of heat rock from
behind us.  We are trapped by the blast and move without intention.

I feel Mulder reach over to grab at my arm and hear the sharp sound of
my name.  We hurtle to the side of the road.  The car drops roughly as
it meets the ditch, and the high dirt embankment on the other side
reaches out to meet us.

I can’t even call out to him.

I taste the sharp tang of blood in my mouth, and blinking fiercely, I
try to force renewed focus on the world around me.  It fluctuates and
shimmers in my sight, a twisting reality.  All I can see is a dark lump
beside me – Mulder, I imagine – and then gazing out through the window I
find my head pressed up against; I can discern the long black shadow of
the road our car no longer stands upon.

Squeezing desperately, I try to force out a word, or even a gasp.  My
attempt fails, and I catch one more glimpse of the highway before
darkness descends.
 
~~~~
End Part 3/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)

 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (4/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

What I had not foreseen
Was the gradual day
Weakening the will
Leaking the brightness away,
The lack of good to touch,
The fading of body and soul,
Smoke before wind,
Corrupt, unsubstantial.

-Stephen Spencer

~~~~

The road stretched out before her – a long, flat, obsidian ribbon
twisting out from beneath her feet and into the darkness beyond.

Her slippers scuffed lightly on the rough pavement – little shushing
noises – a steady shuffle.

Wind whistled teasingly through the thin material of her tee shirt,
snaking up along her arms to send little rivers of goose bumps
skittering over her body.  She shivered and wrapped her arms fiercely
around herself.

So cold.  So very cold.

Why was it so cold?

She closed her eyes, imagining warmth.

Like bloodthirsty demons, voices painted in memory followed her
unplanned course.  She had started on this little excursion in an
attempt to banish the voices.  Leaving her mug of tea untouched on the
table, the door to her apartment open to the night air, she had stepped
outside and begun a forward movement, unsure of any destination.

But the voices had followed.  With determination they stalked her. 
Creeping up to remind her of a terrible reality.

No hope.

No hope, they sang.

No hope left now.  Nothing else to do but accept.

Accept and move forward.

Forward to where?

She didn’t know.

And still the voices hummed on.  They were selfish memories of recent
events.  She shuffled further forward while they swirled about her head.

<“We’ve been left with no choice, Agent Scully.”>

No choice.

<“It’s a waste of manpower at this point.”>

A waste.

<“The blood was determined to belong to Agent Mulder without a doubt.”>

Without a doubt.

<“The investigation into the disappearance of Special Agent Fox Mulder
is hereby closed upon the delivery of sufficient evidence to bring about
the declaration of his death.”>

She stumbled, her path momentarily obscured by a rut in the road. 
Valiantly, she fought back tears.

<“We know how you feel about this, Agent Scully.”>

How she felt.  They had no idea how she felt.  How could they know of
such a thing?  How could they presume to understand what his loss had
done to her – how the very foundation of her life had just been snatched
from beneath her – how could they empathize with that?

<“We’re all very sorry for your loss.”>

Tiny white teeth dug into her bottom lip, forcing back her voice,
keeping her from crying out.

She had vowed to herself that she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give into the
weakness that threatened.  That was what they wanted after all, these
men who had created this hell, they wanted her to fall apart, to crack
under the strain of losing him.

They will not win, she vowed.  They will not.

But maintaining control was hard.  So very hard when the temptation of
giving way to grief would be so easy to achieve.
 
And all around her people walked about on eggshells, making her strength
harder to control.  They were unsure of what to say to her, what
condolences to offer.  She was as fragile to them as a porcelain doll,
as brittle as burnt paper.  No one wanted to be the person responsible
for pushing too far, for straining her to the point where the already
present cracks in her construction would branch out in growth and result
in a shatter.

They were afraid of her, of what she was slowly becoming after his
loss.  They had never understood, never even tried to understand the
full complexity of the bond she had shared with him.  It had awed and
frightened them, these people who weren’t comfortable around the things
that they did not understand.  Emotions like the ones she was
experiencing were foreign to them, and so, as a result, she too was
foreign, a strangely sad oddity.

She was so alone.

Through each murmured apology and every sorrowful glance, she felt more
and more alone.

The street she was walking upon dead-ended in front of her.  She stopped
abruptly, feet stumbling in confusion as she came up to the very end of
the road.  Releasing a breath, it clouded around her in a chilly mist. 
She shivered.

Behind her there was a sudden glare – the harsh cut of headlights loomed
at her back.  Turning slowly, she was blinded by the oncoming light and
stood dumbly in the center of the cul-de-sac.  The vehicle slowed and
came to stop a few feet in front of her.

Blinded still, she did not move from where she stood until a familiar
voice called out from the emerging figure on the driver’s side of the car.

“Dana, what are you doing out here?  It’s freezing.”

She tightened the grip of her arms around her chest, trying to squeeze
the warmth back into her blood.

“Dana?”  Her mother’s voice sounded apprehensive, a little frightened,
and very weary.

“Dana, did you hear me?”

She blinked and looked up to meet her mother’s gaze.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders gently – mother’s hands – comforting,
warm milk and bedtime story hands – coaxing her back towards the car.

Settled precariously against the gray upholstery of the passenger’s
seat, she felt instead of saw her mother enter the car.  The engine
started with a low purr and there was the sensation of motion as they
turned around and headed back down the road she had just walked upon.

Staring out at the vacant street, she wondered briefly at the great
distance she had traveled on foot.

Beside her, her mother cleared her throat.

“Dana, I’m worried about you.”

She closed her eyes, blocking out the image of small suburban houses,
warm lights glowing from behind curtained living room windows.  She
breathed deeply and studied the hum of the street beneath their wheels.

“I know,” was all she said.

~~~~

The smell is familiar in a way that washes uncomfortable memories to the
forefront.  Antiseptic and that nameless tang of the sick and dying.

I know exactly the color of the walls that will greet me when I open my
eyes.  Every one of these rooms has seemed the same whether I was the
patient or the patiently waiting.  They always seemed too small, too
stuffy, too resounding with the faint promise of a recovery that might
not be.

I know by the stiffness of the mattress beneath me and the smell of
hospital laundered sheets that this time I am a patient again.  The
walls do not disappoint me when I finally force my eyes to open.

A sharp slice of pain seers through my head with the introduction of
light, seeming to anchor directly behind my eyes.  I gasp against the
sensation, the events leading up to this waking rushing back to meet me.

My first thought, my only thought – Mulder.

I glance quickly about the room, knowing that I will not find him,
knowing that I *need* to find him.  Needing answers, I grab onto the
call button hanging limply by the side of the bed and stab at it several
times.

My patience is non-existent; I am desperate for answers, without the
time to wait.  The call button receives another several jabs just as the
tiny figure of a white-clad nurse enters my room.

I speak before she gets the chance, rising from the pillows to sit up
and face her.

“Where is he, the man I was with?”  I know my voice is desperate and
strained.

The nurse considers me for a moment with a look of non-comprehension on
her face.

I speak again, my voice rising.  “I need to know where he is!”

The confusion does not leave the nurse’s expression, and she approaches
the bed.

“You’re not making any sense, Ma’am.”  Gentle hands push me back against
the bed as she speaks. “You need to calm down.”

I drag in a deep, rough breath, trying to appear calm.  When I speak my
words are slow and careful, an idiot would be offended by my tone.  “A
man.”  I pause to let her absorb this.  “There was a man brought in here
with me.”

She still manages to look puzzled, and I almost begin my tirade again.

She interrupts before I can.  “I don’t know anything about that.  I
didn’t participate in your admittance.”

She must see the anger in my eyes.  “Well then,” There is a dangerous
edge to my voice, “find me someone who does.”

She studies me briefly, perhaps wondering how to best deal with this
troublesome patient, before turning slowly to exit the room.

I stew in barely restrained agitation for a moment or two before another
figure enters my room.

“What can I do for you Miss…” It’s an expectant pause, he wants my name.

I don’t answer his silent question.

“There was a man…”

He interrupts. “Brought in with you.  Yes.  I know.”

Finally.

“Where is he?”

The young doctor who stands before me seems almost reluctant to offer
this information.  I fear the reason for that reluctance.

Carefully, he offers, “He’s just around the corner in another room.”

I release the breath I wasn’t aware that I was holding.  My next words
rush out in a flood.  “Is he all right?  How badly was he hurt?  What is
the extent of his injuries? I’m a doctor, I want to see him.”

Mister young-up-and-coming doctor gives me a bewildered expression.  “A
doctor?”  Disbelief.

“Yes.”  I don’t offer him more.

“Well,” His voice is the appeasing tone used with very young children,
“Doctor or not, you’re in no condition to move about anywhere.”

I shift under the blankets, rising up and moving my legs towards the
edge of the bed.

His tone is stern when he speaks.  “That wasn’t a recommendation, Miss. 
You have two broken ribs, severe bruising, and possibly a concussion. 
You need to lie still.”  He comes over and pushes me back towards the
pillows, much in the same way the nurse did previously, but with
significantly more strength.

I struggle against him, protesting.  I shout.  “I need to know if he’s
okay!”  Even as I say this I can feel a vice-like pain strengthening its
grip around my chest.

His hands intensify on my shoulders.  “He’s fine.”  A frustrated breath.
“He’ll be fine.  You both just need time to recover.”

My back connects with the pillows against its will.  I cease my struggle.

The young doctor looks relieved, thinking that I will quiet down now. 
He studies me lingeringly, watching for further signs of dissent.

“There’s a lot of questions that you are going to need to answer,” he
pauses, “But right now I think you should rest.”  He looks me over
warily, obviously anticipating another outburst and then leaves the room
when I turn stubbornly away from his gaze.

He thinks we need time.

Time, unfortunately, is one of the many things we don’t have anymore. 
Whoever ran our car off the road will most definitely be looking for
us.  They could be moments away from finding us right now.

Determined, I look down at the IV protruding from the crease in my
elbow.  A tiny tug sets it free while I staunch the blood flow with the
hem of my hospital gown.  Cursing softly under my breath, I maneuver my
legs over the edge of the bed and plant my feet on the floor.  The cold
tiles barely register amidst the sting of pain throughout my body. 
Slowly, I lower my weight onto my feet.  With pained concentration, I
force myself to the foot of the bed and glance around the room.  I spot
what I am looking for almost immediately.

Lying folded on a chair are the clothes I was wearing.

With a wince for each step, I amble over to my clothes and pick them
up.  They are badly wrinkled and slightly dirty, but that doesn’t
matter.  I pull them on and try not to cry out. Dressed, and with only
one thought in my mind, I head over to the door to my room.  It is open
slightly and I peek nervously around the corner.  Down near the opposite
end of the hall there is a nurse at a station.  Standing in front of
her, talking, is my doctor.  They speak for a minute or so before he
turns around.

I duck quickly back into my room and wait a moment.

Carefully, I steal another glance around the edge of the door.  The
Doctor is nowhere to be seen and the nurse, the same one who annoyed me
earlier, seems to be reading some trashy novel with rapt interest.

I make my move.

On soft feet, I slip from my room and begin down the hall.  The corner
looms ahead temptingly, and I almost expect a shout from behind me as I
approach it.

The shout does not come, and I steal quickly around the corner to face a
short hall.

Starting with the first door, I push each one wider to look inside,
alternating sides of the hallway in my search.  The first four doors
yield nothing.  On my fifth try, I am rewarded.

Lying on his back, eyes closed in sleep or unconsciousness, dark bruises
highlighting his enviable cheek-bones, Mulder is illuminated by the
soft, dull, greenish light seeping from softly beeping machines and
monitors.  I am transfixed momentarily, lost in the action of observing
him.  Lying so peacefully, even despite the cuts and bruises, the years
seem less obvious on Mulder’s face.  The harsh lines are softened; the
taint of worry and pain absent.

I shut the door carefully behind me and move over to his bed.  Picking
up his chart, I find similar information to what was on my own.  No
broken ribs this time, but extensive, severe bruising on the face and
chest, and a laceration requiring twelve stitches across his forehead. 
He also seems to have been sedated.

Gently, so as not to disturb further the throbbing ache in my chest, I
stand beside him and raise a hand to touch his cheek.  It is so
tempting, standing here with the boundary of words now absent, to allow
myself to forget the pain and erase the past.

So tempting – yet so impossible.

I shift the path of my hand and carefully shake his arm, calling his
name in an attempt to rouse him.  He does not answer my first call.

“Mulder, please,” I implore.

For a moment, I feel the stirrings of panic within me.  I fear that he
will not wake, that the effect of the drugs in his system will prevent
him from rousing.  We do not have the time to wait for the effect of
those drugs to abate.

Then, while my grip on his arm intensifies, his lashes flutter softly
against the soft swell of his cheeks.  Languidly, his lids part and his
focus finds and zeros in on me.  It takes several moments; he is still
groggy from the drugs.

“Scully?”  Uncertain and with a strange little-boy hopefulness in his tone.

I wonder if he remembers all the events leading us here.  We don’t have
the time for me to remind him.  I stare back at him for a single second
before rising to look for his clothes.  They are folded neatly in the
bathroom.

Returning to his side, I can see the questions in his eyes.

“There’s no time, Mulder.  We have to get out of here right now. 
They’ll be coming for us.”  My words are razor sharp.

I cannot believe what’s happened here.  I’ve become this person I don’t
even understand.  Bits and pieces of the woman I was so long ago mingle
and merge with the person I’ve become and the stranger I feel myself
becoming.  I am as hard as forged titanium, strengthened out of
necessity – the need to carry on.

He seems to remember now, to recall why we are here.  The innocence and
confusion present while he slumbered is now absent.  Once again, the
shadows of his years away from me creep over him and the lines and edges
resume their places upon his face, concealing his emotions from view.

Rising from the bed, he repeats the action I performed earlier with his
own IV line.  He picks up the clothing I’ve deposited near him on the
bed and fumbles with the first few buttons of his shirt before I
remember to turn around.

The soft sound of my name alerts me when he is finished.

While I wince at every step and he stumbles on occasion as the drugs are
purged from his system, we haltingly make our way further down the
corridor, not chancing the return to my hall lest that nurse stop us both.

At the end of the hall, the fire stairs offer up salvation.  We are only
moments from them when the inevitable happens.  Behind us there is a
commotion.  A nurse must have entered his room for a check-up and has
now realized he is missing.  There is a growing cacophony of voices as
the nurse yells down the corridor for help.

Mulder’s hand is fixed determinedly around the oblong handle of the door
when we are finally noticed.

“You, at the end of the hall, stop where you are!”

I wonder if they actually expect us to listen.

The loud thudding clang of our boots fills the depths of the stairwell. 
The walls resound with the echoes of our flight.

We manage to reach the bottom of the third flight of stairs before I am
conscious of the sound of steps following behind us.

Cursing under my breath, I glance at the large black numeral painted at
the top of the new staircase I am descending.  Fourth floor.  Four more
to go with the pain in my lungs growing with a steadiness that threatens
to overwhelm.

The throb burns across my perceptions, echoing off the ache in my head.

I stumble.

For a terrifying moment, I can see the sharpness of the stairs beneath
my feet as they rise swiftly to impact with my crashing body.  My
feeling of free fall becomes muted by the sense of time slowing.  A
sudden clench around my bicep and the harsh pain of constriction around
my flesh couples with the forceful yank I receive from behind as I feel
Mulder grab and pull me to safety.

He does not miss the look of anguished pain I am too slow to conceal.

A sound from below us distracts him from any question he might ask.  The
glance over the railing’s edge isn’t even necessary.  We both know there
are people coming up from below.

I am still too dazed by pain and my near catastrophe with the stairs to
formulate any sort of escape plan.  It is Mulder who pulls me numbly
through the doorway and into the hallway of the fourth floor.

His hand still wrapped guidingly around my arm; Mulder scans the hall
before seeming to reach some sort of decision.

Shored up by the strength of his body, the doors and rooms swim in my
vision.  A blur – my eyes drifting to the automatic movement of my
feet.  I fight the increasing lure of closing my eyes.

We are going through another doorway, walking down a narrower hall.  The
lights are dimmer here.  I don’t have the strength to wonder where it is
that we are headed.

The lights are dimmer here.

A kaleidoscope of shifting grays.  Over-lapping patches of non-color.

Dimmer.

Soft light and softly moving shadows.

The sensation of Mulder beside me seems to drift.

So little light…

The lights are dimmer here.

I wonder where the light has gone.

~~~~
End part 4/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (5/14)
By Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

“each time it
comes
it eats me
alive
i try to
behave
but it eats me
alive
so i declare
a holiday
fall asleep
drift away.”

-Radiohead

~~~~

The rhythm of the concrete moving beneath us is a steady hum, a
comforting pattern, lulling me softly.

I run my fingers over the unfamiliar beige upholstery, tracing dirt and
unidentifiable stains.  Studying the cracks in the vinyl of the
dashboard, I hope fleetingly that this two-ton piece of cheaply
purchased scrap metal will bring us to wherever it is that we need to go
– wherever it is that we are destined to end up.

I should thank my lucky stars that we even have this beat up old thing
to travel in at all.  I know that without it we would most likely be
dead.  I have not bothered to ask Mulder where he got the money to
purchase this car.  I wonder if I even want to know.

So instead, I concentrate on the pulse of the highway rolling softly
under our tires.  I fix my perceptions on its tempo in an effort to take
my mind away from the fierce ache constricting my chest and the
persistent throb behind my eyes.

I lost consciousness during our flight from the hospital, sinking under
the influence of too many drugs and not enough rest.  Mulder carried me
the rest of the way, I now know.  He managed to find another stairwell
and bring us out through the back of the hospital, near the dumpsters. 
It was to that pleasant aroma that I woke up, head resting against the
rough stucco of the building, damp sidewalk seeping through my jeans.

Together, he in not much better a condition than I was, we found a taxi,
asked for the nearest used-car dealership – a request that was met with
a small, odd stare – ignored the even odder stares received from the car
salesman, plunked down six-hundred dollars cash; and secured ourselves
this lovely, 1986, good-as new, Plymouth Horizon with an obviously
turned back odometer.

I can only pray that it was six hundred dollars well spent.

Mulder and I have spoken few words since I found him in the hospital. 
The ones that have been uttered have existed only out of necessity.  We
have united in a way, banded together because we are running from the
same thing.  It is an easy bond to form.  We can run side by side from
the same enemies.  But the walls between us are as strong as ever they
were, high enough to shield us both within our separate little worlds.

It’s strange, this sense of conflict that I feel.  Every hour that I
spend in his company, the temptation grows stronger, the familiarity
more vivid.  I sit beside him in the way I did for so many years, and it
is easier to remember the way things once were.  But along with that
feeling of familiarity, that temptation of trust, the roiling emotions
of grief spawned by his quasi-death are stirred up.  How can I allow
myself to be with him without those emotions surfacing?  I ran from them
for too long.

My control is harder to hold onto.  My conviction against feeling begins
to slip.  I am terrified of the moment when I cannot withhold all of
those long suppressed emotions.  I do not want to face them.

But more and more, I recognize that I may indeed have to face those
things.  I am being forced to continue on with Mulder.  I have no other
options open to me.  The only way I could possibly avoid the thawing of
my defenses would be to put as much distance between Mulder and myself
as possible, and that will not be happening, not any time in the near
future.

I wonder what he is thinking, if our reunion is as much of a shock to
him as it is to me.  I wonder how he sees me, after all that’s
happened.  Does he still feel for me the way I was once certain that he
did?  Did he ever begin to doubt those emotions the way that I sometimes
did?  I wonder if he can still feel the cord tying us together, if the
pull of it torments him in the way it does to me.  I wonder if he regrets.

I should have regrets, I know that, but they are impossible to pin
down.  I am unable to look clearly into the past and say, “There, right
there, there is the moment that I wish I could take back, there is the
one change that could make things all right.”

No such moment exists for me.

I wonder if it exists for Mulder.

Does he regret not telling me?  Does he regret that he ever made the
sacrifice in the first place?

I know he regrets the pain it has caused me; I can see it flicker across
his eyes on brief occasions when his defenses are down slightly.  I do
believe that he never wished me any harm.

I am still angry, but it is harder to direct it solely towards Mulder. 
I have always been aware of the lengths he would go to in order to
protect me.  I have always known he was capable of this.  In a strange
way, it was a part of the man I knew; the man I respected.  He was
stubbornly selfless, always a willing martyr.  The guilt he bore made
him feel obligated to take on the burden of suffering for others.  Given
the option of saving me at the expense of his own life, his own
identity, I do not question how easy the decision was for him.  It is
hard to be angry with him, hard to punish him for a sacrifice made out
of love and guilt.  I just want him to see, to understand the
repercussions of his decision, the things it has done to me.

More than that, I am angry at the injustice of it all, the sheer
unfairness of the situation he found himself in three years ago.  I am
angry that he was ever faced with that choice.  I am angry for the
events which led him to become a man who would so selflessly give up the
only life he had ever known.

And for myself, I have many personal angers.  I want to cry out at what
I became as a result of these events.  I want to rage openly at the
future I could never *will never* have because of this.  I want payback
and retribution for the shattered hopes and dreams, the over-turned
lives.  I want someone to blame for the robbery of my hope, the theft of
that so simple gift.

So it is hard, hard to understand how to feel, hard to know where to
place this violent mix of anger and pain, rage and desolation. 
Placeless blame is a frightening thing made harder still because I do
not even know where I stand anymore.  My life has been uprooted and
thrown without caution to the ever-shifting winds.  Driving aimlessly
again through the dark of night, I find I am left without any sense of
myself, unable to reconcile the conflict of anger and sorrow within me,
uncertain of my future.  It is a terrible position to be in, this place
where I am so lost, so without direction.

I think that Mulder is in a similar place, feeling equally lost.  I
think he too has numbed himself against the brutality of these past
years.  The defense mechanism of distance he once employed in desperate
circumstances has grown to become a permanent state of being with him now.

I know that we are alone together in this now, as we once were, or maybe
as we have always been.  I also know that if there is any hope of either
of us ever recovering from these wounds, that hope lies only within each
other.  We need one another, in the way we once were.  Our problem is
that I am unsure if that can ever be possible again.

Does he feel that need?  Does he desire to reach out to me?

I look over at him, driving with his eyes planted firmly on the
unchanging highway.  If he senses my gaze, he does not show it.  His
face is a mask of stone, impassable and centered completely on the task
at hand.  He is holding it together by concentrating on the simplest
thing, the act of moving us further forward.

Sighing, I look away from him, the sight too difficult to continue.  I
close my eyes, trying to lose myself in the flow of motion surrounding me.

~~~~

Another day, another night, their positions reversed in my new life. 
Another motel and another dusty highway whose monotonous straight path
continues on uninterrupted preceding ahead of and fading into
nothingness behind our car’s path.

I stand now before a mirror, slightly foggy with accumulating steam,
looking forward to the feel of water against my filthy skin.  I have not
showered since before the hospital.  There hasn’t been the time.  And I
realize now, with a sudden start, that in reality it has only been a
handful of days – really no time at all.

Yet so much has happened.

My face fades from view, as the tiny room grows heavy with heat and
water vapor.

I’ll have to get the bandages around my chest wet; I can’t really remove
them for too long.  I can change them when I get out.  Cringing with
pain, I lift my leg over the side of the tub and enter the shower, not
even flinching as the heat of that water hits my naked back with the
force of a thousand little needles.  Drawing the curtain closed, I stand
transfixed under the shower’s assault.

Oblivious to the heat, angry red blotches bloom over the surface of my
irritated skin.  The oppressive steam fills my lungs with heavy warmth
while my eyes rest dully on age-chipped green tiles bordered by rows of
gray-black caulking that once must have been white.  Even these walls
are dirty and seem tired.

As dirty and tired as I am.

I shut my eyes against the sight, wishing fervently that they would open
to reveal that I am in another place.

Anyplace.

Anywhere but here.

My mouth opens on a sob, threatening tears.  I squash them down, biting
my lip, clenching my eyes shut as tightly as possible.

With eyes still shut, I sink back against the dirty shower wall,
ignoring the protest of my aching ribs, wearily leaning my weight into
it.  I turn, cheek pressed up against the still-cool tiles and slowly,
so slowly that I don’t register the movement at first, I begin to sink
towards the floor.  My face slides and sticks to the wall, skin
encountering and bumping over every ridge, each individual tile.

Eventually, my slow descent ceases, and I find myself bent at the knees
near the bottom of the tub.  With a thud, I stumble backwards, my bottom
connecting with cold porcelain.

I will not shatter.  I will not fall apart.

I promised myself these things long ago.

I repeat the words again and again, searching for the strength to keep
them true.

Sucking in gulps of hot air, my throat aches with the stabbing pain of
unshed tears.

I will not shatter.

I will not.

I can’t.  Not again.  I allowed it once, weakened under the influence of
too much pressure, succumbed to the pain of too much loss.  I folded,
retreating within myself, sinking below the depths of heartache to where
I thought I might find solitude, where there was the elusive promise of
peace.

Years ago, I fell apart.

