It's been a long time since I've written any XF fanfic. That's mainly because for awhile all I could think about was Scully's cancer and I didn't have anything to say about it that wasn't being said more eloquently by Lydia Bower, Karen Rasch, Ms. Parrotfish and Rachel Howard, amongst others. With that situation resolved -- at least temporarily -- I started thinking about stories once again. For those people who have written to ask about my "Chiaroscuro" series, I've gone back to finish all the parts and will be posting them soon. This is something different -- a random idea that blossomed into a longer story. If anyone has feedback -- good or bad -- I'm at Blueswirl@aol.com. One small note: I was a literary arts major in college, and I'm no scientist. So while I've endeavored to ground this story with some facts, I've taken as much license as I saw fit. It seems as though posting a story has become really complicated but I'll make it as quick as I can: Title: TANGIBLE Author: Blueswirl@aol.com Classification: T,R,A Rating: NC-17 Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 5th Season Summary: Sometimes, to have anything, one must be willing to risk everything. Distribution: Feel free to post this story on any archive or web page, as long as my name remains attached. Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. and I'm using them for this story without permission. So sue me. Feedback: If the mood hits -- I'd love it at Blueswirl@aol.com. TANGIBLE Blueswirl@aol.com 5/5/98 A dream! a dream! for at a touch 't is gone. O mocking spirit! thy mere fools are we, Unto the depths from heights celestial thrown. From these blind gropings toward reality, This thirst for truth, this most pathetic need Of something to uplift, to justify, To help and comfort while we faint and bleed, May we not draw, wrung from the last despair, Some argument of hope, some blessed creed, That we can trust the faith which whispers prayer, The vanishings, the ecstasy, the gleam, The nameless aspiration, and the dream? - Emma Lazarus I walk down the corridor with my head at half-mast, following the man in front of me precisely three steps back, careful to keep in line, careful to do nothing that will call any attention to me. Like mindless drones, worker bees in a hive, yet in truth there is no work to be done. Work is a word that has lost whatever meaning it once had. Now there is merely time, endless and unending, punctuated only by these visits to the Draining Room. And, of course, Outside. When we reach the end of this last labyrinthine corridor I turn to the left, no longer following the man in front of me. As though hearkening to some time-honored yet obsolete tradition They keep the women separate from the men, though there is very little reason to. Blood is blood, after all. This new, smaller hallway opens up into a vast, white space. Row upon row of silver chairs, each tilted back at a sharp angle, line the space and define it. The Monitor points its hand at me and I move quickly forward to the nearest chair, settling into it as best I can. The headrest isn't comfortable but then again it never is. With my legs stretched out before me I rest one arm at my side and place the other in the tray specifically designed for that purpose. The left arm, always the left. I think that there's something about the signal transmitted by the band I wear on my right that threatens the accuracy of the procedure. The metal of the tray is cold against my skin, bare beneath the short sleeves of the white tee shirt I wear. The steel bands come up and around automatically, imprisoning my arm above my bicep and around my wrist. I take a deep breath, and wait. Soon enough the needle descends from the ceiling, coils of transparent tubing trailing in its wake. With a faint, whirring hum the needle unerringly finds the artery in the bend of my arm, sliding through the swollen tender skin. It is all I can do not to flinch, though I hardly notice the pain. The urge to scream left me a long time ago. The needle now in place, I can almost feel the valve open, though I know the actual hydraulics are kept somewhere in the ceiling, out of my reach. I watch with glazed eyes as invisible suction draws my blood up and out of my body and into the sucking, hungry tube. The thick reddish liquid defies gravity as it swirls upward, devoured by the Machine. I watch with mild curiosity; despite the familiarity of the procedure there is something frighteningly compelling about the process. I watch until the dizziness begins to set in and then, like the others, I close my eyes and wait for Them to finish with me. Soon, I think, the word dancing across my mind. So soon. Not soon enough. I am barely conscious when it is over, which is in itself a blessing; Their fancy technology still hasn't found a way to get the needle out as easily as it goes in. I hear the locks on the steel bands disengage and feel the cool metal slide across my arm as they retract into the sides of the tray. I don't move, I don't even open my eyes. There's no need to yet. They always give you time to recover from the loss. It's the one courtesy that They can't avoid, taking as much as They do. Despite my best intentions, I fall asleep. It is the Monitor who wakes me and I jerk myself upright, disoriented and woozy. The nausea passes after a moment and I pull myself to my feet, falling once again in line. Back through the entrance, down the small hallway, and then once again into the corridors that have come to define my very existence. One foot in front of the other, I remind myself, doing my best not to stumble. A missed step, a fall to the ground might appear to Them an insurrectionist act. And we have learned too well that punishment is swift and severe. Nothing looks as good to me as the bed in my cell. I collapse onto it, ignoring the snick of the door as it locks behind me. I curl myself up into a ball and force myself to breathe. "Bad?" I nod my head against the pillow, too exhausted to answer. I don't need to, anyway. Her question isn't really a question but a greeting. She knows how it is. It will be her turn soon enough. We are under constant surveillance, and excessive conversation is forbidden, though I have never been sure exactly why. The idea of escape is no more than a dream. After a time, I open my eyes and look across the room to see her sitting, legs dangling off the side of her bed. There is concern on her face and I tilt up my lips in a halfhearted gesture of reassurance. In all this time, in the months that we have been cellmates, I have learned very little about her. She is younger than I am, which may account for the irrational desire I have to protect her. Under other circumstances, she would probably be a student, a sorority girl at college occupied with thoughts of boyfriends and parties and weekends at the beach. But here, now, she is nothing but my cellmate. The ninth, I think. Or maybe the tenth. It disturbs me to realize that I've lost track. They are always searching for more of us -- the "Special Ones", as They say. Cloning doesn't seem to work; maybe the artificial creation of human life strips away some essential element They need, or maybe it's just superstition on Their part that causes them to steer away from unnatural methods of reproduction. They still do tests though, lots of them. Especially on women like me who are of no use as Babymakers. "You should sleep," she says, and I can see the sadness in her expression. Her hands are crossed above her protruding, swollen belly, as though to protect the baby growing inside her. I can't imagine how she must feel. I'm almost happy that I can't bear children, if only because they will never be consigned to the horror of this life. I manage to answer with the last of my strength. "Yes," I say, and then my eyes fall shut again and everything fades. When I next awaken, she is no longer in the room. I lie there for a moment or two, and then find the energy to sit up and stretch my tired limbs. Not for the first time I wish that I still had a watch, something to mark the passage of time. But there are no schedules to keep here other than those that are enforced by Them, making the need for a personal timepiece obsolete. I stand and go to the basin against the back wall to splash water on my face. It revives me, and I feel a surge of anticipation wash over me. Soon, I think. Soon. When the door to the cell opens again I am sitting cross-legged on the bed, hands folded neatly atop my white cotton pants. An Orderly is standing there, and it beckons me with a wave of its hand. "Come on," it says, and I obediently rise to my feet, walking past it and out into the corridor. Orderlies, as I call them, are different than Guards, in that they don't carry weapons, and they don't wear uniforms. Although I doubt it is intentional, the Orderlies also seem to have a higher quotient of human compassion. Most of my time is spent with Orderlies; they handle everything inside the Compound except the Draining Rooms, which are controlled by the Monitors. From the very beginning I have kept all of it neatly labeled and filed inside my mind, trying to impose order on the insanity that my reality has become. I follow the Orderly down the corridor in a silence that I finally break. "I don't want to eat," I tell it. Five words that are soft, but defiant. It stops to turn and look at me. I can almost read the confusion in its face, its efforts to reconcile my statement with the schedule. "You're hungry," it replies simply. I am, actually. Ravenous, in fact. But I don't want to stop and eat. Not now. The thought of even trying to swallow the usual bowl of protein paste is enough to make me gag. "No," I insist. "I'm not." The Orderly says nothing and for a moment I can almost feel the jolt of current shoot up through my arm from the band on my wrist, can almost feel my teeth grind together as the pain sears my body and forces me to the ground. I'm so prepared for the agony that I'm surprised when the Orderly merely nods and continues down the corridor. It takes me a second to realize that I've won the battle, small though it might be, and then I follow behind. Before too long we arrive at the set of double doors that separate the Compound from the place I have named the Waiting Room. The Orderly leaves me there, but I am not alone. There are others, like me, waiting to be processed. Waiting for a taste of freedom, no matter how brief. I stand with the others, waiting, and as I wait I marvel at how smoothly the whole transition took place. How the world I knew so well just three years before transformed so completely into this strange new one. Then again, three years ago I couldn't have envisioned the kind of devastation that we survived; nor, despite all that I had learned in the course of my own work did I ever imagine that there were those who had not only expected this, but had helped to engineer it. Finally, my turn comes, and I step up to the desk to be processed. The Officer at the desk -- an Officer because it has the uniform but not the weapon of a Guard -- extends its right hand towards me and I respond in kind. It ignores my offered palm and takes me by the arm instead, roughly pulling me towards it so that it can better access the metal band around my wrist. It picks up a thin cylindrical tube and presses the tip firmly against the circular indentation on the side of the band, and I feel the jolt of a small electrical charge. The gray screen on the side of the band reacts by lighting up with a bright orange digital display. The face reads 24:00:00, though from the Officer's point of view I know that the numbers are upside down. "You know the rules," it reminds me, and I nod, transfixed by the numbers, which are already moving. Counting down. 23:59:59. 23:59:58. 23:59:57. Time, precious time, is being wasted. They give us twenty-four hours at a time. Never more, never less. Just a little taste of freedom to keep us in line. A single day, and I will not squander a second more of this one. The Officer releases its hold on my arm and waves me on, and I head towards a second set of double doors at the far end of the Waiting Room. There are jackets there, hanging on a rack against the wall. Windbreakers, really, made of a heavy nylon fabric to help deflect the constant breeze. I pull on a jacket that is close to being my size and then step up to the two Guards in front of the doors. Though undoubtedly they have just seen me be processed, I raise my arm and allow them to check the readout on my band. One of them presses a button on the side wall and the doors open, revealing a short walkway. The walkway is glass, and through the dirty streaked surface I catch my first glimpse of the world beyond. I step into the walkway and the doors slam shut behind me. Another glance at my wrist -- 23:57:44 -- and I quicken my steps. A final door at the end opens automatically and immediately the walkway fills with a dust that makes me cough, but I continue forward until I am once again Outside. It's stretching the truth a bit to call the area surrounding the Compound a Yard but it's the only word I have that seems to fit. Maybe junkyard would be a better term; a place where trash collects. The Yard extends in a sloppy circle around the whole of the Compound structure, but there's only one exit and it's near that portal that people tend to gather. The fence that surrounds the Yard carries a vicious charge and the Guards at the portal are heavily armed and funnily enough it's all to keep the others out, not to keep us in. I'm surprised at how early it is -- the sky is still the vague hazy brown that now passes for dawn -- but then I remember that I didn't stop to eat. Without a watch I have no idea of the time but as I scan the faces of the people gathered outside the gate and come up empty I begin to think I made a mistake by rushing, my eagerness causing me to waste time instead of save it. I cross the Yard, hoping that it's just too dim yet to see what I'm looking for. Since it's early, the Yard isn't as crowded as it is sometimes; in the middle of the day, others like me endlessly wander the perimeter. Boring as it may be, it's a change of pace. On the other side of the fence, people stand as close as they dare. Some are searching for familiar faces; occasionally, the lucky ones find each other. There are others who stand there hoping to be admitted inside the Compound, despite their lack of qualifications. Maybe it's because they don't know what happens inside. Maybe it's because life Outside is too miserable for them to bear. I reach the gate and the two Guards there give me a cursory glance and then unlock it to wave me through. They raise their weapons to ward off the crush of people that surround the door and just as I step between them I am knocked to the side by a man running as though pursued by the Angel of Death. One of the Guards turns to stare after him while the other, well-trained, keeps his strange weapon on the crowd. It's obvious to all of us that the frantic man belongs inside the Compound, and not just because he's dressed in the same telltale clothes that I wear. It's the manic intensity with which he runs that gives him away, the way in which he streaks towards the door to the walkway and dashes inside as soon as it opens. I watch him until he disappears, a morbid curiosity making me wonder if he'll make it in time. Sometimes they don't. I step through the outer gate, the final barrier, and find myself amidst the people who gather there. Some of them stare, and I stare right back. I'm used to it by now. I am special, after all, for no other reason than that I'm necessary. I am needed. They are jealous of me, and I of them. They would give up the reality of freedom for the illusion of safety. I pray every night for the opportunity to do the reverse. I walk through the crowd, passing men, women, the occasional child, my eyes flicking restlessly from one to the next. There's a strange, almost carnival-like feeling amongst the assembled throng. People barter items in trade, a pair of battered sunglasses for an unlabeled can of food. An armful of clothes for a flashlight-size battery. Anything and everything in exchange for a half-full bottle of water. There are a few others like me, wandering along dressed in their own blue jackets. Only a couple, here and there, and when our eyes meet, we turn away. The crowd isn't yet half the size it will be at midday, and I make it to the outer edge without finding what I'm looking for. I consider waiting. I tell myself it won't be long, I'm early but not that early. I remind myself of the plan. And then I look at my wrist. 23:51:12. I start to walk. I know where I'm going, pretty much. There's a road, a real paved street that begins about half a mile through the weeds. The path to the road is well-worn and easy to follow and I start off, walking fast. My heart is thumping with adrenalin and it feels good, it feels right. The wind is blowing hard, like it always seems to now, and my hair whips across my face. I stop for a moment and grasp it with both hands, winding its length into a makeshift braid. It's long and heavy and I have nothing to secure it with so I tie the ends into a knot, hoping that will hold it in place for awhile. Probably because it's early, I make it to the road without meeting anyone on the path, which is fine as far as I'm concerned. There's never any real trouble near the Compound; maybe people are afraid of the Guards. But the further you go Outside the more you have to fear. You never know if the person approaching you is going to turn out to be friend or foe. It's much easier walking on the asphalt, even though it's cracked or damaged in spots, mainly because the wind doesn't stir up as much dust as it does in the field. The soft white shoes I wear are already dirty. They're not really made for hard walking but I press on regardless. There's more traffic on the road -- traffic, what an absolutely hysterical concept -- and I keep to the far side, my head down, my eyes straight ahead. A young woman passes me, and shortly thereafter a family, huddled together as they trudge along. All of them headed in the opposite direction, towards the Compound. The family's youngest child, a little boy, stops in his tracks when he sees me, his eyes wide and his mouth hung open in frank curiosity. I'm almost tempted to smile at him and then his father takes him by the hand and pulls him along and the opportunity is lost. Just being away from the Compound has me feeling so much lighter, I reach the edge of the town without realizing how far I've come. I stop at the point where the road I'm on intersects what used to be the main street and look up to see that the sun has fully risen. Through the veil of the dusty, damaged air the sun seems more pink than yellow, more distant somehow than it used to. But it's definitely morning, and now I'm starting to get concerned. 22:26:17. The town looks deserted, but I know better. There are still people here, people who keep out of sight. Underground, mostly, in whatever cellars and basements are still accessible, away from the wind and from those whose intentions are less than noble. There's not much left above ground, anyway. Most of the structures have been ravaged, although not totally demolished in the way that some cities were when it all came down. There were no bombs here. The damage that has been done here mostly came afterwards, when the town was looted and burned by the fever survivors. I realize that I've stopped moving, and I force my feet to continue forward, creeping into the ghost town with more than a little trepidation. I glance around, looking for anything that might threaten me, all too aware that I am alone and unarmed. For some reason the abandoned buildings look more foreboding than they ever have before. There was a time when that wouldn't have caused me to hesitate, but the woman that I have become does exactly that. I stop and think about returning to the road, about sitting there under that distant pink sun and waiting it out. There's only one way to get to the Compound. I could sit there, and wait. 22:22:56. I keep moving. I am retracing steps that I've taken sixteen, no, seventeen times before. I know the library is near the center of town, one of the few structures that still bears some resemblance to the building that it once was. Its facade was made of marble, not wood or even brick, which meant that there was little of it that was of use to anyone else. Most of the buildings that I pass are unidentifiable now, having been pillaged past the point of no return. I try to occupy my frightened mind by picturing how the town must have looked before, when people milled the streets in the course of another ordinary day. Perhaps it is because my thoughts are so consumed with the past that I fail to realize that I am no longer alone on the wretched sidewalk. Perhaps it is because I am listening for the sound of my name that I fail to hear the growl. Perhaps it is because I am so busy searching for what isn't there that I fail to notice what is. The skitter of broken glass on concrete causes me to whirl around and it is then that I see it. A dog, so large and menacing that it would be better described as a wolf. Which at this point might not be an inaccurate guess; strange things have happened in the last few years. It is huge and black, foam dripping from its muzzle as it contemplates me from two blocks away. Long ago it might have been someone's pet. Now it is nothing but my enemy. I try to play by the old rules -- ignore it and it will go away -- but it's a new game now, and to the wolf-dog all I am is prey. My few cautious steps only cause it to move forward, slowly at first, and then faster, its long nails clack-clack-clacking on the asphalt as it begins to run. As its loping gait increases in pace my heart speeds up to match and my feet find the rhythm. I start to run, hoping against hope that I can put enough distance between us to save myself. My shoes slip against the cement as I run, my arms pumping at my sides, my breath soon coming in gasps. The wolf-dog howls and I glance over my shoulder to see that others have joined it, at least three that I can see, all of them hungry, all of them mad. All of them abandoned, and though there is a part of me that feels for them I can't afford to think of them as anything other than a menace. I reach the end of the block and now they are so close that I can hear their labored breathing, smell their foul stench. I have lost all sense of direction, the library lost to me now, the only thought in my mind that of escape. But there is nowhere to hide. All of the buildings are open, exposed, glass missing, doors torn down. There is nowhere to go that they cannot follow me. "Help!" I scream, calling out to the pairs of unseen eyes that I am sure are watching me from their hiding places inside the ruined buildings. Calling for a samaritan that in this time and place does not exist. It feels as though I have been running forever when in the distance I see the iron bars of fire stairs, attached to a ramshackle structure at the end of the street. The stairs lead nowhere, the upper story of the building having long since fallen away, but they still dangle from the framework, above the ground, away from the wolf-dogs. It seems like a chance, no matter how slight. I force oxygen into my lungs, struggling to breathe in the windy, dusty air, and a howl of my own escapes my lips as my mind orders my body to do its bidding. When I near the stairs the wolf-dogs are literally nipping at my heels and I burn the last of my energy in a sprint, bending my knees as I jump. My right hand catches the edge of the bottom rung and I hang there for a dangerous second until I am able to bring my other hand up to join it, my body now suspended just above the wolf-dogs who are circling and snapping below. My feet are like bait to them, tantalizing sweat dripping off the bareness of my exposed ankles. I clench the muscles in my stomach and pull my legs up, tucking them close to my chest. I fight to better my handhold on the bars, to pull myself upwards to reach the safety the iron stairs promise. I get one leg up and over and am straining for the other when my sweaty palms cause me to lose my grip, and I feel myself slipping. No, I think, not this, and my panic and fear emerge in a scream. "Shit!" I yell, as though mere profanity will create a miracle for me and enable me to hold on. C-R-A-C-K! The noise is so loud in the stillness that it startles me almost enough to lose my tenuous grip. It is followed by two more -- C-R-A-C-K! C-R-A-C-K! -- and it is only then I realize that what I have heard is the echo of gunpowder igniting with air. I glance over my shoulder, behind me and below, and see that the lead wolf-dog has dropped, blood streaming from a series of wounds in its head and shoulders. The other wolf-dogs wail, stomping around their fallen leader, until another blast -- C-R-A-C-K! -- causes them to disperse, scattering in all directions like dust to the winds. Exhausted, my arms trembling with exertion, I hang for another long moment and then allow myself to tumble to the ground, where I crumple to a heap not far from the dying predator whose life has been taken to spare my own. I lie there, shattered, one arm tossed carelessly across my face, my legs tucked beneath me. I hear the sound of approaching footsteps but don't bother to raise my head, until I hear my name. "Scully!" I lift my head, my eyes dizzy, unfocused, sweat streaming down my cheeks. He is running towards me, and in one hand he carries the long rifle whose bullets saved my life. He is tall, and lean, unnaturally tan from the poisonous rays of that distant sun, and I have never seen anything so magnificent in all my life. "Scully!" He reaches me as I rise to a sitting position and is therefore able to crouch beside me and throw his arm around me for the briefest of moments before pulling away, the rifle still clenched in his grip. "Are you okay?" I manage to nod, though the capacity for words still seems to be beyond me. For some reason all I can focus on is the jagged shape to his short brown hair, and I know that he's been at it with the switchblade again. His hazel eyes search mine thoroughly before turning to gaze at the fallen carcass beside me. The wolf-dog shudders once and then is motionless, and it is only then that Mulder turns his attention back to me. Rising to his feet, he offers me his hand and pulls me up to stand beside him. "You're early," he says, as he brushes a loose strand of hair away from my face with a weatherbeaten hand. "I didn't eat," I explain, savoring the sudden, insane relief I feel just to be near him. After a moment, I add, "You're late." He nods, his forehead creasing with guilt that I want to wipe away. "I was getting some things together." I take his hand to comfort him but it's really me who I am comforting. "I figured it was something like that." Mulder squeezes my hand in response, and glances around again in the wary manner that he's always had, the wary manner which is now more deliberate than I remember. When he is finished, he slings the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and asks, "Are you sure you're okay?" "Fine," I tell him. "Just a little hungry." His lips twitch up in a hint of a smile that blossoms into a full-blown Mulder grin, the kind that I treasure. "Guess you should have eaten before you left." He laughs, and the sound is small and hollow in the vast empty street. So I laugh with him, and hand in hand we make our way past the carcass of the wolf-dog and down the block. If life were but a dream, my Love, And death the waking time; If day had not a beam, my Love, And night had not a rhyme, A barren, barren world were this Without one saving gleam; I'd only ask that with a kiss You'd wake me from the dream. - Paul Laurence Dunbar My attempt to elude the wolf-dogs led me in the wrong direction and we end up circling back, over two blocks and then down to the old library building. We walk up the entry stairs and then, bypassing the doorway which was once the front entrance, make our way over to the left side. The frame of an old side door allows us to access the concrete stairs that lead to the basement. It is musty down there, and dark, but Mulder has a flashlight that makes dim circles on the ground before our feet. Flashlights are rare, and batteries rarer still, but Mulder is just as resourceful as he was when we worked together. I'm used to surprises where he is concerned. We speak only once, when I break the quiet between us with a question. "Did you get it?" "Yes," he replies, one hand carrying the light, the other still clenching mine. "I've got it. But..... there are no guarantees." "I know," I answer, which is the only answer I can think to give. We make our way through the fallen plaster and broken floorboards until we are deep inside the rubble. Once there, we stop, and I stand still and hold the light as he moves aside piles of debris to uncover his secret cache. He breathes a sigh of relief that the objects he has concealed are still there, though I know that very little time has passed since he last visited their hiding place. He pulls out a hiking pack that has seen better days, and then another smaller backpack, the kind I remember carrying when I was in school. What looks to me like a pile of rags turns out to be a handful of clothes, and beneath that is a random assortment of cans, most of which have lost their colorful paper labels. There are other items barely visible in the dim light, but it is obvious to me that Mulder's carefully hoarded stash has been considerably depleted. There's even less left after the trade than I expected. "Here," he says, giving me the clothes. I take them from him: a couple of tattered shirts and a pair of jeans that looks amazingly intact. No further words are needed, and as he rummages through the other things I lay the flashlight on the floor, pull off the telltale clothing I wore from the Compound, and begin to dress. There are no undergarments in the pile of clothes that Mulder has scavenged for me and so I leave on the white panties that I am wearing. There is a tank top, made of faded brown nylon, and I yank it over my head. It's the closest thing I've had to a brassiere since all of this happened and as I dress I allow myself a few seconds of fond reminiscence about the lingerie I kept in my apartment back in D.C. Matching bra and panty sets, bedecked with ribbons, satin and lace in one glorious, sachet-scented pile in the top drawer of my bureau. That was then, and this is now. Tank top on, I reach for the tee-shirt. It's black, and except for a small hole near the neckline, in near perfect condition. Then I pull on the jeans, which don't fit quite as good as they look, but once I fold over the waistband they stay balanced on my hips. Mulder has finished messing with the stuff left in his hidey-hole, emerging with one can clenched in each fist. He looks at me, standing there, and pauses before he speaks. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I know what he's asking, and I know why. And I know what this could mean for both of us. But right now, selfish though it may be, I can't see any other way. I extend my left arm towards him, with its bruised and blackened flesh. "This isn't living," I tell him, and he nods. He balances both cans in one hand and reaches out for my arm with the other, running his index finger lightly along its length. "No," he says, "it isn't." And the way in which he says it makes me realize that the same is true for him. I step away from him and pull on the plaid shirt that looks like it should be flannel but is actually cotton, with a rip down the front near the placket but not so near that it won't button. The pile of clothes is finished now, and I stoop to put back on the shoes I'd been wearing when I left when he stops me, pointing to the faint edge of the beam created by the flashlight. There are shoes there, tennis shoes, and in the pale glow they look brand-new. That illusion is shattered once I lean forward and pick them up, but they are in fairly good condition nonetheless. I slide them on and they are only a little big. They will probably give me blisters but they feel so much sturdier than the shoes I was wearing I make up my mind then and there not to care if they slip. "They're perfect," I tell him, and another of those half-smiles crosses his face. "Good," he replies. "They weren't cheap." That causes another little chuckle to ripple between us and then Mulder is standing before me, the two cans again in his hands. He's opened them with something, maybe a can opener but more likely the Swiss army knife that has done more for him than almost anything else. One unlabeled can has been revealed as a container of pineapple chunks, the other what looks to be slices of Mandarin orange. Conscious of the dire circumstances that we face, I immediately protest. "I don't need both. I'm not that hungry." Mulder shrugs, and glances over his shoulder at his secret cache. "There's no way we'll be able to carry all of it anyway." I know that he's right, but part of me still feels guilty. "Then share them with me." He nods, and we both sit down on the dirty ground, tucking our legs beneath us. He holds one can and I the other, and we take turns, eating the little pieces of fruit with our fingers. We are halfway through the cans before I take a piece of pineapple between two fingers and guide it to his mouth. His lips part to accept the fruit and he takes in a good bit of my fingers with it, sucking on them deeply before pulling away to chew and swallow the tidbit that I have given him. That is what begins it, and we finish the two cans by feeding each other, piece by succulent piece. I think about how many meals we shared together before, how many salads and burgers in how many diners, and realize that none of those meals were quite as precious as this one. When we are finished, Mulder carelessly puts the cans to the side. There is no need to bury or hide them now; we will never be coming back to this place. To this hidey-hole beneath the library where we first found each other again. It will no longer matter if people or wolf-dogs discover this secret space, for we will be gone, never to return. Leaning forward, Mulder reaches for my right hand, holding it gently in his grasp, turning it slightly so that he can better see the orange numbers on the band that glow so brightly in the near-dark. 21:39:14. "We should get going," he remarks, as casually as he is able. I incline my head just the slightest bit in agreement, tamping down the sudden nervousness in my stomach that threatens to cause me to lose the food I have just consumed. With that, Mulder gets to his feet and I follow suit, holding the light again as he checks the contents of the two packs he has filled. The larger one holds eleven of the random, unlabeled cans; three extra C-size batteries for the flashlight; two well-worn blankets; two boxes of the shells needed to fire the rifle; a torn pillowcase which is revealed to contain a small, opened stash of beef jerky; three matchbooks, nearly full; two more of the cotton-but-should-be-flannel-shirts; a half-full bag of rice; six differently-labeled plastic bottles of water. The smaller knapsack holds another blanket; five more of the random cans; three T-shirts in various colors; two additional plastic water bottles; a half-used roll of duct tape; a Bowie knife that I have never seen before. Mulder nods with satisfaction as we conclude our inventory, and I am struck once again by his resourcefulness. By the resourcefulness that enabled him to gather this small pile of treasures that we will so desperately need. By the resourcefulness that has enabled him to stay alive as long as he has. "Ready as we'll ever be," he announces, and closes up both of the packs. I take the smaller of the two without bothering to argue, as I know it is a fight I would certainly lose. Having shouldered our burdens, we make our way out of the dank basement back into the open air. Once we reach the strangely filtered sunshine, Mulder switches off the flashlight and I turn my back to him so that he can stuff it into my sack. We start down the street and then pause momentarily while Mulder checks the back pocket of the faded jeans that he wears to ascertain whether he is still carrying the crumpled map that cost him four cans of food and a box of cigarettes. Reassured to find it safe in its resting place, he leans over and places a chaste kiss on my forehead. And then we are on our way. We see a few more people, now, making their way through the streets of the woebegone town. As a result it doesn't feel as desolate as it did when I arrived; it's almost strangely normal. Some of the people I actually recognize, people who have made this place a permanent home or at least a temporary one. We pass the street where we left the dog and its body is gone. I wonder who took it away, and shudder to think why they might have done so. It isn't until we reach the outskirts of the town that I realize that I've never even known its name. I know that it's located somewhere in what we used to call the midwest; the east coast of what was formally known as the United States was basically destroyed by the bombs and fires that ravaged everything during the war. It was only later that we learned about the Compounds that had been built in the heartlands, built to serve an alien purpose. It was only after They began snatching us up by the truckload, separated by blood type, that we began to realize the hideousness of Their strategy. It was only then that we discovered that Their plans for colonization could only be accomplished with a certain amount of unwilling assistance, and that those who did not qualify as necessary would be banished to fend for themselves in a world that no longer existed. Mulder was one of those who was left on his own. One of those who somehow managed to survive the bombs, and the fever; the riots, and the looting. One of those who somehow managed to hide long enough and keep himself alive long enough to emerge on the other side, defenseless and alone. Homeless, but free. One of the luxuries that the Compound afforded me -- perhaps the only one -- was the opportunity to think. To think about how things were, and how they are. To think about how some were spared, and some were not, due to the cruel hand of fate. Sometimes it almost makes me laugh to think how unconscious people were about the specificity of blood type. A person could have walked into any bar, before, and asked all of the patrons to identify their own blood type; only a random handful would have been able to answer the question correctly. Despite all of the panic about AIDS no one really gave any thought to their blood type, only whether or not the blood running through their veins was infected. Yet, that simple bit of information became the litmus test that decided who should live and who should die. Because in the end, They needed us. Despite the war that destroyed so much, and the fever that killed so many, They couldn't find a way to truly inhabit this planet without us. Despite all of the experiments conducted in tandem with certain highly-placed, powerful individuals, They couldn't find a way to truly merge with us and still remain Themselves. So They didn't; didn't merge, that is. The attempts at alien-human hybridization were abandoned and instead tests were conducted to discover what it was that They needed in order to live on this planet as we had done for so many hundreds of thousands of years. And the answer was found in our blood. The blood in the human body plays an integral role in our ability to absorb and metabolize the oxygen we need to keep ourselves alive and functioning. And the same was found to be true of Them. The only wrinkle in the plan was that They didn't have blood, at least not the kind that we have. And short of some kind of hybridization that would have robbed Them of whatever They considered to be imperative, They had to find some way of obtaining it and absorbing it to keep Themselves alive. Absorbing it didn't prove to be a problem, especially if it was blood of a specific type. Obtaining it became the obstacle, and soon enough, it became frighteningly easy to do that as well. In the terms of human science, type O blood is known as a universal donor, as it can be given to a person of any other blood type and be absorbed without clotting. It's the most common type, followed by A and B. Type AB is very rare -- less than 6 percent of humans are born with that type of blood. People with AB blood can accept transfusions of any type, but they cannot donate to anyone who is not also AB. Ironically enough, when it comes to alien-human transfusions, AB is the only type of blood that They *can* accept, the only type that will not clot or risk killing Them. From this, all of the nightmarish horror sprang. The creation of the Compounds, the destruction of all that we once knew and considered, if not sacred, then at least routine. My mind whirls with all of these thoughts as we walk, and walk, and walk. We walk to the far end of town and take the main road four miles further until we reach the onramp for the interstate. It's a steep uphill grade and the straps of the pack dig into my shoulders as we make the climb. When we get to the top we are on an overpass that crosses above another freeway. From that vantage point, the devastation is clearer to me than it has ever been before. Through the thick, cloudy, dusty air I can see hundreds of cars, some crashed, some merely abandoned, scattered across the road in all directions. Most of them have been scavenged for any parts that might be of use; none of them work, all having been drained of whatever gas and oil they once carried. There aren't any people visible from where we are but I know that were we close enough to look, we would find bodies in some of the cars, and the thought makes me shudder. There are cars scattered on our part of the freeway too, and Mulder and I keep our distance from them as we walk. He has told me about people who hide inside them, waiting to ambush travelers who might pass them by, and I notice that his grip tightens on the rifle as we move along. He has reason to be wary. There is a deep scar on the left side of his face, stretching from his temple down to his cheek, above the stubble that he needs to shave. He was attacked by group of teenagers wielding makeshift weapons. It was a shovel that left the gash on his face, and he was lucky to not have been killed by the blow to his head. When he awoke, nearly a day later, everything that he'd managed to gather was gone, including most of his clothing. Sunburnt, starving, and parched with thirst he had gotten to his feet and stumbled over his Swiss army knife, which had been forgotten in the dirt. And with only that in his hand, he began again. Continued on his search. His quest to find me. Because he carries the rifle, Mulder is in the lead, which gives me the opportunity to study him without his knowledge. There is so much about him that is different than I remember, and it is a conscious reminder to me of how much he has endured. He talks less than he used to, in simple sentences and short, terse words. He has spent much of the last thirty-nine months alone, and it is harder now to break through the barrier of his solitude. Even after he found me, and we first took advantage of that space beneath the library to discover each other again, he said very little, expressing his feelings for me with actions instead of words. Seventeen times we met at the gate to the Yard and made our way into town, using the small fragments of time that I was allowed to catch up on years of separation. I told him of the trucks in which I was carted across the country, penned in amidst a crush of other captives, headed to an unknown destination. I told him about the Compound, and how it worked, and of the punishments for disobedience. I told him about the days that blended together until they became one seamless, miserable mass. I told him about the nights, and of my bleak conviction that they would never end. I told him much more than he ever told me, and I think that even now he seeks to shield me from the horrors of his experience. What little I know I have pieced together as much from what he hasn't said as from what he has. We were separated when They evacuated the city; things were a disaster then, in the aftermath of the first bomb. After his blood was tested and found useless to Them he was dumped with many others in a zone that was deemed safe, though that wasn't true for long. The fever did not pass him by; he suffered for months before he fully recovered. By then, many of the people who had cared for him had themselves succumbed to the disease. After that I'm not sure what happened to him, nor how he lived. The rioting and looting was still going on, though perhaps not as viciously as it once was; there was little left at that point to be taken. It was then that Mulder began to learn about the Compounds. There are seven of them, or so he has told me, scattered across the midwest. He learned of their purpose and it was then that he made up his mind to search them all if need be, in order to find me. A crazy idea at best, but then again, crazy ideas have always been Mulder's hallmark. And his tenacious determination paid off, for both of us, when he found me at the fourth one. We walk for miles yet see no one on our journey, which I find somewhat surprising. No humans, and none of Them. I'm not sure which I'm more afraid of encountering. We do see a few more of the wolf-dogs, but only from a distance. Other than that, it's horrifyingly quiet, with only the scuff of our shoes on the cement to relieve the deadly silence. Finally we stop, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I slide the pack off of my back. Mulder opens his pack and takes out a water bottle, while I bend over to fix the lace on one of my shoes. He hands me the bottle and I take a long sip, then move to pass it back to him. It is at that moment that I catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked side view mirror that hangs on one of the cars. I hand him the bottle, and then step forward, transfixed. I can't remember the last time that I saw my reflection, and it takes a moment of strong consideration before I recognize the woman in the glass. The woman's face is pale and her hair is long and strawberry red, the color intensified by the strange light from the sky. Much of it has escaped from the makeshift braid and tumbles haphazardly across her shoulders and down her back. I move closer to the mirror, a sudden vain impulse causing my fingers to reweave its plait. As I braid, I look at the eyes of the woman who gazes back at me. Her eyes are large, and blue, the dark circles beneath a testament to all she has endured. To all I have endured. I turn away from the fragmented mirror and move back towards Mulder, indicating to him with a nod of my head that I'm ready to keep going. We are headed north, north and a little bit west, according to our plan. There's nothing back east now, no point in returning to the place that we once called home. And the Cities that They have established for Themselves are down south, at least from what Mulder has heard. Apparently the hot, dry climate of the former desert states is more comfortable for Them. So we walk north, attempting to put as much distance between us and Them as we can in a single, solitary day. The hazy sun is high in the sky when we stop to eat; my arms shake a little as I drop the pack to the ground and I hope that Mulder has failed to notice. We have stopped at what was once a weigh station for the trucks that passed along the interstate. Its concrete structure is still standing, and its partially enclosed roof allows us a bit of respite from the sun and the wind. I can already feel the tingling in my cheeks from the sunburn I won't be able to avoid. Mulder sits down beside me, stretching his long legs out in front of him with a barely audible sigh of relief. The tennis shoes he wears are more tattered than my own, and I wonder how many miles they have carried him along. He opens the latches on his pack and asks, "How are you doing?" "Fine," I tell him, and I mean what I say, even though I'm tired, hungry, and more than a little bit thirsty. I take the bottle of water that he offers me and drink nearly a third of it without noticing its warm, tepid taste. "Even better now," I add, and pass the bottle his way. Lunch for us is a handful of beef jerky and the contents of two more cans, one of which is more pineapple. The other turns out to be string beans, which don't taste nearly as good straight out of the can. We finish the rest of the water bottle and then Mulder tucks it back into his pack, saving it for a time when it might be refilled. Then we lean our backs against the concrete wall, side by side, and rest. Mulder has a watch that he scavenged from somewhere, but it is really the band on my wrist that tells us when it is time to pick up and keep moving. 