I will not do it again.

~~~~

There was the whir of the answering machine as it rewound and
repositioned the tape inside.  Silently, the glowing numerals adorning
the front of the machine increased by one.  Double digits now.  One by
one, message after message, the tiny tape recorded call after call, plea
after plea.  She would not answer.  She could not.

And now, as again silence moved to become the only sound to fill the
space of her apartment, there was the rustle of movement from beyond the
front door.  Hurried steps and an uncertain pause.  Silence was pushed
aside as shadows sifted beneath the frame, cutting through the sliver of
light seeping in from the hall.

The shadows danced.

Knocking now, timid at first, growing in persistence.  Hollow against
the solid wood, heavy with the weight of worry behind it.  The twinkling
jingle of metal on metal, keys being sorted, searching for the right
one.  And then the sad triumph of a twisting lock, shifting gear sounds
as the knob twisted gently and the door was no longer a barrier.

The light was so harsh after too much darkness.  A flood it seemed – the
glare of white florescence, the corridor’s rush of life spilled unheeded
through the open frame.

One silhouette, and then another, came to stand within the grip of the
glare.  A tall and a short, one wide with strength, the other small as
was common among the women of her family.  Both stood without movement
for an uncertain moment.

The larger figure moved first, guarding the smaller against the threat
of danger, anticipating none but needing to protect nonetheless.  He
pushed into the hanging shadows of the apartment, allowing the darkness
to engulf him.  A few stumbling steps later and there was the
microscopic click of a shifting switch and then the soft amber glow of a
tiny lamp casting reassurance.

The smaller figure, dark hair mussed and tangled without care, pockets
of worry etching below her eyes, she moved then, bringing herself into
the apartment.  There were new and vibrant lines framing the clarity of
inherited azure eyes.

“Nothing looks out of place.”  The broad shouldered man spoke, eyes
scanning with trained practice over the contents of her home.

The woman still positioned behind him did not voice any acknowledgment.

He moved slowly, eyes raking with efficiency over her belongings, taking
careful inventory of the room.

Behind him, the raven-haired woman moved.  With instinct millennia old,
she was drawn forward.  Questioningly, the man observed her path but
chose not to follow.

The narrow hall she entered did not benefit from the kiss of light
illuminating the living room.  It remained bathed in the secrecy of
night.  Only the sight of memory guided her steps, that and the
sensation of need which fueled her search.

Positioned before another door, she did not hesitate to turn the knob
this time.  It gave with only the slight sound of rust and age-induced
squeaking.

Her footsteps brushed ivory carpet now.

Within her daughter’s bedroom, there wasn’t even the need for artificial
light.  Filtering in through the gauzy curtains draping long, narrow
windows, moonlight spilled over the shapes and surfaces of the room. 
The scene was bathed in a soft, opalescent glow.

She paused, eyes scanning the room spread out before her.

Usually neat to a fault, the space open before her eyes was in an
unusual state of disarray.  The bed was a twisted mass of sheets and
blankets.  Littering the floor and spilling from opened dresser drawers;
wrinkled articles of clothing lay strewed across the room.  Everywhere
she turned, boxes were emptied, containers overturned, their contents
left spilled towards the floor.  It was as if someone had been blindly
searching for something, searching with an air of unrestrained desperation.

Breathing deeply, she scanned the room for any indication of the fate of
her daughter.  Stepping delicately around small heaps of clothing, she
moved to stand beside her daughter’s bed, on the side nearest to the
closet.  It was standing there, silently observing that she heard the
sound.

It was a low whimper, not unlike the noise made by very young infants in
mild distress.  It was the sound of a soft exhalation carrying on it the
edges of a moan.

For a moment, she thought that she must have imagined the faint noise. 
Then, just as she was almost convinced of that fact, the disturbance
repeated itself.

This time, the sound was longer, more drawn out, and coming from the
direction of the slightly open closet doors.

With fear in her heart, the woman rushed quickly to the folding doors
left ever so slightly ajar.  With a trembling hand, she pushed lightly
on one of the doors.  It gave with a soft swish against the carpet. 
Inside the revealed space, darkness reigned.  The moonlight admitted by
the windows across the room could not penetrate this far.  Squinting
into the gloom, she peered back into the depths of the closet and found
what she was looking for.

She dropped to her knees without pause, inching forward on them to bring
herself within the space of the large closet.  Reaching out with seeking
fingers, she brushed the pajama-clad arm of her daughter.

Enfolded in upon herself, head tucked in behind her knees, hair falling
as a curtain around the shape of her face, Dana sat tucked in the far
corner.

Tentatively, her mother spoke.  “Dana, sweetheart?…” Her tone was
gentle, soothing.  A timbre created to placate.

Her only response was the slightly increased trembling in her daughter’s
limbs.

Uncertain, she moved in closer still, so that she was seated flush up
against her daughter.  She moved her arms to gently encircle Dana’s
quaking form.  As she did this, as her arms came at last to hold the
figure of her child, Dana let loose a quavering wail.  Sinking in
against her mother, some inner piece of her shattered and loosened the
sounds of suffering that began to spill forth within the now crowded
space of her closet.

Strangely, there were no tears.  No familiar and healing dampness began
to seep into the silk of her mother’s blouse.  No waves of tangible
sorrow fell forth from Dana’s eyes.  Instead, her only reaction was the
vocal sound of anguish, the tremor and tear of emotion across abused
vocal chords.

Bursting into the room, triggered by the now loud sounds escaping the
closet, the tall man stood transfixed at the doorway.

Moving quickly to the opened closet, he found the tightly wrapped bodies
of mother and daughter.  With a single, silent look from Maggie, he knew
what the core problem of all these events was.  Seeing Dana as she now
sat, her hair scraggly and matted, hanging in limp tendrils, mouth
frozen in the shape of a twisted, mournful “O,” he needed no answer to
his questions.

Turning, he observed the chaos of Dana’s bedroom.

He had feared this, had dreaded the arrival of this date with the
knowledge of the pain that could resurface.  And he had done what he
thought had been best.  He had given her some time.  A week, two if she
decided she wanted it.  Seeing the dread of this anniversary in her
eyes, he had thought that some time alone would be best for her.

How wrong he had been.

And around him, evidence of that mistake lay as though the victims of a
whirlwind.

Five days.

Five days after she was due to return to work and not even a word given
to explain the absence.  So unlike her, so contradictory of everything
he knew of her.  During the last year, her work had become her life; she
had never missed a day.  And then, nothing, gone for two weeks and five
days before worry drove him to do what he had promised he wouldn’t – to
invade her privacy.

“Hush now, darling.”

Such sad words issued without the knowledge of how to say more.  There
would be no assurances of better days ahead, no whispered promises that
everything would be all right.  Maggie would offer no such false hopes. 
For as much as she may have wished for those things to be true, she was
aware that Dana would not hear those words from the depths in which she
sat entrenched.  Dana Scully was simply unable to hear any words of
hope, not when she felt abandoned entirely by that essential grace.

Standing above this sad tableau, the man gazed with terrible regret upon
the thin, sweet oval of Dana’s face.

How long had they anticipated this?  How long had they waited?  For a
year now, he had wondered when the impressive reserves of Dana’s
strength would finally run dry.  For a year, he had marveled at her
intense lack of emotion.

It seemed that now, with memories impossible to escape, those buried
emotions refused to be suppressed any longer.  They had risen with fury
while Dana’s defenses were down.

Below him, tangled in the worried arms of her mother, Dana’s lips moved
slightly and without discernible sound.  He kneeled down level with the
two women, bringing his face closer in an attempt to hear what, if
anything, Dana was saying.

Slowly, white, chapped lips moving faintly, the words like labored
breath began to make sense to his straining ears.

“I can’t…” Murmured so softly that they were barely even words at all. 
The voice was ragged, strained, taxed as if from screaming for long hours.

And then repeated.  “I can’t… I can’t… I can’t… I
can’tIcan’tIcan’tIcan’t…” The litany was a flood, words tumbling over
and over one another in a rush.

Unable to continue the painful observation of Dana’s face, he refocused
his attention on the shapes of her hands, clenching and unclenching
something held tightly in the grasp of her right palm.  The movement was
agitated, angry.  He placed a gentle hand soothingly over hers in an
attempt to calm.

Beneath his larger hand, he felt her muscles relax.  Then, releasing
slowly, her fingers uncurled and loosened.  There was the flutter of
falling leaves as something resembling paper came to rest upon the floor
of the closet.

One last murmured phrase from Dana’s lips and she was silent, closing
her eyes tightly as he picked the fallen object off the floor.

It was crushed and crinkled, balled up and mangled from the painful grip
of Dana’s angry hands.  Uncurling, he smoothed the heavy paper back,
feeling the slickness of a photograph under his callused fingertips.

The image revealed was painfully familiar, even if the exact moment
captured by the picture was not.

How many times had he seen them like this?  So absorbed in one another,
so oblivious to the world spinning on around them, eyes focused without
the ability to include others.  Together they had always been a force of
nature – cool, compelling, leaving you with a feeling of unknowing
isolation and staggering awe.

The face of the man in the picture smiled in a way that was rare for him
when he was alive.  His face was alight with a strange brew of emotion –
respect and joy, sad poignancy and peace, and somewhere, hidden behind
his smile, something that tread dangerously into the blurred lines of love.

How had this man left this woman?  What pieces of her did he carry to
the grave?

The answer was frightening now, on this day, with Dana shattering into a
thousand brightly mirrored pieces.  The answer seemed certain today,
with only a photograph as remaining evidence of the power of something
that could never be again.  The answer laughed bitterly in his face on
the bleakness of this day, this anniversary, this reminder of death –
one year ago this week, one year ago with congealed blood like thick
syrup blackening the gray of cold concrete.

A year past and that day still brilliant in memory like yesterday – a
year passed and spent numbly since the day when Mulder had disappeared.

~~~~
 
I am shivering, I realize.  Little goose bumps sprout and cover the
surface of my skin.  How strange that I didn’t feel the cold until just
now.  And accompanying this first rush cold is the now urgent sound of a
fist connecting sharply with the hollow wood of the bathroom door.

The water runs in now cold rivulets over my face and hair.

“Scully!”

I am unsure of how long I have been sitting here, at the bottom of this
tub.  Long enough for him to start pounding on the door.  Long enough
for the water to turn cold like icy fingers running down my spine.

“Scully!”

If I don’t answer, he will most likely break the door down.  I’ve seen
him do that many times in the past.  I don’t relish the idea of him
discovering me in this position.

Shivering, with joints that feel stiff and unwilling to move, I pull
myself up to twist off the water.  The pounding ceases along with its flow.

The towel is rough with the texture of cardboard around my shoulders. 
My goose bumps raise themselves higher still as I pull the cloth around me.

“Scully, are you all right?”  So tentative.  So frightened.

I must have been in here for quite some time.

The steam has long since abandoned the mirror’s reflection.  Staring
back at me from its chipped depths are blue lips and hair dark and
plastered to the thin planes of my face.  The lips of that image move to
the sound of my voice as I answer.

“Yes, Mulder.  I’m fine.”

~~~~
End part 5/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (6/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

“And so stay, we two, tensely balanced,
Somewhere between despair and despair,
Perhaps this is our only solution.”

- M.A. Mohanraj

~~~~

The little bell on the door clinks softly with motion as another patron
enters the diner.  It is late, the middle of the night, and there are
few souls out braving the dark to find this place.  Breakfast served 24
hours and an outdated jukebox don’t seem to be enough of a draw.  The
overstuffed vinyl protests with a squeak beneath my shifting weight. 
Around me, mirrors climb halfway up the walls, reflecting chipped
ceramic and dirty chrome.  I lean my head back against the booth,
closing my eyes instead of studying the menu.

Mulder has said nothing of my time in the bathroom.  The question was in
his eyes when I emerged from that room, but my failure to answer was not
pressed upon.

I fell apart, for a little while, though not completely.  I fell apart
and could recall a time when I had once done the same.

It seems so long ago now, that dark time.

I had crumbled under the weight of depression spawned not just by
Mulder’s death, but by the futility of six years spent searching for
truths that would, it seemed, never be found, by all of the losses and
despair made so obviously in vain, by what I no longer had any hopes of
achieving.  I vowed to myself after that moment of weakness, after I
succumbed momentarily to the grip of that sorrow, that I would not allow
it to happen again.  Weakness was just not an option.  I knew, with
dreadful certainty, that if I allowed it to happen again, I would not
resurface a second time.

I wonder now which fate was worse, the one I avoided or the one I find
myself in.  I begin to grow weary of feeling nothing.

Gum snapping quietly, apron grease stained and wrinkled, the waitress
stands expectantly beside our table.  I realize that she is waiting for
my order, and I give it without actually feeling any hunger.  Turning
with an air of resignation, the waitress seems not to notice that
anything is wrong.  I imagine that she is immersed in worries of her own.

Mulder’s eyes are fixed on me; I can feel them boring into me like the
drill whose tiny scar he still wears just above his hairline.

Looking up to meet his gaze, I decide that it is time for him to offer
up some more answers.

With determination, I begin.  “Where are we going?”

Two emotions flash simultaneously across Mulder’s eyes.  Initially, he
is taken aback, unsure of how to respond.  Along with this uncertainty
however, is the understanding that it is a necessary question.

He swallows heavily before responding.  “I’m not really sure.”

The look in my eyes must be comment enough.

He tries again.  “It all happened so fast.”  There is a pause to collect
his thoughts.  “When this started, I didn’t have time to worry about
where, we just needed to run.”

I nod slightly, encouraging.

“I *have* been thinking about it, though,” he continues.  “And as much
as I know it’s not what you want to hear, I think we’re going to need to
leave the country.”

I absorb this for a moment.  As much as I want to rail against this
suggestion, as wrong as I know it should feel; I know it is what I
expected.

He appears surprised that I offer no protest.

His voice is softer now. “I think our best bet is to try and make it
over the border, and then see where we go from there.”

<Where *we* go from there.>

He doesn’t need to say it for me to realize what he is thinking.  He is
wondering if I will stay with him.  He is wondering about our future
together.  I am wondering too.  Could I leave him and attempt to survive
on my own?  Would I even want to?  The answers to those questions are
not difficult to come by.  I know that I could not do this alone.

I’m just not sure if I know how to be with him anymore.

He is also wondering about my life, the one I’ve abandoned, if I am
willing to leave it behind.  The thing I haven’t told him is that there
is not much for me to leave.  There is a job I tolerate, an apartment
that smothers, and a family who I see only on the occasional awkward
holiday.  There is, of course, my mother.  Despite the terrible distance
between my brothers and I, I’ve still tried to maintain my relationship
with her.  Things have been difficult between us, she hasn’t known how
to handle the changes that have occurred with me, but I will still want
to tell her something, give her some indication of my fate.

Voicing my thoughts, I answer.  “My mother.  I need some way to tell her
what’s happened.”

His reluctance is palpable.  I know he considers this a risk.

With hesitance.  “I can contact the Gunmen, see if they can deliver a
message.”

A message.  One message delivered by men she does not know and then I
will disappear, perhaps for the rest of my life.

It is so wrong.

I nod again, infinitesimally.

That problem somewhat resolved, Mulder’s focus strays to the paper place
mat positioned before him.

“How are your ribs?” he inquires.

“Fine,” I answer, not looking at him.  “They only hurt now when I breathe.”

He murmurs an acknowledgment.

Reciprocating, I tell him, “You should let me take a look at those
stitches.  They could get infected.”

His eyes don’t leave the loud splash of ads and logos scattered across
the place mat.  “Yeah, I know.”

I look up to study him, with his hair flopped over his forehead and eyes
unreachable, pointed towards the table.  For some reason I cannot
fathom, I am in the mood for answers.  He appears genuinely shocked by
my next question.

“Mulder,” I ask, my tone cautious, “Where have you been for all these
years?”

Something dawns inside his eyes, some shard of awakening.  It is the
first attempt at genuine conversation that has been made between us in
over three years.

“Well,” his voice wavers slightly, “at first I didn’t do much of
anything.”  He doesn’t look up to meet my eyes.  “I didn’t know what to
do.  I had this new name and a new identity that I didn’t want to use.

“Then, after about a year of doing nothing, I knew I couldn’t stand it
anymore.  I moved out west and took a job teaching night classes at a
state university.”

“You taught?”

His smile is bittersweet.  “For a while.  I was decent at it, too.  As
decent as you can expect from a former FBI agent.”  A shadow of familiar
sorrow moves over his face.  “But it wasn’t living… I wasn’t alive.” 
His voice roughens.  “I didn’t care to be.”

Our gum popping waitress chooses this moment to arrive bearing gifts of
over-battered French toast and a questionable looking omelet.  She
settles the plates before us and then disappears without saying a word. 
Confronted with topics too painful, his concentration has moved to the
puddle of eggs and ham situated in front of him.

Sawing through egg and bread with the edge of my fork, I break the
silence again.  “What was your name?”

His fork taps lightly against the thick ceramic as he drops it.

“My name?”

I pop a bite into my mouth as I answer.  “Your new identity.”

For some reason, his gaze finds and locks on mine.  It is broken when he
answers softly.  “Robert Ellory.”

Briefly, I try to imagine that, calling him by that name.  As hated as
his moniker may have been, in a strange way it suited him.  In my mind,
in my soul and in my dreams, he will always be Mulder – that word now
inextricably associated with myriad emotions and sensations.  Ellory has
no emotion; its sound cannot wrap around this man.

Murmuring, I taste the foreign syllables on my tongue.  “Professor Ellory.”

Again, he looks up at me, startled by my words.  “Yeah,” he responds,
“Professor Ellory.”

I decide to be honest.  “It doesn’t suit you.”

Still holding our gaze, he almost whispers, “No.  No, it didn’t.  None
of it did.”

The French toast is thick and difficult when I attempt to swallow.

Silence ensues for another handful of bites.  I pick absently at my food
when his voice begins again.  “We’ll need to stop by a pawn shop or
something.  Somewhere we can get a gun.”  His tone is the simplistic one
of making plans.  “Mine was in the car we wrecked.”

“Guns.”  Plural, I remind him.

“Guns.”  Plural, he assures.

I wash down a last forced mouthful with the tang of concentrated orange
juice, squishing my fork menacingly down into soggy leftovers.  Mulder
has cleared his plate, as usual, and sits sipping coffee with a mask of
distance firmly in place.

We are reluctant to leave, dreading the miles left yet to travel.

There is the feeling of torn familiarity here, in this restaurant like
so many we’ve frequented, sitting across from one another as we always
have.  There is the feeling of awakening connections, those tingling
perceptions we have always shared.  They are difficult now, after all of
this – difficult and yet easily unavoidable like breathing.

His attention is focused somewhere over my left shoulder.

“There are two men behind you trying very hard to act like they’re not
staring at us.”

I stiffen at his words, fingers clenching in an attempt not to turn around.

Fleetingly, his fingers brush mine, attracting my attention.

“Are you sure?”  I ask.

“I’ve been noticing it the entire time we’ve been here.  They came in at
the same time we did.”  His voice is cold and tense.

Connecting again, his hand settles firmly over mine, squeezing roughly. 
“We have to get out of here, as quietly and inconspicuously as possible.”

I nod, and his hand leaves mine abruptly.

“I’ll go out ahead,” he offers.  “You wait a few minutes, pay the bill,
leave a nice tip, and then come out after me.”

I stumble.  “But what…”

“Just act like nothing is wrong.”

He grips my hand one last time – I tell myself it is for the benefit of
our observers.  His smile is forced and his voice louder than it needs
to be.  “I’ll just go warm up the car while you finish.”

He walks away and I can hear the tinkling of the bell as he leaves the
restaurant.  Nervously, I poke at my meal one last time, syrup oozing up
through the tongs of my fork as I press it down into the mush.  I take a
deep breath, and then pausing a moment to wipe my hand casually on a
napkin, I rise slowly to pay the bill.

Tapping my foot, I restrain my anxiety while I wait for someone to
appear at the cash register.

“How was everything today?”  The waitress, a different one than before,
smiles at me in the rehearsed manner of waitresses.

“Fine,” I manage.  “Everything was fine.”

“That’s good.”  The register dings loudly as the cash drawer swings
open.  “Come back again soon,” she says, handing me my change.

I glance up at her briefly, acknowledging, before heading back to the
booth.

I can feel their eyes on me as I sift through the cash in my hand. 
Pulling three bills out and laying them on the table, I take one last
sip of orange juice and turn slowly for the door.

The air outside is harsh with the chill of night.  I pull my coat tight
around my shoulders and force myself not to look back.  The heels of my
shoes echo dully on the concrete beneath my feet.  I am rounding the
corner of the building when I hear the now familiar sound of that bell
twinkling lightly against the glass of the door.

The shape of our car looms ahead in the darkness, and I glance around
searching for Mulder.  I can find him nowhere.  There is only the
steadiness of step and echo, step and echo as I measure each of my paces.

Heart racing, I listen intently for the sound of footsteps behind me. 
Sure enough, quiet in an attempt not to be heard, there is the faint tap
of partner footfalls shadowing my own.

Reaching our car, the only one on this side of the lot, I fumble with
the keys in my hand, hearing the sound of those footsteps growing closer.

My mind reels, screaming for Mulder.

The key slides into the lock on the driver’s side with a metallic crunch
as my breath stops cold, the dreaded weight of a gun pressing sharply
into my back.

“Just place your hands up on the top of the car, Miss Scully.”  I can
feel his breath on my neck, issuing the command.

I comply, resting numb palms atop cool metal.

The gun is forced more firmly against me.  “Where’s Mulder?”  This time,
a different voice.

I don’t answer.  How can I?  I have no idea where Mulder is.

A hand reaches up and yanks one of my arms, and then the other, behind
my back.  My wrist is twisted painfully, fingers biting into my flesh
with the power to bruise.  I can almost hear the bones grinding against
one another.

“I didn’t want to ask twice.”  A growl against my skin as pain blurs my
vision with another strong twist.

My breathing is ragged when I muster speech.  “I don’t…”

The chance to finish is taken away as I hear a loud crack behind me and
the pressure of the gun at my back slipping.

With a fierce tug, I am pulled backwards and into the chest of the man
who previously held my wrist.  Being spun around, I come face to face
with Mulder, standing above the body of our second assailant, holding
what appears to be a two by four in the grip of his right hand.

The metal of the gun is cold against my throat.

“Put down the piece of wood, Mr. Mulder.”  My captor angles the gun up
towards my head for emphasis.

Mulder’s eyes catch mine and I can see my fear mirrored there.  A heady
mixture of dread and terror washes his eyes, tugging at me before
morphing into something unreadable.

Complying, Mulder kneels slightly to drop the wood to the ground.  It
clatters down next to the body.

“I’m afraid Miss Scully and I are going to need to take a little trip,”
the voice behind me informs.  “But we won’t be needing the pleasure of
*your* company, Mr. Mulder.”

The pressure of the weapon at my throat shifts and everything becomes
slow motion.  He is raising the gun, aiming for Mulder.  His other arm
remains locked across my chest.  I move my now freed hands quickly; one
reaching down and the other jutting back.  Acquiring my target, I clench
one hand firmly around a rather sensitive part of this man’s anatomy and
twist with all my strength while the elbow of my other arm stabs
fiercely back into the soft tissue of his stomach.

With a yelp of pain, the arms constricting me loosen and his aim
wavers.  I move rapidly, ducking around to land a knee square between
his legs.  He doubles over, the gun dropping from his outstretched hand
and falling to the ground.

I turn to lunge for the gun when I feel the sharp constriction of a hand
around my wrist.  The man yanks me back to him and I feel the
excruciating connection of his elbow with the side of my face, as the
world explodes into starbursts of pain accented by the tang of copper
filling my mouth.

The pavement tears at my flesh as I skid across it, body flown backwards
by the force of his blow.

I hear the sounds of struggle behind me; a curtain of hair obscuring my
view.  Lifting myself gingerly, spitting blood, I crawl up to a sitting
position in time to see my attacker’s fist landing solidly into Mulder’s
face.  He stumbles back, our pursuer lurching after him.

Searching blindly, I am unable to locate the gun.  Mulder must have
kicked it aside.

The scene before me is now the writhing mass of two bodies.

With a new onslaught of pain as I rise, I spot the discarded shape of
Mulder’s two by four.  Its weight is heavy and reassuring in my palm.

My target is hard to pinpoint.  It is difficult to see where one man
ends and the other begins in the darkness of this parking lot.

Our assailant’s hand closes around Mulder’s throat while he connects
another blow to the side of his face.  Mulder slumps and staggers under
the attack.

I take my opportunity.

Pulling from the depths of my strength, I heave the two by four above my
head and bring it crashing down into the skull of the man whose grip
threatens to strangle Mulder.  Two things happen at once.  Mulder falls
backwards, crashing into the parking lot, and the man I struck falls
limply to the pavement, crumbling into a heap.

The world stops.

From somewhere outside myself I hear a strangled whimper.  Standing
limply, my body racked with tremors – I realize that I am responsible
for that pitiful noise.  Strength failing, fingers loosen, and the wood
tumbles from my grasp.  The agony of my still damaged ribs rears up in
flaming memory when I move.  I rush to Mulder’s side, falling to my
knees.  He is moaning something that resembles my name, as I delicately
lift his head into my lap.

Adorning his face is a new gash to compliment the healing stitches along
his brow, and I can already see the mottling of angry bruising that will
soon be vulgar around his eye and jaw.  His pulse, however, is steady
and strong.

“Mulder.”  I am running questing fingers through his hair, tentatively
seeking signs of trauma.

Fumbling, he breaks away slightly and brings himself up on his elbows. 
“Yeah.”  His voice is raspy.  “I’m fine.  I’ll be okay.”

I sigh, pulling myself up and over to check on the now prone figures of
our two observers.

I move first to the body of the man Mulder struck down.  His pulse
throbs languidly below the surface of his skin.  Probing softly, I run
my hand through his hair, flinching when I encounter the warm dampness
of fresh blood. “Jesus, Mulder,” I mutter.  “How hard did you hit this
guy?”

My only response is a soft grunt from behind my back.

Knowing that the first man won’t be regaining consciousness any time in
the near future, I move over to my own victim.  His pulse is marginally
more steady, but there is still enough blood matting his hair for me to
cringe.

Mulder is up and mobile behind me, rummaging through the pockets of the
man I first checked on.

“No ID,” he announces, his voice already expecting that this would be
the case.

“Take these,” he instructs, tossing a pair of handcuffs in my
direction.  Too much action for one night makes my reflexes slow and I
have to pick them up off the ground.

“Where are we going to cuff them?” I ask.

Mulder’s eyes wander about.  Alighting on a possibility, he grabs hold
of the arms of the unconscious man before him.  “Right over there.”  He
motions to the shape of the two dumpsters standing sentry next to our
car.  His former hiding place, I suspect

Cuffs in hand, I move over to help Mulder with the body.

Several minutes, and with light smears of blood darkening the pavement,
our two new friends are linked together with the cuffs strung through
the bar running along side one of the dumpsters.

Mulder is staring with foreboding at the blood marring the parking lot.

“Heads bleed,” I inform him.  “A lot.”

He grimaces and then, walking with a tiny limp, heads for the driver’s
side of our car.