16:15:56. The afternoon passes even more slowly than the morning. We talk very little, each of us conserving our energy. By midafternoon, my body is ready to call it quits. Unlike Mulder, I've gotten very little exercise of late, and the quiver in my thighs reminds me of that fact with every single step. We stop only once, to share some more water. Although it tastes good as it runs down my throat, I'm almost sorry that we stopped because it allows me to notice how sore I've become. Mulder pulls the map from his pocket and studies it, running his finger along the torn page. He checks the position of the sun overhead, and then his watch, before he announces his decision. "Another hour," he says. "Then we should get off the highway." There's tension in the lines of his face. "What?" I ask, knowing that something is wrong. "Nothing," he says with a shrug, folding up the map and putting it back. "Just thought we would be further by now." Though I know he didn't intend them as a criticism, his words make me feel as though I have been holding us back. I make more of an effort to pick up the pace, walking beside him now, doing my best to match his stride. I know he is tired, too; I can see it around his eyes, in the way that his shoulders hunch under the pack that he carries. We actually go on for closer to two hours; by the time we reach the offramp that Mulder deems appropriate, the sun is low on the horizon and the light is dwindling away. We have arrived at the remainder of what was once a populated suburb. We stick to the main road, passing by the damaged husks of strip malls and convenience stores. Everything has been looted past the point of recognition and again I marvel at the extent of the damage. The road we are on takes us into a residential section of this forgotten city, the boundaries of individual properties still easily distinguishable amidst the rubble. It is eerily deserted, and I wonder if there are people here, hiding, if we truly are as alone as we seem to be. I walk beside Mulder and as I walk something catches my eye, the glint of something metal in the overgrown weeds. "Wait," I tell him, taking him by the arm and then pointing in the direction of the hidden object. He sees it and nods, but as we move cautiously towards it he raises the barrel of the rifle, suspicious of a trap. I bend at the knees and part the weeds with my hands. It's a pot, a little pot made of stainless steel. The imprint of its maker is still visible on its copper bottom. I hold it up to Mulder for inspection, a silly grin crossing my face. I feel a child's sense of pride in my discovery. "Good sleuthing, Sherlock," Mulder declares. "Now all you need is the stove that goes with it." My smile widens. These days, I'm happy to hear the corniest of Mulderjokes. As the sun threatens to disappear entirely, we pass the remains of an elementary school. The last beams of light dance across the iron frames of playground equipment, monkey bars and tetherball poles and basketball hoops. I can't see the painted hopscotch squares on the asphalt from this far away, but I know that they are there. White painted lines that are no longer of use to anyone. I don't know exactly what Mulder's looking for; someplace safe, I assume, though his definition of safe is probably much more stringent than my own. I busy myself by watching the shadows that have crept up around us for any signs of motion, by listening to the emptiness around us for unfamiliar sounds. It's oddly silent; there are no crickets to be heard, the hum of electric power lines long since gone. We are ghost people, walking through a ghost town. We round a corner and now the yards are spaced farther apart than before. This must have been a more expensive area; inhabited by people who could afford big houses and big green lawns. It's too dark now to see; the shadows have swallowed us up. Mulder pulls the flashlight out of my pack and turns it on, but the little circle of light it provides isn't much help. I never knew that it could be this dark. In the blackness, the display on my metal bracelet glows more brightly than ever. 11:09:33. Eleven hours, I think. And it is at that point that it hits me. There's no going back now. Even if I wanted to; even if we turned around now and walked straight through. We would never make it in time. There's no going back. And suddenly I'm no longer capable of going forward, either. I look around, straining my eyes to see beyond the crescent of dim light that is available to us. The block that we are on ends in a cul-de-sac; the house at its farthest end seems to me to be the most logical place. "We should go there," I tell him, using my hand to indicate the house. "It's at the end of the block, on its own little hill. Besides," I remind him, "it's too dark to keep walking." Mulder weighs my words, considers them, and finally agrees. "Let's go," he says, using the flashlight to illuminate our path. When we reach the house, I almost regret my decision. The word haunted crosses my mind as we stand just outside the ragged remains. But I manage to keep putting one foot in front of the other as we circle the structure, looking for the best possible space to make our camp. We settle on what was once probably the living room. Three of its walls stand intact and the fourth is still half there, which affords us some measure of protection from the wind, as well as any unwanted visitors. We waste another few minutes looking for a basement, but find none. If there was one, its entrance has been long since blocked. "Doesn't matter," Mulder says, as though he were reading my thoughts. "Outside, we can build a fire." He looks up at the sky and adds, "We'll probably need it." I agree; I can already feel the chill through the shirt that I'm wearing. I wish that I'd been able to bring the blue windbreaker from the Compound, but its color was too obvious. The risk, too great. Speaking of risk, I'm surprised that Mulder is willing to build a fire. "Aren't you afraid that someone will see the flames?" He shrugs. "I'm more afraid of sleeping above ground without it. If there are animals, hopefully it will keep them away." We lean our packs against one of the walls and begin gathering wood. There's plenty around, most of it probably remnants of the furniture that used to fill this home. We pile it up in the corner that is the most protected from the wind, stacking it precisely so that it will burn hard and long. It takes four of Mulder's matches until it catches; when it finally does, the flames build steadily until we have a solid little bonfire. It warms the space, and gives it a cozy feeling that helps to ward off some of my anxiety. It is not until we are seated near the fire and Mulder is rummaging through his pack that I remember the pot that I found. Excited now, I pull it from the sack that I have carried and hold it in my hands. "We can cook some rice in this," I tell him, thrilled that in some small way I have managed to contribute to our efforts. He responds in the affirmative and I take that as a signal to use up part of one of the water bottles in cleaning the pot, drying it off with one of the tee shirts we brought along. I fill the pot with the remainder of that water bottle and then together we make a place for it amidst the burning wood. As we wait for the water to boil, Mulder busies himself with several of the cans. We've used up a lot of the water; probably more than we should have, considering the circumstances. Mulder is positive that we'll reach the river tomorrow, and then there will be more. I'm not so certain that we'll even reach tomorrow. It's all the same, in the end. Our dinner consists of a little more of the jerky, a can of peas, a can of peaches, and two solid helpings of the rice. The rice is clumpy, sticky like rice in a sushi restaurant, but when you don't have a fork or even a spoon it's easier to eat that way. The food tastes good, much better than anything at the Compound ever did. There's something exhilarating about being outside after dark. The nights that I stayed with Mulder in the town we remained hidden beneath the library. Tonight there is nothing above us but sky, and it doesn't seem to matter that the clouded air blocks the stars from our view. We are outside, we are together, we are alive. At this moment, nothing else is significant. Now I am feeling brave enough to talk about the future. "Let me see it," I demand, and Mulder reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and removes a thin silver wand. It is no bigger than an unfolded paper clip, with a little knob at the end. It is for this that he has traded almost everything he has managed to collect. It is because of this that we have made this journey. I take the tiny silver bit in my hand and hold it. It weighs next to nothing, yet it represents everything. "It seems so small," I tell him. "Are you sure that it works?" Mulder shrugs, but I know that his casual demeanor is just an act. "We won't know until we try it." That much is true. We have traded nearly everything on a promise. A promise that this small piece of metal has the power to unlock the bracelet that holds me prisoner. After our sixth or seventh clandestine meeting Mulder ran across a man who told him that he knew how to obtain such a device, a device that could end our torment. Rumor had it that a device such as this could, if used precisely, unlock the metal wristband at the exact moment that its timer ran out. To attempt to unlock the bracelet at any other time would have the usual effect, causing an explosion that would decimate not only the wearer but anyone else in the near vicinity. But at the moment that the counter reached zero, so the story went, it could be unlocked with this device in the heartbeat before the bracelet responded to its internal program and detonated. It seemed like a myth, an old wives' tale. There was no way that it could be true, but the man who spoke to Mulder claimed to have seen it work, and that was enough for him. And it became enough for me. He spent the next weeks searching for enough bounty to acquire the device, weeks that I spent wandering out to the Yard in search of a visitor who only rarely appeared. Until finally he had gathered enough for a trade. Until finally, we agreed to risk everything on this single hope, this solitary dream. Holding it in my hand I feel my bravery ebb away under the rising tide of my fear. I'm glad now that we have left the Compound so far behind. We did it to be safe, in case a deactivated bracelet sends out a signal that might allow Them to track us. I'm glad now that we are so far away because part of me would easily run right back, rather than face an almost certain death. I can't hold the little device any longer and I hand it back to Mulder, who takes it without a word and tucks it safely away. Oh let the music play a little longer, And sweetheart clasp me closer to your breast. Life is strong, and death; but love is stronger -- And sweeter, sweeter rest. Oh, sweet is rest when love is watching over, And twilight comes with dreams that reassure; Weaving out of the silences that hover Hopes which must endure. - William Stanley Braithwaite When we finish eating, Mulder takes the cans and goes to bury them, to block their scent from reaching any hungry animals. I clean out the rice pan with a little water, and use still more to wash my hands and my face. There aren't any towels, so I use a tee shirt as a substitute. Afterwards, I pull the blankets from the packs, arranging them on the ground near the fire. I lay the rifle beside them, close enough to be reached if the need should arise. I can hear Mulder, in the near distance, digging shallow holes. As I wait for him, I loosen my hair from its braid. I run my fingers through its length and wish I had a comb. The noise of digging stops and is replaced by the sound of the pack being unzipped and then the splash of water. I don't turn around to look. I merely sit, surrounded by darkness, listening to the noise Mulder makes as he cleans himself up. I sense him almost before I hear him, approaching with the faintest of steps. I feel his breath on my neck as he kneels behind me, and I gaze into the fire before me, watching its flickering flames. "Touch me, Mulder," I whisper, and he doesn't hesitate. I feel his hands on my shoulders. They glide along my collarbone and down my back until they encircle my body. His hands are large, and strong, and his fingers nearly touch as they span my waist. I tilt my head back until it is resting on his shoulder, and quietly I command him. "More," I say. His hands slide away from their grasp of my waist and creep up beneath the cotton-should-be-flannel shirt, beneath the tee shirt and the tank top that I wear. His hands are warm against my skin as they drift slowly upwards until they cup my breasts. I moan, just a little, and he begins to knead me, ever so gently. "More," I demand, and he responds by grasping my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, squeezing them tight as he continues to hold me close. I squirm restlessly, my head tipping further back, and it is then that his teeth close upon my earlobe. His bites are tentative at first, and then harder, until the firelight spins before my eyes and I have to slam them shut. "More," I murmur, and I am begging now. Begging for the same thing that he wants, that he needs. I can tell by the way he holds me, the way he caresses me. And so I plead. "More..... please. More." His lips suckle my earlobe, then his mouth moves south to trace the line of my jaw until his teeth find my neck. He nibbles me, hungrily, as his hands continue to work their magic on my chest. I arch my back, shoving my breasts deeper into his grasp, giving him further access to the pale skin of my neck, my hands sliding up over his knees to clench the firmness of his thighs. He groans then, low and deep, and it forces a whimper from me. "More.... more.... more." I can't think of any other words, but he seems to understand me nonetheless. He keeps his mouth busy as his hands move away from my tender breasts. They slip outside and pull the shirt off of my shoulders and down my arms. Slowly, so slowly, his fingers grasp the bottom of my tee shirt and tank top and pull them upwards, the fabric sliding over my torso. I raise my arms instinctively and allow him to pull it over my head until I am free. It is only then that his mouth leaves me and for a moment, I am alone. I open my eyes to see him kneeling before me, gazing at me like a man possessed. I possess you, I think, and the very thought makes me quiver with desire and anticipation. His eyes are hungry, his body shakes. He stretches a hand towards me and I see how his fingers tremble as he reaches for a lock of hair that has fallen between my exposed breasts. He catches it gently, smoothing it up and over my shoulder until it tumbles down my back, his eyes never leaving mine. If tonight is to be our last night together, let it be forever. I reach for the hand that he has left to rest on my shoulder. Grasping him by the wrist I bring his palm to my mouth, running my lips over the callused skin of his hand. I suckle his flesh, keeping my eyes locked with his. Naked to the waist, I rise to my knees and lean in towards him. Using his arm as leverage I pull him towards me until we are inches apart, until I can feel his labored breath against my face. I slide my mouth across his palm until I reach the heel of his hand and then I touch his lips with my own. Mulder responds then, deeply, passionately, wildly. His kisses are more penetrating they were, before. I have the sensation that he is trying to swallow me whole, that it is more than lips and teeth and tongues that collide in the space between us, as he draws me ever inward to his soul. I still remember how it felt to cross the Yard, another aimless walk on another endless day, and suddenly see him standing there on the other side of the fence. I thought at first it was a dream, my nighttime fantasies made real by the broad light of day. And then when my gaze truly focused and I saw the brightness in his eyes and the joy in his face, I thought I would faint, simply collapse in a heap amongst the rest of the lonely wanderers. I remember how my body shook as I made my way to the fence, how I stood there and stared at him on the other side of the barrier, thinking that somehow all of my dreams had at last come true. He was real. Tangible. At last. This is how Mulder looks at me now, when I pull away from him and break our fierce kiss. He looks like a man who has been given life's greatest gift, and perhaps he has. Against all odds, we have managed to find each other. And whether it is for tonight or forever it is still the greatest of miracles. Overcome by these thoughts I lean into him, burying my face in the softness of his neck. There is little about Mulder that is soft or gentle these days, so unlike the lover that I knew when we worked together back in D.C. But this space between his neck and shoulder remains a sanctuary for me, a place where I feel safe, and nurtured, and whole. He cradles me there for as long as he is able, running his hands through my hair until they emerge at the small of my back. He holds me to him, tightly, as though he is afraid to ever let me go. When he pulls away it is to kiss my lips, my chin, my neck, running his mouth over my skin until he reaches my breasts. He nuzzles me there, tenderly, and murmurs under his breath. His words are lost to me as I cradle his head, stroking his hair, holding him close. His mouth engulfs my nipples, first one, than the other, and I whimper his name, subservient to the love I feel in his touch. Before I am aware of what is happening I find myself straddling him and realize that I have pushed him to the ground, atop the blankets that I laid so carefully down by the fire. Its crackling reddish-gold glow illuminates the planes of his face, the lines that have been etched in his skin. I lean forward and kiss every delicious inch from his forehead to his chin. I lave my tongue over the stubble that crosses his cheeks, I suckle at the delicate hollows beneath his eyes. I will never have enough of his taste, his touch, his smell. I can never take enough to quench the need inside me, never enough to make me feel as though I have sampled all that he has to offer. Mulder's hands come up to grasp my shoulders but I pay him no mind, my own hands eagerly pulling at the shirt that he wears, tugging at the buttons, yanking them from their holes. That task accomplished my attention wanders to his tee shirt. I pull it up and over his head, mussing the brown locks of his hair, causing them to fall across his forehead in disarray. Now we are skin to skin and I drape myself across his chest, savoring his warmth, his strength. His arms are twined around my waist as I shiver in his grasp, the cool night air accosting my back. My hands slip down below, fumbling for the buttons to the faded jeans he wears. I slide them down around his waist, tugging his underwear along for the ride, until he is bare beneath me, his clothes bundled around his knees. Mulder shifts his body easily, fluidly, kicking the pants off of his body so that now, as I lay atop him, I feel the fullness of his nakedness. I feel his erection, warm and pulsing against my groin; I run my hands across the scratchy softness of the hair on his legs. I nuzzle my head again into that space against his neck, fully and totally content. It might be enough for me but it certainly isn't for Mulder. His own hands are busy now, tugging at the jeans that he gave me, hauling them over my ass with speed, not tenderness. Suddenly I too am naked as the day I was born. He grabs the uppermost blanket in one strong hand and pulls it so that it covers us both, the other two forming the slightest of cushions against the hard ground below. We roll together, our bodies pressed as close as we dare allow them, our lips joined as our tongues fight within the caverns of our mouths. There is nothing I would not give to have this joy go on, and on, and on. Mulder grasps my shoulders and pushes and I turn as he bids me to, until I find myself beneath him, my thighs spread on either side of his legs, his penis rock hard and solid against me. I am trapped beneath his heavy weight, and I writhe with the anticipation of what I know will come next. He surprises me, however; he slips two fingers inside me instead of his erection. Two fingers that probe me hard and fast, making me squirm, making me squeal. I toss my head back in ecstasy and he nibbles at my neck, my chin, his fingers moving double time in response to my response. I wiggle my ass to press myself against his hand, seeking more of him, always more of him. It has always been this way between us, since the very first time, but things are more intense now that so much has changed. It is almost as though our conscious knowledge of how perilous life has become, how scattered its joys, has infiltrated everything including our manner of making love. Sex between us has taken on a certain desperation, as we are all too aware how rare these liberties have become. He works me until I am beyond myself, until I am panting and gasping and moaning incoherently. I can hardly see his face. He is a mere silhouette above me, illuminated by the flickering light of the fire. But it is enough; the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him have already pushed me over the edge. Above me, the blank, starless sky looms as I feel my back arch, my body tense, and then I am free, floating beyond myself, anchored only by him. I know that the night has just begun when Mulder flips me onto my stomach, his lips finding the nape of my neck as his hands slide beneath me to cup my breasts once more. I am still gasping for air, but my ass rises of its own accord to press against his groin. I hear him groan, once, twice, and with the third passionate sigh he sinks into me. His body is hard and tense as he drives into me. Slowly at first, and then faster, and faster. Arousal shoots through me like water down a drain as I raise myself onto my elbows and knees to abet his penetration. His hands clutch at my breasts, his fingers toy with my nipples, his mouth rests wet and heavy on my back, his lips tangle in my hair. We ride like this until I am swept away once more, until we tumble to lay side by side, quivering in each others' arms. I am dimly aware that Mulder is holding back, and for some reason this upsets me. I want us to share everything, absolutely everything, and I don't want him to compromise himself on my behalf. Not now. Not tonight. This may be why I struggle out of his grasp and make my way along the length of his torso, my hands creating a path for my lips as I slide inexorably down. My hands reach his hips and I clutch them tightly in my grasp as I move my head into position and take him in my mouth. Mulder moans as I engulf him, sliding him all the way in and then back again and again. I allow my teeth to trace him lightly from root to tip, relishing the way that his body shakes beneath my trembling hands. I suck at him, drawing him into me, every fiber of my being focused on pleasuring him. He doesn't allow me to achieve the goal that I have set for myself. Just when I feel his body readying to take that final plunge, he pulls away, contorting his body and my own, twisting us so that I wind up beneath him once more. He sheaths himself in me again, thrusting hard, and deep, and long. I murmur my approval, unable to do anything else, and our eyes meet once more as he captures my lips in a fierce breathless kiss. We rock there, together, far past the point of bliss, and it is then that we hear the noise. It is the hollow sound of falling wood that reaches our ears and we freeze, suddenly motionless, locked together in a timeless embrace. His body stiffens, his muscles clenched beneath my palms as we listen, prepared for the most dire of events. M-e-o-w. It's a tiny cry, from a tiny animal. I feel the tremors in his body as Mulder relaxes, his tension giving way to giddy relief at the sound. "Cat," he groans, and I laugh. "Cat," I echo, and we share a smile as a second 'meow' ricochets through the darkness. We finish what we have begun, both of our bodies now begging for release. Sweat drips over us and my eyes flutter as I strain to see his expression in the firelight. Mulder howls as he climaxes and I quickly follow suit, wrapping my legs around his thighs as I drain him of his essence. When it is over we lay together, our bodies still joined beneath the blanket, arms encircling one another tightly, unwilling to admit that we have reached the end. I rest my head against his chest, listen to his shallow breaths as he struggles for air. I will never let him go. Mulder finally pulls away, but only so that he can tuck himself more firmly against me, so that we are nuzzled together as closely as two human beings ever can. It is there, snug in his embrace, that I finally allow my arm to move, bringing it up far enough to read the numbers on the metal band. 07:38:17. It is late, and I am tired, so tired. But with only eight hours to go I am unwilling to succumb to sleep, and instead I cuddle against him. It's cold, despite the heat of his body and the warmth of the fire, and for a moment I debate about reaching for one of the shirts we abandoned. In the end, I'm too reluctant to sacrifice the feeling of his skin pressed against my own, and I accept the occasional shiver that courses through my body as the price I must pay. Mulder shifts against me, kisses my temple, and mutters something too softly for me to distinguish the words. "What?" I mumble, hoping that he has heard the question. "You amaze me." The words are still quiet but this time I am able to absorb them as the compliment they are. I've never been the best about accepting praise, and verbal feedback from Mulder has always been rare. Perhaps that is why I encourage him to elaborate, though I know it's not the gracious thing to do. "Why?" I ask. "Why do you say that?" Only silence follows, a silence that lasts so long that I begin to wonder if he has fallen asleep. Finally he speaks, but it sounds as though the words have been dragged from deep within. "You make me believe I can do anything." This is more than I could have asked for; from him, it is almost too much. Personal words have never been our strong suit. We communicate much more through shared glances, through little gestures and bigger actions. I don't know how to respond. The burning ache in my chest makes it difficult to speak. Instead, I raise my hand to caress his cheek, lying so close to mine. I run my hand along his jaw over and over, until I dare trust my voice. "I would have come for you," is what I ultimately say. "If I could have, I would have come for you." "Oh, Scully." His voice smooths over me like velvet. "I know that. I never doubted that." He shifts again, his arms pulling me closer as the fire begins to flicker and wane. Sleep continues to beckon and so I force myself to think about the future in order to stay awake. Mulder has told me the stories that he has heard about the north, about the new communities that have arisen, and I try to imagine living there. Try to imagine the two of us, together without the constant threat of death hanging above our heads. Try to imagine the two of us enjoying our freedom, building a life. The thoughts that fill my head are happy ones, perhaps too happy. They aren't enough to keep me awake, however. My eyelids feel heavy and as they start to close, I call to him. "Mulder?" His hands gently stroke my hair. His voice, when he answers, is rich and deep. "You should get some sleep," he says. "Don't want to," I reply, but the yawn that escapes my lips spoils the effect. "You're tired, Scully." "So are you," I point out, and his silence tells me that I've won this round. Protectiveness is an important facet of Mulder's nature, and I have come to understand that. Sometimes I even embrace it. There were times in our retreat beneath the library when I would allow myself the luxury of falling asleep in his arms, knowing that Mulder would watch over me and the clock on my bracelet. I trust him completely. Mulder has always been better at taking care of me than of himself. And I know how much he likes watching me sleep. But tonight is not his responsibility. And I don't want to waste any of the time that I know for certain still remains to us. "Talk to me," I whisper. "Tell me again about the places up north." "You know all this already," he sighs, but it is a sigh of resignation. "I don't care," I say. "Tell me again." And so he does. Holding me close under the blanket, his lips against my ear, he tells me everything he knows about the new cities. About how people have gathered there and found a way to begin again, without all of the technology that up until recently we took for granted. Then we talk about how long it will take to get there, and the routes that we should follow. We talk about the things that we will need to survive the journey, and what we will have to do to get them. "What happens if we get sick?" I wonder, thoughts of the fever suddenly crossing my mind. "Well," he deadpans, "that's why I brought you along, Doc. You didn't think there was any other reason, did you?" I poke him in the stomach and he laughs and kisses my cheek. This is how we pass the night, as the fire burns down and the darkness overhead is slowly bleached away. Neither of us ever really succumbs to sleep, though more than once I have to fight to keep myself from dozing off. It isn't until the fire has gone out, leaving only a few red embers behind, and the sky above is the pale brown of dawn that I dare to glance again at my wrist. 00:41:33. "Mulder?" I turn my head to look at him and see that he, too, has read the numbers on the bracelet. "We should get up," he says, and reluctantly I nod. We dress in silence as the sun creeps up over the horizon. We take turns washing up, using most of another water bottle in the process. I finish first and neatly fold the blankets, trying to keep my mind off of the inevitable. Mulder asks if I am hungry and though I am, sort of, I can't stomach the thought of food. "Maybe later," I tell him, and notice that he too has decided to abstain. Before too long we've got everything packed up and tucked away and then there's nothing else to do. We amble aimlessly around the destroyed house and its neighbors looking for any lost treasures, but find nothing. And then we can't ignore it any further. Together, we sit down on the ground not far from the remains of our fire, cross-legged, close enough so that our knees are touching. Mulder reaches for my right wrist and takes it in both of his hands. 00:09:42. The bracelet is too tight to slide around on my wrist; They measure you for them and as a result it is a nearly exact fit. Mulder twists my arm a little so that he can more closely examine the tiny circular indentation that mars its surface. He takes out the little device and examines that too, inspecting its design and the way that it should work. "You know," I say, "I can do this myself." As soon as I have said the words aloud they seem right to me, as though they represent the only possibility. "You shouldn't be here. You don't have to be." I don't want him to be with me, I realize. Not for this. Not when there is so little chance of the device living up to its promise. "No way," he declares, lifting his head to meet my eyes. I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "It's too difficult for you to do this with your left hand. There's no way that you can be precise enough." I'm tempted to yank my hand from his grasp, to run as far away from him as my legs will carry me, but I don't. Instead, I gaze back at him and wish that time would stop. 00:04:27. All we can do now is wait. 00:02:54. We stare at each other in the deadly silence and then Mulder leans in towards me to capture my lips in a kiss. The kiss is soft, lingering, gentle. I refuse to think of it as a farewell. 00:01:39. He holds my right arm in his left hand, the thin silver bit poised between two fingers and the thumb of his other. The hand that holds mine is trembling, just a little, but the hand that holds the device is rock steady. 00:00:18. Now or never, I think, my eyes flickering from the orange numbers to his face and back again. 00:00:10. "I love you, Scully," he says, and a lump forms in my throat. "I love you too." 00:00:05. I find that I can't watch. I don't want to see what he's doing, or when he does it. I keep my eyes trained on his face, on the intense concentration written there. His eyes are focused on my wrist, the edge of his bottom lip is clenched between his teeth. I want to pray, but I can't find the words. Suddenly Mulder's hand moves, lightning fast, and instinctively my eyes slam shut. I hear a sound, the faintest of clicks, and then nothing. Nothing but Mulder's startled gasp. My eyes snap open and I see that the metal band has popped open, and now lies splayed in a curved semi-circle trapped between my wrist and Mulder's palm. We jerk apart simultaneously, springing to our feet and backing away as the bracelet falls to the ground. Seconds pass as we foolishly watch it, too stunned to run away despite the fact that it could still detonate, even now. And yet, nothing happens. Nothing at all. It is a soft, choking gasp that brings me to my senses and I raise my head to see that Mulder is crying. I can't remember having seen Mulder cry before, at least not like this. The tears stream silently down his cheeks; his eyes are squeezed shut, his hands dangle loosely, helplessly at his side. "Mulder," I whisper, and he raises his head, opening his eyes to look me straight on, his mouth curving upward slightly as he continues to weep. I fall into his arms and he holds me close and I don't think I've ever felt better in my life. We stand there, oblivious, merely holding one another, the horrendous metal bracelet lying forgotten in the dirt beneath our feet. It is over, I think, and suddenly I too want to cry. I don't know how much time passes before we release each other. Mulder unabashedly raises a hand to his eyes and swipes away the moist liquid that remains. Then he smiles, the sweetest of smiles, and takes my hand. Together, we move towards the knapsacks we have packed and shoulder them. Together, we turn our backs on the band of metal that was my prison and walk away. Whatever the future may bring, it is the present that matters. END Thanks for reading. Feedback *greatly* appreciated at Blueswirl@aol.com. = The Blueswirl Stories = Revolving Satellites Platonic Tangible Chiaroscuro TANGIBLE 2: SUMMER by Blueswirl & Meredith Blueswirl's Note: Back in May I posted a story called "Tangible". It was a post-apocalyptic story inspired by a certain "What if" question that kept running through my mind. That very same week, Meredith posted a story called "A Show Of Strength" that was also post-apocalyptic in nature, and I read it, spellbound, in one sitting. I thought her story was so brilliant that I wrote her and basically fell on my knees at her feet begging for an ounce of her talent. She refused to give me any, but nonetheless a cyber-friendship was born. :) Neither of us was quite ready to give up hanging out in the post-apocalyptic zone, and when I proposed the idea of collaborating on a sequel to "Tangible", I was thrilled when Meredith agreed. [I'm no fool. If she won't give me her talent, I'll just ride on her coattails. ;) ] In all seriousness, this is the first time I've ever co-authored a story, and I have to say that it's been one of the best writing experiences I've ever had. I'm really lucky to have had such a terrific partner, and I hope you enjoy reading the results as much as I enjoyed the process. :) Meredith's Note: Blue is once again being *ridiculously* modest. The coincidence of both of us releasing post-Colonization fics the same week was simply kismet -- I was blown away and captivated by her story, and we began a suitably mushy admiration-fest via e-mail. :-) Not only did the endless possibilities of the "Tangible" universe capture my imagination, I was also thrilled to see one of my favorite authors back in the writing game -- her then-unfinished "Chiaroscuro" was one of the first fanfic stories I ever fell in love with. When Blue asked if I wanted to play along on a sequel to "Tangible," I nearly fell out of my chair with excitement. Working with such an innovative, creative, and talented writer has been (and will continue to be... hint hint) one of the most rewarding experiences I've had writing fanfic. From both of us: You may want to read "Tangible" before plunging into this sequel. It's available on Chronicle X and on Blueswirl's website, htt p://blueswirlscrashpad.simplenet.com. Title: TANGIBLE 2: SUMMER Author: Blueswirl [blueswirl@aol.com] & Meredith [meredith41@hotmail.com] Classification: T,R,A, Alternate Universe Rating: NC-17 Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 5th Season Summary: A sequel to Blueswirl's "Tangible." Second part of a post-colo nization serial. Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. Anywhere else, please ask one of the authors for permission first -- and please keep our names attached! Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. and we're using them for this story without permission. So sue us. Feedback: If the mood hits -- we'd love it at Blueswirl@aol.com and Meredith41@hotmail.com. TANGIBLE 2: SUMMER (1/4) by Blueswirl & Meredith 11/1/98 "You know, this would go much faster with two of us." I remain standing where I am, halfway down the rough trail that leads from the ridge to the river, my arms clutching the plastic water bottles that I need to fill. Caught in the act. A relentless, driving voice in my head nags at me, tells me that I'm wasting time. Yet I can't seem to will my legs to move. The hot Indian summer sun burns through my tee shirt. I'm drenched in sweat, my mouth is dry. And all I can do is stand and stare. It's hard work, this journey, made all the harder by the surprisingly warm weather we've had lately. True as that may be, though, it's not exhaustion that's made my knees suddenly weak. "Mulder?" The corners of her lips lift in the semblance of a grin, one perfect copper eyebrow raised in a signature gesture. "Are you just going to stand there?" Yes, I think. I am going to stand here forever. She holds a pair of dripping wet jeans in her hands; judging by the length of them, they're mine, not hers. She shakes her head at my lack of response and turns away from me, back to her work. She wrings water out of the denim, twisting the rough fabric in her tiny, capable hands. She is standing on the riverbank, her feet invisible beneath the water that swirls around her ankles. The sun is beating down on her too, illuminating the thick red hair spilling over her shoulders with fiery streaks of gold. Maybe it's the intense heat, maybe it's just the desire to get all the laundry done, but something has inspired her to strip down to just her tank top and underwear. Damn. I watch, my pulse pounding in my ears, as she bends at the waist, all but ignoring me now, and dips the jeans in the running current of river water. She crouches down, resting her elbows on her knees for balance. Her arms move deliberately, rhythmically. Rinse, scrub, rinse. I can't see her face at all now, her hair swinging forward like a heavy drape designed to block her cheeks from the heat of the sun and the intensity of my gaze. I stare fixedly at the smooth skin on the back of her neck, at the fine ridge of her spine, and I feel the familiar ache begin in my groin. Rinse, scrub, rinse. I never knew that washing clothes could be so erotic. My eyes focus on her lean, shapely legs as she stands once more, her hands again twisting the dark blue fabric until all of the excess water has trickled back into the river. I watch the play of muscles in her arms she reaches up to lay the jeans atop a grouping of rocks, next to other clothes draped there to dry in the heat of the sun. God. I could probably cut glass right now with my dick. The jeans I'm wearing suddenly feel like they're going to cut off my circulation. If there was ever a time that I needed a cold shower, it's now. She sweeps a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she contemplates the pile of clothes that remain on the bank beside her, and then turns to raise her eyes to mine. "Showtime's over, Mulder." Her words are stern but her expression is coy. "Either fill those bottles or get over here and help me. We've got a lot of stuff to wash." "Yes." All of a sudden, I find myself able to move, and I lay the bottles on the ground at my feet. "Yes, we do." Maybe it's the glint of humor in my eyes that she catches. Maybe it's the mischievous smile that I can't quite hide that alerts her to my thoughts. Maybe it's just the fact that she knows me too damn well. Whatever it is that tips her off, before I've taken a single step she's already begun to back away. By the time I reach the riverbank she's started to run, her bare feet churning against the sandy shoal. The pile of clothes is left abandoned as I chase her along the shore. The head start she got doesn't end up helping her at all; the basic truth of the matter is that I'm a lot taller than she is, and my stride is longer than hers. I catch her with little effort and scoop her up, my arms around her waist, lifting her up and off the ground. "Mulder!" My name escapes her lips as a squeal, punctuated by a laugh as my hands slide across the bit of pale skin exposed between her tank and her panties. "Let go! Put me down!" "Sorry, Scully," I tell her, doing my best to hold onto her wiggling, squirming body. "But when you're right, you're right. We've got a lot of stuff to wash." "Mulder!" She uses my name as a protest, now, as I haul her up and over my shoulder like a particularly recalcitrant sack of potatoes. Her legs flail violently, her fisted hands pound my lower back as she dangles in mid-air. "Mulder, don't you *dare*!" That little voice inside my head tells me that I'm acting like a fool. That I'm misbehaving in ways that could get us both into a lot of trouble. But right now I just don't care. Right now, she and I are all that matter. I'm not focused on danger, or consequences, or anything else beyond the smooth curve of her panty-covered ass hovering at the edge of my vision. She is my everything. Nothing else is worth a damn. So I ignore the relentlessly grim little voice that's telling me to get serious, and instead I laugh as I carry her down to the river's edge. "Mulder, I'm warning you....." I wade out into the rushing river, heedless of the fact that I'm still wearing my shoes. What the hell, they'll dry eventually. I keep going until I'm in up to my knees. The water is cold even through my jeans, but it's hot enough outside that it feels refreshing. She's really fighting now, clawing at my waistband with both hands, her knees banging against my chest. She pokes her fingers at my ribs, sharp little jabs designed to disarm me, but her plan fails. I'm not nearly as ticklish as she is. "I swear, Mulder, you'd better put me down or you're a dead man!" Maybe so, but as long as she keeps laughing the way she is now, little br eathless chuckles that slip out between her words, I'll die happy. "Oh," I assure her, "I'm definitely going to put you down. Don't worry about that." Another laugh escapes me as I allow her to slide from my arms and gently drop into the water. It's deep enough that she's completely submerged for a fraction of a second and then she's up, standing in water that reaches her thighs, sputtering and spitting. "God!" She sweeps her now-drenched mop of hair out of her face. She fixes me with an angry stare, but I can see a wicked sparkle in her eyes. "You're in for it now." I laugh again. I can't help it. I'm a bastard. A lucky one, all things considered, but a bastard nonetheless. "Nice shirt, Scully," I declare, my eyes fixed on the way her taut nipples press against the soaked cotton of her tank top. "I think that's a look for you." Her gaze follows the path of my eyes and she fights to hold back a smile. "Fuck you," she says, and pushes me hard, both hands flat against my chest. She catches me off guard and I go down and when my head breaks the surface once more I'm as wet as she is. "Was that...." I have to catch my breath. "Was that an invitation, Scully?" She reaches out a hand to pull me up and the answer is clear in the brightness of her eyes. I take full advantage, leaning forward to join my mouth to hers. Her lips part as soon as they make contact with mine, and a little moan escapes her as I slip my tongue inside. We stand there in the water just kissing for what seems like forever. The softness of her mouth holds me in thrall. I twine my hands in the damp length of her hair, cradling her head, angling her mouth this way and that. She wraps her arms around my back, holding me tight. The water swirls around us and the sun pounds down on us and her tongue duels with mine. It's Scully who breaks off the kiss, pulling back enough to allow her hands to find the buttons on the fly of my jeans. She yanks them open one at a time and then shoves the jeans down my thighs, tugging the boxers I wear beneath along for the ride. Her hand brushes against my erection, as though to assure herself that the cold hasn't dampened any of my ardor. Just for the record, it hasn't. Then I'm standing like a fool with my clothes gathered around my knees, shaking in the icy water as I watch her slide off her panties. She takes them off all the way and casts them aside, and I see them bob to the surface and float off towards shore. She turns and wades farther out, and I stare transfixed as the perfect round globes of her ass disappear beneath the surface. It's not until the water covers her past her waist that she faces me, a slow smile spreading over her face as she beckons me forward with a sexy little wave of her hand. I don't hesitate, kicking off my shoes and socks and tossing them over my shoulder in the direction of the shore. My tangled jeans and boxers quickly follow and I add my tee shirt to the pile. Then I'm wading towards her, wearing nothing but a grin of my own. When I reach her I stop and we do nothing but drink each other in for a long, long moment. Scully doesn't really tan; she burns, and then she freckles. I want to taste each and every one of the freckles on her cheeks and shoulders. I want to yank off that tank top and lick the nipples that taunt me through the cotton. I want to run my tongue over every salty-sweet inch of her skin. All thought vanishes as she loops her arms around my neck. Buoyed by the water, her legs slide up and wrap around my waist. Instinctively my arms slip behind her back, holding her up as she straddles me, her lips finding mine once again. My dick brushes against the curve of her ass as I cradle her against me. "Scully....." Her name is nothing more than a sigh that is swallowed as she kisses me hungrily. I respond by shifting my hold on her to allow one hand to drop beneath the surface of the water. My fingers glide up along the inside of her thigh to the nest of curls between her legs. I caress her, gently at first and then harder as she rocks in my arms. I slide one finger inside her and then another. Her sticky wetness mixes with the water in a warm, sultry combination. She moans as I touch her, her eyes locked to mine as she allows me to probe her depths. My thumb finds her clit and I rub her there, and she tilts her head, arching her back. She whimpers, low and soft, and I feel a little ripple of pleasure course through her body. I can't wait any longer and so I reluctantly pull my hand away. Shifting my hold on her slightly I raise her up and then slowly lower her down onto my shaft. A harsh groan escapes my lips as I penetrate her, as she takes me deep inside. Scully sighs softly as her arms tighten around my neck. She closes her eyes and rests her cheek against mine, strands of her wet hair tickling my skin, her gentle puffs of breath blowing in my ear. I think I could quite happily stand here, holding her like this, for an e ternity. She opens her eyes and brings one of her hands around to my face and trails gentle fingers from my forehead down to my chin. Once, twice, three times, as a slow dreamy smile blooms on her face. Her tender touches remind me that as sated as I am, there are other things I want to be doing. I slip my hand between our bodies and run my fingers over the soggy tank top that clings to her chest like a second skin. Scully leans back slightly, giving me better access, and I brush my fingers across her nipples. She sucks in a whistle of air at my touch, so I raise the stakes by capturing one of the round nubbins between my fingers and squeezing it hard. "Mulder.....God...." She's squirming in my arms again and every little motion of her body shoots a wave of pleasure through me. And amazingly enough I know a way to make it better for both of us. I drop my hand back down to her waist, holding her firmly against me. "Take it off," I whisper, indicating her tank top with a jerk of my head. She obliges me, bringing her hands down to grasp the hem. The bare skin of her arms brushes against my chest and I hear myself groan. She pulls the top up and over her head agonizingly slowly and I watch as each new inch of skin is revealed. My red-haired mermaid, giving me an impromptu strip tease. When she's finished, she tosses the scrap of fabric carelessly into the water that eddies around us and her eyes meet mine again. Her breathing is faster now, her cheeks flushed with a wanton desire that makes my cock ache despite the fact that I'm already buried deep inside her. It's her eyes that hold me captive, that draw me to her like a moth to a flame. They are luminous, fathomless pools that hold the secrets of the universe within them. And right now they are fixed on me, waiting. I don't make her wait for very long. Lowering my head, I place a soft kiss on her mouth then allow my lips to trail down her neck. She rests her hands on my arms and leans back, trusting me to hold her steady. I'm doing my best, but I'm shaking with need and I'm thankful that the water is also doing its part to keep her afloat. I suckle one nipple and then the other and that's all I can manage because she's quivering in my arms, her lower body grinding against mine, and suddenly I can't focus on anything else except the place where our bodies are joined. Her name is a cry on my lips as I pull her back into a fierce embrace. I begin madly pumping my hips in time with the motion of my arms as I raise her up the length of my shaft and back down again. Over and over, faster and faster, and now I can't even feel the coldness of the water as it splashes against our bodies. I can't hear anything besides the fevered gasps we make as we fight for air. I can't see anything besides the ecstasy on her face as her eyes flutter shut and she bites down hard on her lower lip. I can't focus on anything but her because I'm burning up inside. Her arms are clutching my back, her nails digging into the skin, and I don't care, don't care, don't care. Her thighs tighten around my waist and I know that she's close, so close, and somehow I manage to slide one hand between our joined bodies and find that tiny group of nerves that never fails to push her over the edge. My fingers barely graze her before she begins to spasm, her body shaking in my arms as little choking sobs slip from her lips. She's clenching me deep inside, her muscles milking me and I can't hold on any longer so I let myself go, let myself ride the wave until I finally crash, exploding deep within her. "Mulder...." She murmurs my name softly, her head now resting on my shoulder, her arms dangling loosely around my back. Somehow I manage to get us both back to shore, and it's not until then that I slip out of her, setting her gently down on the ground. This is the last day that we'll follow the river, at least for awhile. A ccording to the