“Un uh,” I protest, “No way.  You’re not driving anywhere, not in that
condition.”

He looks at me with something akin to humor in his eyes.  “You’re not in
a much better condition than I am,” he reminds me.

“Yeah, but I’ll have to do.”  I make my tone acquire a firm ‘no buts’
quality.

He complies and practically collapses into the passenger’s seat.

Engine revving with a loudness that betrays its age, and headlights
slicing through the gloom of the night, I slam the car into reverse and
then drive, easily burning rubber as I head for the highway.

~~~~
 
In the bathroom at a new motel, my ribs are a brutal and hideous purple,
throbbing in a steady rhythm with my heart.  I cannot stop from moaning
as I reach for new bandages.

“Scully,” Mulder calls from the other room.  “Are you all right?”

I close my eyes and sigh in frustration.  Building fortitude, I answer. 
“Yeah, but I’m having trouble reaching around to redo these bandages.”

His voice is nearer now, just outside the door.

Hesitantly.  “Do you need help?”

I curse myself, knowing that he has seen me in all states of undress,
and that I’ve seen him in even less.  Muttering, I reach for and twist
open the door.

He is standing uncertainly outside.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” I tell him, watching the interesting way his eyes
rake over my ensemble of jeans and a simple white bra.

I move back over to the sink, pick up the bandages, and hand them back
to him.  He is still standing in the frame of the door.  “Mulder?” I
startle him from his thoughts.  “Just wrap them as tightly as possible
around my ribs and don’t worry about hurting me.”

He nods and moves to comply.

“God, Scully!” he curses, running light fingertips over the kaleidoscope
of greens, blues, and purples highlighting my ribs.

“Yeah, but at least it compliments the matching ones I now have on my
face.”  My meager attempt at humor.

It fails rather miserably.

He works carefully, flinching every time I draw a sharp breath, not
making a mention as his hands pass just beneath my breasts.

The room spins off kilter under the influence of pain.

Swooning slightly, I collapse against the sink when he finishes,
reaching with shaking hands for the glass of water and handful of Advil
already out on the counter.

He notices my stagger and places a warm hand on my shoulder.  “Are you
going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine once these pain killers kick in,” I say, turning to face
him.  “In the meantime, you are in worse condition than I am.”

“I don’t know about that,” he mutters while I look over the new
collection of bruises adorning his face.

“Go sit out on the bed,” I tell him, turning to get dressed.

The door snicks shut, and I reach out to gather the ice we collected
from the machine outside into a soft wash cloth.

Out in the bedroom, Mulder is lying back on the pillows, eyes closed.

Sitting beside him, his eyes flicker open and study mine while I survey
the damages.  His left eye is starting to swell nicely and will soon be
a proud shiner.  He has two broken stitches on his forehead where blood
is oozing.  A new cut runs almost parallel to the old with a well of
dried blood obscuring it from view.  Finger marks lay on his neck as
testament to his almost strangulation; and I can’t see it, but I am sure
the bruising on his own ribs can’t be faring all that much better than
my own.  Thankful for the small first aid kit found under the sink, I
fish out the little butterfly sutures and attach them after disinfecting
his cuts.  That done, I lay the makeshift ice pack against his eye and
survey my handiwork.  His eyes track mine the entire time.

There is not much I can do for the rest of the bruising, I decide. 
Right now, the best thing for both of us is sleep.

I get up and he beckons after me.  “Scully?”

“I’m just shutting off the light,” I reassure.  “We both need some sleep.”

He sighs, falling back into the pillows with a thud.

Pulling my jeans off and climbing under the covers, I click off the
light and sink gratefully into darkness.

~~~~
End Part 6/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (7/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

Believe it or not, I actually do have the route traveled in this story
planned out.  The town of Weeping Water Nebraska and it’s surrounding
highways *do* exist, and I’m sorry if I’ve painted the town in too harsh
a light. If you live there and are offended – I’m sorry, I’m sure it’s
very nice, I’ve never had the pleasure of visiting. <g>
~~~~

“O Death in Life, the days that are no more.”

-Tennyson

~~~~

There’s a familiar weight at my back for the first time in almost two
years.  Metal cool and crisp against my skin, the heavy comfort of a
newly purchased Sig lies tucked snugly into the waistband of my
dirt-encrusted jeans.  A much needed trip to a pawn shop this afternoon,
which I'm discovering are in abundance in this part of the country, and
I feel safer now with a weapon handy than I have since this began.

Sunlight glares with emphasized harshness through the big picture
windows of this store.  It rattles me, reminding me that we should not
be out at this time.  Our chances of being spotted increase
exponentially with daylight.  But there are things that need to be done,
and since we did no driving last night, and slept away our usual waking
hours, we are out and awake and shopping in the most unusual of places…

Wal-Mart.

In all my years, I never once imagined that one day I would be shopping
for clothes at Wal-Mart.  But only a few weeks ago, I never could have
imagined *any* of this, so what’s the difference.  Desperation has
driven me here.  Desperation, jeans thick with grime, and underwear the
thought of which makes me nauseous.

I lost everything in that car crash, everything but the clothes on my
back.  Living the past couple of days in the same nasty set of clothes
has been a torture to rival that of our circumstances.

Cleans bras and underwear, a couple new pairs of jeans, a long skirt,
and a few tee-shirts later, I am standing next to Mulder as he searches
for something.

“Here we go.”  He is muttering, speaking less to me than to himself.

Turning to me, his hand outstretched, he holds a lightly patterned
scarf, pretty really, with little bunches of white and blue flowers
scattering the surface.

I ask the obvious.  “What do you want me to do with this?”

“Your hair,” he explains.  “It’s the most obvious thing about you,
easily spotted.”

And I understand, knowing what he is trying to say.  He wants me to hide
my hair, to make myself into less of a target.  Realizing he is right, I
take the soft material and wrap it around my head, tying the knot
tightly at the base of my neck.

Finger reaching tentatively, he almost whispers. “You missed a few.” 
His hand brushes lightly, barely grazing the wisps of errant hair.  Our
eyes lock and I can feel the heat of his fingers hovering just above my
skin.  I am torn between the desire for him to intensify the contact and
the desire for him to pull away.  A moment later, he makes the decision
with a look of pain on his face and the sharp snapping away of contact,
as if burned.

Averting my eyes, I study my battered sneakers while tucking away the
traitorous strands.

Quietly, he observes, “It makes you look younger.”

I nod, feeling so much older than I must look and try to banish the
lingering feeling of his fingers against my face.

Our next stop is through the health and beauty aisles.  New toothbrushes
and other various essentials are selected before we pause in front of
the racks of hair dye.  With dull eyes, Mulder scans the ranks of
smiling, glossy-haired beauties.

“I need some way to change my own image, even if only a bit.”  He does
not look at me while he speaks.

Wondering, I interrupt his selection.  “Wouldn’t it make more sense for
me to dye my own hair?”

His smile is small and wistful when he looks at me. “Yeah it would.”  He
turns away quickly.  “But I wouldn’t want you to.”

Not knowing how to respond, I concentrate on the interlocking pattern of
blue and gray playing across the linoleum, deciding that silence is the
best option.

When we go over to pay, the cashier looks at us with a mixture of
curiosity and dread.  I know what she must be imagining; I know what she
must think.

Mulder and I must look as though we’ve been through a war.  He has a
black eye, the stitches along his forehead have swollen with a minor
infection, and finger-shaped bruises encircle his neck as a result of
his near-strangulation.  I am not much better off.  There are scrapes
and cuts all along the right side of my face and arm from my slide
across the pavement, my jaw is a vibrant shade of purple, and my wrist
wears the bright ring of bruises I knew would be the result of the
twisting I received.  I would look like a battered wife if my male
companion didn’t look as bad as I do.

Plastic bags crinkling, Mulder and I do not speak as we make our way out
across the parking lot.  Silence seems to have become our stock and
trade.  Of course, even in the past, we were never ones for meaningless
conversation.  Communication with silent voices was always easier for
us.  But we do not even have that now.  Now there is only an uneasy
tension between us that I find myself unable to name.

Sliding into my seat, I hear his voice from behind the car as he opens
the trunk.  “We’re going to need to ditch this thing, get something
new.  They know what we’re driving now.”

I do not react to his words.  I will not miss this car.  Hopefully, our
next purchase will be slightly more spacious and make fewer noises when
operating above 55 miles per hour.

Saying nothing more, he slips into the driver’s seat and the engine
wheezes to life.  With a cough and a sputter, we weave our way out into
traffic.

~~~~

The mattress squeaks with a protesting grumble as my weight shifts above
it.  I place a limp hand over my closed eyes, blocking out the light,
welcoming the dark.  Across the room, I can hear the sound of papers
shuffling, pen scribbling.  He moves slightly in his chair, and I can
hear the light sounds of clothes rustling from my resting-place upon the
bed.

Making up for lost time, we hit the highway immediately after securing a
new car this afternoon.  Stopping about ten miles outside of the town we
had stayed in, Mulder found a lonely pond where we bid our previous car
a final farewell.

Standing at the edge, the brackish waters were still and dark at the
toes of my shoes.  A thin skin of ice had begun a slow creep out and
over the water’s surface.  Nudging it slightly, little fractures spread
like spider webs over the frail coating, branching out until water
seeped up and over to reclaim the ice.  Around me, night was falling
swiftly, the stars poking little holes in the blanket of sky.  I looked
out over the quiet waters and could see the first wash of moonlight
casting its nets out across the surface.

It was cold as Mulder drove the car up and over to the edge of the
water.  My breath floated and swam around me in little crystalline
clouds.  Moving from my place near the water's edge, the wind tore
unmercifully through my jacket as I turned to join him at the back bumper.

It took no effort really.  A few hard pushes and the mud along the bank
gave with a slippery rush.  There was the momentary sound of water
rushing, pouring in through the open windows.  Bubbles gave the water
momentary life, rising in streams until the car disappeared from view. 
Then there was nothing.  The water settled back into quiet and the calm
surface betrayed nothing of what now lay below.

We traveled easily after that, moving across limitless miles with a
steady and fixed pace.  Not long after our initial departure, Mulder
pulled our new vehicle to the side of the road and opened a map.

“We’ll need to start heading south soon.”  His long finger traced over
twisting routes and highways.  “But we’ll have to steer clear of the
more popular roads, stick to where we won’t be as easily spotted.”

I said nothing, training my gaze on the vast expanse of empty cornfields
stretching out beyond my window.

“It’ll take longer this way, but it will be safer in the end.”

At that point, I wasn’t able to see an end.

He drove for almost five hours before I took over.  It was done without
question or comment.  I didn’t even ask if he wanted me to drive.  We
stopped for gas and when we returned to the car, I simply took the
vacated driver’s seat, long ago words echoing in my head  <“Why do you
always get to drive?”> and I almost smiled at the strange memory.  After
another four hours on the road, we made the undiscussed decision to stop
and rest for the day.

From across the room, I hear him mumble.  “We can stay on 50 until we
get out of Nebraska, cut over to 99, and then down to 177.”  He is not
speaking to me.  The brainstorming tone of his voice is one I am well
accustomed to.

Looking up, my arms propped beneath my head, I can see him perched
amidst a sea of maps and atlas’ spread around him at the table where he
sits.  Watching him, a long unanswered question comes to mind.

“Mulder,” I interrupt his planning.  “Where are you getting the money
for this?”

His head snaps up abruptly, startled by my question.  It takes a moment
for his mind to disengage from the task in which it was absorbed, and
even then I can feel his hesitance.  Finally, he offers, “From a couple
of sources, actually.”

I keep my gaze steady, pushing him to continue.

A sigh escapes his lips as he rises from the table and begins to pace
slowly.  “I had accumulated a substantial amount in savings, not kept in
any bank, which I brought when I left to get you.”  His pause is enough
to tell me that there is more.  “And…” he is stalling “There is also the
contents of your own savings.”

I am on my feet in an instant.  “My own savings?”

“We lost everything in that crash, Scully.”  His words are the rush of
explanation. “Everything.  I only had a few hundred dollars stashed in
the pocket of my jeans.”  He stops in front of the table; his back
turned to me, voice at whisper pitch.  “So when we got out of the
hospital, I called the Gunmen and had them drain your account.”

My anger is carefully controlled.  “Did you bother to think of telling
me about any of this?”

Refusing to turn around, his back remains my only sight.  “You weren’t
exactly in the best shape after the hospital, Scully.  You were barely
conscious, and we needed transportation, fast.  Since then, I’ve kind of
had other things on my mind.”  I watch the slow rise and fall of his
chest as he drags in a deep breath.  “I’m sorry.  It was wrong.  I
should have told you.”

The fight leaves me in an unexpected rush.  I don’t know what kind of
explanation I was anticipating, but this gentle, heart-felt apology
certainly wasn’t it.

Slumping, the backs of my knees connect with the edge of the bed and I
stumble back until seated.

With careful movements, he turns to face me.  The smile on his lips is
wary and sad.  “I wasn’t aware that you were so well off.”  He knows I
have forgiven him.

My words are unconsciously bitter when spoken.  “Yeah, well it wasn’t
like I had much to spend money on these past few years.”

His focus strays again to the floor.

Sighing with something like regret, I break my eyes away from him and
mentally run through the calculations of how much money we have to
spend.  Enough to get us out of the country?  If we’re careful.  Enough
to keep us alive indefinitely?  Not even close.

Considering the future for the first time, I ask, “Mulder, what about
when we get out of the country, we’ll be out of money by then?”

“Not really,” I hear from across the room. “We’ll just have to start
using my inheritance.”

Startled surprise edges my reply.  “Your inheritance?”

“My father was quite a wealthy man.  I never really wanted to consider
where it came from before this, but it seems like a mute point now.” 
His shrug is ambivalent.  “He left me everything after his death.”

“So why didn’t you use *that* money after the hospital?”

He has finally looked up from his concentration on the floor and finds
my eyes with his own.  “I thought it might look suspicious if the money
in that account started disappearing suddenly.  I didn’t want to draw
undue attention.  However, I think it‘s safe to say that they know who
rescued you by now.”

Despite my discomfort with the word “rescue,” I keep my mouth closed.
 
“When we need it, all I have to do is contact the guys.”

Something still puzzles me.  “How are they getting you this money?”

His mouth lights up in a small, amused smile.  “Ah, that’s the
interesting part.  I get to meet with one of their associates who will
be wired the money and then bring it to me.”

“Associates?”

“It seems there’s quite a network of these underground conspiracy groups
around the country.”

The thought is frightening, but reassuring in a strange way.

Scurrying backwards, I allow my end of the conversation to taper off, as
I sink back into the pillows.  I am tired and sore and overwrought with
too much to think about.  Right now, nothing sounds more pleasing than
the prospect of sleep.  Closing my eyes, I drift languidly among
familiar sounds and sensations.

Weeping Water, Nebraska is quite possibly the smallest town I have ever
had the misfortune of encountering.  Driving down the main street – the
only street – I managed to find a liquor store, a post office, a small
general store, and a produce stand closed up for the winter.  I would be
shocked if the population exceeded anything over a couple hundred
people.  This is the type of place you cannot truly fathom until you
have had the privilege of visiting.

Lying here, in a motel that more closely resembles a small trailer than
a business establishment, the only motel for miles, I find a long ago
lost peace.  Around me are all the things that once used to dominate my
life.  There is the scratch and itch of a musty bedspread cushioning my
cheek, the faint breeze of an overhead fan dusts my face with the warm
breeze of heated air, the longed for comfort of new pajamas slips across
my skin.

And underlying all of that is the most haunting of scents – a
combination of musty sheets purchased sometime back in the seventies,
lemon tang of cheap furniture polish, faint herbal spice of recently
used motel shampoo in my damp hair, and Mulder, lingering in the
background, scent hanging like a miasma, I am comforted by the smell I
will forever associate with his presence.

Lying here, I find myself seduced by the past; it is begging my
surrender.  Lying here I wonder finally, and for the first time, exactly
what it was that brought us to this point, exactly why we are here. 
Drowning in a sea of all that once was, I see no reason not to ask.  And
so… I do.  “Mulder,” I keep my voice low.  “What happened?”
 
I am worried for a moment that he will not understand my meaning, that I
am not being clear.  His answer when it comes erases that doubt.

Eyes closing against memory, his voice floats to me across the years. 
“It came out of nowhere,” he begins, “when I least expected it…”

~~~~
 
They were waiting for him when he came home that evening.

He was exhausted, bone-tired, on the verge of collapse.  Too many hours
spent working and not enough sleep had left him teetering on the thin
edge of delirium.  Stumbling from the elevator, he barely made it to the
front of his apartment door.

Fatigue made him blurry, unfocused.  His fingers battled with the keys,
fumbling, forcing stubborn metal to conform to the place where it was
needed.  With muted triumph, the lock gave with a yank and then there
was the age scarred sound of rust squeaking as the door swung open,
battered address numbers trembling with motion, poised for a fall.

He did not see the blow before it came.  He was too preoccupied, too
intent on his singular purpose.  His mind was consumed with the attempt
to forget, forget that case – that case with its blood and death and
dying – forget that case and the sound of her voice telling him that
there would be no solution – the sound of her voice rising in
frustration, frustration treading perilously close to the realm of
anger.  He was haunted by these things, these demons, haunted and
anticipating with relish the warm, welcoming arms of his couch with its
promises of oblivion.

There was the dull thud of bone crashing, blood and flesh cushioning,
metal impacting as the gun collided with his skull.  There was the
rustle and rush of a body falling, gravity pulling.  And at last he
found his sought for rest, though not the rest he had intended – not the
smooth softness of black leather, the familiar rough mustiness of an
old, worn blanket, not the comforting hum of a warm, blue-glow
television guarding his sleep, sound low and hushed.

Not these things.  He did not find these things.
 
Instead he found the harsh grain of cold wood, hardwood floors.  He
found it with the force of falling bricks, face pressed to the slick
surface and blood matting the brown of his hair.

He was, of course, unable to recognize these discoveries.  His mind was
elsewhere, locked within the deep void of unconscious, sequestered for a
time where no one could reach.

Body like concrete, heavy, limp and lifeless, he was manipulated by men,
the same men who had secured his rest.  And the rusting hinges of his
door made protest again as he found his way down the hall – dark and
empty, lone light bulb flickering.  Past doors shuttered and locked
against danger, past people who could not – would not – help.  It was
too late to be walking dark halls.  Then there was the swish of elevator
doors opening, the swish of elevator doors closing, and the cheerful
ding of the decent as it began.

He did not remain at rest for long.  Mind rising through the fog, he
slowly came to grasp reality.  It was slow, lethargic; he was still
addled by the cobwebs of slumber.  Eyes opening, lashes fluttering
lazily, the wrongness of his situation registered immediately. He was no
stranger to waking in odd places

Harsh, hard fingers pulled at his chin, lifting, eyes meeting the gaze
of another.  And then the voice of someone speaking.  “He’s awake.”

Surrounding him, men stood, dangerous, faceless men, shadow men.  They
stood and watched, ranks parting, figures moving, allowing the entrance
of another.

His face was familiar, though impossible to place.  He bore the
countenance of unnamed men, of assassins and mercenaries, of the
soldiers of secret wars.  He wore the shadows as a cloak around him,
taking on their meaning, their protection.

Stumbling, voice angry at being disturbed, he rallied gathering strength
to form the words.  “Where am I?”

A smile from his shadow man.  “That’s the wrong question.  You should be
asking, ‘what am I doing here?’ ”

Complying, willing to play the game for the time, he capitulated.  “All
right, what am I doing here?”

Evil twisted the grin, maligning it.  “Good question.”  A pause while
meaning shifted, dread and purpose growing to fill the spaces.  “You’ve
been brought here to be given a message and a choice.”

The dread grew.  “A choice?”

“A choice.  The continuance of a quest or of a life.  What you seek or
what you hold most dear.”

Inside him, the fear grew, uncoiling, a serpent seeking the sun’s warmth.

“You’ve been rather lucky these past few months, Agent Mulder.”  A
beginning couched in falsely congratulatory tones.  “Being cleared of
murder, a crime which you obviously committed, finding your sister…the
cure for Agent Scully’s cancer.”

And he knew, knew with a certainty that formed swiftly, knew what this
was about.  He knew what they were doing, what they were trying to do. 
They had always known the identity of his greatest weakness, always
known the truth of what she was to him.

Impervious to his discomfort, the shadow man continued.  “But such a
tenuous cure, such a fragile thing.  A chip in the neck, so breakable,
so damage prone, so easily removed.”

He spoke then, knowing that he would do anything for her, knowing that
they knew it too.  “What do you want?”

The words when they came were simple, as if asking for nothing, nothing
that he shouldn’t be willing to give, nothing that he couldn’t live
without.  “So easy really, so simple a way to end this struggle.  All
that we ask for is your disappearance.”

Disappearance – and he knew the word’s meaning.

Disappear – to leave forever, abandoned search, never to see her again. 
Disappear – new name, new identity, death of the man he was, the
preservation of her life in exchange.

Disappear.

Body quaking, mind hardening against the reality, his words came out in
whispered agony.  “How?”

The smile was one of triumph, of deals being struck.  “You’ll be given a
few days.  Do what you need to do, say what you need to say.  But if you
attempt to warn her, to mention any of this to her, the deal is void. 
We will not protect her then.”

And he wanted to believe.  “She’ll look for me, she’ll search forever if
it’s necessary.”

But there were plans for this.  It was all thought out.  “No, she won’t,
not if she believes you dead.”

He waited, knowing it would come.

“She’ll search at first, desperately, using every resource at her
disposal.  She’ll search even when all those around her begin to tell
her it is foolish.  She’ll search until the last reserves of her hope
wither away into nothing, and then – only then – then will she discover
our truth.

“Biological evidence, cloned, manipulated, indisputable, in sufficient
quantity to leave no doubt as to the truth of your fate.”  The cold and
simple fact.  “Blood.”

Hands grabbing, shadows swarming, the men moved upon him again.  There
was a struggle as his arm was extended, the sharp sting of skin pierced,
the warm rush of a hypodermically delivered sleep.

But before he could be swallowed whole, before he would be lost again to
those depths, he mustered speech one last time while the darkness
descended.  “How do I know that you’ll keep her safe?”

And the answer stayed with him even in his sleep.

“You’re the only thing that’s ever placed her in danger, Agent Mulder.”

And he woke, cheek pressed again to the grain of his floor, body twisted
and deposited where he had first collapsed.  He woke to the sting of
daylight on abused eyes, to a chorus of sledgehammers pounding away
dutifully within his head.  He woke to the memory of the night, to the
reality of what now was.  He woke to face the end of his life.  He woke…

and he wept.

~~~~
End part 7/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (8/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

Memory’s not life and it’s not love.

- Garbage

~~~~

Sleep eludes me tonight.  I chase it around our motel room with my
rambling thoughts and racing feelings.  Ducking for cover, it peers at
me from dark corners, unwilling to come out and release my troubled mind.

Just for a moment, I wish my world would stop spinning.  Every time I
think I’ve settled on an emotion, that I know how to feel, which way is
up and which is down, the equation shifts again and I’m left quaking in
the aftermath.  I’m beginning to grow dizzy.

My initial anger at his reappearance hasn’t evaporated, not exactly. 
It’s still there, simmering under the surface, but I find that much of
it cannot be directed solely towards him any longer.  He didn’t create
this situation.  He didn’t put this chip in my neck, give me this
disease, orchestrate a scenario where we have become pawns in some
larger cosmic puzzle.  He *has* blame to bear, but not the brunt of it.

So I've found myself becoming numb.  It seemed like the safest option. 
Rage was too volatile, and I was forced by grim circumstance to travel
at his side, making constant anger a less than appealing option.  The
bliss of non-feeling is a tactic I have employed many times in the past,
and I've found it again with similar comfort as our journey has progressed.

The problem with Mulder is that he has always possessed the capacity to
make me feel even when it is the last thing I want.  There is a jumbled
collection of memories stirring within my mind of long-ago caresses,
fingers tilting my chin up to meet his gaze, arms encircling the span of
my waist, large hands smoothing over the planes of my back, my head
tucked so securely under his chin.  When the rest of the world forced me
into a hard and tempered shell, Mulder alone was able to pull my
emotions up from the hidden depths and present them to me with the touch
of a hand and the briefest heat of lips against my skin.  He pulled up
the demons and faced them at my side, knowing that only with him to
share the battle would I be able to vanquish them and continue to move
forward.

I wanted to be completely numb.  I wanted the ease of that state.  A
large part of me wants it still.

He looks at me every now and then with a light in his eyes that is
achingly familiar.  The memory of that light is always accompanied by
the memory of my eyes filling with tears, his eyes seeking mine, and
that singular gaze, that sheltering light, as I shut my eyes briefly and
the tears finally came.  He looks at me with the knowledge in his eyes
that I have not let myself feel for a very long time.

On top of these looks are the briefest of touches.  There have only been
a few.  I think he has been afraid to touch me.  But each one has
conjured up a startling array of recollections. Each tentative brush of
his fingers at my face, his hand over mine and I am left pushing back
six years worth of memory touches.  The phantom hand at my back,
ghost-like fingers encircling to guide my arm.  The strength of his arms
around me, shifting of muscle beneath the clean scent of his shirt.  His
arm around my shoulders, leading me into the privacy of his personal
space, away from the prying ears of others, into a world that was
singularly ours.  The briefest glance of his fingers against me now
contains all of these abandoned sensations and all the emotions inherent
in those memories.

So I look at him, and sometimes he touches me, and I find myself
fighting a battle I promised myself had been won long ago.  I struggle
now through the course of each day just to hold myself together.

Does he see this struggle?  Does he know?

I’m not sure.  I’m not sure of much with him anymore.  Three years have
passed.  Three years and I have no way of knowing the man that he may be
now, the man he may have become.  I can see a coldness about him that
was not as severe before all of this, but I suspect this is merely a
survival instinct, much like my own hardened emotions.  I am left to
wonder if he still dwells on our lost memories the way that I do.  I
wonder if the touch of *my* fingers are ghosts on *his* skin.