map, the best way to proceed is inland, and the map has proved surprisingly accurate so far. Now doesn't seem like the time to make snap decisions. We decided to use this afternoon to do our laundry and replenish our supplies, and that work still looms before us. But for now we simply rest, curled together naked on the shore, as the water laps against our feet and she naps in my arms. It is Scully who wakes first, her feline stretching jerking me out of a light doze I hadn't realized I had fallen into. It is simultaneously a luxury and a curse to be able to fall asleep in the middle of nowhere buck naked and not worry about another human finding us in a compromising position. For we are alone. Blissfully alone. "Mulder," Scully croons against my neck. "I've got sand in just about every bodily crevice." I laugh, suddenly aware of our situation. "I guess we need a bath, too." She grins, and we hop up to take a quick plunge back in the water to wash off the sand and wallow in the coolness once more. Donning our dry clothes, we gather together the water bottles and wet laundry and climb the brambled path back up to our makeshift camp at the top of a low-lying ridge above the wide, clear river. The location affords us a decent view of the valley, which winds into the distance through scenic light forest and granite outcroppings. Just ahead, the body of water we've spent days following veers west, and we must continue north. I regret leaving the river. Forever I will associate it with the first days of freedom Scully and I have truly known in years. With the tiny ticking bomb that held her prisoner left scores of miles behind us, this graceful sweep of water has been the only witness to our newfound freedom, to the beginning of our new quest. The quest for a new life, together. We spread the jeans, underwear and shirts out on a wide rocky slab to dry in the lingering sun and cache the water bottles back in the crevice underneath the low-hanging rock formation, next to our dwindling food supply. I don't bother to count the cans; I know how few are left, despite the fact that we have found a few more along the way. The calculated risk of leaving civilization -- if you could call it that -- has involved straying further and further from traditional supplies and trading opportunities. We are truly heading into unknown territory, on many levels. "Do you still want to give it a try?" Scully's voice brings me out of my reverie. "Yeah. Now's the time. Most animals come out to graze around dusk, so I think this will be our best opportunity." "Well then, let's go." I pick up the rifle and a box of shells, pocketing a generous dozen in my spare pants, a worn pair of khakis. Scully was always a better shot, but the past few years have reversed our talents. The struggle for survival forced me to hone my adequate skill into real talent, whereas Scully's natural abilities were left to rust by her confinement. So I shoulder the weapon as we leave our enclave and head out into the brush. Evening coolness increases at an inverse proportion to the waning light. Like so many of the days we've spent since our escape, the weather has been excellent -- warm afternoons, comfortably chilly nights. Long days ever decreasing in length as we approach autumn. It's only been recently that I've let myself notice such trivial things as good weather. It's only been recently that I've noticed anything of beauty in this wretched world at all. Except for Scully. Her red hair reflects the dappled pattern of leaves filtered through dim sunlight as she leads the way down a well-worn deer path. I follow her blindly, knowing to trust her instincts. We haven't wandered very far east of our camp, so this is new territory. We are silent as we hike along through the light woods, both of us listening for the rustle of life in the underbrush. She stops abruptly, and I notice what catches her eye quickly enough so that I don't plow into her from behind. "Mulder." "I see it." We watch in fascination. Our theories have paid off -- animal life is still abundant, growing more common the further we go north and the further we leave the cities behind us. "We can't take it," I say regretfully, staring at the large, soft-brown doe feeding in the clearing ahead of us. "We don't have any supplies to preserve the meat." "I know," she whispers. "But it's a good sign, nonetheless." I squint in the dimming light. "What is it eating? Are those..." Scully steps forward to take a closer look and steps on a twig. Its tiny crack is enough to startle the deer, whose head whips toward us in fear. Large brown eyes blink once, twice, before she bolts ahead, disappearing into the green before our eyes. Scully is at the tree in ten large strides, looking up into its leaves. "Apples. Mulder! They're apples." Her smile is wide and happy, showing a glint of white teeth. She pulls down a branch and easily plucks two yellow-red fruits, tossing one to me as I walk toward her. I take a greedy bite, letting the juice drip down my chin. Heaven. Sweet heaven. "We've got to pick some, Mulder, and take as many with us as we can. Apples store well, and these have just ripened." I grunt in the affirmative, my mouth too full to articulate my agreement. I swallow the remainder of the first apple, toss the core on the ground and grab another. There are a half-dozen apple trees here in the clearing, heavily laden with delicious fruit. "Did a snake tell you these were OK to eat, Scully? If so, I hope you informed him that the human race has already been kicked out of paradise." "I dunno, Mulder. It's starting to look like we've *found* paradise." She, too, has finished her first apple and reaches up for a second. Chewing thoughtfully, she suddenly gets an idea. I can tell by the glint in her eyes. "Mulder, why don't you wander ahead a bit and try to shoot something small enough to eat while there's still enough light. I'll go back to the camp and get the backpack and fill it with as many apples as I can. It took us about 20 minutes to get here -- why don't we meet back in this clearing in about an hour? That should give us both enough time before it gets dark." Unreasonable doubt seizes my mind. "I don't know, Scully. I don't like se parating." "Nonsense, Mulder. It's the smartest decision. The deer track leads directly back to camp, and it looks like it continues further east as well. Just stay close to the path, and we won't get separated." I sigh audibly. "Scul-ly.... We can come back for the apples in the morning." "Mulder." I know that expression. It's her I'm-trying-to-be-patient-but -its-hard-when-you're-so-stubborn look. "It doesn't take two people to shoot a rifle. This gives me something useful to do. Let's be logical about this." Logic. I snort. Of course I've lost this argument. I grin resignedly and motion for her to head back to camp. "Fine. But if I get eaten by a bear because my partner has abandoned me for the temptation of apples..." "You've got the gun, partner. If a bear comes around the corner, use it." She smiles broadly as she turns to head back down the path, and I am thrown back in memory to our playful afternoon in the river, where she gave me the same beautiful smile. I remind myself that it's now okay to remember, and let the warm thoughts flood my brain. For three years I struggled not to remember the previous day. To rise every morning and forget the darkness, the pain, the terror. To ignore the profound sense of loneliness that consumed every waking moment of my animal-like existence. I focused on one thought, one desperate need. Finding Scully. And I did. Freeing myself to be able to gather memories again. I tuck today away like a precious gift, knowing I will take it out often to treasure, and head further down the path. Half an hour later, and I'm beginning to regret my decision. What the hell is a forty-something pseudo-WASP former Fed doing lurking in the woods waiting for some poor squirrel to wander by and oh-so-conveniently line itself up in the rifle sights? I must be out of my fucking mind. My legs have cramped into pins-and-needles torture from being in this crouched position. Who the hell am I kidding? I'm no Daniel Boone, that's for damn sure. I've fed myself for three years by using my wits and skills as a trader, not by acting like some throwback to the pioneer days. I sigh in frustration. If some of my Oxford classmates could see me now... But of course they can't. Because in all likelihood, they're dead. Or housed in Compounds just like Scully was. Lately I've had to remind myself that despite our sometimes grueling situation, Scully and I are truly the lucky ones. Jesus Christ, Mulder. Quit being so maudlin. A quick look toward the horizon tells me my time is running out. This is getting more ridiculous by the minute. But just as I stand to try one more location, a telltale shifting in the ferns ten feet ahead of me catches my attention. And then I see it. A soft, plush brown ball of fur. Twitching its nose while munching on tiny sprouts. C-R-A-C-K! Dinner. It's a clean shot, through the skull, which is good -- that means less wasted meat. He's decent sized rabbit, about a pound and a half. I lay the rifle down beside him, then busy myself tying his back legs together with a bit of thick string. Perhaps it's the rumbling in my stomach, or my brain's reminder of how long it's been since we've had meat, but the small blood-spattered creature actually looks appetizing. Well, at least the possibilities are appetizing. I smile to myself for a minute, thinking that Scully will be pleased. Shouldering the rifle once again, I realize I'm going to be a little late for our rendezvous. Funny how we can still tell time, even though we have no watches. But the subtle shifts of light and shadow and a bit of primal instinct serve us as well as a Timex. By the way the gray-blue darkness is quickly settling over the woods, I know it's a damn good thing I'll be bringing back Peter Cottontail here. It takes me no time to get back to the clearing. I scan the perimeter, looking for my partner. At first I think my eyes are getting worse and I'm just not seeing her. Then I realize she's not here. "Scully?" There's no panic in my voice. Not yet. I walk the periphery quickly, hyper-aware of the silence. I almost trip over a few rotting apples in the dim light. "Scully?" Son of a bitch. Son of a *fucking* bitch. "Scully?" God damn it. I *knew* we shouldn't have separated. Anger and fear blaze through me, twisting together hot and white. Why isn't she here? All she had to do was get the pack, come directly back here, load it up and wait for me. Fuck. Cool air seeps into my lungs as I stop and draw a few deep breaths. Maybe she made a second trip and will be back here any minute. Maybe one of us misunderstood the plan and she's waiting back at the camp. Maybe my internal clock is off and I'm not that late. Maybe she lost track of time herself. Maybe she never made it back here at all. I squelch the thought furiously. In any other situation, in any other lifetime, this would be a trivial matter that we would haggle out in a teasing argument about ditching. But this is no typical lifetime. Making up my mind quickly, I jog back toward the trail leading back to camp, hoping we'll cross paths any second. Daylight is nearly gone now, and I move clumsily through the woods, branches slapping me across the face, stinging my eyes as I half-run toward home. I promise myself I won't start to panic until I get to camp. I refuse to consider the plethora of dangerous information screaming in my brain. The fact that she didn't have the knife, which was nestled in my back pocket. The fact that I alone had both of our weapons. The fact that we should have never separated in the first place. And then, as I dimly note a gap in the treeline to the south, I instantly break my promise. Voices. A man's deep rumbling, a woman's hushed whisper. I stop short, willing my breathing to quiet, waves of protective fury and bile rising in my throat. Scully's voice. Soft and oddly calming. I slide the bundled rabbit to the ground and step silently forward, the gun aimed directly toward the sounds. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the rapidly chilling night air. I move ahead another few feet. My eyes strain to focus in the near-dark. I see a woman standing, looking down at a small mass on the ground. A tall man is next to her, the glint of a knife blade visible in his clenched hand. And Scully, my Scully, is down on her knees. Her head bowed, her arms at her sides. Defenseless. Coldly, I cock the rifle. The noise startles the man, and he instinctively raises the hand that holds his weapon. Scully looks up as well and all I can see is the fear in her eyes. "Put the knife down," I growl, "and back away from her. Now." I take a step forward, leaving no doubt as to my intentions. The man hesitates, his eyes darting from me down to Scully. My finger tenses on the trigger. I'm in no mood for games. "Mulder, no!" Scully leaps to her feet, blocking my shot, and I lower the gun slightly, stunned. "What's going on here, Scully? Are you okay?" "I'm fine," she responds, indicating for me to put down the rifle with a wave of her hand. "It's their son. He's sick. Really sick." It's not so dark yet that I can't read her expression, and I can see now that what I mistook for fear was really a combination of compassion and dire concern. My heart is still pounding with adrenaline but I manage to drop the gun and cross over to where they are standing. The man and woman watch me warily as I approach, and I can't say I blame them. Leave it to me to make one hell of an entrance. "Mulder, this is Carl and Annie." They are thin and obviously exhausted, the man wearing a grizzled beard that accentuates his frail appearance. I nod my head in response to Scully's introduction and watch as she kneels back down on the ground. Up this close, it's clear that the dark mass beside Scully is a small boy, covered to his waist in a torn blanket. Judging by his size, he can't be more than seven or eight. His eyes are closed and his breathing is labored, his chest quaking with each gasp of air. "And this is Matthew," she says, laying her palm against his forehead. The deep flush in his cheeks is obvious even in the fading light. There are oval-shaped blisters along his hairline, on his chin and the pale skin of his neck. They are red and puffy, but not yet broken. His lips are dry and cracked. Scully pauses a moment, and then looks up at me. "He's burning up, Mulder. I've never seen anything like it." No, I think. You haven't. And I wish to God you weren't seeing it now. Of all of the horrible things that have befallen our world since They arrived, the fever is by far the worst. No one is really sure where it came from, whether it was the deliberate result of some biological weapon They unleashed upon us or merely a side effect of Their increased presence in our environment. Regardless of its cause, the fever is the most insidious killer I've ever run across, and given my previous work that's saying a hell of a lot. It's indiscriminate in choosing its victims, though. Some people seem to be naturally immune. No symptoms, no problems, no explanation. Some people die within minutes of infection; others die slowly, inch by inch, day after agonizing day. Then there are those who suffer as the fever lingers on and on, yet manage to eventually recover. I was one of the lucky ones. Oh, I paid my dues, there's no doubt about that. For awhile there I had it bad. Really bad. But in the end I survived. I don't know if it was a fluke of genetics that saved me, or just a stubborn will to live. I may never know. But looking at this boy, I don't think he's going to get the same chance. "He's your son?" I force the words out, wanting to utter different ones instead. I want to tell Scully to take her hand away from that moist damp forehead. I want to tell her to get up and come with me and turn my back on this trio of strangers. But I don't. There's no point. Exposure to the fever happens within seconds. It's already too late. The woman glances at the man before she nods in response to my question, as though giving him the opportunity to speak first. He remains silent, however, his dark eyes locked on me. "Yes," the woman, Annie, finally says. "He's been sick for a few days, but it wasn't until this afternoon that he lost consciousness. We were walking, and he just --" She draws in a quick breath, tugging anxiously at a lock of her thin blond hair. "He just keeled over. Carl's been carrying him, letting him rest, but he won't wake up." I nod, grimly. I know the signs. "Is there any place to camp around here?" Carl's deep voice is edged with fatigue. "Any kind of shelter?" "I don't really know." The lie comes easily to my lips. I've had a lot of practice. "We're just passing through. Looking for some food." Scully raises her head at my words and I send her a plea with my eyes. Keep silent, Scully. Don't say any more than you have to. If she hears my plea, she chooses to ignore it. "We have some water," she tells them. "Some food, and some blankets. We need to cover him up -- he's running a high fever." I glance again at the boy and see that she's speaking the truth. Despite the fact that the evening air is still pleasant, his small form is shivering. He looks so helpless, so vulnerable. I know how miserable he is. I remember it all too well. Don't get involved, Scully, I silently plead. Don't do this. I watch as Scully tugs on the neck of the boy's tee shirt, pulling it gently down to expose his pale skin. She lays her head against his chest, closing her eyes as she listens to his heart. The soft touches cause him to stir, unintelligible murmurings issuing from his parted lips. "Matthew?" Annie crouches down beside Scully, running her fingers through the boy's tangled hair. "Matthew, honey, can you hear me? It's Mommy, I'm here." The boy doesn't answer. I doubt he can hear the words she croons. Scully sits up and backs away, giving her space. A moment later Carl is beside his wife, leaning protectively over his son. I just stand there, silently, oddly divorced from the drama playing out in front of me, still trying to fight the urge to flee. I have seen so much death. I can't stand to watch this little boy die. "Has he eaten anything recently?" Scully's voice is edged with concern. Carl shakes his head, his eyes on his son. "Nothing since early yesterday. He wasn't keeping food down, last night or this morning. Just a little bit of water is all." Scully looks up at me and I can see the resolution in her gaze. I want to tell her that there's nothing we can do for him, not now. It's too late. He's too far gone. But I can't bear to quench the spark of hope I see in her eyes. She believes that she can save him, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to let her try. She has such amazing faith, my Scully. Faith that still blooms inside her despite all of the horrors that she has faced. And a generosity of spirit that remains undimmed despite the fact that our own survival is a daily struggle. It does not surprise me that she is willing to share what little we have with these people who to us are nothing more than strangers. Scully is a remarkable woman. She humbles me. "He might keep down some broth," I say, hoping that the blisters haven't yet developed in his throat. I jerk a thumb over my shoulder towards the spot where I dropped our dinner. "I've got a rabbit over there; we can use some of the juice from the meat. Give him a little protein." Carl glances at me. "We don't want to impose on you." If it wasn't for Scully, I would be tempted to take that easy out and walk away. But the way her face lit up when I made my reluctant offer proves enough to keep me in line. "It's fine," I reply. "Come on." We make our way back to our temporary camp fairly quickly. I lead the way now; darkness has fallen with a vengeance and I keep the rifle at the ready. Scully and Annie follow closely behind, bearing the few items that Carl and Annie had with them. Truth be told, I'm surprised at how little they have, and wonder exactly where it is they've come from so ill-equipped. Carl brings up the rear, cradling his son carefully in his arms. When we reach the rock formation that marks our site, things divide according to age old gender lines almost automatically. It's funny, but with Scully I never think about things like traditional roles. She's proven time and again to be more than my equal at any task she chooses to tackle. But now it only seems natural that Scully helps Annie prepare a makeshift bed for Matthew, while Carl builds a fire. I busy myself with skinning the rabbit and preparing the meat. I can hear Scully and Annie talking quietly to one another about Matthew's condition, but otherwise the woods are eerily silent. I find myself wishing for a moment of private conversation with Scully, and wait for an opportunity to present itself. Carl adds another generous pile of wood to the fire and then watches as I guide the meat towards the blaze with a makeshift spit. "Lucky for us your wife is a doctor," he remarks. I look at him, surprised. Apparently Scully did a fair job of becoming a cquainted with these people before I showed up. "Yes," I reply, without bothering to correct his assumption about our relationship. "I guess it is." I rest the spit against a solid piece of rock and stand, brushing dirt off my hands and onto the legs of my khakis. I glance over my shoulder and see Scully bathing Matthew's forehead with a dampened bit of cloth. Annie sits beside her, holding tightly to her son's hand. "You've had it, haven't you." Carl's voice is flat with certainty. I meet his eyes and shrug. "Awhile back." "What did you do?" There's hope in his eyes now, and it kills me. "How did you get over it?" "I got lucky," I whisper. I see that the meat needs turning and I tend to that as Carl leaves me and goes to sit beside his wife. Dinner is a quiet affair. I'm not used to having other people around and it makes me more taciturn than usual. Casual conversation is a skill I've all but lost, so I'm thankful for the peace. Scully has managed to make a watery broth for Matthew and holds an old tin can full of it as Annie and Carl try to coax it down their son's throat. When they finish, we share the meat that I've managed to cook. There's not really enough to feed all four of us, but we make do, supplementing it with a little rice and a few of the apples. It's only when we've finished eating and Matthew seems to be sleeping peacefully that anything is said, during the post-meal lull that used to be the signal for the waiter to bring the coffee. Coffee's in short supply these days but Scully's curiosity is not. "Where are you headed?" she asks, tossing an apple core into the fire. "West," Carl answered. "We've got... we think we've got some family, out that way." "Where?" "California," Annie says. "Near San Francisco." "That's a long way." Scully's expression is reflective, illuminated by the light of the fire. "And you? Where are you going?" Scully glances at me and reads the caution on my face. "North," she finally says, but adds nothing more. For that I am thankful. "You'd better be careful, if you're planning on going through the mountains." Carl stokes the fire with a thin branch, causing sparks to fly into the air as new pieces of wood ignite. "Why is that?" I don't really want to engage, but even I know it's foolish to ignore this kind of information. "There are people living up there who aren't much for company. Scavengers. They survive by ambushing travelers, I guess. Seems like they've got quite a system in place." Carl frowns with the memory. "Caught us off guard, made off with nearly everything we had." My stomach churns at the news. This answers my unspoken question about their meager supplies. I have no reason to disbelieve what he says; Carl has nothing to gain by lying to me. But if what he says is the truth, Scully and I are in big trouble. According to the map, a pass through the mountains is the only direct way to get where we're going. To maneuver around them somehow will cost us time that we simply don't have. I can see by the expression on Scully's face that she's reached the same conclusion. Her eyes flicker over to meet mine for an instant and they are filled with guarded worry. We'll figure it out, Scully, I silently tell her. We'll figure it out. Somehow. Seemingly reassured by our brief silent conversation, Scully turns her attention back to Carl. "Have you been on your own all this time?" "No." Carl barks out the word. "My brother was with us, most of the way." "What happened to him? Did he get sick?" Annie shakes her head. "No. We were stopped. They stopped us. And They took him away." She reaches for Carl's hand and takes it in hers. I know what Carl is going to say before the words leave his mouth and I feel a shiver course up my spine. "He was AB," he explains softly. "They found him on one of their patrols. They're still looking, you know." "How did --" I hear the words as they catch in Scully's throat. "How did They find him?" "Who knows?" Carl shrugs. "Who knows anything, these days." There isn't much else to say after that and so we don't. Instead, we clear away the remains of our meal and settle in for the night. Carl and Annie hunker down near