He’s asleep now, I think.  His breath is low and regular, tempered in
the familiar slow cadence of slumber.  I have been frozen in the same
position for I don’t know how long, afraid of excess movement for the
possibility that it may alert him to my state of unrest.  This is the
problem in sharing a bed with him.

As usual, a safe and neutral distance separates our resting bodies on
the bed.  Even in sleep it is somehow maintained.  I wonder at this
while a cramp in my back forces me to roll over and seek out a more
comfortable position.  Facing him now, I become mesmerized by the catch
and play of moon light on the planes of his face.

He hasn’t shaved in several days – I suspect as a further means of
disguise.  I’m hoping that he’ll not let it go much longer than this. 
I’ve never been partial to beards.  The rough stubble on his cheeks and
chin gives him a hardened, rugged look unusually contradicting his
delicate, boyish face.  The lips and nose are the same as I remember,
the same distinguishing fullness in his mouth that could be maddening at
times, tempting at others, the same nose that was just *this* much too
big for his face but somehow seemed to fit anyway.  More wrinkles line
his eyes now than I am able to remember, and I am glad that they are
closed.  Open, his eyes are too cold now to warrant familiarity.  The
same long lashes, the gift – as a woman – I had always coveted, lie
gently upon the angular swell of his cheeks.  His hair is darker now,
darker than I have ever known it, and without the gray I first saw when
he returned.  Lady Clairol has given him the ebony hair of a dark and
shadowed stranger.

Mulder has always been beautiful, especially to me.

Frustrated, and tired of lying prostrate; I sit up quietly and move for
the bathroom.  A few cold splashes on my face, a glass of water, and I
look up at my hooded eyes in the sharp reflection of the mirror.  I look
exhausted – not unusual for me these days – and I know what I need more
than anything is the sleep I will be unable to procure.  My staring
contest with myself continues for an indeterminate amount of time before
I reluctantly head back for the bathroom door and the annoyance of
trying to sleep.

Turning the knob, I feel the horrid creep of someone watching, and peer
out into the hanging darkness of our room though the crack of the
slightly open door.  The dark is thick and difficult, making detection
of unknown enemies impossible.  Without an option, and my gun left
beside the bed, I push the door open to face my maybe-intruder – only to
find Mulder, shadowed and concealed by night, standing just a few paces
away.

I suck in a gasp and then shout.  “God, Mulder!  You scared me!” 
Overreacting, I know, but I’m wound too tightly tonight to behave
otherwise.

He holds his hands up in defensive mock-supplication.  “Sorry.  I just
heard you moving about and got worried.”  He slows his hurried speech. 
“You were in there for a while.”

Not wanting to move past him for some reason, I stand and offer my
simple explanation. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Quietly.  “I figured as much.”

Dumbly, I don’t move, and he reads my strange hesitance.  With concern
tangible even in the darkness, he moves slowly to stand before me.  “Are
you all right?”

His gentle words are my undoing, that and the tentative hand that rises
without thought to touch my shoulder.  His light fingers burn a soft
caress through the cotton of my T-shirt.

“Please don’t touch me!”

I can feel the snap and retraction of his muscles as he jerks the
contact away.  Time freezes momentarily and I can almost see the mixture
of pain and confusion that radiates between us.  He doesn’t understand. 
I can’t handle this.

Neither of us speaks.

Then slowly, painfully, each word measured and forced, his voice reaches
me from a greater distance than can be found in this small room.  “I’m
sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Why can’t he understand?  It just can’t be that simple.  Moving back to
the bed, I know that we cannot continue on like this.  With shaking
fingers, I snap on the small lamp and jolt us back into a world of light
and barely banished shadows.  He is standing rigid where I left him,
facing away from me, staring at the wall.

I am angry, incensed – that he should have no concept of how difficult
this is for me, how his very touch can make things harder, how it – like
nothing else – can dredge up memories and feelings best left buried for
the sake of both our sanities.

He’s supposed to understand.

“Mulder.”  I say his name with the command in it to turn around.  After
a lengthy beat, he complies with eyes pointed towards mine and a glance
that chills.  “Dammit, Mulder!”  I struggle for the right explanation. 
“You can’t just pick up where you left off!”

Shit.

Now I’ve done it – it’s there between us – the memories I swore would
never be stirred.  They rise from shallow graves, stealing over the
chill of his eyes, playing across his brilliant memory, recalling every
detail with a vividness I can only imagine.  With my simple words, I
dredge up a night so painful in memory it melts the glacial ice
shielding his gaze.

He stares at me with slowly collecting tears before blinking them back
harshly and taking in a long, labored breath.  His words are broken and
rasping when he speaks.  “I never meant…” His voice fails momentarily. 
“That night… I never meant it that way.”  His eyes drop to his hands,
held open and outstretched before him as if looking to hold some unknown
object.  “I just wanted once… before… to know…”

The memory rises and stands large as life, breathing fire and rage and
death and love between us.

“I just needed to know.”

~~~~

Tapping against the windowpane, lightly, faintly, the gentle rush of
rain on a cold night.  The roads would freeze into sheets of ice before
morning.  The world would be bathed in a crystal shell of pristine
shimmer and cold.  It would make driving difficult, but tomorrow was
Saturday and she had no need to venture any farther from home than the
warmth of her fireplace and the beauty of the icicles hanging like lace
from the eves beyond her bedroom window.

The quilt was warm and secure around her with darkness sealing her in a
warm cocoon.  With growing fury, the tempo of the rain increased and
became loud enough that she almost didn’t recognize the new sound when
it came.  As it was, she had to strain for a moment to hear it above the
angry weather outside.

Someone was knocking, quietly, tentatively, almost as if afraid to wake
her.  A few quite raps against the wood of her front door, and then
silence.  After a pause, just a few more.  Her first thoughts turned to
Mulder, who was her usual late night visitor, but he had the tendency to
knock loudly, with urgency fueling his infrequent visits.

Cursing fate, she peeled back the blankets and pulled on her robe.  The
floor was cold and hard beneath her feet.  Her toes numbed to the night
air.  Fleetingly, she hoped the bed would stay warm until she returned.

The door was quiet now, as if laughing at her for braving the chill. 
She peered out through the peephole to find an all too familiar face
with head hanging and emotions unreadable.

Opening the door, she peered around the edge and found his gaze.  “Mulder?”

He looked up then, and dancing in his eyes were emotions too varied and
complex to be deciphered in a single glance.  His eyes blazed – always
expressive and now speaking with flares of color and light that
vacillated from strangely dark depths to faint golden lights.  He was
upset, that much was apparent, but she knew with easy certainty that
this was a brand of unease she had never faced in him before.  Her heart
quickened with the implications.  Fear gripped her.  Something terrible
must have happened.

“Mulder, what is it?”  She drew him in, grasping small fingers around
his forearm, shocked to find him clad in nothing more than a loose
Henley and jeans, now bitter with cold.  “God, Mulder.  You’re freezing!”

She pulled him in more quickly, nervous, thoughts of his mother, his
sister, dancing through her head.

Shutting the door, he pulled from her grasp and moved away.  When she
turned back to find him, his back was her only sight.  In the darkness
of her living room, he was solid and unapproachable standing five feet
away.  She moved past him to grab a blanket from the couch.  As she
passed, he barely seemed to register her presence.  Concern written
foremost in her thoughts, she raised her arms to drape the blanket
around his hunched shoulders.  As her hands came to rest on his frozen
biceps, he stiffened with a quick and sudden rush.  Whirling, he was
facing her before she could even sense the movement.

Separated by a few scarce inches, the fear in his eyes was what gripped
her most firmly.  “Mulder, what is it!?”

His hands were achingly gentle coming up to cup her cheeks.  “I don’t…”
He trailed off as if lost. “There’s nothing.”

Startled and confused.  “There’s nothing?”  She paused for an answer. 
“Mulder, please.  You’re scaring me.”

His fingers tangled in her hair.  “There’s nothing left, nothing now.  I
can’t…”

His touch distracted her, made her unable to focus.  Fighting for
control, to ground him, to make him tell her what was wrong.  “Mulder,
please tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help if you don’t…”

And her words were lost with his lips on her forehead.  “I can’t…”

His lips at her temple.  “There’s nothing left.”

She struggled for speech and failed.

His lips on her cheek.  “Nothing.”

His face hovering before hers, warm breath bathing her lips, fingers
wrapped tightly in her hair, pulling her close.  “I’m so sorry…”

And then the world and rationality was lost as his lips found hers, warm
and soft and trembling with what she suspected were tears.  The world
spun and lost meaning as something that was not supposed to happen this
way happened despite all her good intentions to stop it.  His lips
lingering lightly over hers, frightened, unsure, the warm press of his
mouth telling her that he was terrified.  Her hands came up to his
shoulders, intending to push him away, but the movement was lost as the
pressure intensified.

Suddenly, she was pressed up against him, hands trapped against his
chest, mouth sealed to his.  There was the realization that she had
opened to him, unnoticing, but now sharp with sensation, as she tasted
him for the first time.  His hands in her hair shifted lower, one at the
base of her neck guiding, and the other moving down to press into her back.

At the back of her mind, screaming a silent, desperate plea, her reason
was fighting.  This was wrong.  All of this was wrong.  Not because she
didn’t love him, or because he didn’t love her – never that.  It was
wrong because of the desperation in it, the vacant sorrow.  This wasn’t
how it was supposed to happen.  Deep in her subconscious, with her
desires and wishes that seldom saw the light of day, she had imagined
the way it would someday be. She had dreamed of a time when – somewhat
free from the demons and dangers surrounding them – they would come
together with the slow reverence and respect built between them over six
long years.  She had expected gentle passion and poignant trust.  She
had wanted it to be in joy.

Not this.  Not this headlong rush into fevered lust.  Not this bruising
mouth against hers, stealing her breath and robbing her reason.

Passion was to be expected, and she had known that when it happened it
would be consuming and brilliant.  This was more and less than that. 
This passion was naked and desperate.  This passion was filled with an
urgency that was born out of hopelessness rather than love, fears rather
than desire.  This passion scared her with its intensity.

Hands insinuating themselves under the sides of her robe, stealing up
and under the hem of her pajama top.  Feet shuffled with bodies pressed
together and no space left in-between.  They backed up with blind and
unplanned motions until the unyielding surface of her front door became
solid at her back.  She couldn’t breathe, wanted to breathe, wasn’t sure
she could stop to breathe.  His teeth grazing her bottom lip, slight
pain and the soothe of his tongue.  Fire and then more fire, racing
along her spine, racing to ignite nerve endings and skin and sensation
in a rapid conglomeration of flame.

His hands.

Those long, elegant, gentle hands that held both death and love in their
familiar feel and weight.  Hands that had killed and comforted in their
time together.  At the small of her back, guiding her through a door. 
Gripping her fingers in a quick, tight movement at the bedside of some
monster.  Squeezing the trigger with sharp, precise movements and the
shot went to the center of the target every time.  Smoothing back her
hair after some traumatic event.  Shaking as the gun clattered to the
ground and he could not look at the body of the man he had killed. 
Clasping her cheek as he bent to kiss her gently, the only person who
could comfort her – the only comfort she wanted.  Stiff and aiming with
fear in his eyes as the gun was pointed at *her* in some Arctic
wasteland, some hospital showdown, some abandoned warehouse.

Still slightly cold and rough as they slid around to her front and
clasped gently around the warm swell of her breast.

“Oh my God…” and her gasp was lost in the heat of his mouth and the
tightening of his hand around now burning flesh. She wanted to fight. 
She did. She wanted it with an urgency that battled for supremacy over
the need to feel his hands sliding lower, the longing to return this
touch, the soul-deep ache to peel away the remaining barriers and forge
this bond at last.

Wriggling, the robe shifted and fell to a pool at the floor, her hands
unseeing and unthinking pushed under the back of his shirt to grip
smooth planes of strong muscle and soft skin.  He was no longer cold,
and his back under the questing tips of her fingers was the heaven she
had always known it would be – the heaven that was not supposed to be –
not like this.

Her head tilted back and his mouth descended with unabating fury down
the thin column of her throat, teeth nipping and scorching, tongue
branding her with his heat and need.  Those lips, so long secretly
worshipped, deftly shelling seeds and tormenting straws and coffee
stirrers with the hints of a hidden talent.  They slid wetly over the
delicate arch of her collar bone, pushing aside the silk of her pajamas,
fingers fumbling with buttons one by one to gain access.  The last
button freed, and her breath was lost again with a renewed assault on
her mouth as she felt the first insinuation of his hands under the
waistband of her pajama bottoms, sliding under to grasp her hips,
pulling her into and against him.

She could feel him now, pressing into her, with a combination of thrill
and horror.  Thrill from the jolt his mere touch could insight, horror
that she was letting this happen out of grief and obvious fear.  His
mouth moved over to her ear and she tilted her head slightly to look at
his face.  Shifting with effort, reality was a brutal slap against her
cheek, snapping her head back, burning with its pain.  She saw his face
and her blood chilled.

His eyes were shut.  Not shut in passion, not lost in the preliminary
flood of the act they were about to commit.  They were *squeezed* shut,
clenched, closed as tightly as he could manage. Mulder’s eyes were
shuttered as if in physical pain, as if the act of touching her were
hurting him with every moment.

Reality tore into her with swift assurance.  This was wrong.  Nothing
about this was even remotely right.  Withdrawing her hands from under
his shirt, she pulled them around and pushed against his chest. 
“Mulder, stop.”

He didn’t pause, didn’t even flicker in his aim, but she was resolved,
the agony on his face had frozen her desire in an instant.  With more
insistence.  “Mulder, no.  Stop!”

He faltered and broke away from her slightly.

Again, softer.  “Stop.”

He tore his hands from her, propelling his body back in one harsh, swift
movement.  The loss of heat was astounding and the winter air rushed in
to find and torment her bare chest with her pajama top gaping open at
the sides.  Shaking, she drew the dark fabric together and stepped
towards him gently.

He moved even farther away.

“Mulder,” she began, trying to reassure him, to make him understand why
she was doing this.

His eyes were again filled with tears, and this time, they spilled
slowly over dark lashes and traced a wet, easy course over stubble and
warm skin.  Their eyes locked and their always empathic bond radiated
with his pain.  “I’m sorry…” he stammered.  “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

He was panicking now, eyes darting away from hers, desperately seeking a
way out and away from her.  She was blocking his exit.  Taking this
advantage, she moved towards him and he had no place to run.  “Mulder,
why can’t you just tell me what’s wrong?”

Maybe he could sense it then, that she didn’t regret what had happened,
just the *way* it had happened.  Or maybe he could see the love and
concern in her eyes and knew she hadn’t pushed him away for lack of
emotion.  Whatever the motivation, he stepped towards her then, coming
again to stand within her space, and reached up one large hand to trace
the upward curve of a fragile cheekbone.  “I’m sorry, Scully,” he said,
and the words were solemn and sad.  Their link opened again and she knew
there were other words on the tip of his tongue, a pledge he was trying
to – but couldn’t – make.  Those same three words always left unspoken
between them.

He closed his eyes, two fresh tears escaping restriction and gaining
freedom over his skin, and then he stepped away, moving towards the door
and leaving without another word.

She was left to stand alone in numb silence.

~~~~
End Part 8/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (9/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

“See in black and white, feel in slow motion, drown myself in sorrow
until I wake up tomorrow.”

- Tricky

~~~~

“You needed to know?”

“It was all over, Scully.  All of it.”  I hear his breath heave in a
weighted sigh.  “I was leaving and I knew – I thought – that I would
never see you again.”

“So what,” I feel anger rising from somewhere within me, “You wanted to
see if I would sleep with you before you left?  What?  A good-bye fuck?”

My harsh words are strange even to my ears, and they register with shock
on Mulder’s face.  His tone is accusing when spoken  “You know that’s
not what it was.”

It hurts too much to breathe.  “Do I?  I don’t know anything.  You
didn’t tell me anything that night, Mulder.  You never told me
anything.”  My voice rises with each word.  “You came to my apartment,
almost slept with me, and then left, not to be heard from again for
almost three years.”  I drop my voice to a deadly near-whisper.  “What
the hell am I supposed to think?”

He is still standing across the room, and now moves over to the windows,
looking out over the flat emptiness of a parking lot with only a few
battered cars as occupants.  One lone street light paints a sickly,
yellow glow.  “We never said it, Scully.  In all those years, we never
said it.”  His voice is so sad.  “I mean, I know we both knew, and maybe
I shouldn’t have needed the words, needed proof, but I wanted it.”  His
hand comes up to rest with palm flat against the cold glass and his
whisper is so soft I barely hear it.  “I wanted it.”

For a moment, I am speechless.  It *was* unspoken, we *did* both know
that.  But I can understand his need for proof; I’ve felt that need
myself.  After he was gone, I would find myself willing to give anything
just to have heard those words from him at least once.  I can understand
his desire for that validation of our bond, can sympathize, but what
happened between us that night all those years ago had very little to do
with love.  Thinking this, I say it aloud.  “But, Mulder, when you
showed up at my door, you weren’t exactly looking to talk.”  There’s a
tone of bitter sarcasm lining my voice.

“That wasn’t all I wanted,” he says gently, and then moves to speak
again before I can misinterpret his words and begin beating the crap out
of him.  “I couldn’t leave, Scully, not without knowing, without having
some memory of what you felt like.”  He is still turned to face outside,
refusing to look at me.  “I’d wondered for so long, wanted it for so
long, and I couldn’t leave without having some small memory of what it
was to be with you like that.  I never intended it to go as far as it
went.  I just wanted to kiss you, to tell you, then I was going to
leave…” He trails off in an unfinished sentence.

“It went a bit further than that,” I remind him with a carefully
controlled tone.

“Yes,” he acknowledges.  “I know.”

“And did you think of how that would leave me?” I ask.  “Did you think
what it would do to me to have you come, sleep with me, or almost sleep
with me, pin me to the door and leave marks on my neck that didn’t go
away for days, brand me like that with memories and emotions and then
disappear?  Did you wonder at all what it did to me, after you were
gone, looking in the mirror, staring at those marks, the tiny red
blotches where your lips had been and remembering what had happened? 
Did you wonder at all?”

My answer is his hand on the glass clenching into a tight fist.

I continue, a tirade loosing forth from carefully hidden depths.  “I’ll
tell you what it did.”  I take a deep, angry breath and forge ahead. 
“It destroyed me.  When you didn’t come into work Monday morning, I
thought it was because of what had happened.  I thought you were
embarrassed, I thought our partnership was in serious trouble.  I still
had no idea why you had even showed up at my door in the first place.”

The memories of the time after his disappearance start to well up one by
one.  “And then when you didn’t answer your phone… I called and called,
Mulder.  I called for hours before I panicked.  I called until it was
too much and I went over to your apartment to find out what the hell was
going on.”

I move over to my bag and rummage around with numb fingers to find the
jeans I had been wearing previously today.  Pulling them out, I reach
into one of the back pockets and take out something I have carried with
me for three years now.  Turning back, I walk up beside him and place
the object on the windowsill next to his hands.

The photo is old and tattered, creased and bent from a time years back
when emotion and a desperate need to find this one and only link to his
memory caused me to ransack my apartment before finding it with emotions
toppled and hands crumbling it into a tight fist.  Battle scars line and
crease over our faces, frozen in smiles unfamiliar and strange now,
frozen in a moment of happiness and complicated union, our eyes fixed on
one another.  One particularly jagged crease mars the area across my
forehead and destroys the perfection of this one time peaceful memory.

“I kept it, Mulder.  For three years, I kept it.”

He reaches a finger out to trace above the crease bisecting my forehead
in the image.

“Why leave me that, Mulder?”

He turns away from the photo to stare back out the window.

“Before we thought you were dead, when you were just missing, I thought
it was a good-bye.  I figured that whatever had driven you to my
apartment that night had also driven you away and that this was the
little thing I would be left with, one tiny picture to remember you
by.”  I cringe at the now obvious truth of my former assumptions. 
“After we found that blood, I didn’t know what to think.”  I practically
spit the words at him.  “Turns out I was right in the first place, I
guess.”

I reach down to pick the picture back up and am startled when his hand
closes quickly over mine.  “It *was* a good-bye,” he says quietly, still
staring out at the night.  “It was all I had to leave you with.”

“You should never have left me in the first place.”  I snap my hand out
from under his, pulling the photo away, stepping back to distance myself.

Finally, he turns to face me, his eyes dark and dead in the low light of
a tiny lamp.  “I explained why I left.”

Sarcasm again.  “Yeah.  You explained, but that doesn’t make it any
better.  That doesn’t take away the past three years.  That doesn’t heal
all the damage that’s been done.”

“What would have, Scully?” He asks me.  “What would have?  Watching them
take you again?  Watching you die?  Would that have healed this damage?”
He’s angry, angrier than I have seen him in a very long time.  “If you
think I would have stood by and allowed that to happen, knowing all
along that I could have stopped it, then you’ve never had any idea of
how I felt about you.”

I take one step closer to him.  “No,” I begin.  “That wouldn’t have
healed it.  But we could have figured something out.  *Together* we
could have figured something out.  I’ve always known you would do this
if it was asked of you.  I’ve always understood your need for
self-sacrifice, especially when it comes to your guilt involving me. 
But what good has that sacrifice done?  Look where we are, Mulder!”  I
gesture frantically around the room.  “What good has all this pain done!?”

“Nothing,” he tells me, voice flat and dull.  “It’s all been for
nothing.  It was all I knew how to do and it’s been for nothing.”  It’s
him that steps towards me now.  “But I told you, Scully.  I couldn’t
risk you.  I knew you’d never let me go.  I did what I thought had the
best chance of ensuring your safety.”

I laugh slightly at this, the sound harsh and bitter.  “My safety.”  My
laughter seems to unsettle him.  Good.  “Oh, yeah, I was safe.  Very
safe after you left.  I was nice and safe and protected from all the
dangers you had always worried about.  I was nice and safe and sheltered
with a peaceful job over at Quantico and dutiful little students to
invest my vast knowledge in.  I was nice and safe and slowly turning to
stone each night you were gone.  Nice and safe refusing to cry because I
knew that if I started I might not stop.  Nice and safe and after your
death I had no one left because my family didn’t know me anymore, my
mother couldn’t talk to me for more than ten minutes, my brothers barely
looked at me.  Nice and safe without any friends left I felt comfortable
around, anyone to turn to, any way to grieve.”  Each sentence brings me
a step closer to him and grows in cadence and strength.

“Yeah, I was safe, Mulder.  But I was dying inside.”  I stand directly
in front of him now, my eyes boring up into his, allowing him to see
just what his little sacrifice has done, just what he has created with
his oh-so-selfless act.  “I *never* cried for you!”  I punctuate each
word sharply.  “I never cried for you, Mulder.  Not once.  I couldn’t
allow it.  I never cried and it became so that even if I had wanted to,
I couldn’t remember how.

“God damn you, Mulder!” I scream, slamming my hands into his chest in
front of me. “I should have at least been able to cry!”

His eyes are wide with shock, looking down at me, allowing me to pound
into his chest.  I keep speaking; the words rushing out without heed. 
“You were all I had after everything, Mulder.  All I had and you left
me!  You left me alone with the knowledge that without you I could never
be whole again, that without you I would always feel that aching
emptiness that no amount of time would heal!”  I am pounding into his
flesh now, fists connecting again and again, trying to hurt him, wanting
to hurt him.  I want him to feel pain.  I want him to hurt, to bruise,
to bleed.  I want some evidence that he feels this, feels *me*, feels
this loss and ache and desolation that I feel, feels this hollow and
sting on his skin, in his soul, tearing through him.  I want to know
that he has suffered as much as I have.

“I loved you!” I wail, and it is the last thing I can say, the last
thing that needs to be said.  That’s what it’s always been about, after
all.  I loved him and he left me.  I loved him and he betrayed that by
abandoning me, by not telling me the truth of what he was doing.

Dissolving now, I find myself unable to blink away the tears when they
come.  For the first time in three years I can feel moisture building in
my eyes and I have no inclination to stop it.  I crumble, supporting the
weight of too much sorrow and loss, unable to support so much on my
over-taxed and weary legs.  I crumble and Mulder is there to shore me
up.  Fists still against his shirt, grasping now, clenching bundles of
gray fabric as we slide to the ground, and I murmur once more into the
cushion of his chest.  “I loved you.”

We stay like that for a time – Mulder kneeling, his arms around me
gently, me between his knees, face against his shirt, fists still
grasping with some desperate need to hold on.  What a picture we must
make like this, what a tragic tableau.  The tears are hot and strange
rolling over my cheeks and I find that I am unable to stop them.  It’s
as if a dam has been opened, tapping into part of that pain has
disrupted it all and I am crying uncontrollably, waves of anguish.  My
world dissolves into nothing but the feel of soft cotton beneath my
cheek, smelling of faint laundry detergent and sleep and Mulder.  The
soft feel of that cotton and the sound of my breath hitching in and out,
gasping breaths accompanied by the steady rhythm of Mulder’s heartbeat –
strong and sure, filling my ears.

From above my head, I hear him speaking.  “I’m sorry, Scully.  God, I’m
so sorry.  I know you loved me. I knew.”  He’s whispering, barely even
sounds at all.  I wonder if he knows I can hear him.  Drawing back, I
pull in a deep and stuttering breath and search out his eyes, surprised
by what I find.

He has been crying too, and I wonder how long it has been for him since
he allowed this simple weakness.

Looking down at me, his words are louder now.  “I *am* sorry, Scully,
but not for making that decision.  It was right to me at the time, and
though maybe I should have told you, I felt that it was the only way out
for you given the circumstances.  I’m sorry that I led you to this.  I’m
sorry that through your allegiance with me you were led into this
situation to begin with.”  His hands draw delicate circles on my back. 
“Mostly I’m sorry that I’ve caused you this much pain.  I never wanted
to hurt you.  All I’ve ever wanted was to keep you from harm.”

Stiffening in his grip, his hands freeze on my back.  “That’s why I’m so
angry, Mulder.”  I pin him with my eyes, needing him to hear this, to
hear me.  “You *can’t* keep me from harm, just like I can’t protect you
entirely.  Look where that’s led us, what we’ve become.”  His eyes are
so sad regarding mine, but I begin to note that they are not as cold as
before, not as frozen.  My strength failing, I ask a question I fear the
answer of.  “How are we supposed to recover from this, Mulder?  I don’t
know if we can.”

He brushes a hand against my hair.  “We’ll recover, Scully.  We will.” 
I can feel the false assurance in his voice.  He wants to believe.  He
always has.  But he’s as frightened as I am, as scared that too much has
passed now to be repaired.

I collapse into his chest again and can hear one last whisper from his
lips.  “I’m sorry.”

I won’t tell him that it’s all right, because it’s not.  I won’t offer
him reassurances that I don’t believe.  I can’t forgive him entirely for
what he’s done, not now, maybe not ever, but I can try to move past it. 
I don’t know if apologies and time will be enough to heal all that’s
broken between us.  I want to believe too, but I’ve always been the
realist.  Mulder and I are barely afloat right now, and the waves
threaten to pull us under with every passing tide.  I am sitting here in
his arms, waiting for the currents to shift.

~~~~

“How long has it been since you last fired a gun?”  He asked me.  And
there were unspoken questions there, explanations that needed giving. 
But those were stories for another time, memories that I was not yet
ready to share with him.

“A while,” I had responded enigmatically.

And he had smiled, faintly, with plans obvious in his complex mind. 
“You should practice, you know?  It won’t do us much good if we get into
a bad situation and you can’t hit a target.”

It made sense, I knew.  There was logic in this simple observation. 
Packing up my clothes this evening, eyes fuzzy from not enough sleep, I
was preparing to leave, studiously avoiding any conversation regarding
our mutual emotional breakdown the night before.  “Okay, so what are we
supposed to do about that?”

Mulder had zipped up his bag and grabbed the key off of the motel
table.  “We’ll just have to find us somewhere to practice.”

The all night Stop-and-Save clerk had looked at us strangely with our
three twelve packs of Coke and two deli sandwiches.

In the middle of our wonderful country, there seem to be an abundance of
large, empty fields and open, private spaces.  This fact, and our more
southern location made the night more pleasant than I had anticipated. 
Walking across huge, grassy fields, the more comfortably warm night air
teasing through my hair, I had wondered in the spill of moon light over
long stems of dried grass.

The scene *could* have been more idyllic.  It was still the end of
winter, even here where it was somewhat warmer.  The grass cushioning me
through the protection of a blanket was still dried and lifeless from
winter chill.  I still shivered slightly when the wind became too
harsh.  But it was so much more than I had felt in such a long time, and
I watched as Mulder walked ahead and began ceremoniously pouring soda
out of all but two of those unfortunate cans.

The car was parked so far behind us, I briefly feared we might never
find it again.  One would think that with the startling abundance of
fields, a fence or two wouldn’t be so hard to come by.  One would think
this, and then one would be wrong.  Our nighttime search for a suitable
field was conducted in a silence that was not deafening for once. 
Striding along beside him, our steps falling into their ancient
syncopated rhythm, the silence had actually felt warm in a familiar
way.  I hadn’t forgiven him, but I think I was learning to let go.

“Soda cans, Mulder?”  I couldn’t help the slight teasing tone in my
voice.  I hadn’t wanted it to be there; it had just showed up of its own
accord.

“You have a better idea for target practice?”  The tone had snuck into
his voice too.

And I didn’t, really.  It had just seemed so odd, so out of place with
the circumstances and situations we had been involved in lately, for us
to be out in the middle of some hay field shooting soda cans off of an
old stone fence.

I had started to stand, lifting myself up off of the blanket, preparing
to do what we had come to accomplish when he had moved over and put a
hand on my shoulder, lightly pushing me down.  “Eat first.”  Not a
command really, just a sort-of request, and I *was* starving.

A new situation for us, one not engaged in through all the years we had
been together.  Sitting out under the stars, the threadbare blanket
stolen from a cheap motel beneath us, ham and cheese with low-fat mayo,
and the two lone survivors of what was going to be a soda-can massacre. 
Mulder’s legs were splayed out before him, and I had untucked my own to
lay them out parallel to his.  They were so much smaller.  Another long
warming silence as we ate, and I only looked over to study him a few
times when he wasn’t looking.

Breakfast-dinner-whatever-the-hell-it-was that you call the first meal
of the day eaten at one o’clock in the morning was finished and this
time he stood first.  “Well,” he began.  “Let’s see if you can still
kick my ass at this.”

I seriously doubted he was in any danger.  Two years was a while to have
not even touched a gun.  It turns out the results weren’t as dismal as I
had feared.

“Dammit!”  Cursing has never been like me.  I tend towards reservation
where that is concerned, but when I get frustrated, I can’t help it.

“Just focus, Scully.  Put the face of some remembered enemy on that can
and then focus.”

He hadn’t needed to offer any suggestions.  I had plenty of options in
my well-stocked experience to place a new face on each and every one of
those sad little soda-cans.  Narrowing my vision, the universe had
become smaller, centering, drawing in on itself in a way I had lost over
two years of inexperience.  Focus shifted, blurring everything at the
edges, blurring everything except the feel of the gun in my hand and the
shape of a red aluminum cylinder perched in perfect clarity on the
sloping surface of an old stone fence.

Donnie Pfaster.  Alex Krycek.  Duane Barry.  That unnamable, surrounded
by shadows, chain-smoking bastard.  Robert Patrick Modell.  A
possibly-alien, shape-shifting, face-morphing, Nordic, Arnold wanna-be
with an ice-pick thing in the grasp of one hand. Virgil Incanto.  A
hit-man driving past me, stopping short, pushing Mulder from the back of
a van, shooting one of our few allies.  The rotation of faces shifted
and shuffled.  Old cases.  Old enemies.  All of the usual suspects
making return appearances in the grim slide-show of my mind.

“That’s much better.”  Humor tinged his voice, and I think he was as
shocked as I when all but two of the ten cans lined up on the fence fell
with my first attempt.

He had lined up another bunch and the process was repeated.  By the
third set, there were no survivors.

“I think you’ve go the hang of it,” he told me.  I had looked over at
him, standing there, watching me from a few feet away.  More of the ice
in his eyes seemed to have melted in those few short moments.  There was
more of the man I remembered standing out there, watching me assassinate
empty cans of soda pop.

“When’s the last time *you* did this?” I countered, looking at him with
a faint challenge.

“Not that long ago.”  As enigmatic as I had been.

It was such deja-vu, standing there, watching him in profile as he
concentrated his sight on the fence ahead of us.  I had done that so
many times in the past, stood silently at his side, watching the fires
is his eyes focus to a dangerous gleam and then the sharp sound of
gunfire filling the air.  Of course, those moments were usually spent in
a firing range and not out atop wide expanses of dead grass.

It seems Mulder didn’t have a hard time finding inspiration either.

“Not bad,” was my dry reply, examining from afar his line of mangled
victims.  Several of the cans had been used more than once and had ended
up with little resemblance to their former purpose.

He had broken his concentration to look over at me.  I hadn’t seen that
smile in three long years.

Needing to get back on the road and start moving, we were both reluctant
to pack up our little picnic.  It had been peaceful out in that field. 
Things had seemed less complicated out in the crisp night air.

I sigh now, staring up at the dirty ceiling of yet another motel.

Things *had* been less complicated.  It had been as if our breakdown the
night before had aired out enough of the poisonous emotions to make it
easier to see each other again, easier to be with each other again.  It
was strange, he hadn’t really apologized and I hadn’t really forgiven
him, but somehow we had both acknowledged the other’s pain and it had
started to be enough.

There is still more that needs repair.  Much more.  I don’t kid myself
about this.  But I think that now that the process has started, now that
we’ve *seen* the effect of these three years and recognized the damage
for what it is, I think that maybe now only time can do the rest.

We adhered to our usual schedule for the rest of the night – drove until
the sun threatened to rise over the horizon, found another of those
always charming, cheap, roadside motels, and settled in for the day. 
Nothing else of remarkable consequence happened over the course of our
travels.  We kept an always-cautious eye on the road behind us and tried
to remain hopeful that we would not be spotted again.

I wonder what kind of search is being conducted for us.  I wonder how
much of their resources are being expended to find us.  Are we a
priority?  How much danger are we actually in?

Unsettling questions – questions I try hard not to dwell on.  I am
trying with tentatively newfound hope to concentrate on moving forward
and staying somewhat optimistic.  I almost laugh at the meaning of those
words, optimism is an emotion so foreign to me I barely recognize it. 
The future is still a large, blank emptiness to me, but with each day
that passes, I find that I am straining to see more clearly into that
darkness.

Mulder’s not asleep beside me.  He lies very still, trying not to
disturb.  I am reminded of the night before and my own futile attempts
at sleep.  It seems that both of us are having trouble tonight.

“Scully.”  He says it so softly, afraid of waking me.

I consider for a brief moment avoiding him by feigning sleep.  “I’m
awake.”  If I want us to heal, reaching out must necessarily be part of
the equation.

“Can’t sleep?”  He obviously knows the answer, but that isn’t the real
question being asked anyway.  He’s silently asking me what it is keeping
me awake.

“I was just thinking.”

His silence is a question in itself.

I continue.  “I was wondering about how much danger we’re actually in,
how long they’ll search for us, how much they care.”

He keeps his voice low, the intimate tone of speaking to someone with
whom you are sharing a bed.  “You think they’ll give up eventually?”

I mirror his hushed intimacy.  “Not to undervalue myself, but I doubt
I’m of that much importance to them to continue a search indefinitely. 
I’d think that after a while, they’d stop caring.”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering what I’ve said.  “We can always hope.”

I can sense him thinking and wait to hear his thoughts.  “I doubt they
would continue on indefinitely,” he says.  “But for now, I think it’s a
safe bet that we’re not quite out of the woods.”

This time, I’m the one who is silent.

We lie there like that for what seems like hours, quiet, peaceful,
listening to the steady intertwining sounds of our breath.  I drift and
allow my thoughts to wander over what may be, what has been, and what
now is.  It’s like floating – half-conscious, relaxed, comfortable with
Mulder’s presence beside me.  It’s drifting like this, flat on my back,
thinking random, disjointed, pre-slumber thoughts that I feel the
blankets shift.  There is motion beside me and the rustling of covers.

Softly, so softly and with hesitance in the motion, I feel Mulder’s
fingers wrap loosely around mine, stretching his arm out across that
vast territory between us, reaching across the void.  I reassure those
nervous fingers, linking them with my own, returning his offered comfort.

We fall asleep like this – each still positioned on our assigned side of
the bed, our joined hands lying in the middle, fingers tangled together,
breaching the gap.

~~~~
End Part 9/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (10/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

“I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel that you are far away?”

- Pablo Neruda

~~~~

I've never liked Texas, I remember now.  Never.  Too many bad memories
rooted here.  Too many nights in cheap motels on nowhere cases with
tension and death and dying lying as boundaries between Mulder and I. 
Too many hours on too many miles of endless, monotonous highway bordered
by too much vacant space to be tolerable.  Too flat.  Too dry.  I've
never liked it, and I don't find my impression altered much by time.

Texas has one advantage never granted to it before now, however.  Texas
now marks the tentative end of a never-ending journey.  Once through
this last state, over these last miles of highway, anonymity will be
easier to find.  Lost in the vastness of the world beyond, there is some
hope of time to spare.  Time to disappear, to make plans, to achieve
some measure of safety.

It is not a plan by any stretch of the imagination.  It is barely even
the beginnings of a plan.  It is, however, the only option we have. 
More than anything right now, Mulder and I need time.  Just some space
to breathe and think without constantly looking over our shoulders.  We
need the ability to get lost for a little while, hoping that the search
might end, searching for the next step.

Where will we go from there?  What will we do once we cross the border? 
I'm not at all sure.  We will most likely keep running for a while.  I
doubt we will stay in Mexico for long.  Nowhere is truly safe right now.

The strange thing is, though I am acutely aware of the danger we are in,
though I know that we may not be able to escape for much longer, I am
somehow more at peace than I have been in many years.  Even despite all
of this danger, even amidst chaos, I cannot help this feeling of finding
something I had thought lost, finding something I had been desolate
without.  The feeling has built in gentle leaps, creeping up on me in
quiet moments and simple gestures.  It has advanced slowly to remind me
that even in uncertainty, I am more complete with him than I ever was
alone.

The last rays of sun were peeking shyly through the slats of venetian
blinds when I woke this morning, and I could smell the heady aroma of
fresh coffee tempting me into the world beyond.  Mulder had been up and
around early.  He had woken to go find breakfast and had been careful
not to disturb me.  Grudgingly opening my eyes slightly, I sought him
out in the shadows of the room.

At the window, he was standing with his back turned to me, faint edge of
his strong profile visible, hands wrapped around a steaming cup.  The
dying day painted him in muted tones, and beside me I could see the
rumpled remains of where he had slept, the turned back sheets on his
side of the bed - the bed we had shared.

He took an absent-minded sip of coffee and sighed, closing his eyes,
never noticing my scrutiny.  Lying there, mind still wrapped in fog, I
felt the sting of just how much I had missed him.

My shifting in the bed had alerted his attention.

"Good morning."  Low and soft like his eyes regarding me, the same
intimacy of the night before but with strange hesitance guarding the tone.

It was actually painful - physically painful like a dagger in my chest. 
Watching him from the safety of thick quilts and soft pillows,
surrounded by the hush of first waking, the pain of our separation came
rushing in with a vengeance.  I blinked back fresh tears, careful that
he would not see, returned his soft greeting, and rose to greet the day.

Standing now, I can still see his smile as he first looked over at me. 
Even in this dirty bathroom, I can still feel that warmth.

Lying on the chipped and battered ceramic of a lonely truck stop sink,
the photograph stares up at me as I wash my hands.  That same photo
carried so carefully through these years.  His last gift to me, his
silent good-bye.  It lies flat on the dirty surface and stares up at me
under the glow of one lonely light-bulb flickering from the ceiling above.

I carried this fragment of time with me for three years.  I carried it
with me because I thought it was all I had left of him, all that
remained.  Yet even through those years, even as this picture sat tucked
in the box by my bed, in the back pocket of my slacks, under the safety
of my pillow, even through years of possession I tried with
determination not to look too closely at it.  The experience was too
painful, the memories too precise.  I carried it carefully but could not
stand its presence.

For the first time in three years, I look again at this image and am
able to smile at the memory.

He's changed so much since this was taken.  We both have.  He's changed
and aged and become harder for all the years of our suffering.  But
enough remains the same. The essence of him is still what it always
was.  I look at this picture, into the eyes of this lost Mulder and can
see the light I still find in him now, the light absent from him when he
first appeared at my door to resurrect himself from the dead.  I look at
this man from three years ago, this dead man, and can see the same
gentle shine in his eyes, the same hesitant smile as I was greeted with
this morning when I first woke up.

Tracing that smile with reverent fingers, I lift the aging photo up and
tuck it again into the darkness of my back pocket.

Startling me from inactivity, there are a series of hard knocks to the
bathroom door.

"I'll be right out," I call, anticipating some other weary traveler,
drying my hands quickly on the legs of my dusty jeans.

"Scully, it's me.  Open the door."  His voice is strained somehow,
difficult.

Opening the heavy, metal door, I peer out to find him pushing his way in.

"You know, Mulder, there *is* a men's room here, too."  My quip falls
flat at the end, trailing off as I see the look in his eyes.

Oh no.  Not now.  Not when we're just starting to be okay.  Not when I'm
just starting to be okay again.  I wanted more time.  Just a little more
time to remember how to feel this way.  I'm not ready yet.

I just wanted more time.

"What's wrong," I ask, dreading the answer and knowing it all the same.

His voice is the flat of dread.  He wasn't ready either.  "There's a car
in the parking lot.  Two men, I think.  Watching me with carefully
hidden interest as I paid for the gas."

"You're sure," I prod, leaving the rest of the question unvoiced. 
You're sure it's them?  You're sure we've been spotted?  You're sure
we're in danger?

"We knew they'd be looking for us.  It was just a matter of time before
they found us again."

I stare fixedly towards the floor.  Not wanting to look up, I resign
myself to what is.  "What are we going to do?"

His answer comes from above my head and beyond my averted vision.  "I'm
not sure."  A pause.  "We could get into our car and just drive away,
but we both know they'd follow us.  It's safe to say that the only
reason they haven't acted is because there are too many people around
here."

Looking up again, I find his glance is off with his thoughts, focused
somewhere off in the middle distance.  "We can't really try any kind of
assault with innocent bystanders around, and I don't really relish the
idea of a fire-fight anyway," he continues.  "I'm open to suggestions,
though."

"Well we can't hide in the bathroom all night either," I offer, and my
observation is confirmed by soft knocking on the outside of the bathroom
door.

His eyes target and lock on mine, sharing the sense of possible danger. 
With a tight, small nod, I pull my gun from its holster at my back and
answer in as light a tone as possible.  "I'll be just a second."

A decidedly female voice returns quietly. "That's okay."

His visual sweep of the bathroom yields what I already know.  No
windows.  No vents large enough to crawl through.  No alternate means of
escape.  With a deep breath and the countdown mentally ticking away in
my head, I take my position on the side by the door's opening while
Mulder anchors himself to the wall behind it.

With one last visual lock, I tighten my hold with a sharp twist on the
door-knob, pull roughly, pivot a fraction and bring the gun up with a
snap of wrist and concentration of focus into the terrified face of an
elderly woman.  Her purse clatters to the ground with a thud and a sharp
gasp.  I should be thankful that she doesn't scream.

Lowering the gun with caution, I rush to explain.  "I'm sorry.  Don’t
get upset.  I thought you were someone else."  There's total fear and
disbelief shadowing her eyes.  My finger still tensed on the trigger -
mentally still prepared - I try again.  "There was a man following me, I
thought you might be him."

Her voice shakes when she finds it.  "You're not going to rob me?"

"God, no" I reassure, slightly incredulous.  "No, I'm not going to hurt
you at all.  I was just scared.  I'm sorry.  Truly, I didn't mean to
scare you."

She softens a bit until Mulder appears from behind the door.  Stiffening
again, I stammer out "Just a friend.  He was trying to protect me."

The doubt and fear in her eyes is loud and clear.  Stepping past her and
out into the night, Mulder follows behind with his hand under the back
of his shirt, no doubt wrapped securely around the end of his gun.

She glares at us warily as we edge further away and then shuts the
bathroom door behind her with a clang and the audible click of the lock
sliding shut.

Mulder's rough sigh at my side is followed by the removal of his gun
from its holster.  Turning to me, we make an unspoken decision and move
to the corner of the building, preparing to look around its edge and out
into the parking lot.  With back flat against the cold, concrete wall,
Mulder peers around the corner and whispers back harshly.  "They're
looking into our car.  Two of them, one standing off to the side while
the other looks in the windows."

"Well, there goes the option of returning to the car," I say, knowing it
wasn't the best option anyway.

Mulder is silent beside me.

"Shit!"  His rough obscenity is delivered as he reels his head back
around the corner and grabs my arm.

He is pulling me sharply, back the way we came, around the back of the
building.  "They saw me, I think they saw me."  His words are angry
whispers, and he no longer needs to pull me, I go along quite
willingly.  We are running with nowhere left to run.

At the back of the gas station now, we face a broad, empty expanse of
parched desert landscape with sparse scattering of withered vegetation. 
Nothing else exists.  There really is no place we can go.  Mulder grabs
my elbow and pulls again, leading me out into the desert.  It rolls in
soft, barely there hills beneath my stumbling feet.

"Mulder, where…" But my question is never finished, I don't get the
chance.  We falter with growing urgency over a small rise and through a
sickly clump of bushes when I hear the first break of gunfire shattering
the air.

My gun is in my hand before I even register the sensation, and I am now
absurdly thankful that we took the time to practice in that hay field.

Running still, my steps are surer, fueled now by raw fear and pure
adrenaline.

More gunfire at my back, and I haven't even looked behind to see our
enemies.  All I know is that the threat feels closer now, the shots more
on target, the danger more real.  Another quick volley after that, in
rapid succession, and Mulder is dragging me down over a sharp rise, sand
and rocks and debris scattering and hissing under our footfalls.  The
slope is unstable, and I barely keep upright on our way to the bottom.

"Oh shit."  Mulder's voice has that quiet dread to it that I've heard a
hundred times before.

"What?"  But then I realize, look around and understand the problem. 
We're in trouble.  Large amounts of trouble.  Huge, copious amounts of
trouble.

"We'll be sitting ducks!" He says, looking around in desperation, up
along the sides of the small valley we've found ourselves in, bordered
on all side by sloping borders of sand and rock, a depression in the
desert landscape now becoming a trap to us.  We are the perfect targets
to take out from above.

That thought is no sooner formed before it is proved correct in a
terrible way.

Turning sharply, I catch the first glimpse of who we are running from in
the shape of two dark figures silhouetted against the night sky by the
faint shimmer of a three-quarter moon.

Mulder grabs me roughly, pulling me to the ground and over, as the sand
where I had been standing is scattered and thrown into the air by
bullets narrowly missing their target.

I roll across the ground, small rocks with the texture of glass digging
into my arms and face.  My still damaged ribs scream in agitation, pain
roaring to life from my impact with the ground.  I am dizzy with it,
dizzy and all too aware that such incapacity it not an option.  Lying on
the ground for only the briefest of moments, Mulder is pulling me again,
his fingers lacing and clenching around my own.  I look over to see him
in a similar position on the ground, busily tugging my hand and
gesturing to a nearby outcropping of rocks.

Our only advantage is the cover of night.  Lying on the ground, no
longer tall, moving objects, we must be harder to locate from atop the
rise.  I know we are not safe for long.  They *will* be coming down to
look for us.

Crawling slowly, and with pain for each movement, those sharp rocks are
imbedded in the palms of my hands as we make our way across the basin's
floor and over to the rocks.  Behind us, our pursuers seem to have grown
impatient, and I hear several shots fired blindly in our direction.

Mulder has released my hand and I now follow him from behind.  More
gunfire in the night, this time closer.  Much closer.  Any closer and
they're going to hit us.  Ahead of us, the rocks are just a few feet
away.  Mulder reaches them first and scrambles behind and out of sight. 
With a wince and tears stinging behind my eyes, I push protesting limbs
over the rough surface of a giant boulder and behind to where he waits.

Gasping, my lungs are on fire - searing tear of pain with each in-drawn
breath and new blaze again with every exhale.  Safe for just a few
moments, I clench my eyes shut and try to breathe as slowly as possible.

"Scully?"  He's in front of me; I can feel his breath against my skin. 
The worry and fear in his voice is palpable.

"I'm fine," I manage, short gasping breaths making their way out between
the words.

"No, you're not.  You're in pain."  He's terrified.  "Are you hit?"

Oh God, he thinks they shot me.  "No, Mulder," I rush to reassure.  "No,
but my ribs are still sore.  They haven't had time to heal.  I'll be
fine, I just need a minute to catch my breath."

He doesn't say it.  I don't need him to.  We don't have a minute.  We
may not have any time left at all.  I open my eyes to the sight of him,
staring intently at me even in the darkness, hovering just above my
face.  He looks like he wants to say something.  From behind us, out in
the ravine, there is the sound of gravel being disturbed as our threat
makes its way down into the depression to join us.  Whatever Mulder may
have wanted to say is lost.

My breathing more regulated, the pain ebbing away slowly, I whisper with
barely a sound at all, "We have to get out of here, they'll find us if
we stay much longer."

Mulder nods, just the slightest twitch of his head.  His eyes are so
concerned, so upset by my condition.  Even in moonlight I can read his
worry.  Those eyes regard me with the question of whether I can make it
up and out of this hole.  If I can crawl back up the steep slope we
descended earlier.

"We can do this," I say, more strength to my tone.  Saying the words, I
pull myself up to my knees and head for the rising slope only a couple
of feet away.  Moving slowly, trying not to disturb the sand and draw
undue attention, I look over my shoulder to locate our two thugs. 
Across the depression, I can see the faintest shimmer of motion where
they must now have reached the bottom and begun searching for us.

Halfway up the slope, I can hear Mulder behind me also making his way
carefully to the top.  With the goal now in sight, just a tiny bit more
to climb, I pick up the pace slightly.  Raising my hands while climbing,
I realize my mistake too late.  I shouldn't have speeded up; this sand
isn't stable enough.  Placing my hand down, a rock gives out beneath it,
slipping a few inches, causing a tiny cascade of rocks and sand.  Domino
effect.  Rush of debris tumbling down the slope and pointing a large
neon arrow towards our location.

To my left, closer to my hand than I would definitely have liked, a
bullet is fired into the hillside and scatters a cloud of sand.  Too
late now for delicacy, I move more frantically towards the top.  I am
almost there when a sickening sound stops me in my tracks.

A faint grunt, low and tainted with the edges of a whimper.  Barely a
sound, but one that I recognize from terrible experiences long passed.

"Mulder?" I whisper harshly, looking behind to search him out.  Below
me, he's stopped crawling, and the first seed of panic blossoms in my
belly.  I scramble back towards him with any pain I may have had now
long forgotten.

"Mulder…" He's slumped towards the ground, head bowed, not moving. 
"Mulder, what happened?"  The panic is in my voice.

"I'm hit."  His voice is quiet, forced, reserving strength for pain.

Oh God, please no.  "Where?"  I'm praying, silently beseeching God for
help.

"Upper arm."

I'm beside him now, the rain of bullets temporarily stopped while those
men no doubt move closer towards their targets.

"Mulder, we have to get up and out of here."  But he's already moving,
grunting from the pain and pulling himself up nonetheless.  Together, we
make the last few grasping steps up and over the edge.  His breath is
heaving when he collapses at the top.

"Mulder, no.  We can't stop.  We have to keep moving."  I am pulling him
this time.    He stumbles to his feet with a small cry of pain.  Turning
around towards the slope we just ascended; I aim my gun down into
relative darkness searching for a target.  A glimmer of movement from
the bottom of the hill below attracts my attention, and I aim with
little hope and fire.