Matthew, wrapped in a torn sheet that they pull from inside their lone satchel. Scully has already given Matthew two of our blankets so I spread the third on the ground on the opposite side of the fire. Force of habit makes me lay the rifle down within arm's reach. We pull on extra layers to help brave the night air and then I lay down on my back, offering Scully the chance to use me as a pillow. She accepts the simple gift and rests her head against my shoulder, pressing her body close to mine. I wrap my arms around her to ward off the nighttime chill and wish we had another goddamn blanket. "You okay?" I whisper, still a bit resentful that our solitude has been disturbed. "I'm fine," she murmurs, her hand toying with the fabric of my shirt. After a moment, she speaks in a hushed tone. "Do you think he has a chance?" I want to lie, but I can't. "I don't know." She bites her lower lip between her lips, a visual indication that she's chewing on a thought. "Was it like that for you? When you were sick?" A hard question, with no easy answer. "I guess. I don't remember too much of it." Her brow is creased with worry. I want to erase those fine lines that wrinkle her skin. I want to wash away all of her fears. "That was a long time ago, Scully," I softly remind her. "I'm fine now." "I know," she says. She slips her hand into mine and I hold it tightly. "I know." We don't say anything more after that. I watch her until she closes her eyes, wanting to make sure that she's safely on her way to peaceful dreams. I'm nearly asleep myself when I hear her voice in my ear. "Thank you, Mulder." "For what?" I force my eyes open again. It's she who is watching me, now. Her eyes are limpid silver in the moonlight. She is so beautiful. "For letting them stay." Hushed words, her breath warm against my neck. "For helping them." I don't give her an answer. I know that she doesn't expect one. Instead, I brush her forehead with a gentle kiss and run a hand through her hair. "I love you," she murmurs, and brings her lips to mine. I kiss her back. I love her too. The pre-dawn grey greets me with a sound from my worst nightmare. Retching. Wet, gurgling retching punctuated by tiny, pathetic gasps for oxygen. I sit with a start, my subconscious slow to understand that the sounds are from the present, not the past -- from a child, not from me. My lungs, however, burn in empathy, in memory. Scully is still fast asleep; like the proverbial rock, my Scully. I stand quietly and walk to where Carl is holding Matthew's seizing body face downward so that he doesn't choke on his own blood. Annie is crouching next to them, her face contorted in a mask of agony, tears coursing down her cheeks. She doesn't see me for a moment. When I register in her field of vision, her gaze pins me to the ground with its desperation, her voice fiercely hushed in odd deference for my sleeping partner. "What's happening? For god's sake, tell me!" I whisper calmly. Clearly. "The blisters in his airway and lungs have ruptured. They're bleeding, and his stomach can't digest that amount of blood. When his stomach is empty, he'll stop vomiting." I nod reassuringly, as if to say it will be over soon. And it will. I don't tell them the torture their child is suffering, the incredible pain of stomach acid flowing over scores of open sores. Because if I tell them I'll be reminded that he is just a child. If I stop to comprehend the inherent cruelty, the grief will hit. And I can't let that grief consume me. I can't afford it. We can't afford it. And so I turn away. "When the vomiting ends, give him only a small amount of water and coax him back to sleep if you can." I glance back, seeing both their ashen faces nod. I lie down next to Scully again, wrapping my arms around her small, vulnerable frame. I try not to notice how much I'm shaking. When we begin to break camp a sleepless hour later, Matthew is once again unconscious. Carl and Annie return the borrowed blankets to me while Scully is washing, and I don't refuse them. We'll be needing them more than they will. In return I give them several apples and a detailed description of the area; I suggest they stay for a while and rest, since nature is accommodating in this pleasant riverbed. I hope they listen to the advice. This would be an ideal resting place for their son. After Scully gives parting advice regarding Matthew's care, we part somberly, bound for different paths and separate futures. I am suddenly eager to leave this place I once found so comforting, and leave their misery far behind. I know the selfishness of my thoughts, but am not disturbed by them. I'm not the man I used to be, nor can I ever be that man again. If not for Scully, some days I might not even recognize myself. The day is pleasant, cooler, more like autumn. A good day for a long walk, which is what we have ahead of us. Ideally we need to make 10 miles today. I check the map one last time before we veer northwest, wanting to keep the river within reasonable distance for as long as possible before we get to the foothills of the mountains. "What I'd give for a deluxe Rand McNally atlas and an Eddie Bauer compass," I mutter, trying to force a lighter mood. "And a LandRover with a full tank of gas while I'm at it." "How did you get that map anyway, Mulder?" Scully is keeping pace next to me, her face radiant and pink in the morning light. "Traded it for 5 issues of 'Playboy' that I found under a kid's bed in a looted DC apartment," I grin. She snorts loudly. "Only you would understand the inherent value of pornography after the apocalypse." "Man has to have diversion, Scully, even in the hardest times," I reply with mock sincerity. I get a smile for my trouble, and all seems right with the world again. But Scully doesn't see it that way, of course. "Mulder. Tell me what you know about the fever." I sigh. "Trust me, Scully, you don't want to know." "It has nothing to do with want, Mulder. It has everything to do with need. I'm a doctor. I need to know what's happened to the human race while I was... while I was gone." Her tone is firm, stubborn. I look ahead at the thinning forest ahead of us, staring at the yellowing aspen leaves, the way the early sunshine makes them burst into tiny flames. I concentrate on the crunch of our shoes on the earth. Anything to stall, to think up an answer that will end her questioning. Unfortunately, whatever I say will only lead to more questions. This is Scully, after all. This, for better or worse, is one reason why I love her. So I tell her. "It kills. Children, men, women. There is a mutated strain that affects d omesticated livestock. It is conjectured there might be a strain that, in combination with rabies, affects dogs. The first symptoms are nausea, fatigue and a sore throat. A dangerously high fever follows, along with odd oval-shaped blisters on the face and neck. Internal blistering occurs in the larynx, trachea, and lungs. When those rupture, an intense period of internal bleeding and vomiting occurs, usually leading to death." I hear my voice as if from a great distance -- cold, clinical, impersonal. I don't look at her. She repeats the words whispered in my ear last night, her voice hushed and awed. "But you lived." "Some people live." "Tell me." Tell her? Tell her what? About the months I spent in hell, half-insane with fever, unable to speak because of the damage to my larynx? Tell her about the squalid, lice-infested pit of a rebel "clinic" I holed up in, prepared to die? Where instead of getting food and water and a semblance of care, I lost most of my belongings to thieves? "Mulder." She stops me in my tracks with a hand on my arm. I whirl on her in sudden, inexplicable anger. "What, Scully? What do you want to know? Do you really need to know that I was so *fucking* sick that all I could do was pray to die? I knew you were out there. I *knew* I could find you. And yet I was ready to lose you forever if it just meant ending the pain. I prayed to *die*, Scully, even though you were still alive. Do you understand what that means? I had never given up in my entire pathetic life. Not even when They came. Not even when They took you away from me. Never. But I was a fucking *coward* then, Scully." All the color drains from her face as her eyes fill with tears. She wavers a moment, then puts a cool hand on my overheated cheek, deflating me entirely. Wrapping me in her arms, where I nearly fall limp. "I know, Mulder," she whispers. "I know." She is quiet for a long moment before she decides to continue. "In the Compound, They did tests. On the women who weren't designated as Babymakers. They performed these experiments... I was a coward then too, Mulder. I was afraid then, just like you." My arms encircle her -- tightly, desperately -- and I whisper muffled pleas for forgiveness in her hair. "I'm sorry, Scully. God, I'm so sorry." We stand for countless minutes, clinging to each other in reassurance. She'll have no more questions now. At midday we spread out our meager rations and play "pick the can". "This one is heavier than the others. Not as sloshy sounding. My guess is chili, or Spaghetti-O's, maybe stew." "Then save that for tonight, when we can heat it." Scully picks up another and shakes it like a maraca. "This one. Sounds like fruit or vegetables." I nod in assent, and she opens it. Peas. "Excellent choice, madame. Del Monte grew a fine pea." She snorts and wrinkles her nose. We share the soggy peas and a few apples in silence, both of us likely mulling over the fact that we only have seven cans left. I silently reassure myself that we can supplement our diet by hunting now that we're heading further north and that it's getting later in the year. It's a gamble, but the rabbit last night was a positive sign. "How much further until the foothills, do you think?" "We might be there in another three days, I think. Although everything is a rough estimate." She nods in agreement. "We'll probably see them once we clear the woods and hit the horizon once again." She pauses before continuing. "What do you think about what Carl and Annie mentioned? About there being thieves in the mountains?" Her voice betrays no fear, just curiosity. I shrug noncommittally. "It's probably true. There are thieves everywhere, despite the scarcity of free survivors. Probably the same ratio of good to bad as there was in society before Colonization. We can't be too careful, but I don't think we should change course. It's important we get into the valley by the time winter sets in." Scully nods in agreement, then slaps me lightly on the thigh. "Then let's get going." It's nearing sunset as we break through the treeline into what seems to be another world. With the brilliant hues of red and orange as a backdrop, the burnt and destroyed skeleton of a town lies in front of us. Houses, businesses, schools and yards are now battered, beaten, and tattered shells of human occupation. Every structure has incurred a fire of some kind. Nothing has a roof. Eighty percent of everything in view has been leveled to the ground. A modern ghost town, much like every other modern ghost town abandoned in what was once North America. The sight neither frightens us nor depresses us. It is simply the reality of this world, a reality we have grown accustomed to. Nothing of value will be left, of that we are fairly certain. But we do what we have to, dangerous as it might be. We scavenge. We agree that the outskirts will have been picked over the most and head quietly toward the center of the small town. The rifle is in my hand, loaded. We move quietly, keenly aware of any small sound in the silence of dusk. After seven houses and a tour of what must have been Main Street, we lower our guard slightly and risk a few whispers. "Let's head back toward the outskirts and camp. There's nothing left here." "OK. But I want to check around for a few more minutes before we give up." I know I'm being unnecessarily optimistic, but it seems this place hasn't been pillaged in a very long while. We walk a bit further, careful to avoid the piles of rubble that lie all over the ground. A still-standing billboard catches my attention with a torn piece of sign paper flapping in the light breeze. It's the Marlboro Man. Or at least a chunk of his head and the ever-present cowboy hat. I am suddenly struck by the surreal question: are there any smokers left? It's been a long time since I've smelled the stench of smoke, although I can still perfectly recall the acrid sweetness of Morleys. "Mulder." The intensity of her voice snaps me out of musing. I grip the gun tightly and walk the 10 feet to where she is peering around the corner of a blown-apart concrete wall. On the ground is a body. A man, dead only a week or so by the smell of him. His pack is sitting next to him on the ground, untouched. "He must have simply died," Scully whispers. He looks grotesquely peaceful, curled in the fetal position with his back against the remains of the wall. I spare a moment of regret, then reach for the pack. We move upwind from the odor, opening the satchel with frantic and curious hands. Three marked cans of tuna, two of kidney beans -- veritable gold. Some p hotographs that neither of us can bear to look at. A notebook, a small, chewed pencil. A Bible. Two small bottles half-filled with stale water. Seven tea bags. A battered tin pot. Can opener, fork, spoon, bent steak knife. A pack of cards. We look at each other, the incredible luck of the situation apparent in our silent gaze. In mute agreement, we transfer everything into our packs except the Bible and the photographs. The can opener and pot can be traded, since we already have those necessities. The strangeness of the day has left me melancholy and exhausted. I take the photographs, walk back to the body, and place them in the man's breast pocket. Despite the horrific smell, I stand for a long moment in silent thanks to our dead benefactor. I am not surprised when I feel Scully's presence next to me. She squats down and places the Bible reverently into the lifeless, rotting hands of the man. Once again I am struck by the faith she places in humanity, in the inherent good she believes can be found in this remnant of civilization. To me, the Bible is a worthless object, on many levels. In the crisp, cool night air, Scully and I make love on the outskirts of a dead world. Our bodies move in slow, erotic rhythm -- caressing and worshipping our respective soul's other half with infinite tenderness. With every touch, every kiss we reaffirm our bond, our devotion. Telling each other through tender intimacy just how much we each live for the other. Tonight, I feel the prick of tears as I come deep within her. In contrast to last night, I am the one to fall asleep in her arms. But I wake once again to the sound of retching. I sit up abruptly, the blankets we slept in twisted around me. I blink rapidly to chase the sleep away from my bleary eyes. "Scully? Scully?" The hazy mist of early morning clouds my vision and it is a moment before I see her, crouched some distance away. She is on her knees, her body braced by one hand that rests against the trunk of a tree. I am on my feet and by her side in seconds. "Scully!" She does not look up to answer me; her eyes remain closed as her body shakes with violent convulsions. I sink down beside her, slipping one arm around her waist. I use the other to hold back the thick waves of hair that dangle in her face. Oh God. Dear God. Not this. Her free hand slides up from the ground and rests against the arm I'm using to hold her steady. I'm glad that she's not trying to push me away. "Mulder, I'm okay, I'm --" The words are lost as she heaves and vomits again. "Shhhh," I croon, holding her as gently as I can. I feel every tremor that rocks her body, each agitated breath that she draws in between the bouts of coughing and choking. Please. Please. Not her. Finally the violent nausea releases her from its grasp and she sags in my arms. I cradle her tenderly, tucking her head against my shoulder, and wipe the sweat away from her forehead with my fingers. She's warm, I realize as I touch her skin, and fear ripples through me. I wait until her breathing has evened out and she is no longer gasping for air before I slip an arm beneath her knees, bracing the other around her shoulders, and rise to my feet. "C'mon," I murmur. "Let's get you away from here." She doesn't protest the fact that I'm carrying her and that alone is enough to scare me to death. I bring her back over to our crumpled heap of blankets and lay her down gently. Her eyes remain closed as I pour water from one of our bottles on a t-shirt and use it to wipe her face and mouth. She opens her eyes midway through my ministrations and offers me a limp smile. "It's okay, Mulder," she murmurs. "I'm fine." "I know," I tell her, but I'm lying. I don't know any such thing. "Can I -- can I have some water?" I nod, and help her lean against one of our packs. I hold out the bottle for her and she takes it gingerly. "Just a little," I caution her. "Go easy, for now." She takes a long sip and then regards me with just a hint of amusement. "I'm the doctor around here, remember?" "Sorry," I quip, glad to see some of the color flooding back into her face. "I didn't mean to get carried away." I wait until she's had a little more of the water and is able to sit up on her own before I allow myself to ask. "How are you feeling, Scully?" "Better," she says, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. "Or at least I will be after I clean up a little bit." I nod, but my eyes are still locked on hers. "Are you sure?" "I think so," she replies. "I don't know what happened, Mulder. It came over me so suddenly. One minute I was sleeping, and the next..." Some of the newly-restored color drains out of her face, and I know that she is thinking what I've been thinking. The words hang in the air between us, unspoken. It is she who finally breaks the silence. "Am I..." Her hand rises to her forehead again, palm down this time. Her mouth puckers into a worried circle. "Does my forehead feel warm to you?" I reach out and move her hand away, placing mine in its stead. Her gaze doesn't waver from mine as I allow my hand to rest there, the most makeshift temperature gauge imaginable. Her skin feels normal now, and I tell myself that it was just the strain of the retching that made her warm before. "No," I ultimately say, sliding my hand down to touch her shoulder. "No, it doesn't." "Okay." She nods, as though my medical opinion matches her own. "I don't feel dizzy or lightheaded or anything, either. So I guess it's nothing serious." She looks at me as though for confirmation, and I don't know what to say. I don't have an answer for her, but I hazard my best guess. "It was the rabbit," I tell her. "The rabbit?" "I must not have cooked it well enough." Just saying the words makes them feel suddenly true. "You probably got some raw meat, and it made you sick. Or maybe it was the rabbit that was sick, and the meat itself was bad." She tilts her head slightly as she considers my words. I know what she's thinking. I ate the rabbit too, and I'm not experiencing any problems. But I'm confident I've found the answer, and I want her to share in my ce rtainty. "That has to be it, Scully. It was the rabbit. We're going to have to be more careful with any other wild game from here on out." "You're right," she ultimately says. "We'll have to be more careful." As a result of Scully's bout of nausea we have agreed to take things easy today, and so far have done a good job of it. I don't want to push too hard because thus far Scully hasn't really eaten anything, and I don't like the idea of her doing hard walking without any food in her stomach. "I would eat," she explains, "if we had something like Saltine crackers. But all we've got are apples and jerky and whatever's in those other cans, and I'm not sure I'm up to any of that yet." "There's the rice," I remind her. "That's a pretty bland, gentle food. Maybe we should stop and cook some of that." She shrugs as she continues down the cracked asphalt beside me. "We can try it later. For now, let's keep going. I'm fine." I decide not to argue. According to the map, we've got another two hours to go before we reach the point where we have to leave this stretch of road. That seems like a likely place to stop for the day. We can call it a late lunch or an early dinner, whatever works, and settle in for the night. And then pick up the pace again tomorrow. By tomorrow, I'm certain she'll be feeling fine. We continue to walk, blanketed by the eerie silence that envelops the world these days. It's almost surreal how quiet it is; even the animals and insects seem to have a new respect for this utterly changed world in which we now live. Sometimes I miss the noise. Other times, like now, I'm just thankful that I'm still alive to appreciate the silence, and that Scully is safe by my side. "Mulder, look." Her words jar me out of my reflective mood and I glance up at the road ahead. We've been following a two-lane stretch of blacktop bordered on either side by a steep ravine for the past several miles. In front of us, I'm surprised to see that the road seemingly drops off into nothingness. Instantly, my anxiety level rises. "Careful, Scully. Let's check it out." We move forward cautiously. Once we get closer to the end of the blacktop, the situation becomes clearer. Some kind of bomb must have fallen in this area, creating a crater in the otherwise unbroken ribbon of road. The resulting crevice is deep, a couple hundred feet down, and stretching nearly as far across. The asphalt continues on the other side of the sheared off edge, but the problem of how to get there looms large in my mind. "What are we going to do?" Scully turns a questioning face up to mine. "Can we turn back? Is there another way around?" I pause to consult the map before attempting to answer. According to the lines on the worn and folded piece of paper, the only alternate route would involve some serious backtracking, nearly a day's worth. Not to mention requiring a much longer loop before we could manage to get back on track. "It doesn't look like it," I reluctantly conclude. "Not unless we want to invest some serious time." "Well then," she says, "it looks like we've got to find a way to get across." She moves towards the edge and I force myself not to pull her back, reminding myself that she's more than capable of taking care of herself. I join her and together we study the problem that lies before us. "Maybe we should traverse the ravine," she finally says. "It's steep, but not that steep. And there are plenty of trees and foliage that we can use as leverage." I look at the crevice, and then I look at Scully, and I weigh the possibilities. Her analysis looks to be correct, but I don't relish the idea. The ravine is certainly steep enough to make falling a risk, though I realize that we can skirt the outer edge and thereby shorten the process a little. Still, it won't be easy, and it will certainly be dangerous. "I think we should turn back." "Why?" She fixes me with a sharp, blue-eyed stare. "You said it yourself, Mulder. Going back will cost us some serious time. Time we don't have. I say we go across." She is so determined that it gives me a bit of much-needed courage. "All right," I concede. "But we've got to be careful." I hesitate, weighing the situation once more. "I think I should go first. Test the footholds and handholds. If they'll hold my weight, they'll certainly hold yours." Scully meets my eyes and considers my words and finally agrees. "That makes sense. But then you should give me the bigger pack, at least while we cross. That will even out the weight distribution and lessen some of the risk for you as you test the firmness of the ground." I want to deny her, but she's actually right, and so I decide not to argue. I slip my pack off my shoulders and take the one she offers me and shoulder it instead. The difference between the packs is no more than a few pounds, but it could mean a whole lot more if we get into trouble. "You okay?" I ask, hoping the pack is not too heavy. "Fine," she answers, shifting slightly on her feet to hold the pack more comfortably. "Let's just go." I make my way to the edge and slide one cautious foot over. The ground remains stable beneath my feet which I take as a good sign. The second foot follows, dislodging a few clumps of dirt and shattered asphalt and I try to remember to take it slow. I reach out and brace myself with both hands on the edge and then lean forward to grasp the branch of a low-lying shrub. Three measured steps later and I glance up at the edge. Scully is standing there, watching my progress, an anxious expression on her face. "You okay?" she asks. "Fine," I reassure her. "The ground is more solid than it looks." "Should I come down?" "Hold on a minute," I tell her. "Let me get a little further first." She nods, and I continue, one step at a time. When I feel as though I've made some good progress, I call to her. "Okay, go ahead. Follow my lead." I stop and watch as she adjusts the position of the pack on her back and then steps over the edge. She quickly finds her footing and gives me another nod to motion me forward. "Keep going, Mulder." I do as instructed, alternately keeping an eye on the path I'm blazing and turning my head to glance