Five shots echo in the night, but I don't stop to see what I've hit. 
There is the small, hopeful sound of a stumble and gasp from below, as
Mulder and I move on desperate feet out into the desert ahead of us.

The moonlight is brighter up here - less is captured by shadow.  Behind
us, I can no longer see the lights of the gas station; we've wandered
much too far.

Making our way over a tiny roll in the landscape, we find ourselves
facing a clump of pitiful, dying desert vegetation.  Sad and barren
looking but cover enough for the moment.

"Mulder, stop."  He reads my intention, stopping and slumping to the
ground, huddling amidst the bushes.  I crawl to his side and push myself
up a bit until I can see over the hill shielding us, back towards the
ravine.  I focus my vision at just the right moment and catch the sight
of not the expected two, but one lonely figure making his way over the
slope's edge and quickly scanning the horizon.

He doesn't see us, and he's apparently alone.  I wonder if I managed to
hit his companion.  Our luck may be running better than I had thought.

Slowly and quietly, I set my sights as carefully as possible. 
Centering, that familiar narrowing of vision and focus, the world
blurring at the edges.  I settle the long lost comforting weight of my
gun in my palm and tense my finger on the trigger.  I have to hit him. 
If I miss, he'll know our location, and Mulder and I can't run much
farther.  I *will* hit him.  We've come too far, gained too much.  I
won't let them take me now.  I won't go back.  I won't let them kill
Mulder.  Not now.  I am willing to fight for this now.  For the first
time in ages, I have something to fight for.

No more hesitation.  I pull back on the trigger with a series of rapid
shots just as he begins to move forward.  Even from a distance, I can
see the stagger and slump of his body when the bullets impact.  He
stumbles a few feet, still walking.  Then, as I fire again, three more
carefully delivered rounds, he collapses to the sand and does not
attempt to get up.

Letting out my breath in a rush, I all but collapse back and into the
bushes.  Mulder's quiet hum beside me alerts my immediate attention.

"Mulder, where?"  I push over to him, running light hands over his arms
and up.

"Left arm, near the shoulder."  His voice is shaking.  "He's not a much
better shot than you, Scully."  His attempt at humor is accompanied by a
betraying grimace.

Tentatively, my hands find the wound and pull back sharply.  Blood. 
Fresh and wet and in quantity enough to make my hands shake.  Without
hesitation, I pull off the button down shirt I was wearing and leave
myself in only a T-shirt.  It rips with relative ease.  Leaning him
forward carefully, Mulder's head rests gently on my shoulder as I push
my hands up under his shirt to lift it off.

"Is this what it would have taken?"  The words are quietly delivered
into the muffling obstruction of my shoulder.  I almost smile as I move
his injured arm with as much delicacy as possible through the shirtsleeve.

Looking at the wound, I wince and Mulder cannot help but catch it.

"It's not that bad," I murmur.  Mulder's eyes on mine are sadly
doubtful.  "No," I say, picking up the make-shift bandages, "From the
blood loss, I don't think he hit any major blood vessels, and it appears
to have gone through clean."

He interrupts. "But there's still the risk of infection, and I've still
lost a decent amount of blood."

"Not that much."  I wrap the first strip around and tie it tightly to
form a tourniquet above the wound.  His hiss of breath is the only
indication of pain.  Wrapping the wound as efficiently as possible, I
know that the risk of infection is our greatest threat right now.  We
need to get out of here fast.  We need a town where I can get something
to disinfect this and somehow the possibility of antibiotics.

Carefully, I maneuver Mulder back into his shirt, his eyes burning into
me the entire time.  I know he's as aware of the danger as I am.

"Do you think you can walk?"  He nods briefly at my question, attempting
to pull himself up.  I rise and place an arm around him, under his
shoulders, supporting his formidable weight.

"We can't go back to the gas station," he pants out, already winded from
the pain.  "They'll know we're there.  It's not safe."

"Then where are we supposed to go?"

He glances around, searching the desert horizon.  "The highway should be
that way," he says, pointing an unsteady finger to our left.  "If we can
make it to the road, we might be able to hitch a ride somewhere, at
least to the nearest town."

I hate this.  It's risky and dangerous and Mulder could die if his
gunshot wound gets infected.  I hate this, but I know it's all we can
do.  Not saying anything more, I begin walking slowly out into the
desert with Mulder, wounded and half-conscious, clinging to my side.

~~~~
End Part 10/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (11/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

"I held you there, thinking, I would offer you my pulse if I thought it
would be useful.  I would give you my breath."

- Ani Difranco

~~~~

"That same blue. The same color as your eyes."

His words startle me from my semi-trance and I look down, into his face,
that face I had thought resting and unconscious.  Not sure of what he
said, if I heard him correctly, I indicate confusion with the tilt of my
head.

He raises a trembling hand up to my face, weak fingers alighting briefly
upon the wisps of hair escaping the scarf and the material of the scarf
itself.  "This blue," he explains, indicating the soft fabric shielding
my hair, "it's the same as your eyes, the same perfect shade."  He drops
his hand, too weak to hold it up much longer.  Still holding my gaze, he
speaks in a whisper. "That's why I chose it, why I picked that one.  It
reminded me of your eyes."

I continue to look at him, blur of tears blocking clear vision.  Sitting
with his head cradled in my lap, by the side of this one-lane highway,
waiting for a car to pass, I find myself moved to the point of tears by
his simple words.

He continues speaking, oblivious to my emotion.  "I came back once, you
know, to see, because I needed to see you."

His words freeze my tears in place.

"I came back because I was so empty, so lost, and I thought that if I
could just look at you, just for a moment, some of that space would be
filled again."  He stops to drag in a stuttering breath.  "But it wasn't
enough, it didn't fill that void completely because I couldn't see your
eyes.  I was so far away, and I needed to see your eyes."

He's partially delirious, I know.  The pain and blood loss have seen to
that.  But I also know that there's truth in his words, that these
events *did* happen.  Even if it's the pain that's loosened his tongue,
even if he would not otherwise tell me these things, I know he means them.

"When, Mulder?" I ask, needing to know.  "When did you come to see me?"

His eyes are closed again, lashes lying softly against his too pale
cheeks.  His voice, when it emerges, sounds as if it comes from miles
away.  "I stood on that hill and tried to see your eyes, but you were
too far away.  Even when you looked up at me, you were too far away."

Suddenly, I can remember something, a moment, one day.  Sitting alone at
lunch one afternoon when I had sworn I could feel him, known he was near
somehow.  I can remember how it had frozen me mid-breath that feeling,
how I had searched with frantic eyes for the source of that sensation. 
I also remember convincing myself it was nothing, not being able to
swallow even one bite of my lunch, not returning to work because all I
could manage was going home, sitting in numb silence, staring out the
window for hours, fighting back tears.

I can remember this visit he speaks of.

~~~~

She was seated at a table in the far corner of the cafe, alone, quiet,
looking up on brief occasion to glance at someone passing by.  The table
was set for one - she would not be joined by another.  She was alone and
would remain that way.

Hair the summer sunset he remembered - red-gold of flame and fire. 
Beautiful, catching the late afternoon sun and rivaling its color.  That
light glinted off the glory of her hair when she tilted her head the
right way, just slightly to the left with chin up.  Her hair caught fire
when she did that.  She looked out into some not-there distance, and the
arch of her throat was smooth and white.  Porcelain, he remembered,
complimented by that one memory of how it tasted, the salty-sweet tang
of her skin - such a brief, fleeting, not supposed to be memory.

He couldn't see her eyes, not from that vantage point, but he could
imagine them.  They would be half focused in that way of hers always
present when she was only partially there.  Slightly fuzzy, the blue
changing a little at the edges, becoming more gray, diluting the color,
and he had always known when her thoughts were off distant.  Her eyes
would be less brilliantly azure with the clear indication that she was
only half-aware, missing a part of her concentration.

Her eyes had always been his windows to her soul.

She had always been so careful with her emotions, almost stingy with
them.  But he knew that she wasn't cold.  He knew it wasn't lack of
emotion that caused this.  In her eyes he had always been able to see
what she so carefully tried to hide.  He could look into those depths
and find her sadness, her grief, her anger and rage.  She wasn't cold,
not by a long shot.  She felt more than anyone realized, more than most
people were capable themselves of feeling.  This was why she held back
her emotions; this was why she seemed distant to an unknowing observer. 
She *had* to be careful.  She needed control.  Her job and their work
demanded it.  She felt things too deeply to let those feelings intrude
into her life, to allow herself to be weakened by them.

He would have given anything just to look into her eyes again, even if
just for a second.

A waiter came by at that moment, distracting her from whatever
preoccupation she had found.  His view of her figure was momentarily
obstructed while the waiter stood in the way.  They seemed to talk for a
moment.  Then, his view cleared, and he could again see her clearly.

He didn't know why he was torturing himself this way.  It really was
cruel, to look on her and know he could not touch her, not speak to her,
not even allow her to know he was looking.  It was a torture that he had
willingly embraced.  The need had become too strong, the ache too
fierce.  His life, so calm, so simple, so hauntingly vacant and barren
without her presence, he was risking his life by even entering the same
state she occupied.

New Jersey now.  Dr. Dana Scully, resident of New Jersey.  No longer
Agent Scully, no longer holding that title.  She was living quietly, a
doctor in a small hospital, single, silent, alone, out of danger and
away from threat.  Her life was so peaceful without him.

So peaceful, but was she happy?  Had she found that?  What had she
become in his absence?  How much of her was as he remembered?

He wanted to believe she still remained the same.  Still that lilting
laugh chased out when she let her guard down.  Still that fierce
strength supporting herself and all those around her.  Still that simple
vulnerability that wasn't vulnerable at all, not really weakness, just
emotion, the core of her, something so few could see.  Still
intelligence flashing in every word, every action.  Still a bright light
amidst so much darkness.

She had been all of those things to him.  She had been so much more.

She still was, even now, even after.  She still was his reason.

Watching her, he could still feel those things, still hear her voice. 
For the first time since he had left, almost two years ago, he could
feel the pulse of her, the steady rhythm carried in his soul that was
her life, her heartbeat, her presence.  Even from the distance at which
he stood, those chords of connection hummed quietly, reminding him,
paining him, reviving him.  He watched because it was time for him to
remember how to feel.

Suddenly, her back stiffened.  She sat up straight in her seat and
seemed to sharpen her focus.  Something was wrong; he could tell it by
her posture, by the way her glance stole deceptively around the
sidewalk.  Something had startled her and she didn't know what it was. 
Watching nervously, he saw her turn in her chair, looking behind.  What
did she feel?  What was wrong?

Her concentration scanned slowly over the occupants of the cafe,
studying with trained eye over each face, every image.  She moved with
deliberance and found nothing, it seemed.  Then, her focus stilled,
stopped, changed.  She lifted her head and looked up into the line of
trees on the hill above, behind the building across the street.

She looked up and stared directly at him, into him, even though there
was no way she would be able to see him from where she sat.

Fingers fumbling, he dropped the binoculars with a clatter and crash.
They tumbled slightly down the hill before stopping.  She hadn't seen
him, but he knew she had felt it, felt something.  How could she not,
when even from here he could feel their old bond awakening, pulling his
awareness towards her light.

Knowing it was time, that he had lingered long enough, he stooped to
pick the binoculars up and did not look through them again.  He walked
with slow, resigned steps back to his waiting car.  Tossing the
binoculars in back, starting the engine with a twist of key, he tucked
those feelings deep inside.  He closed his eyes for one brief moment,
freezing the image of her hair glowing gold and her throat upturned and
pushed it to the back of his mind.  He gathered carefully the emotions
she had stirred, the old feelings she had revived, those feeling dead
now for so long, and he placed them with care into a place so deep, so
safe and dark, that they would be with him always.  He gathered them
until the time would come when desolate and cold he would once again
need their warmth, her guiding light.  He pulled away from the curb and
was once again silent and alone.

~~~~

He's unconscious again, breath slow and labored.  I reach down and touch
his cheek with fingers stained by his blood while he lies unaware and
fighting for strength across my legs in the ditch of this highway. 
Around my head, the scarf feels soft and warm, blue, the color of my
eyes.  I reach my fingers up slowly, touching the material, watching
Mulder's peaceful face all the while.

In the distance behind me, I catch the sudden glare of approaching
headlights.

It is the first car that has passed in almost an hour.  The first two we
spotted didn't even pause as they raced by.  I know with simple dread
that if someone does not stop soon, Mulder may be in serious trouble. 
As these new headlights approach, I pray that they will take pity on us
and stop.

Gently extricating myself from Mulder, I lay his head down to the ground
and stand, shaking the dirt from my jeans.  Desperate and afraid, more
afraid than I was even when being chased by those consortium thugs, I
move to stand almost in the center of the road as the lights move nearer.

A truck.  From the closer distance now, I can see the shape of an
eighteen wheeler.  It bears down on me with steady speed while I raise
my hands in the air in an effort to flag it down.  I do not move from my
spot in the road.  I *need* this truck to stop.

There's the squeal of breaks and that high-pitched hissing sound trucks
make as the driver finally spots me and slows down to a stop. Relief
rushing out in a heavy sigh, I jog over to the passengers side door in
an attempt to plead my case.

As I come to stand at the side of the truck, the door pushes out from
within and a rough but somehow friendly voice emerges from the cabin
inside.  Illuminated by the dull glare of a light on the dashboard, I
see an older face, maybe fifty, with faint, dark beard and light eyes. 
He looks down at me with a half-smile of curiosity when he speaks.  "You
need a lift somewhere, Ma'am?"

My heart starts beating again with those words.  "Yes, anywhere's fine. 
The next big town, if you could?"

His smile broadens into a grin I find somewhat charming.  "Sure, just
hop on in," he tells me, indicating with a sweep of hand the bench seat
stretching out beside him.

I pause.  "Hold on a second, I have someone else with me."  I don't look
back up at him as I turn around, going back to the ditch to retrieve
Mulder.

"Mulder, come on, we need to go now."  I shake his uninjured arm
delicately, raising my voice just a bit.  His eyes flutter open and he
looks at me with hazy vision.

"What? Where…" He's confused.

"I found us a ride, Mulder.  We have to go."

He seems to understand, attempting to get up and almost managing the
feat before I slide an arm under his shoulders to help him along. 
Tottering along with slow steps, I struggle under Mulder's weight back
to the open door of the truck.  When I look up into the eyes of the
driver, they are wary and no longer smiling.

"I didn't know there was two of ya."  He's being careful, unafraid of
taking on a tiny woman, but more guarded in the face of her six-foot
tall companion.

I look up with pleading eyes, not afraid to beg.  "Please, he's sick and
I need to get him to a doctor.  You're the only person that's stopped in
hours."

Maybe it's the desperate tint to my voice, or maybe it's Mulder, so pale
and with his breath shallow and pained beside me.  Maybe it's obvious
that neither of us could do anyone any harm in this condition.  Whatever
the cause, the driver nods his head slowly and gestures again to the
empty side of the seat.

Realizing that there is no way I will be able to wrangle Mulder up into
the truck, and that he is in no condition to lift himself all the way
up, I look towards the driver with tentative eyes.  "Could you help me,
I don't think I can lift him by myself?"

The shock in his eyes is momentary but sure.  I know he didn't realize
how serious I was about Mulder being ill.  Joining us on the passenger's
side, he tells me to climb up first, lifts Mulder with relative ease,
and drops him down beside me.  Mulder makes little more than a surprised
gasp of pain and is again silent.  I think he is still too absorbed by
the void of unconscious to notice who has lifted him.  Looking over
Mulder's prone figure at my side, I offer thanks with my eyes and am
absurdly grateful that the one person who *did* stop was large enough to
lift Mulder up.

With the driver back in the cab of the truck, he roars the engine to
life and we start moving with the crunch of gears and the sound of more
horsepower than *I* have ever driven rumbling beneath my feet.

I can feel the driver's eyes on me as I settle Mulder with his head
leaning against the window.  Glancing down fervently at my hands, I am
thankful for the darkness of this truck.  The blood staining my skin
remains blissfully invisible in the low light.

Mulder murmurs faintly, his lips forming my name, a sound so quiet I
barely hear it.  His eyes are open again, regarding me solemnly with
head slightly turned.  He wants to sleep, needs it, but I can see him
fighting it with every fiber of his being, struggling to remain here and
by my side.

"Just sleep," I say, raising a hand to gently touch his cheek.  "Sleep
now."

Another moment passes and I see some comment in his eyes, something he
does not say.  He looks at me in quiet consideration for another breath
before his eyes close, some strange, sleepy, non-sound escaping his lips
before he is swallowed by unconscious.  I watch carefully as his face
relaxes in slumber and resist my urge to push the tangles of hair up and
off of his forehead.

My contemplation of Mulder's sleeping form is broken by the voice of our
driver.

"So," he begins, "what're you two doing all the way out here in the
middle of the night?"

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I squeeze out the most obvious reply. 
"Our car broke down a while back and I need to get him somewhere
quickly, so we decided to try and hitch a ride."  It sounds strained
even to my ears.  "That car was pretty much a goner anyway," I add,
hoping that this will seem reason enough for abandoning our imaginary ride.

"Hmmm…" Our driver acknowledges me with a soft hum, taking a breath
before asking good-naturedly.  "What're your names then?"

I freeze, perhaps for a moment too long, but he says nothing of it. 
"I'm Beth, and this is my husband Tim."  Simple enough names, I think. 
I don't bother with last names.

"Roy Shaw," our host offers in return.  "Well, actually it's Richard,
but I've been Roy to my friends for as long as I can remember.  Not
quite sure why, though."  He laughs, a pleasant sound, with his gaze
shifting over to glance quickly at Mulder and I.

The smile I manage is, for once, not overtly strained or difficult.

"If you don't mind me asking," Roy says, casting an eye away from the
road and in the direction of Mulder's pale face, "what's wrong with your
husband?"

I spin momentarily, searching for an answer.  "Food poisoning, I
think."  It is the best I can do without raising his suspicions.

"Oh," he speaks knowingly.  "My daughter had that a couple years back.
Had a terrible time."  He shakes his head at the memory.  "Had to spend
a week in the hospital.  Bout near killed her, and scared the hell out
of my wife and I."

Trying to maintain the necessary attention, I force myself to watch our
driver as he speaks, tearing my eyes away from Mulder.

"She pulled through it, though," he adds, a lighter tone again finding
his voice.  "And I'm sure your husband will, too."

"Thank you," I manage, meaning it, at the same time grateful that
Mulder's long sleeved shirt shields his wound enough for us to continue
this charade.

Roy is silent again, staring out over the unchanging Texas highway.  I
look back at Mulder and do not resist my next urge.  With tentative
fingers, I trace the shape of his hand, so pale and still on the vinyl
seat.  I trace his long fingers, ridges of bone under warm skin marred
by the signs of time, and I link them with my own.  Holding gently, I
clasp my hand over Mulder's, weaving our fingers tightly together,
trying to infuse his cold flesh with the warmth of my own.  His breath
sighs out against the window in a puff of light fog and I am left
holding his hand, looking ahead towards the horizon, searching for signs
of the next town.

~~~~

Austin, 53 miles.

The sign winks at me brightly in green reflected back by the wash of our
headlights.  We are headed for a major city, and the relief rushes
through me in sweeping waves.

I hazard a glance in the direction of our courteous driver.  He has
vision fixed on the road ahead, eyes tired from driving God knows how
many miles, and sits humming quietly to the soft sound of country music
seeping gently from the radio.  He has not bothered me much with trivial
conversation.  I think he sensed my lack of enthusiasm for small talk. 
Instead, our ride has been spent in relative quiet while I concentrate
with anxious fear upon each of Mulder's ragged breaths and resist with
difficulty the need to check his wound.

Brushing my fingers over Mulder's hand splayed on the seat beside me, I
turn to our driver with a tentative question.  "Would it be possible for
you to drop us at a motel somewhere.  Anywhere near the city is fine."

Roy looks over at me with an inscrutable expression before answering. 
"Yeah, I can do that."

I can tell that he's puzzled by my request.  My most obvious destination
would be a hospital.  What I can't tell him is that if I were to bring
Mulder to a hospital, I would only be begging for our capture.

Those last 53 miles are spent in more silence before signs promising
food, lodging, and gas begin to litter the highway.  For the first time
since this journey began, I can see indications of large-scale
civilization looming ahead.  Moving down the main highway into Austin,
Roy pulls the truck into the parking lot of a small motel just off to
the side of the road.

Hissing to a stop with the sound of straining breaks, the red and blue
glowing letters of the Stop and Stay Inn are the most welcome sight I
have witnessed in ages.

Carefully, I shake Mulder in an attempt to rouse him.

"Are you sure you two are going to be all right?" Roy asks with genuine
concern.

"We'll be fine," I return, not looking at him, shaking Mulder's arm gently.

"Come on, it's time to go.  You need to wake up now."  My voice is
strained, afraid, fearing that he won't wake up, fearing that he can't.

Roy's tone is stronger the second time.  "Are you sure?  I can get the
emergency frequency over the radio if you need it?"

I don't answer this time, instead concentrating on Mulder.  "Please, you
have to get up now… " I hesitate, almost saying his name and stopping
myself at the last moment.  Bringing a hand up to touch his cheek, I
lean forward and whisper into his ear.  "Come on, Mulder, wake up for me."

His eyes shift slightly under closed lids before blinking open with a
start.  "Sc…"

"Shhh" I silence him with my hand squeezing his firmly.  "We're here. 
We have to get going now."

A weak understanding dawns in his eyes, as I turn back to thank our
driver.  "Roy, I can't thank you enough for giving us a ride over
here."  My words are quickly delivered but sincere.

His answering smile is small and worried.  "It was no problem.  Just
glad I could help."

Reaching over Mulder, I pull the handle on the door and it swings open
on a rusty whine.  Somehow, in his half-waking state, he manages to
stumble to the ground and remain standing until I can get down beside
him. Preparing to close the door, Roy's voice calls out one last time. 
"Are you sure you'll be okay?"

I look back up into the truck's cab, my hand poised on the shiny door
handle.  "Yes," I pause, weaving an arm under both of Mulder's to
support his weight, "we'll be fine."

The door closes with a crunch and Mulder and I are once again left alone
in the night.

~~~~
End part 11/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (12/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

"It's only you that can tell me apart, and it's only you that can turn
my wooden heart."

- Portishead

~~~~

I've become so emotional lately.  Tears left unsung for so many years
spring upon me with unexpected frequency, and I find myself less willing
to push them away, no longer afraid of the reality of feeling.  It
surprises me.  I allow the graceful glide of one tear over my cheek now,
with phone pressed tightly to my ear, hearing a voice familiar to me
even after three years of absence.

"It should only take a few days, and then you can just head over to the
post office and pick the stuff up."  His voice is solid and warm in my ear.

"It'll be in a post office box?" I ask again to be sure.

Byers' voice over the line of this payphone is slightly tinged with
static when he answers.  "Box number 2341, combination N-O, C-D.  There
should be two passports, some more money, and the medication you asked
for."  He pauses, and the silence is sad and familiar.  "You want any
particular names on those passports?"

"No," I answer, humor finding my tone somehow.  "Surprise me."

"Okay."  He pauses again, this time with the feeling that there is
something else he wants to say.  Eventually, his voice comes over the
line, tainted with affection.  "It's good to hear your voice again."

I allow my silence to answer his comment.

He continues after a beat.  "He needs you, you know?  He always has."

I smile with this knowledge.  "Yes, I know."  We need each other.

"Keep him safe."

"I will."

One more long pause and then I hear the click of the connection closing,
and neither of us says good-bye.

~~~~

Mulder is sleeping.  He spends most of his time this way these days. 
Recovery from a trauma is a slow experience, even for one as strong and
healthy as Mulder.  I sit on the edge of the bed and study the soft rise
and fall of his chest, the angry red puckering of flesh adorning his arm
that looks better now than it has in days.  A new scar to accompany the
one just several inches above and to the right, memento from another
dark time.  My fingers rise and place a new set of bandages carefully
over the wound, more certain now that infection will not arrive, clean
white gauze covering again after making sure to disinfect and tend to
his injury.

My worry now is less about infection and more about possible nerve
damage.  The antibiotics I received from the Gunmen this afternoon are
now working carefully in his blood stream, assuaging my fears and
bringing him back to me with greater speed.

I smooth the last piece of tape in place and raise my eyes to find
Mulder's staring back at me with familiarly silent intensity.  A steady
burn, restraining other things, a look he has reserved only for me
during our years together.  It pins me in place with heat and memory.

"So what's the prognosis, Doc?"  His voice is raspy and low.  I allow
myself the small thrill of his eyes that centers along my spine.

I smile, touching his arm briefly.  "You'll live."

His face remains unreadable during the momentary silence until he
reaches over with his good arm and clasps his hand around mine, keeping
my fingers against his skin.  "That's good to know."

His skin is warm and slightly damp.  The overhead fan stirs the air and
draws the faintest breeze across my cheeks.  I wonder if they are as
flushed as they feel.

Old habits, barriers we never overcame, still have their power over me. 
Distance an obstacle we never fully vanquished.  I yield to it again
now, as I break free from his grasp and rise from the bed.  "You should
be feeling much better now that you've got that medicine helping you
along."  I speak with my back to him, putting away the iodine and gauze.

"So what's my new name?"  His question slips us back into safe waters.

Sometimes, I wonder why we were foolish enough to continue this facade
of distance through all of those years.  Sometimes, I hate these habits
we have embraced.

Picking up the small leather folders, I turn and with outstretched hand
deliver to Mulder his new identity.

"George Pierce?"  He sound disgusted by the name.  "That's so," he
stops, searching for a description, "boring."

A small laugh escapes my throat.  "Boring's good, Mulder," I remind him.

"So what did you get?"

I hesitate, knowing what his response will be.  Mumbling, I say the
words under my breath.

"What?" He asks, knowing that he heard me, wanting me to say it louder.

"Kitty, all right?  Kitty Pierce."

The heartfelt laughter I receive from Mulder is reason enough to forgive
Frohike his little joke.  There was always humor between Mulder and I. 
We always allowed ourselves at least that luxury - throaty laughter and
veiled innuendo becoming the mask for greater things and taking on a
more poignant significance because of that fact.

My voice is stronger with Mulder's laughter.  "Frohike even managed to
meow at me when I spoke to him this afternoon."

From the bed, I hear a small answering cat call.  Looking up, I find
Mulder's smile warm and inviting.  I return it and wonder at feeling so
alive from such a simple thing.

Our eyes remain locked for a beat or two before he breaks the connection
with a question.  "So when do we get out of here?"

Moving back to the bed, I sit on the edge and stare at my hands folded
in my lap.  "This evening.  When I went out this morning to pick up the
passports, I stopped and got us two bus tickets."

When he answers, I look up at him.  "Where are we gonna end up?"

For some strange reason, I find that ever since Mulder was injured I've
had this need to watch him.  Stealing little glances, maintaining eye
contact for long spans of time, standing vigil over his sleep.  I've
just needed that connection, the same one I've just so recently found
again and almost lost in the same span of time.  I'm doing it again
right now.  As we speak, I cannot break my eyes from his face.  "The bus
will take us all the way into Mexico, crossing at Eagle Pass, and
stopping finally in Piedras Negras."

"Ooh a bus trip, I love those!  Twenty hours in a cramped seat with a
baby screaming behind you and a bathroom that's impossible to use
because every time you try, the bus goes over a bump and you end up
aiming at the wall."

Still easy after years of neglect, I give him the patented 'Mulder,
that's gross, and I'm not even going to comment' smile.  The answering
warmth in his eyes is easy, too.  I allow that easy heat a chance to
glow before sobering for a moment to voice my worries.  "Are you sure
you're going to be up to this - traveling, I mean?"

"We don't have a choice anymore, do we?"

He's right, of course.  I know it and so does he.  We've stayed here far
too long as it is.  In the two days that it took for the Gunmen's
package to reach us, our enemies could be that much closer to finding
us.  We need to leave, and the sooner the better.

I don't answer.  There isn't really any question.

His hand finds mine and clasps around it in my lap, squeezing firmly for
reassurance.  Slipping away from him with reluctance, I stand up with
one last lock of our eyes and prepare to leave.

Old habits may die hard, but in this new life I have so unwillingly
chanced upon, this life I am now determined to fight for, what time we
may have left together, I am determined to finally prove that adage
false.  There has been enough distance between Mulder and I, enough
distance to fill both of our lifetimes tenfold.

~~~~

Slumped against my shoulder, asleep again, I marvel at how quickly this
ease of touching him is returning to me.  Once, long ago, it was my
singular comfort.  I had been stripped of so many of my other comforts. 
Long before Mulder's "death" I had become distanced from my family.  It
seemed that I couldn't be near my mother without some sorrow between us,
without her tears falling like guilty reminders.  My brothers couldn't
understand my decisions and therefore didn't want to.  Missy and my
father were long past lost.  All I had was Mulder.  Other friendships
had drifted years before his departure.  He was my singular human
connection, and I treasured the rare warmth of his hand holding mine,
his arms around me gently.

I find myself treasuring it again but now with newly sharpened
gratitude.  Over and over again, I find myself saying, 'I had lost
this.  For so long, I had lost this.  How did I survive losing this?' 
But I know how I survived.  I didn't.  Survival is too strong a word.  I
pushed forward on dead emotions with blind eyes and left my soul buried
with him in his imagined grave.

Yet, only a few days ago, I came close to losing it again, this time for
real, this time with him lying bleeding in my arms in the lonely desert
night.  A little more to the right, aim just a bit sharper, and that
bullet could have pierced an artery.  He could have died in my arms, and
then it would have been completely lost.  It would have been lost, and I
would have allowed myself to remain in that spot until the companions of
those thugs had shown up to finish the job.

Either that or I would have checked to make sure there was a bullet left
in my gun for me.  It would have been the more appealing choice - that
compared to capture and experimentation.

Only, it hasn't come to that.  Mulder didn't die.  We weren't captured. 
Instead, we found our way to a hole in the wall motel in Austin, Texas
and watched with calm acceptance as the last of the bricks constructing
the wall between us toppled with determined destruction and placed us
back within the peace of each other.  How we found this again is nothing
short of a miracle.  I only pray now that we are given the time needed
to finish the repairs between us.

The bus is quiet.  It is, after all, the middle of the night.  A couple
of over-head reading lights glow faintly and illuminate the darkened
cabin, but other than that, we remain bathed in dark quiet.  Contrary to
Mulder's fear, there is no screaming baby behind us. There is only his
body against mine, breath sighing out across my neck, and the simple,
peaceful rhythm of his continued sleep.

I dozed for a while, surrendering to the void after one too many
sleepless nights.  After boarding the bus, collapsing with weary sighs
and a shared look of relief, I watched Mulder lean back and close his
eyes and soon followed him into slumber.  Some time later, I woke
slowly, allowing fuzzy sounds and the rhythm of motion to be my first
awareness, coming eventually to find light seeping in beneath my eyelids
and the warm pillow of Mulder's shoulder beneath my cheek smelling of
comfort and home.

He sighed, the sound wonderfully content, and almost *snuggled* into my
arm when I began to move away.  I looked down at him, at the tumble of
dark hair falling across his forehead, at the stubble darkening his
cheeks, the slight smile twisting his full lips, erasing lines and years
from his beautiful face.  His hand was resting with lightly curled
fingers around the top of my knee.  I looked down at him and the wonder
of our strange connection found me again with a force not known since
before he was gone.

We are titanium, Mulder and I - rare, elemental, and strong.  So
strange, so mythical, this thing we are together that I never knew was
possible, that no one ever told me could exist.  Are we above even death
now, I wonder?  Does not even that force hold the power to sever this tie?

I am watching him, miles of dry highway unreeling as tires spin beneath
my feet, and I think that I can almost *see* those ties now, those
chords binding us together.  With the weak light of early morning just a
faint glow on the horizon, I study the small space between us and can
see the shimmer of diamond threads tying his heart to mine, unspooling
from his fingertips and twisting up and around my own, weaving out from
his lungs with each indrawn breath and finding their way into my every
exhale.  Dense network stretched thin and weakened with distance but now
growing heavy and lush again with renewed vitality.

It should frighten me, this bewildering necessity for each other that we
share, this strange symbiosis.  It should frighten me and maybe once,
long ago, it did.  Maybe once, in ignorance of what I would become in
its absence, I allowed myself the fear and question of what we were. 
There is no more luxury now for foolishness.  Now there is only the
knowledge that those threads will continue to grow, weaving us forever
together into a more complete whole, and the fear that there will never
be enough time - in this life or the next - for me to discover the full
spectrum of what he is to me.

The light on the horizon grows brighter, and our acceleration slows as
we prepare to stop.

Beside me, Mulder stirs in semi-waking while through the dirty
windshield ahead I can see the lights of a building slicing through the
clinging darkness.

The breaks squeal in angry protest, the unmistakable sound of gravel and
rocks scattering beneath the tires.  Around us, other passengers stir
quietly and become more alert.  Pulling to a final stop, the bus does
not park or pull off of the road.  Instead, it pauses at the side of the
small building and remains stationary in the middle of the road.

Our escape interrupted, the anxiety I have come to accept as familiar
filters slowly along my nerves and centers dully in the tips of my
fingers and the back of my throat.  No one else on the bus moves to
stand.  I am unsure of where we are.

"Scully?"  His voice is scratchy and sleep-fogged with the wariness of
questioning what is going on.

"We're stopped, Mulder."

He studies me, trying to decipher my hesitance before speaking.  "Where?"

Eyes still glued on the round, white lights of the building now
positioned to our right, I answer him with careful control evident in my
voice.  "I don't know, and I'm not really sure why."

His gaze is hot on the side of my face, and I turn into his line of
vision.  Without explanation, I am struck by the desire to lift that
stubborn fall of dark hair up and away from his brow, to tuck my fingers
into those soft strands and feel the smoothness of his skin under the
tips of my fingers.

I don't get the chance.

The doors of the bus open with a hiss and a squeal.  Holding my breath,
I watch our driver rise from his seat, the sound of footsteps soon
following.  Heavy footfalls, boots, clatter up the steps of the bus. 
From our position near the back of the vehicle, it is hard to see what
is going on.

Soon, one dark head, and then another, can be seen in the dim lights of
the bus.  There are murmurs of hushed conversation, gesturing on the
part of the dark-haired men, and then our driver bends over towards the
steering wheel.  With a preliminary flicker, the cabin of the bus is
illuminated by softly glowing rows of lights lining the sides of the
aisle.  More conversation ensues before what I had feared transpires. 
The two men begin moving towards the back of the bus.

Unconsciously, my eyes dart towards Mulder. It is a look we have shared
before, that common acknowledgement of danger or fear.  It passes
between us within the space between heartbeats.  Directing my vision
forward again, I see that they have stopped at the row of the first
passenger.  They are questioning her.  A few indiscernible words pass
back and forth before their trip towards the back resumes again.

The bus is not crowded.  There are only two more passengers standing
between these men and the place where Mulder and I are seated.

Another couple of rows back and they stop again, this time next to our
last remaining obstacles.  Again words are exchanged.  I strain to hear
what is being said.  Broken fragments, not enough to be words, drift
back while the man who is seated leans over to his companion and then
hands something to the two standing men.

At the back of my mind, I calculate our slim chances for escape.  If
this is what I fear, if these men are looking for us, they are most
likely armed.  Mulder and I both carry our guns concealed at our backs,
but the risk of a gun battle in the confines of a bus with civilians on
board makes resistance of that nature out of the question.  We have no
place to run.  The fire exit is several rows ahead of us, within just
three rows of the advancing men.  Even if we could make it out of the
bus somehow, I have no doubt that there are more of these men out at
that building.

There really is no way for us to escape.

Beside me, Mulder shifts.  Looking down, I see that he has tucked
himself into the window, away from prying eyes, feigning sleep.  Only I
would be able to see the tenseness of the muscles in his neck, the edge
of readiness he conceals so easily.   Playing the game, I pull the scarf
more tightly around my head, pushing back loose strands with shaking
fingers, and wait.

The men turn away from the couple ahead of us and face our direction. 
They are both Hispanic, dark.  One with a faint beard and impressive
height, the other slightly short with thickly muscled arms and legs. 
Both wear uniforms of a sort, khaki drab, still unrecognizable in the
weak light of the bus.  They stop in the aisle beside me, and I look up
with carefully expectant eyes.

Heavily accented English meets my questioning glance.  "Passports
please, Senora."

Nodding, I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull out the small
folders.  The eyes of the man who takes them are densely guarded.  He
stares down at the false identification, opening one passport and then
the other, considering them both carefully.  I freeze my muscles in
place, not allowing my nervousness to betray me with fidgeting or
anxious gestures.  I freeze and send up a silent prayer to God that the
Gunmen's skills have not faded with time.

The first man hands the passports back to his companion before looking
at me again.  His voice is flat, emotionless.  "Is this your husband?"
he asks, indicating with the tilt of his head Mulder's silent form near
the window.

"Yes."  I answer quietly, as if afraid to wake my sleeping spouse.

His gaze is focused on Mulder when he speaks again.  "Where are you going?"

I stumble for a moment, unsure.  I know little of the tourist towns in
this part of Mexico.  "We just decided to head south for a little while,
try to get away and relax for the weekend."

His expression is strange, strained, holding back somehow, but it is
difficult to tell the reason, if there is a specific thing he needs to
know.  His words are slowly spoken and carefully chosen.  "Just a
vacation?"

I tilt my head slightly in the affirmative.  "Yes."

I feel as though he is reading every emotion on my face, as if all of
our secrets are written there.  Pinning me in place with sharp eyes and
an inescapable glare, I am trapped by the contact.

Finally, as I am about to yield and break the connection between our
eyes, he nods stiffly and glances back towards his partner who looks up
from our identification.  The second man, still holding our papers,
looks up at me and smiles gently.  There is something in his eyes, a
surprising softness hiding at the edges.  He reaches out and hands the
passports back to me before speaking.

"Bonita."  His smile broadens with that word.

My feeble high school Spanish registers the compliment after a beat, and
I am actually able to manage a small returning smile.  Looking down into
my lap, the passports are again safe in my hands as I hear the two men
begin to move away, further down the aisle.  I close my eyes, an
unavoidable rush of air leaving my lungs, as I sink back into the seat.

From the darkness of my relief, I feel Mulder's hand slip over my own,
still clenched in my lap.  He squeezes softly, offering reassurance, but
does not move from his position of false slumber.  Behind us, I hear the
edges of an argument beginning.  Jumbled Spanish, far too fast for me to
make sense of, rises with increasing volume.  Suddenly, there is the
sound of a struggle, as from the back of the bus the two uniformed men
return to the front, this time dragging along with them another man,
loudly protesting in what must be very colorful Spanish.

There are more words exchanged with the driver, the captive man
struggling all the while, and then the trio disembarks, leaving the bus
again bathed in quiet.  Glancing back at his small group of passengers,
the bus driver turns quickly back to the wheel and shuts the doors.  In
another couple of seconds, the engine rumbles to life and we are back in
motion without a word being said.

Warm against my thigh, I feel the strength of Mulder's fingers entwined
with my own.

I open my eyes, turning my head in his direction.  He looks back at me,
and there is the sealing of some unnamed union in that glance.  The
moment shimmers for a brief time before he breaks away, turning back to
the window, content in what we have both just seen pass between us.  His
concentration settles on the flat landscape unrolling beyond the
window.  It is dark and barren and dry.  I can almost taste the dust and
heat on my tongue.  It is empty and devoid of life, but as Mulder and I
stare out the window, our hands still linked solidly together, I
recognize the reality of where we are.  The bus moves slowly and with
steady motion, as we leave the United States behind and head out into
what has become our future.

~~~~
End part 12/14

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (13/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

You'll have to excuse the non-accented Spanish words.  Unfortunately,
accents don’t translate well through e-mail; they turn into weird little
characters. Oh well.

~~~~

“She tells her love while half asleep,
   In the dark hours,
     With half words whispered low:
As the Earth stirs in her winter sleep,
   And puts out grass and flowers
     Despite the snow,
     Despite the falling snow.”

- Robert Graves

~~~~

I started the car, and for the first time, there was no sense of dread
or sorrow hanging in the air.  I opened the windows wide, for a moment
frightened that it would wake Mulder asleep beside me, and the cool
night wind rushed in with abandon.  It teased through my hair, raising
little tendrils, dancing them about my face.  It was loud and fast and
freeing, drowning out the sound of the ancient engine at my command and
carrying us like birds in flight out into open expanses of the unknown.

For the first time, there was no sharp awareness of the mangled car in
which we traveled.  Instead, there was strange freedom in that rusting
bucket of mismatched parts, singing in the hum of miles flying past on
that narrow highway.  There was no apprehension in the darkness hanging
on the horizon, only places left undiscovered and unseen, places I would
see now, places *we* would see, together.

It was strange, that sense of liberation.  Maybe it was too many months
and years of feeling nothing but sorrow and loss, nothing but nothing. 
Maybe it was my newly awakened stirring of hope that was breathtaking
simply because it had been absent for so long.  Maybe it was the night
air and the desert wind, the promise of warm sun and ocean breeze
hanging just over the next rise in the landscape.  Maybe it was all of
these things.  Maybe it was everything.

Mulder woke eventually, long after that small town with its tiny lot of
used cars and dirty bus depot had become a distant memory.  He sensed
it, I think - the blood singing in my veins.  I was humming quietly,
some nameless song finding its way out without intention or
concentration, slipping free as if I had known the tune all of my life,
when I felt his eyes on me.  I didn't look over immediately, just
continued my soft singing, until I felt him shift his gaze out onto the
road ahead, and then the silence was simple and pure, the empty road
ahead and my voice just a murmur filling the air.

There was an unaccustomed serenity in that - the act of gently humming,
him quiet beside me, as if in some way I was singing to him, for him. 
It was light years from my nervously hesitant voice piercing off key
into the Florida night.  Out on the unknown roads of Mexico, my voice
came easy and low, and even though I didn't look, I knew that beside me
he was smiling.

Eventually, my voice tapered off and silence reigned.  Some time later,
one of us - I can't quite remember who - flicked on the radio and there
was the sound of guitars and Latin lovers, lyrical phrases that made no
sense but were fitting somehow to our new surroundings.  We pushed
forward down endless miles until the sun was a brilliant promise on the
horizon, until it broke free with abandon, spilling gold over barren
plains, accompanying the sound of a mariachi's song slightly tinged with
static through the speakers of our car.

We never really spoke.

What words were there left between us that weren't already understood? 
Pain, suffering, loss, and grief had all been expressed, in either
action or voice.  Our need for each other was as basic as it had always
been.  Our relief at our reunion was translated with every touch and
each meeting of our eyes, made more poignant by our recent near
disaster.  We'd said all the words, in a thousand different ways.

There was nothing left to be said.  Not really.

That night in the motel, I lay awake for hours, not wanting to sleep. 
It was as if there was magic during that night, as if some enchantment
had found us along those roads.  I was loath to break the spell,
fearsome of the threat of closing my eyes and erasing the dream.

< " Pero tu y yo, amor mio, estamos juntos, juntos desde la ropa a las
raices…" >

In my heart's core I will forever carry this memory - his voice rising
softly, eidetic memory supplying the words, no less beautiful for that
fact.  Tentative whispers at first, mumblings, not really singing,
growing gently until the words were clear and soft from the pillow to my
right.

< "juntos de otono, de agua, de caderas, hasta ser solo tu, solo yo
juntos." >

You and I, together.  Only us.

My Spanish may have been rusty, but those words I understood.

< Solo yo juntos >

Only us.

There was only us that night - no threat of danger, no great escape. 
There was the night and the breeze and sweet sounds of crickets chirping
somewhere off distant.  The sheets made sounds of movement and change as
I shifted across them, daring to move.  Enough distance between us;
there would be no more.

His skin was bare in the tropical heat, warm, soft.  I rested my cheek
against his shoulder and could hear the scratch and soothe of his voice
wrapping around simple Spanish phrases.  Then there was only Mulder and
I and the night.
 
< amor mio. >

The last emotion to find us, the one that never left.  Always that
central tie - inexplicable connection - strange love we share.

< my love >

Sitting here now, watching him sleep, remembering that night, those
words are a truth we have always shared and never truly spoken.  I saw
it sparkling between us on that night and every night since.  We have
journeyed across a foreign country, through deserts and hills, small
towns and vacant highways.  We have found our way here, to this distant
place so far from home.  He heals more with every day that passes, grows
more strong, and the glimmer of those unspoken words grows with parallel
speed and rival strength.

I move to stand, picking up discarded bandages remaining from his
changed dressing and turn towards the bathroom door.  Suddenly, there is
the warm weight of his fingers wrapped lightly around my wrist, pulling
down firmly.  I wasn't even aware that he had been awake.

Sitting again, turning back to face him, the sunlight streaming through
the window paints him in clear and brilliant light.  His eyes are
gentle, regarding me – gentle and filled with what I had once searched
for and found absent on a night three long years ago – that night so
dark and threatening compared to the simple light now bathing us both.

The question must be on my face, in my eyes.  I don't actually ask why
he detains me, but I know he reads it nonetheless.

“Thank you,” he says, and they’re somewhat less than words, more like
shapes his lips form without much by way of accompanying sound.

“It’s not…” I want to say that it's not necessary, his thanks, that he
owes me none, but I don’t finish.  His hand squeezes my wrist more
firmly and he raises his other hand, stopping a breath away from my
face, the movement of his hand silencing my protests.

“Yes, it is.”  The shapes have more sound this time.

We remain like that, frozen in place, his hand around my wrist, our eyes
locked without words.  I don't know what to say.  He's thanking me for
saving his life, for taking care of him, but it's *my* life that's been
saved in these past few weeks.  He has saved me, even if he never
intended to.

His hand tightens further and then pulls forward, collapsing me against
him.  Without conscious effort, I am pulled into the warm snare of his
arms and find my own arms wrapped easily around his middle.

I am reminded of the last time he held me, quaking in the aftershocks of
an emotional breakdown.  How devastated I was then, how lost.  It all
seemed so dark during that embrace.  His arms were around me, but they
were phantoms at my waist, the arms of a dead man.  I could see nothing
in my future but a large, black void, terrifying with the threat that we
could never again find what we'd once had.  He'd held me, but I was
rigid in his arms and the sensation was distant and vague.

This time is so different.

He is warm and soft beneath me.  Alive.  Smooth skin, scattering of
coarse hair on his bare chest, smelling of faint sweat, Mulder, and
life.  I shift, burying my face in the curve of his neck, feeling the
pulse of his heart throbbing just under the skin.  Edges of his hair,
now longer than I have ever seen it, tease against my closed eyelids
when I tilt my head up slightly.  Sliding one hand around to the front,
I press my palm against the firm strength of his chest and revel in the
solid rhythm of his heart.

It beats for me.

How long have I known that?  Weeks?  Years?  The latter, I suspect.  I
suppose I've always known this fact.  Mulder would die for me, kill for
me, sell his soul to the highest bidder for the chance of my salvation. 
I own him in that regard, numbingly terrible revelation though that may
be.  He loves me enough to risk even my hatred for the promise of my
safety.

Which doesn't make it right, what he's done.

Not even remotely.

But it makes me see the truth of us more clearly - that his heart beats
for me, and mine for him, and that this is something we have never been
able to escape, will never escape, and should treasure while we still can.

Crushing.  He is crushing me, drawing me in through his pores, into his
muscle and bone, pulling me under with an embrace so tight I wonder that
it can still feel this good.  He has one hand brought up to tangle in my
hair, running absent fingers through the strands.  The other wraps
firmly around my waist.  It may be painful to separate.  I press back
just as hard, not wanting either of us to ever feel that pain again.

"I missed you so much.  God, so much."  Whispers against the top of my
head, his lips moving in my hair.  They are desperate, naked, furious
words.  "I missed you so much, Scully."

I missed you, too, Mulder.  So much.  For so long.

The skin of his neck is the salt of sweat and the tang of something else
entirely when I press my lips to its surface, trying to say those words
with some action rather than the sounds my lips are unable to form. 
Tiny, baby kisses, parting my lips just slightly so that I can taste
him, needing to taste him.  I want him there in every one of my senses. 
I need him there, in the taste on my tongue, the scent in the air I
breath, the sight of his body to my starving eyes, the feel of strong
muscle, warm skin under my fingers, and the sound of his voice, his
heartbeat, his life filling my ears.  Everywhere.

Warmth of his hand smoothing up along my spine while he continues
whispering, letting out three years of loss in unintelligible
fragments.  Then his hands still.  The one on my back relaxes while the
one in my hair releases and moves towards my face.

He speaks.

"You save me, time and again."  His fingers trace strange patterns over
my jaw, cheek, lips.

"No matter how far, how dark, or how barren, there is always you…" My
eyebrows receive kisses from his fingertips.

"My saving grace…"

I think of hope and how sometimes, something so intangible can become a
living, breathing thing.

"My light…"

He was as lost and empty as I.

"My Scully."

I will never be empty again.

Once upon a time, long ago, my dreams at night were haunted by the
elusive touch of Mulder's lips.  So real in my imaginings - so
lifelike.  I would wake and could almost see the tender bruising of
those lips along my neck, my face.  Staring glassy eyed into the mirror
on those mornings, it took a long, hot shower and several cups of coffee
before the sensations would dim and I could rationalize it all back into
submission again.

Once upon a time, he came to me in the dead of night, dying himself.  He
came to me with empty arms and an aching heart looking to at last settle
that doubt, the question of what we might be.  I knew the taste of his
lips then, their texture.  My lonely dreams became an even lonelier
reality, and even though it was his flesh and blood that held me that
night, somehow those dreams had held more warmth.

I used to think often of what our fates had denied us, back when such
dwellings were not as painful, back when I could handle the pain.  How
he might kiss me each morning just after waking, tenderly, with the
reverence of starting another day at my side.  How there would be kisses
while out walking, not afraid of observation, just the quiet display of
our love without shame.  Kissing him each night, just before slumber,
sometimes after making love, sometimes not.  His kiss in the heat of
passion, beautiful, life affirming kisses, as we sealed our union with
the giving of ourselves.

All of those kisses we would never share.

His lips open beneath me now, drawing me in, seeking me out, and it is a
kiss no less pure or reverent than those ghostly might-have-beens.  It
is a different fate, a harsher destiny, but as I fill myself with the
taste of him, gasp lightly at the scrape and soothe of his tongue and
teeth, I see clearly the gift that fate has indeed given us.

He rolls suddenly, taking me with him, pushing me down and under.  His
breath washes out across my lips when we part, separated by the merest
fragment of space.  I am focused on the gentle glistening of his lips
from our kisses while he looks down at me.  There is a part of him that
still needs permission, I know, still doubts.  It is his nature, those
insecurities so deeply ingrained.  I smile up at him, breaking my view
of his mouth, and give my consent with reflected words.

"We save each other, Mulder."

To truly know Mulder, you need to learn to study his eyes.  They tell
everything about him.  Swirling depths of morphing color that are more
like prisms of light than the eyes of a man.  Right now, they swim with
a heady mixture of awe, love, grief, and arousal.  Part of him will
always mourn what we have lost, what has been taken.  How could he not? 
But I am unconcerned right now with grief.  What I want, what I need, is
to see nothing but our love in those eyes, nothing but fire and lust to
burn all of the poison away.

Rising up swiftly, I capture his lips with my own and turn the kiss more
forceful.

No more mourning, Mulder.  I won't be your widow anymore.

Shifting again, I am above him.  Every day of pain, every sensation of
loss is translated in his kiss.  It is desperate, passionate, brutal,
and sweet.  His hands slide up and under the shirt I wear to grip the
damp canvas of my back.  We rise slowly, his hands painting deep circles
of heat over my skin, and I am straddling him as we kiss.

I gasp, breaking the kiss, sucking in humid tropical air to fill my
straining lungs.  I think I had forgotten that I needed to breathe.  The
room seems to spin, sparkle somehow.  Looking down at him, his eyes are
wild and smiling.  My breath washes both of our lips as I breathe, and I
know the wonder of this is written across my face.