back at her. I've decided to follow the edge of the crater to the left; there are more shrubs and branches to grab on that side. It's slippery work, but thus far everything I've touched has managed to support my weight. Fifteen minutes later we've made some measurable progress and I'm starting to feel good about the possibility of success. It's then that I hear her cry out. It's a short, sharp cry and it freezes me in my tracks. "Scully?" I turn my head to see her clinging to a branch that I passed just moments ago, her feet planted in the crumbling dirt. "What's wrong?" "My stomach," she tells me from between clenched teeth. "It's cramping. I think -- I think I'm going to be sick." Shit. Double shit. I force my brain to think. "Can you make it back, Scully? The way you came?" From where we are, it seems like the best option. There isn't enough solid ground above us to support her if she were to try and scramble directly up the side right here. "I don't know...." Her voice trails off as she closes her eyes. Even though I'm a few feet away, I can see beads of sweat forming on her brow. She takes a deep breath and her eyes snap open with resolve. "I think so. I think I can." "Take it slow," I instruct her, "and keep taking deep breaths. I'm right behind you." And I am, just a second later. We inch back the way that we came, and I listen to her labored breaths every step of the way. When she's nearly back to the place where we slipped over, I reach up and pull myself out of the crevice just shy of the mark. It's a bit narrow but I make it onto solid ground and then crawl over to where she balances along the edge. "C'mon," I say as I drop my pack to the ground and reach out for her with both arms. I pull her up beside me and help her slide her pack to the ground. The second that it drops she's on her hands and knees and the spasms overtake her. It seems to me that the vomiting is even more severe than it was this morning, but maybe it's just my paranoia working overtime. Again I hold her, soothing her with gentle words as the convulsions rack her body. At last it's over, and I help her to a sitting position, my eyes already scanning the surrounding landscape. There's no way that I'm going to allow her to chance a second attempt at the ravine; we'll have to double back, but I don't want to try that today. This doesn't seem like an ideal place to camp, but we'll find a way to make do. We don't have a choice. I don't see anyplace nearby that looks safe enough, but then I remember the abandoned service station we passed about a quarter mile back. The roof was missing, but the building will provide us with a bit of shelter and protection. I don't want to take the chance of running into anything, animal or human, while she's feeling weak. "Scully, do you remember the gas station we passed?" She looks at me, her gaze soft and unfocused. It's clear she's still feeling ill, but she manages to answer me with a nod. "We're going back there," I tell her. "Call it a day, and start out again tomorrow." "But that's backtracking," she replies. "I just need to rest for a minute, Mulder, and then we can keep going." I shake my head definitively. "No way. At least not today. You need to lie down for awhile, get your strength back. Maybe eat a little something. Then tomorrow we'll start again." I can tell that she's about to protest, but this isn't an argument I'm going to let her win. I stand and shoulder the heavier pack and lift the other in my arms. "I've got our stuff, Scully. Let's just go." She stares at me for a moment, then finally rises to her feet. Her legs are shaky and she nearly stumbles and that's what does it. I can tell from the expression on her face that she's feeling weak, and tired, and scared. The worst thing is, I'm feeling scared too. THE END [for now -- hee hee!] Feedback is worshipped and gratefully accepted -- write to us at Blueswir l@aol.com and Meredith41@hotmail.com. TANGIBLE 3: FALL by Blueswirl and Meredith Meredith's Note: We finally finished it! Hooray! Thanks to everyone who has written us over the last several months to stalk, cajole, beg, and threaten. :-) We love hearing from you, and believe it or not you helped us finish this installment faster than we would have without your wonderful e-mail. Personally, I'd like to thank Blue for once again being a brilliant and patient writing partner and friend, the best possible combination! Special thanks go to Scullysfan, whose entertaining and most unique version of "stalking" kept us laughing and motivated on a weekly basis. ;-) I don't know what we would have done without her! Blueswirl's Note: There's not too much for me to add that Meredith didn't say already -- I'm gonna take the easy way out and just add "Ditto" -- especially to the part about Stalker Scullysfan! :) This has been a tremendous amount of fun, and the support we've received from everyone who read the first two parts and asked for more just made the process that much more worthwhile. :) As for Meredith, she's a phenomenal writer and a terrific collaborator -- I still consider myself the lucky one in this partnership! From both of us: You may want to read "Tangible" and "Tangible 2: Summer" before plunging into this sequel. You can find both stories on Blueswirl's website, http://blueswirlscrashpad.simplenet.com. Title: TANGIBLE 3: FALL Author: Meredith [meredith41@hotmail.com] & Blueswirl [blueswirl@aol.com] Classification: T,R,A, Alternate Universe Rating: NC-17 Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: pre-6th Season Summary: The third installment of a five-part post-colonization serial. Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. Anywhere else, please ask one of the authors for permission first -- and please keep our names attached! Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. and we're using them for this story without permission. So sue us. Feedback: If the mood hits -- we'd love it at Meredith41@hotmail.com and Blueswirl@aol.com. TANGIBLE 3: FALL by Meredith & Blueswirl 6/24/99 They stare at me, encircle me, their young faces twisted in shock. Horror. Betrayal. A few are blonde, a few brunette. I remember one being chubby, at least two reed-thin and sickly. The rest... were so normal. So average. Now they all are swollen, bloated. Unwashed and used. They surround me, look down upon me. Accusing. The metal snaps over my left wrist in a familiar gesture of ownership. I try to speak, but am unable to control my treacherous mouth. The drugs course through my veins, obliterating the carefully hidden stores of self I'd ferreted away for future dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams of being, perhaps of dying, of escaping at any cost the white and cold metal. Carriers. I struggle to remember a name, just one name. To purse my numb lips into syllables meant to get their attention, to ensnare one innocent, sweet girl into recognizing me as a fellow slave, a compatriot in the endless, repetitive testing. The draining of all we are, all we ever were. To show Them she recognizes me, sees me for the barren subject I am. To release me as worthless. I never knew their names. Sleeping. Eating. Sitting. Standing. Eliminating. Crying. Sharing tombs. Cells. Chairs. Needles. Lab tables. Pain. Agony. Fates. Destiny. I never knew any of their names. When my throat finally obeys the order to scream, it is too late. I am already awake. "Shhh. Scully. It's all right. You're here with me. You're safe, you're safe." Mulder croons in my ear, cradling my sweating form under the stack of blankets. I want to believe him. More than anything in the world. It is the middle of the night, and I am unable to see anything at all. There are no stars or moon; clouds hide all possible light. I jerk away from his careful hold and get up to shakily pace a few feet from him. I cannot remain lying down at the moment; the nightmare's grasp is still too tight. Suddenly the chill night air hits me, turning my sweat to ice. I stand for long moments, breathing deeply until I am myself again. "Scully?" He whispers, afraid. Not now. I can't talk about it now. "I'm OK." My voice shakes only slightly. "I ... I had a dream... that I was back at the Compound. It's over. I'm OK." I'm OK. "Then come back to bed, Scully. It's cold and you need to rest." I squelch the urge to remind him I'm not likely to get sicker from exposure to temperature extremes, but then I realize I'm shivering and uncomfortable. So I crawl back into our makeshift bed and fold myself into him for warmth. He's right. We've only just gotten past another very difficult obstacle in our path toward the mountains, a chasm that we normally would have been able to cross with only a little extra physical exertion. But since I've been sick, the toll on my body has been extreme. And we've lost precious days because of my weakness. The days grow shorter, the nights turn colder. Time is on our heels. And this mysterious sickness is getting more difficult to ignore. My best guess is that I've contracted a mutated version of the Fever, a strain not as virulent or indiscriminate in its killing pattern. Based on what Mulder has told me, and taking careful, objective stock of my symptoms, this is the only conclusion I can draw. Why my fever is not high, and why I haven't broken out in the tell-tale blistering are mysteries. But if these discrepancies end up saving my life, I will gladly forego the scientific curiosity. Over the past few days, I have willed myself to get better. I have cajoled and bargained with my uncooperative body. I have grown angry with myself for letting Mulder down. For being a burden on our future. All I get for my trouble is more retching, more fatigue. Although he has never spoken of it, I can see the panic illuminating Mulder's eyes when I am at my worst. So far, he has never once voiced our greatest fear. // You'll be OK, Scully. It's just a bug, Scully. You're going to be fine. We're making good time. Just rest, Scully. // How sad he would be if he knew how much I've learned from his silent omissions. "Try to get some sleep. I'll be riding your ass to make an extra mile tomorrow," he teases, his voice late-night gravel against my skin. "Is that a promise?" I whisper. "If you want it to be." I won't hold us up any longer. My determination to regain control will win out. I must believe this. I can do this. I'm OK. I have to be. When I wake again the sun has risen, casting a murky light that doesn't do much to brighten the overcast sky. The weather is shifting as it grows later in the year, and it casts an uneasy pall over our journey. The changing of the seasons is as visible as any clock, the seconds ticking away, spurring us ever onward. Our goal has always been to make it to the New Cities before the winter hits, but with each passing day it seems less and less likely that we will succeed. It's been harder going than we expected, and my illness has further complicated things. But we don't talk about altering our plan. We just keep moving forward. Our supplies have diminished to the point where packing takes little or no time. We eat the remaining apples, dried now, for breakfast, and then gather our things and head out, following the map. I notice that Mulder's pace is slower than usual, and I know that he's trying to compensate for my lack of sleep. Resentment fills me and I quicken my steps until I pass him, setting a new rhythm. "This isn't a race, Scully," he chides me, but I ignore him and focus on walking. I'm feeling better this morning despite my lack of rest. Though my limbs are still achy, my stomach isn't cramping, and I don't feel quite as feverish. I dare to hope that perhaps the worst has passed. "What?" I ask, forcing a teasing tone. "You afraid to keep up with me?" He brings a smile to his face, but his words are serious. "I just don't want you to push yourself too hard." "I'm fine," I tell him, and prove it by smiling back. We walk in silence for most of the morning, following a remarkably smooth stretch of road. It's a forest road, and I like that. It's less ominous to be surrounded by the beauty of nature, empty of wildlife though it may be, than to make our way through another empty, ghost-filled town. I find myself thinking about Matthew and how he has fared. I wonder if his fever ever broke, as mine seems to have. I can't allow myself to imagine that such a small child has succumbed to such a horrible fate, even though I know deep in my heart that it's probably true. Mulder stops beside me and shifts the pack he carries to pull the crumpled map from the pocket of his jeans. I wait as he peruses it, and as he studies it I study his face. His tan is beginning to fade, and I already miss the honeyed glow it brought to his skin. His brow is knitted in concentration, worry lines creasing his forehead. I don't bother to ask what he's thinking. I know he'll confide in me before he makes any decision. He always does. I take off my own pack and pull one of the water bottles from inside. Despite the cloudy, gray sky and the cool temperature, I have still worked up a sweat. I unscrew the top and take a long sip, and as I hand it over to him, my patience is rewarded. "Take a look at this, Scully." I trade him the water bottle for the map and glance at the section he indicates with a pointed finger. "We've got two choices," he says. "We can stay on this road and hope that it still runs through to the highway. Or we can cut through this section of woods." He waves a hand over his left shoulder towards the dense undergrowth that looms in that direction. "There should be a trail somewhere in there, if the map is correct. It could save us a lot of time, if it exists -- we could meet the highway much further along." I examine the map and see the triangulation of road that he's describing. It appears to me that the short cut is by far the better choice. "There's no contest," I declare. "The trail's the best option. At the rate we're going, we'd gain half a day at least." "Yes," he slowly agrees. "Why do I sense a 'but' coming?" I ask. He takes another sip of water and then hands the bottle back, retrieving the map. "Assuming we can even find the trail -- that the entrance isn't blocked or overgrown -- we've got no guarantee of its condition. If we get in there and find that it's eroded, it would really set us back." Although his words are perfectly clear, I detect a second meaning hidden beneath them. It's not the condition of the trail that he's afraid of. I know as well as he does that taking the trail will most certainly be rougher than staying on the road. I know that what he fears is that I'm not well enough to negotiate it. I screw the cap back onto the bottle and stuff it back into my pack. "Mulder, we've got to take the trail. It makes the most sense." My tone is calm and even. I'm not about to get in an argument with him. "Besides," I add, "as you pointed out, there's no guarantee that the road continues through either. Bombs were dropped everywhere. That crater we tried to cross a couple days ago was a perfect example -- it was right in the middle of a major road. The best option is to take the shortest route." He looks at the map for a long moment and then raises his eyes to mine. I see doubt lurking in their hazel depths, but also a fair amount of determination. I'm certain that he can read a similar mixture of uncertainty and stubbornness in my own. "Okay," he concedes. "We take the trail. If we can find it, that is." As it turns out, the trail is surprisingly easy to locate. It branches off the road we're on from behind a grove of trees, spiraling off into the distance on a gradually increasing incline. It's narrow going, forcing us to walk single file, Mulder taking the lead. He's the one who holds the rifle, but we are both alert, listening intently for any sound, watching for any motion that might signal danger. The woods are eerily silent save the sound of our footsteps tamping down fallen leaves and branches. Though we've been on the road for weeks, I still can't get over the endless quiet. In the time since They arrived, a hush has fallen over the world, stealing away all of the everyday noises I once took for granted. The lack of noise is oddly peaceful and yet unsettling to me. I haven't had the same opportunity to become accustomed to the new silence that Mulder has had. He traversed hundreds of miles alone while he searched for me, accompanied by nothing save the beating of his own heart. The years he spent in solitude I spent surrounded by hundreds of others, trapped in a space filled with an entirely different kind of silence. Excessive conversation was forbidden in the Compound, yet although few words were ever spoken aloud, the building thrummed with a thousand hidden whispers. Murmured conversations between fellow prisoners hung heavy and ominous, particularly during the long, long nights, but they were nothing in comparison to the screams. They have no respect for our pain, or our suffering. To Them, we are nothing more than a nuisance, a blight on this planet that They have so ruthlessly adopted as Their own. Even those of us that provide Them with the blood that They so desperately need are seen as nothing more than vessels, carriers of a necessary substance. This is why They think nothing of our agony, why They think nothing of our death. I wonder what They think of our screams. I used to fall asleep with my arms cradling my head in a vain attempt to block out the shouts of anguish and the cries of pain. We were all on different cycles, which meant that the tests, the draining, went on at all hours. It was never really quiet in the Compound. There was only the illusion of silence, the lull between the screams. A stabbing pain pierces the back of my eyelids and announces the arrival of yet another headache. Before I can stop it, a low groan slips past my lips. "Scully?" Mulder stops in his tracks and turns to face me, concern in his gaze. "You okay?" I nod, but even that small motion makes me wince. "Just a little headache." "Let's take a break," he declares. "It's time for lunch anyway." I don't have the strength to argue. Stopping seems like too good an idea. We sit down in the middle of the trail and open our packs, examining the meager rations before deciding simply to share the contents of one of the few remaining cans. It turns out to be beans, the kind that taste much better in warm stew than they do in cold, messy handfuls, but neither of us complains. As we sit and eat, the gray sky above us grows darker, and I watch concern slowly creep across Mulder's face. "Weather's turning," he points out needlessly. I can see as well as he that storm clouds are gathering. "How much farther to the highway?" He shrugs, and wipes his hands on the tail of his shirt as he takes out the map again. "Can't really be sure," he answers after a moment. "Maybe another couple hours." I glance around, surreptitiously rubbing my temples in a vain attempt to alleviate the throbbing pain in my head. It hurts so badly I would kill for a single aspirin. The trees are thick on all sides, but not so thick that they'll provide much protection if the rain really starts to come down. The dirt trail is bound to become slick with mud all too quickly, which won't be pleasant as we're still headed uphill. It's at times like this that I'm seized by an irrational frustration, a petulant anger that makes me waste crucial mental energy on childish wishes. I wish I had a house, a warm, safe, dry house with a solid roof and a real door that locks. I wish I had a car, even one without gas, with a comfortable back seat that could double as a bed. I wish I had a tent. I wish I had a raincoat. I wish I had a goddamn umbrella. The thought of negotiating this trail with umbrella in hand like a manic Mary Poppins unleashes an unexpected laugh that bubbles past my lips. "What's so funny?" Mulder asks, staring at me quizzically. "Nothing," I grin ruefully. "Just realizing that we forgot our umbrellas." That brings a smile to his face. "We don't need no stinkin' umbrellas," he scoffs. "Besides, I doubt it's going to rain too hard." I glance up at the dark clouds looming overhead. "Judging by the looks of that sky, I think you're wrong." I run my fingers through my tangled hair and sigh. "Either way, we'd better get a move on." Mulder nods and grabs his pack. "Ready when you are." I finish the last of the water in the bottle that I'm holding and slip it back into the pack. As I rise to my feet the headache tightens its grip on my skull, and my breath hitches in another agonized gasp as I fight to keep my balance. Mulder reaches out a hand to steady me, but says nothing. I love him for his valiant silence, knowing how hard it is for him to refrain from saying the words I don't want to hear. I lean in towards him, thanking him with the briefest of kisses. "Let's go," I tell him, and then we are once again on our way. END PART 1/4 TANGIBLE 3: FALL [2/4] by Meredith & Blueswirl All disclaimers etc. can be found in Part 1. This is just story. The trail grows steeper and steeper, tighter and more narrow. Dangling branches catch in my hair with seemingly vicious deliberance, as though the trees themselves want to hold me back. We fight to keep moving fast, hoping against hope that we can somehow beat the rain. Our efforts are in vain, however, and soon I feel the first big wet drops against my scalp. It's the first rain we've had since we've been on our journey, and quite possibly the first rain that has fallen in months. The shower becomes a downpour unbelievably quickly, as though the sky itself is making up for lost time. We have no protection whatsoever from the sudden, relentless rain, nothing except the clothes on our backs, which are almost immediately drenched. The sky instantly darkens to the point where it seems like night, reducing Mulder to nothing more than a shadowy, hunched form creeping along in front of me. The dirt under our feet turns into mud that oozes beneath our shoes, a sticky quagmire garnished with fallen branches and hidden rocks. Each step is laced with hidden potential dangers, and I force myself to ignore the itchy, heavy weight of my rain- soaked clothing and concentrate on putting one foot safely in front of the other. My head pounds, but I push the pain aside. As if the rain itself weren't bad enough, a wind rises from out of nowhere and begins to blow the sleeting water sideways. The rain splashes against the rocks and trees, stinging my hands and cheeks. My eyelids lower instinctively, forcing me to squint as I make my way along. At one point Mulder glances over his shoulder to check on my progress. Sweat mixes with the rainwater trickling down my cheeks and I don't have the energy for words, so I flip him a quick wave of reassurance. As he waves back, his foot slips on a pile of loose rock and he stumbles, sliding back down the steep trail towards me. "Shit!" "Mulder!" Instinctively I thrust my hands forward and press them against his back, keeping him upright, even as my own feet skid on the uneven ground. Together, we shudder to an awkward stop, my body bracing his. I feel the muscles in his body tense as he regains his balance. His eyes catch mine for a brief moment and there is gratitude beside the grim fear in his gaze. I don't want to admit it, not even to myself, but I'm scared. There is a dark malevolence to this sudden storm that is inexplicably frightening. I feel fragile and exposed on this twisted, narrow path. "Scully!" Mulder's voice is loud, but it's still hard to hear him over the raging storm. "We've got to get off the trail!" "Okay!" I shout back, blocking the wind from my face with one half-raised arm. "Which way?" He twists his head from side to side and I mimic the motion, each of us searching for some kind of shelter, anything that might offer us even temporary protection. It's almost too dark to see. I'm about to drop my pack and dig through it for the flashlight when Mulder grabs me by the arm and yanks me off the path. "Duck, Scully!" A harsh crack echoes through the woods like the report of a gun, and I drop to the ground beside him. "What is it?" I scream, covering my face with my hands. "Tree branch! Stay down!" Another loud crack rings through the forest, and then the branch is blown off , violently torn away from the trunk by the harsh wind. It hurtles over our heads and slams into another tree on the opposite side of the trail, shattering into pieces. Just a branch, I tell myself, my body shaking beside Mulder's. Just a branch. No big deal. Just a branch that rocketed across the trail with ferocious velocity. Just a branch that could have killed either one of us with the force of its impact. An innate sense of self-preservation sweeps through me and all I want to do is hide. I feel Mulder's arm around my shoulder, pulling me up, and I struggle to my feet. "Come on!" he yells, taking my hand. There is comfort in his touch and I link my fingers with his as we run blindly forward. Off of the trail the ground slopes down sharply and before too long we are sliding downwards, half-sitting as we fight for traction. Panic surges through me, and for an instant my thoughts are filled with memories of my father. He was the one who taught me about the wild beauty of Nature, how She is both unpredictable and unforgiving. This freak storm is emblematic of both, and I am overcome