He smiles, a small, delightful thing I would easily trade my breath for,
and then he is pulling the hem of my shirt up carefully, raising it with
slow enough speed that I could stop him if I so desired.

I don't stop him.

Instead, I raise my arms obligingly, pointing my hands towards the
ceiling.  His smile broadens at this gesture, and the cotton is cool and
soft sliding over my face as the T-shirt is discarded.  It disappears
over the side of the bed - out of sight, out of mind - and I stare into
his eyes while I lower my still raised arms and bring my hands to rest
atop his broad shoulders.

Holding him like that, steadying myself, I feel his fingers slide around
to my back again, fumbling for the clasp of my bra.  I close my eyes,
knowing what will come.

Currents of damp air and ocean scent drift languidly over my skin as he
reveals me.  The windows are left open, air conditioning a rare luxury
here, and it is from behind shuttered lids and with an ocean breeze on
my face that I first feel his hands upon me.  They are reverent, not
rough - gentle despite the strength I know they can contain.  He traces
the swell of each breast with just the backs of his long fingers, and my
hands on his shoulders clench at the sensation.

Descending, there is the light of growing fire even in my self-imposed
darkness.  His lips on my tingling skin pierce the darkness with need,
throwing my head back, parting my lips on a moan.  I feel the warm glide
of his mouth, sweep of tongue, sure and sweet surrounding of his teeth
and lips over the peak of my breast.

Beautiful curse I surrender to.

My eyes open, looking down, and I push my fingers through the tangles of
his hair, attempting to coax his face back up to me.  I move my hands
down and over the strength of his arms, massaging warm muscle.  Back up
again, in, and down, over the territory of his chest, weaving over his
skin with my seeking fingers, teasing him as he has teased me.

His mouth moves in deliberate torture over the length of my collarbone
when I feel his hands lower and begin to fumble with the clasp on my jeans.

Just that slight drift of his fingers over the flesh of my stomach, and
I feel it begin in earnest.  My breath comes in more labored pants,
gasping, the hairs of my neck seem to stand on end.  I am drowning, and
I know that this will not last, cannot last, because we are rising too
swiftly and are soon to be swept away.

He lowers the zipper, mouth hovering above my neck, and there is a
tensing deep in my belly, heaviness and swollen need.

I am swiftly becoming unhinged.

Control left by the wayside, I break away from his dangerous mouth and
roving hands.  His face is the portrait of confused frustration as his
arms slip free entirely and I push off to stand beside the bed.

Wriggling just a little, my jeans are shed easily, sweeping panties down
along with them.  I stand before him without guard or protection,
knowing that there is nothing hidden between us anymore, that no emotion
has been left concealed, that we are stripped literally bare of defenses
more crucial than clothing.

I think I will have forever the look of wonder upon his face that he
wears as he watches me.  Words may have always been difficult between
us, but there is more love in his gaze than any simple syllables could
convey, more trust.  I don't need his words, don't want them.  There is
more honesty in his naked eyes than in any spoken declaration.

I love you, Mulder, and you love me.  This is our curse *and* our
salvation, forever twisting circle.

He smiles again, wide and joyful, moving to shed his boxers, the only
clothing he wears.

Hand extended, fingers outstretched, I take his offered link and he
pulls me to the bed.  The press of his skin to mine has been in my
dreams and my nightmares, at day and at night.  We roll together in
unison, feeling the tide rise, and he is positioned above me, my soul
mirrored in his eyes.  Reaching down, I guide him to me, holding my
breath, waiting for destiny…

Then there is nothing.  My focus narrows and shifts - changing -
becoming something new and foreign, simple and destined.  There is
nothing but gold.  His eyes above me looking down, all fire and
sunlight.  Life.  Gold all around us, blocking out the world.  Gold
bathing us, swallowing us, claiming us.  The intensity of life frozen in
one moment and I can see nothing except his eyes, nothing except his
face – nothing – the light everywhere and the world evaporates with a
rustle and a moan as we are both completely, utterly still.

Our rapid breath becomes the only sound, and I can feel each and every
expansion of his lungs, each heartbeat, each pulse of warm blood through
his veins.  Fire around us a sheltering halo, as we are shocked into
stillness, unable to move, reveling now in this first union.

He is the first to move, staring down at me, reflecting in his eyes
everything I am, I was, I will be, everything he is, we are, we can only
be when together.  He moves, a fraction of an inch, and the light is
that of a thousand stars being born and dying around us.

Suddenly, before it has even begun, he slows above me – stilling – and
the torrent of sensation dims to a dull roar.  Slow and languid like
honey pouring over the spoon’s edge, my focus returns and finds his,
seeing something I had not expected.

Previous smile gone, he has tears in his eyes.

Reaching a single fingertip up, I coax a fat, wet drop onto its pad and
smooth that dampness out and over his cheek.  I don’t speak.

Finally, with parched throat and body now completely silent, his lips
move and difficult words emerge.  “I thought we would never know this. 
I was sure of it.”   His eyes are wide with a strange combination of
wonder and grief that only I would ever be able to understand.  “I was
so sure that I even gave up the dream of it, the fantasy.  I refused
myself even the imagination.”

I know this already.  How can I not?

"I allowed that hope to die, Scully."

So did I.

"I've loved you forever, and yet, even in my dreams, I no longer
believed that could be enough."

He is still within me, above me, studying my eyes, seeking forgiveness,
understanding.  I bring him back with my body and words, lifting my hips
up to meet him as I speak.  "No more fantasy, Mulder.  Not a dream
anymore."

He closes his eyes, two more tears escaping to find purchase over his skin.

"We won't live in abandoned dreams any longer."

Any other words are lost and forgotten.  He swoops down with a beautiful
rush, seizing me, claiming me.  His mouth fuses to mine and I urge him
with fingers flexing lightly on his back, translating encouragement.  <
It’s me.  It’s us.  It always has been, always will be.  This future we
embrace now, this love, has always been.  We’re here together, finding
ourselves, where we’ve been waiting for three long years, nine long
years, two long lifetimes.  We’ve always been here, in this place.  It
will remain.  It is not fragile.  Together now, this is our hope, our
peace, this is how we claim our souls back from loss.  Moving forward
now, into the light.  We will remain. >

Momentum gaining, his eyes never flicker from mine and I hear him mirror
my thoughts.

“I know…” Breath washing my skin.  “I know now.”

Black pools of his pupils fixed on mine, we climb towards the stars
together.  His flesh is sweet beneath my madly gripping fingers.  Long
planes of muscle, smooth and damp and flexing with each thrust.  He is
life above me and I am radiant in his arms.

The pillows smell of lemon detergent.  His skin, the salt of the sea. 
He surrounds and invades me in a current of unbreakable motion. 
Matching with tempo, I meet and assist him, pushing us forward, towards
the brink.

Focus swimming again, I knew it would take no time, that the lights
would be this bright.  Those stars coalesce, condensing, expanding,
encompassing.  He fills me again as the light shifts, swallowing, and I
am lost within the pulsing of sunlight, the stars shattering with
bliss.  I fall through the star shower and can feel fragments of shimmer
dusting my skin, igniting every nerve, covering from my hands to my toes
and everywhere in-between.

Rolling.  Cataclysm.  Undertow.  Dragging me down.  Lifting me up.

The descent is peaceful and slow.  I ride gently dying waves until I
feel him break within me, the warmth of our union flooding my body.  We
are silent and still here, complete.  His forehead rests lightly against
my own.  I open my eyes, looking up into his, and I am watching the
delicate rebirth of dreams as sweat cools upon our skin and the fantasy
is broken.

~~~~

Making love, such a simple phrase.  But love is not made purely, or even
mainly, in the physical.  Love is made in seconds and minutes, weeks and
years.  Love is made with slow continuance of time as bricks are added
one by one to the whole that comes to make up two.  It is a construction
in constant motion and necessary change, made by time and effort,
circumstance and fate.  We have not *just* made love, our love is made
with each breath we take, each slow tick of his watch on the bedside
table.  Our love was building from the moment of our first meeting, even
if it was not yet love for several years to come.

I am not prone to flights of fancy or romanticism.  Always the realist,
it is a role I cannot abandon.  I will not wax poetical and say that I
fell in love with Mulder at first sight.  Lightning bolts did not streak
from the heavens and ignite me where I stood as I first glimpsed his
haunted form.  The heavens didn’t sing.  The earth didn’t shake. 
Instead, there was the tiny, imperceptible current of destiny shifting,
changing, taking on the chance of a possibility, the formation of
something that *might* be if allowed to thrive.  With every decision
made, every brick laid carefully onto a building foundation, the motions
of time solidified that destiny more concretely, made the cord more
difficult to sever, pushed us further down the path of a possibility
until there was no way we could ever return.

Do I love Mulder?  Yes - with all that I am and all I can ever hope to
be.  Can I name with clarity the moment I came to realization of that
bond?  No.  I could say that it was one of the many times he has saved
my life, one of the several times I have faced his loss, one of the
numerous times we have fought down death together.  I could say this and
still not have it completely right.  I knew it at all of those times,
and yet didn’t know it at all.  It grew with impossibly slow steadiness
until the knowledge of it was complete, something I had always known,
something not puzzled over at all.  It just *was,* and there was no
question of when it had begun.

He lies now with arms wrapped around me loosely, hand curled
possessively over the gentle swell of my stomach.  His soft breath
teases the skin below my ear, face resting there in the crook of my
neck.  I can feel his chest move with each in-drawn breath, can feel the
warmth of that breath as it is expelled.  His skin is smooth and warm
and damp from our love, golden compared to mine, delicately woven over
contradicting strength of firm muscle and elegance of long, thin bone. 
I see all of that in the perfection of his fingers tensing minutely in
dreams, pressing down into the flesh of my belly.

We have not made love here in this place so foreign to us, we have
continued it, found it again, rescued it from a place where it was
almost lost.  We’ve brought it further than it had ever been, to a place
where it always had the possibility of going but never the certainty. 
This is our triumph, our victory over all we’ve fought.

I feel the curl of a smile grow across my lips and the radiance of joy
lights that smile.

“Scully…” My reverie is broken and I can barely hear my name as it is
murmured from his dreams.

Through death and loss, bitterness and betrayal, we have this now.

Turning in the warm circle of his arms, I know my smile will follow me
even into sleep.  I shut my eyes and whisper soundlessly into the broad
expanse of his chest.  “We won, Mulder.  We won.”

~~~~
End Part 13/14

Note to those who are interested, this is the translation of the song
Mulder sings -

(Taken from a Pablo Neruda poem)

But you and I, love, we are together
from our clothes down to our roots:
together in the autumn, in water, in hips, until
we can be alone together -- only you, only me.

(Missing chapters at:
http://members.tripod.com/~promise64/mystories.htm#TheLastGift)
 
 
 
 
 

The Last Gift (14/14)
By: Morgan (promised64@yahoo.com)

See disclaimers etc. in part 1

~~~~

“ ‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops at all.

- Emily Dickinson

~~~~

Mom,

     There was this one time, I couldn't have been much older than six
or seven, when we had stood, you and I, looking out over the sea
together.  Dad had just left on some assignment or another.  I can
remember that the air was crisp and cold, you had bundled me up in that
purple scarf that made my chin itch so badly.  I hated that scarf. 
Melissa and the boys were back inside the house together, playing a game
I was "too young" to understand, and so you had taken my hand and walked
out onto the porch at the back of our house.
     Of all the myriad houses in which I spent my childhood, I think
that one was my favorite.  Even though I was young when we left it, I
can remember that the sea stretched out forever from its back, that the
beach was rough, more rocks than sand, and I will always remember what
you said to me that day on the porch, watching the graphite colored
tumbling of the sea.
     I had always been too young before, every time dad had left, too
young to really understand.  He had always gone, and eventually
returned, bringing with him new stories and always some gift or trinket
from places with exotic names that blurred together as a solid jumble in
my mind.  The time between departure and return passed easily for me
with the preoccupations of squabbling siblings and swing-sets and
scrapped knees.  But as I stood with you that day on the porch, I
remember wondering for the first time why it was that daddy had to keep
leaving us, why we were always forced to endure his absence.
     I asked you, though I can't remember exactly how, but your words
ring clear in my head to this day, that one moment sealed in crystal
clarity.  You looked out over the water, the boundless sea that stole
him from you every time, and you said with a faint smile on your lips,
"because he loves us, you and me and your brothers and sister.  He loves
us enough to leave us, because he is doing what's right, what he
believes in."  Then you looked down at me, placed a hand on my
shoulder.  "Your father's love is so big, so strong for us that it can
stretch all the way across the sea, back to us, and we have to be strong
for him in return, so he can feel our love even when he's far away."
     That's the single most important gift you gave to me as a child. 
The gift of love, sure and strong and enduring.  The art of strength and
tenacity in love, that those we love are worth fighting for, worth our
sacrifice.  It was a foundation that shaped my spirit, guides me to this
day.  I will forever be the woman molded from a little girl who learned
the security of love and trust in the sheltering arms of her family.
     Now, with this letter, I ask of you some things I know you may find
hard to accept.  I ask you to trust that the men from whom you received
this are friends, trusted friends, some of the greatest friends I could
have ever hoped to know.  I ask you to trust that I am safe, that I
write this to assure you of that fact.  For reasons I think you may
partially understand, I cannot tell you where I am or why I've left. 
Whatever you may hear, whatever they may tell you, I need you to believe
that I left of my own free will, that by leaving I saved myself and
that, in the process, I've regained my soul.
     There was something else someone once told me, a man we both know. 
Many years ago, sick, with deep circles etched in pallid skin, he spoke
to me of the renewal of hope.  He had endured a frozen hell, fought for
his own life, returned with nothing, and when I asked him what he'd
found after all that hardship, his voice was raspy when he told me
"something that I thought I'd lost."  His faith, his hope, he'd found it
again that day, and even through the pallor of his skin, I could see the
gentle light of that flame burning anew.
     You've watched me for three years now, struggling with the loss of
my hope, my spark slowly dying.  I called it strength, lying even to
myself, and you stood beside me unsure of what to do.  I've found
something I thought I'd lost, Mom.  I've found it again after thinking
it gone forever.   Hope, I now know, can be embodied in flesh and bone,
and pain is sometimes necessary to thaw ice that no other heat can melt.
     I feel pain now, and loss, and grief.  Happiness, love, and hope. 
The ice thaws more with every day's passing, and I again find myself
smiling into the sunrise.  I am not alone, this also I promise you,
though I think you may already suspect it.  I now realize that I never
was, never could be, never will.  Love is a tie even death doesn't
sever, and hope is a gift no sorrow ever truly smothers.
     Finally, I ask you to accept my absence.  This is the hardest
request of all.  I do not know for sure where my journey takes me now,
or when I will return.  All I can promise is that I will try, with all
my strength, to make it back to you and our family, that I will never
stop trying.  This journey pulls me forward and away from you now, but
you are always with me, tucked deep within my heart - the memory of your
smile and the smell of the sea.

Please tell the rest of the family that I love them, that I miss them. 
Tell them that I am safe and will be thinking of them always.

My love forever,
Dana

~~~~

I'd almost forgotten the full intensity, the majesty of the sea.

He is walking ahead of me, eyes downcast, troubled somehow.  His feet
shuffle along through the sand in an awkward gait, preoccupied.  I can
almost see the whirlwind of thoughts swirling around his silent body.

The ocean is mostly quiet, tranquil.  Occasionally, a wave breaks
roughly against the sand to spray a fine mist of salt and water up along
my bare arms.  My jeans are rolled up and away from my ankles.  Skirting
along the edge, I walk just within the reach of those waves, allowing
warm, tropical waters to wash up and over my toes sinking into wet sand.

I've never been much for living in the moment, always too realistic, too
pragmatic to allow for an uncertain future.  Always planning ahead. 
Worrying too much - plagued by doubts of what might be.  His eyes are
the color of these waves, gray and blue, dark and light and all the hues
in-between.  Shifting, restless motion with the same power to drag me
away and under as those tides.  He looks out over the water, scanning
the horizon in absent-minded reverie, and I absorb the memory of his
eyes, the way his hair lifts and falls with the rising wind, scattering
across his brow, falling before his eyes.

Live in the moment, and the moment may be all we have now, Mulder and I.

"I don't know where we go from here, Scully."

His voice breaks my concentration, forces me back to a world of sound
and sensation.

"We just keep moving."  My simple reply, but it's all I know how to say.

"Where?  For how long?  Forever?"  His tone is resigned, frustrated,
sad.  "I don't want to run forever, Scully"

Mulder is having doubts, the first clear doubts I have seen him exhibit
on this journey of ours.  Up until now, he had been the one pushing *me*
forward, blindly maybe, out of desperation and a desire to avoid the
future by not dwelling on it, but pushing nonetheless.  He needs my
strength now.  Now that the most obvious threat is over, he looks to the
future and is swallowed by the darkness.

You need to live in the moment, Mulder.  The dark isn't as cold as I had
thought, and not nearly as frightening.

"Not forever," I finally say.  "For now, for a while, for as long as it
takes."

"As long as it takes?"

"As long as it takes to find safety again, as long as it takes until we
can stop and be still."

He is turned away from me, not meeting my eyes.  "What if it takes
forever, Scully?  What if we can't ever stop?"

I pour newfound strength and assurance into my words.  "Then it takes
forever, but at least it's a forever by your side, at least it's a
forever where we are no longer alone."  My last thought is spoken
quietly.  "That's a forever I can face."

Storms brew and dissipate across the landscape of his features.  "That
was never the future I wanted for you.  That dangerous unknown was
something I had always wanted you to be spared."

Hands balled into fists at his sides, his fingers are clenched tight and
strong as I pry them apart with my own.  Insinuating myself into the
warm clasp of his hand, I squeeze his fingers gently, thrilling to the
way they seem to melt under my attention.  "I want that future, Mulder,"
I assure him.  "I need it.  We have this now, we have each other." 
Lifting my other hand to his face, I nudge gently with just the tips of
my fingers until he faces me, looking down, our other hands still
clasped together.  "Even if it ends tomorrow, next week, next month, it
will have been enough for me.  It could end right now, and I still
wouldn't regret it, still would treasure every moment of peace we've
stolen for ourselves out of all this madness."

His eyes soften, turning more gray than green, more light than dark. 
Rough and raw, sounding scratched from the depths of disbelief, his
voice finds me.  "Are you sure?"

Low and reverent.  "I love you, Mulder."  It's the first time I've ever
really said it, the first time the intangible has been given form and
substance.  The words are sacred and pure slipping from my tongue, they
feel like the simplest truth, easy and sure and beautiful.

Tears build slowly in his eyes.  He needed those words, to hear them, as
much as I needed to say them.  I blink, and there is a warm splash upon
the swell of my cheek.  Dampness I didn't notice, tears I hadn't
anticipated.

"Our battle, our quest?"  The question I knew he would still have - the
uncertainty of what we've fought for.  He had abandoned it for three
years, content to let it lie unfulfilled.  Beside me again, I know he
feels the need to continue.  Reunited, there is an inescapable sense of
purpose between us.  It is our destiny, after all.  Together, the
promise of what we could accomplish is heavy and tempting, necessary and
strong.

"Is not forgotten," I affirm.  "We will continue, Mulder.  I want that,
too.  But right now, until then, until that's possible again, the fact
that I can concentrate on this…" I rise up softly on my toes to place a
chaste kiss upon his lips, "is enough for me."

His eyes light up with a small fire as I lower back down onto solid
ground and smile up at him.

"You just have to let it be enough, Mulder."

Slowly, tentatively, the hand I don't hold comes to steal around my
waist, resting with almost invisible pressure in the curve of my back. 
He smiles, a thing shy and wondering at the newness of this, the
indulgence and luxury, and then pulls more firmly, drawing me forward
and into his embrace.

The kiss is pure and unhurried, just the gentle brushing together of our
lips at first.  Growing out of love and comfort rather than passion. 
Fusing, perfect softness of his lips.  It is an exploration, a lazy,
drifting warmth.  Somewhere, one of my hands steals up and around his
neck, the other clutched between our bodies, fingers still entwined.  He
holds me possessive and strong, as I drown willingly in his taste, his
smell, this thing of beauty we create between us.

Breaking apart a fraction, he murmurs against my lips and I can feel
each letter as it is pronounced, "It's enough for me, Scully.  It's more
than enough."

He kisses me again, and I smile into the action.  He can feel it and
returns the gesture.  We are smiling as we kiss.  Eyes closed, his teeth
scrape and soothe, his lips translate unspoken things, and a wave
crashes roughly against my legs, soaking my jeans to the knees.

Once we are still again, I rest my head in the crook of his neck,
feeling his pulse against my cheek, my new favorite place to rest.  I
can feel the exact moment thoughts begin to crystallize in his head. 
Waiting, I anticipate the wistful tone of his voice when it meets my ears.

"I just can't help wishing, dreaming…"

I dream, too.  For the first time in too long.  I wish.

"It's not sorrow or fear…"

No, Mulder, no more fear now between us.

"I just want, I wish…"

It's too much to put into words.

He struggles for a moment, fumbling, searching for a description of
dreams and desires. "It's foolish I know," an unnecessary apology, "But
I can't help wishing we could just let it go, leave it all behind, find
some little house on a beach somewhere and just *be.*”

I don’t interrupt him, don’t squash his lovely dreams.  What point is
there?  We both know the future has never held calm domesticity for
either of us.  There is no little cottage sitting on a pristine shore
waiting in our future.

Not the near future anyway.

But I allow him his dreams because they are such a gift to us now.  Such
a blessing, such a wonder, this ability to dream.  Such a small,
brilliant, amazing thing, such an intrinsic component of who we are as
human beings – the most necessary of common graces.  I allow Mulder his
dreams, his fantasies, his future ramblings.  Standing at his side,
feeling the shift and swirl of sand around my feet, I allow him to grasp
onto something I had once feared lost to us forever.

I allow us both to glide along on the fragile wings of hope.

I want to see it…

I do…

< I’m sitting, staring out at the sea.  Storm clouds gather on the
horizon.  Huge, dark, ominous clouds reaching for the heavens.  They
loom large and threatening on the edges of the sea – but I am not afraid.

Around me, the calm wraps as a blanket.  Sitting there, feet tucked
under, head resting against the chair at my back, I watch the first
drops of rain slip slide over the roof’s edge and form baby puddles on
the steps leading up to the porch.  The old, rusty whine of the screen
door sings in accompaniment to the growing wind and I can feel you at my
side.

“It’s going to be a bad one,” you say.

I don’t answer, closing my eyes, embracing the kiss of damp wind on my
cheeks.

“You should come inside.”  I smile at your words.

Looking up, you’re standing there above me, offering your hand.  My
smile is mirrored in you and I delight in the wrinkles it etches around
your mouth, the sparkle of it in your eyes.  It is in that moment that I
can see beyond the gray hair now turning white, beyond the fissures of
years and experience worn so clearly on your skin.  You take my hand in
yours and it is not old and lined with wrinkles and time.  I do not
cringe or ache as I rise to meet you.  Our lifetime together has not
weathered these hands.

Warm and sure, the hand of a woman well past her golden years lies in
your steady and loving grasp made young and smooth again…

And we watch the storm roll in together. >

~~~~
End.

Notes and thanks from me –
 
What a long, (long, long, long… ) strange trip it’s been…
     This story started off of such a basic idea.  I had just read JC
Sun's beautiful "Envelope."  (If you haven't read this, go do it now! 
It's gorgeous!)  I was struck by her interpretation of how Scully would
react to Mulder's death.  She described Scully appearing to move forward
despite the loss, living on because that would be the best and brightest
way to honor his memory.  This rang true for me.  Very along the lines
of Scully's character.  However, I wondered if this wouldn't just be a
facade, if deep down she wouldn't be falling apart.  Mulder is the
center and foundation of Scully's world.  It may not be like her to weep
uncontrollably and have a nervous breakdown, but wouldn't burying that
grief have an even more devastating impact?  What would happen after
years of pushing forward and trying so stubbornly to be strong?  How
could anyone ever recover from that loss of emotion?  These questions,
and a little too much Edith Hamilton's mythology, sparked the first
chapter which was written without much idea of where it would go.
     Shortly after starting this, I drew up a tentative outline.  I had
six, short chapters set up which I planned out with the intent to have
the story finished before the end of my last semester of school.  That
was a little over two months time allowance.  It didn’t quite work out
the way I had planned. <g>  So here we are, seven months later, and it's
finally finished, but not solely by my efforts alone.
     Extreme praise, utmost gratitude, hugs, kisses, and general fanfare
belong to the following people without whom this story would never have
been finished.
     - Deb, who's been hanging around since the beginning, doesn't nag,
doesn't push, and always amazes me at the tiny details she's able to
catch.  An eagle eye and a trusted opinion.  Thank you so much for the
patience, it's meant more than I can ever say.
     - Lena.  My muse thanks you.  She's been saving up all of that
virtual wine and those Godiva truffles and is now in a state of utter
post-fanfic-posting inebriation.  It's nice to laugh when reading
through editing stuff once and a while.  Don't worry, I know you'll be
hearing from me again soon.  (too bad for you <bg>)
     - Jeanine.  Who believes honesty is always the best policy and
never fails to tell me when it's a bunch of crap - though she probably
wouldn't use those exact words (I think).  I cannot say how much I
treasure the phrase "don't you think you've gone a little overboard
here?"  I need that sometimes.
     - Chris.  Who has been adding a little voice now and again for
constant encouragement.  Not a beta-reader, but just a friend.  One more
person I count myself fortunate to have met during this little endeavor.
     - All those nice people who followed this thing while it was going
up on my web page.  Your patience and the occasional nagging letter were
what got this thing going and kept me from abandoning it.  Stick around,
there's more to come. ;)

     Thus begins the general feedback plea – this has been fun, but I
would love to hear what others have thought.  Write me at:
promised64@yahoo.com.  I *do* make a point to respond to all letters.

Thanks for reading –
Morgan : )
(now maybe I can move on to those three half-stories stuck on my hard
drive)
 

< Oh my God, it’s over. >