with a sudden fear that it is this bout of bad weather that will destroy us both. I clasp Mulder's hand even tighter, stumbling alongside him through the pelting rain. My head throbs and my breath comes in hitching gasps, and it is then that my stomach seizes in a cramp. No, I plead. Not now, dammit. Not now. There is no time to stop, no time to indulge in a bout of nausea. Every fiber of my being is focused on a single goal: escaping the storm. Everything else will have to wait until we are safe. "Keep moving, Scully!" Mulder shouts, making me realize that I've slowed down. I force myself to move through the muck, my eyes scanning the woods for any sign of shelter. My renewed vigilance pays off when I spot a patch of darkness off to our left. It could be nothing, just another shadow amongst hundreds of shadows, but there's a depth to it that makes me think I've actually found what we are seeking. "Mulder!" I cry, raising my hand to point the way. "Over there, to the left!" His head swivels to follow my outstretched fingers and he nods emphatically. "Let's go!" We race across the rain-soaked ground, churning the mud beneath our shoes, headed for my hastily spotted oasis. As difficult as the trail was to negotiate, running through the woods is even harder. The ground doesn't even feel solid beneath my feet, piles of muddy leaves shifting under my weight with every step, revealing surprising hollows that threaten to trip me. Several times we come close to smacking into the trunks of trees, our balance nearly gone as we stumble through the artificial darkness. As we continue our fumbling approach the shadows grow larger, and my heart leaps with the hope that we have found the protection we seek. By the time we reach the grouping of rocks the rain is blinding, whipping around our heads like a water-filled tornado. The wind is icy, biting at my skin with a ferocity that I would not have believed possible just a few short hours ago, causing the temperature to plummet even further. Finally we reach our destination and skid to a hasty stop. The space cannot truthfully be called a cave. It could be more accurately described as a crevice of rocks, a small, cramped alcove that provides the most minimal protection against the raging storm outside. And yet it is still shelter, a shelter that at this point I am more than grateful for. Mulder and I squeeze ourselves inside. There's barely enough room for the two of us. Pressed side by side, we use up most of the available space. We are both hunched over, him more so than me, given his height. I shrink back against the far wall, making as much room for him as I possibly can. Sitting down, it's a little better, less cramped, but it's still far from comfortable. The moment that we are ensconced within the tiny space, he turns his head to me. "Open your pack," he demands, and I see that he's doing the same with his. I bring my shaking hands to the zipper and pull it down. I find the flashlight and flip it on, laying it on the ground beside me. Mulder turns his on as well, bringing a decent amount of light to our little cave. The supplies inside my pack are wet, but not terribly so. The canvas and nylon pack has done a decent job of protecting its contents. I take out the meager stash of supplies and put it aside. The few clothes in my pack are damp and cold, but not truly wet, and the blanket beneath is almost dry. Mulder's pack, being heavier, has fared somewhat better; he carried our other two blankets inside, and the second of them looks as though it has escaped the downpour completely intact. He holds it out towards me, his gaze intent. "Take off that wet stuff," he orders, "and wrap yourself in this." I open my mouth to protest, but the look on his face stills the words in my throat. I bring my hands up to the buttons on my outer shirt and fumble them open, yanking the soaked fabric off my arms. The tee shirt and tank top follow, and then my upper body is bare. I take the offered blanket and drape it over my shoulders. It is made of wool, and it scratches my tender skin, but I take immediate comfort in its dry warmth. "Everything," he murmurs. "Take it all off." There is nothing erotic in his demand. His eyes convey nothing but concern. I acquiesce without question, kicking off my shoes, and hold tight to the blanket with one hand as I tug off my drenched jeans and socks with the other. Moments later I am naked, and I clasp the blanket close around my damp, shivering body. I huddle in the corner of this makeshift shelter and watch as Mulder follows suit, shedding his wet clothes and draping the other semi-dry blanket around his slim, muscular frame. The atmosphere is strangely intimate, and yet I barely register this fact, focused only on my desire to chase the cold dampness from my body. My hair is a sodden, tangled mass, causing rivulets of dirty water to drip down my face. I don't want to waste our third blanket, as we will surely need it later, so I grab a shirt and use it to wring the excess water from my hair. When we are both undressed and cloaked in brightly patterned wool, he scoots up close alongside me, draping one arm across my shoulders to pull me tightly against him. "Better?" he asks, and I nod. "Better," I reply. My stomach is still cramping, but not badly, and I think I'll be able to control the nausea for now. "Thank god we're out of the rain." "Yeah," he murmurs, and I lean my head against his shoulder. "Lucky for us." We sit there, together, our bodies slowly generating enough heat to warm the tiny space. For a while words are unnecessary, both of us simply glad that we have found this fragile calm within the storm. As warmth slowly returns to our damp bodies, my muscles begin to relax. I wasn't aware of how tight I'd become, hunched and shivering in this enclosed space, trying to dispel stomach cramps with sheer willpower. But my body has completely settled, almost in tandem with the intensity of the storm. The fury outside has lessened in the past half-hour; however, the rain is still coming down steadily, pulverizing and churning the leaf-covered ground into a muddy river flowing outside our dry cave. We are stuck here for a while, it seems. I turn to my partner, grasping his blanket's frayed edge and tugging it lightly off his shoulder. "We should share," I whisper with a tiny smile. "It's warmer that way." I've startled him a bit -- his eyes have that half-lidded, liquid shimmer that tells me he was drifting into a sleepy haze. But in seconds they brighten and squint with mischief. "Can't keep your hands off me, can you?" "Don't flatter yourself. You happen to be the only man in my cave at the moment," I laugh. "Well then, I'm happy to oblige." He grins and pulls his arm off my shoulder, opening his blanket like a cloak for me to slip under. We press our still slightly damp bodies together as Mulder leans back against the rough rock of our shelter, his blanket below and behind us, mine in front like a tent flap. Outside the faint light is quickly dissipating, the only sounds the thrum of the deluge outside and the sound of his heart under my ear. I relax, casually thrilling in the presence of being unclothed, warm, and secure. How long has it been since we've been naked together? The river, on that bright summer morning weeks ago? With the chill of autumn in the air and my sickness, we've barely shed our clothes for any longer than the time it takes to sponge bath. I've missed the feel of him against me, the weight and heat of his skin. I press my nose into his collarbone, inhaling a mixture of musk, leaves, and rain under the bitter cloud of wet wool. In a world without Dry Idea or Right Guard, I've become more familiar with the smells of humanity. At the Compound there were prisoners whose smells were noxious, mildly pungent, or strangely inoffensive. Our guards, however, had no smell at all. That's when I discovered I would rather be enveloped in a cloud of unwashed human odor than be in the same room with an unearthly creature who smelled like nothing, like the absence of life. Like a wild animal, I think I could pick out Mulder from a crowd even if blindfolded. I've learned his smell, his underlying fragrance. Perhaps it's pheromones, perhaps another unknown biological reaction -- but it attracts me. I wonder sometimes if, because of the destruction of the civilized world, humanity may end up de-evolving over the generations -- relying more on our basic senses to protect us in our fragile state. Like primitive man, primitive woman. Mulder is smelling me, too. His nose is buried in the tangle of my wet hair, his lips murmuring against the tip of my ear. A sudden shock of arousal electrifies my body with frightening intensity. It's been far, far too long. His right hand comes up to stroke my arm, gently. He's undemanding, his caresses comforting and without ulterior motive. When I sit up sharply and take his lips under mine, I feel him quake beside me in surprise. "I'm fine, Mulder," I whisper into his open mouth. "Don't worry." Our own private joke. When we kiss again, it is with the fervency of lovers apart for too long. His lips meet mine in a bruising tangle of tongues and teeth. I climb into his lap, carefully wrapping my legs around his waist, my pelvis rubbing against the flat plane of his stomach. It feels wonderful, this intimacy, this primitive yet divine connection of our physical forms. Long ago I realized the beauty of eroticism lies in the combination of souls as well as bodies. We've loved each other chastely before, and if necessary we could hold to those limits for the rest of our lives. But this... this exquisite sensuality would be mourned like a lost lover every single day. Thank god for this freedom, our chance to be together. If we live only another day, it will have been worth every risk and sacrifice, no matter how great. Mulder's fingertips glide gently over my breasts as we kiss deeply, leaving a goosebump trail of enlivened flesh. He is reverent and careful in his ministrations, and I find myself taking control, showing him physically that I am all right. I will convince him with my body that there is nothing to fear, while proving to myself that this mysterious illness is on the wane. I am getting stronger, we are together. Nothing can stop us. I am no longer cold; the heat radiating from his body is intoxicating. Reaching between us, I grasp his already-hard penis in my hand, rubbing the velvety soft skin and absorbing his warmth into my palm. He moans softly, burying his face in my neck. My name is whispered into my skin, where the sound is absorbed straight into my bloodstream, ratcheting up my desire another notch. His lips carry the pledge of love on those two simple syllables. Rising up a little to accommodate him, I slide back into his lap, Mulder's penis buried deep inside me in one long, smooth motion. Inside I am liquid fire, molten around him. I raise and lower, setting a languid rhythm in this confined space. My partner is without words, seemingly without comprehension of anything beyond our bodies' connection. I am loathe to break our continued kissing, even when our rhythm makes it difficult. To taste him is to drink of life, of everything I once had lost. I can never get enough -- my thirst for him and for life is boundless. We move together in perfect tandem for a blissful eternity, his arms wrapped lovingly around my back and ass, supporting us both as we hurtle further toward the edge. The blankets have slipped to the ground, yet I feel impossibly hot, combustible. When he reaches between our joined bodies to stroke my sensitive clit, I burst into flame. "Mulder, Mulder..." I murmur nonsensically until I feel him shudder and groan under me, joining the inferno. We sit in a tangled knot, panting, until he breaks the spell. "OW! Holy shit... ow!" "What? What's wrong?" "There's a huge rock poking me in the ass," he whines, jerking uncomfortably to the left and accidentally spilling me out of his lap. I can't help but laugh aloud. "Here -- scoot over. I think we're going to be here for the night, so we might as well get comfortable." I spread my blanket out on the ground, forming a makeshift bed. Mulder arranges our packs and the other blankets as best as he can, trying to ensure a little comfort. As we curl up together in the rapidly waning light of nightfall, we trade nearly shy, sated, almost silly smiles in the half-dark. I love this man more than life itself. END PART 2/4 TANGIBLE 3: FALL [3/4] by Meredith & Blueswirl All disclaimers etc. can be found in Part 1. This is just story. Laying on the sloping, rocky ground of our shelter, I can't help but remember the softness of my queen-sized bed back in Washington. That was a lifetime ago, but memories sometimes lurch to the surface at the most inopportune times. I'm tempted to mutter a complaint about our uncomfortable sleeping arrangements, but when I think of the alternative scenario, I keep my mouth shut. It's still pouring outside. "Will you be okay skipping dinner?" Mulder whispers in the dark. "Sure," I lie. I am acutely aware of how ravenous I am. But the hunger will pass. Besides, we need to stretch our painfully low rations as it is. And, if I admit the truth to myself, I want to savor this period of no nausea. I snuggle closer to him and try to will myself to fall asleep. It doesn't work. I fidget for a moment, trying to stretch my legs while staying as close to Mulder as possible. Our spontaneous lovemaking has woken up every nerve in my body, stimulating my brain as much as my heart. I sigh aloud, almost without realizing it. "Can't sleep?" he asks softly. "No..." I sigh again. "But insomnia almost feels good -- healthy, even." He is silent for a moment before speaking. "You're going to be fine. Every day you look stronger. You don't have anything to be worried about." His tone is simple, straightforward: the voice of a believer who is profoundly aware of the truths he speaks. I remember that voice from long ago -- in the radiology lab at Holy Cross Memorial Hospital. //I refuse to accept that...// How right he was, even then, with flowers in his hand and determination in his somber eyes; when every bit of information pointed to my inevitable death from cancer. After all these years, it's hard not to believe in that voice. Yet I want to change the subject. "Tell me again about the Northern Territories, Mulder." "You're worse than a kid, Scully," he laughs. "How many times have I told you everything I know?" "Not enough. Not yet. Not until I see it for myself." "All right," he mutters in an exaggerated manner. "The colony is centered in a high valley in the mountains, where the weather is decent enough to support crops and human survival. Not many have survived the trip and made it there, but those who have had the will and determination -- important qualities that will help keep our civilization alive. But the best aspect is that They aren't there. They don't like the colder climate, the higher elevations. Life will be challenging and primitive, and we'll have to work hard. But it's a beginning, Scully -- a beginning of a new life of freedom for the human race. It's a way to survive and fight back." By this point his voice has grown soft as he lets himself ponder the possibilities. This Mulder is a harder, more protective and suspicious Mulder than the one I first fell in love with. To hear him speak positively about living in peace with other men and women is rare, and is one of the reasons I keep asking for the description like a favorite bedtime story. I need to hear it for myself, to keep the dream alive -- but I also need him to believe it. For if he believes, then I can believe. It's always been as simple, and as complicated, as that. "Who told you? What kind of people?" I feel him shrug under the blanket. "Traders, other travelers. Thieves. My social circle before I found you again." "And you believe them?" The doubting statement comes to my lips before I can stop myself. "It was better that I heard it from different types. Gives credence to something that would otherwise be considered a fairytale, a myth." I wait for more in silence, hoping he'll embellish. When I don't reply, he gets the hint. "The first time I heard anything about the Northern Territories, it was from someone I knew... before. Before the Invasion. It was at the first Compound I searched. I was waiting outside the gates, before dawn, with a dozen other men and women. I was concentrating so hard on the doors, begging some unknown power to open them and let you out so I could steal you away. I didn't know, then, about the bracelets..." I quickly reach up and caress his stubbled jaw, reassuring him that I am here, safe because of him. He takes a shaky breath and continues. "I was trapped then, trapped in my own misery. I didn't even notice that I was standing next to Adam Schneider, who was gripping the chain link even harder than I was." The name triggers a faint memory, tickling the back of my consciousness like an annoying feather. Of course... "*Agent* Adam Schneider," I whisper in astonishment. "From the Sci-Crimes Lab." "Yeah. His wife was inside, and he was waiting for her to emerge with a 24-hour pass. While we waited, he told me everything -- how she'd been taken from their home, how his children died from the Fever, how he'd found Cynthia after almost two years of looking. He had given up and gone north with his few remaining relatives the year before -- and two of them actually made it to the Colony. But when he heard about the Compounds, he left again to find her and bring her back. "He'd only been there three days before he left to head back to the Midwest. All on foot, Scully. Thousands of miles, alone and on foot. And he once he found her -- which was another miracle -- there was nothing he could do to save her." Mulder's voice has grown weary and bitter. There is nothing I can say to banish the helplessness, so instead I stroke his chest lovingly. Pain and anguish is a way of life now, and Mulder is learning not to absorb the weight and misery of others in a way that he never did when he was a federal officer. I have learned much from what he doesn't tell me, filling in the blanks in between the few memories he has shared. His sole quests -- to stay alive and to find me -- were fragile goals that could be easily shattered by sympathy and charity. It tears me apart to imagine what he witnessed and experienced, and as much as I sometimes need to understand the pain lurking behind his eyes, I never press. I understand the need to bury the past, yet have come to realize the equally important need to unburden. In that way we have come full circle, the two of us. "So he'd seen it, he'd been there -- even for a short time." "Yeah. I didn't believe him at first, thinking his memory was enhanced by the fact that life in the Colony for him had become unattainable. But I picked up tips, talked discreetly. Traded goods for information. And by the time I found you at the fourth Compound, I knew we had to try to get to the Territories. All I needed was a way to release you." "And you got that, too," I reply warmly. He sighs, temporarily lightened. "Yes." I roll on my back and stare up to where I know the cave's low roof to be, even though I can no longer see it. It is dark and silent except for the rain falling outside, and no light penetrates our shelter. We are in total blackness, an inky void that hides us from the outside world. Tonight, it seems, the darkness serves to disconnect us from the past, making it slightly easier to discuss it. I decide to brave the small breach in Mulder's private world, the one he guards as fiercely as I used to guard mine. "I... I never asked you this before, Mulder... but how did you find out I wasn't at the other Compounds? We were forbidden to use our names, and not everyone went into the yard or was allowed a 24-hour pass." To my surprise, he chuckles. "Scully, you forget how easy you are to describe. All I had to do was ask a good smattering of men and women allowed outside if they'd seen a small red-headed woman with a will of iron and a personal magnetism that was hard to miss. That, and a few bribes, helped the process of elimination." His comment catches me by total surprise. "That can't have been how you found me." "It's true," he says gently. "At the fourth compound I approached a young girl at the fence and described you exactly like that. She knew immediately who you were. She'd never spoken to you before, but had seen you eating and... elsewhere in the Compound." His voice grows softer, even more affectionate. "She told me there was a red-headed woman that she watched when she felt overwhelmed and defeated. That this woman, even with her eyes to the ground, radiated strength and purpose. She said watching her -- watching you -- gave her courage to face her captivity with a shred of dignity. That's when I knew I'd finally found you." His words bring sudden tears to my eyes, and I let them flow freely down my cheeks. I try to bite back a sob, but I simply can't. I cry for the first time in forever, shaken to the core by his tale. It can't have been true -- I was beaten down in the Compound, stripped of all the self-worth I had. How anyone could have looked at me and seen anything but a fellow prisoner is beyond my comprehension. Pathetic hitching tears wrack my body, and Mulder pulls me impossibly closer to whisper comforts in my ear. I hold on to him tightly, confusion shattering me utterly. "It can't be true, Mulder... what they did to me in there... They robbed me of everything. Before you found me, I had lost myself... I didn't know who I was anymore, and I didn't care... they destroyed Dana Scully..." "No. No they didn't, Scully. Or else you wouldn't be here in my arms, right now -- as strong as I've ever seen you. All they did was force you into hiding, to escape within yourself until you found a way to survive. Don't you see? No one can destroy you, no one." His words are uttered vehemently, with furious conviction. I begin to calm, but still cling to him as the tears lessen. Perhaps, I think disconnectedly, he is talking about us both. He lets me ride the wave of grief for several minutes, stroking my hair and wiping the drying tears off my face in silence. I am haunted once again by the images of my captivity, which have grown more surreal with distance and time. The young girls, forced to give birth to alien fetuses, us barren women experimented on like so many worthless rats. Out of the blue, I am grasped by the cold hand of fear. "Mulder." Somehow I keep my voice from shaking. "What if... what if They've made me sick?" "What do you mean?" "What if, when the bracelet was disabled, something inside me was triggered? A latent virus, or infection. What if, as part of those experiments, they somehow planted a safeguard inside me, a way to ensure I wouldn't survive an escape..." "Hold on, Scully," Mulder interrupts briskly. "That idea doesn't make sense. The bracelet was a nearly foolproof way to keep you under control. There was no need to develop anything beyond that mechanism." "But Mulder, all those tests... I have no idea what they've done to me, no idea what they're capable of, not really. Hours a day, Mulder. For hours every day I was subjected to humiliating, inhumane procedures. Gynecological, psychological, neurological...how can I be sure They haven't caused this illness?" I sit up, moving away from Mulder in the confined space. I feel myself slipping into remote objectivity, the sense that I am talking about someone other than myself. If Mulder notices my dramatic change in mood, he doesn't say anything. "Honestly, Scully? You're right. You can't be sure. But logically, there's no reason they would go to such extreme measures. It simply doesn't make sense. And everything we've seen, everything we've learned about Them has proved the fact that They don't do anything without purpose. They designed the bracelets to kill anyone who did not obey their orders. There is no punishment past death, Scully." I nod slowly, and I think he senses my reluctant acquiescence even though he cannot see the movement. "And besides, there are much more likely causes for you getting sick. Other than me, Matthew and his parents were the only humans you've been in contact with after leaving the Compound. Germs, Scully. You're like a 17th century native being accosted by conquering Europeans. They may not mean harm, but they carry strains of sickness that you've never been exposed to before. I don't have to tell you how much the world has disintegrated since They took you." His voice is gentle, yet not condescending. On some level, I know he's right. But the fear will remain as long as my memories refuse to fade. I reply softly. "That makes sense. I just wish... sometimes I just wish I knew what they had done to me, what they were trying to achieve. Part of me understands I'm better off not knowing, but the rest... the rest of me wants to know what to expect -- wants to know what the repercussions will be." "There won't be any, Scully. Don't you see? There won't be any as long as you let the past go. We have a future. If we can get there, we leave this misery behind for a new life." The innocence of his words, the profound simplicity of his beliefs, bring tears to my eyes once again. But this time they are tears of relief and gratitude. I blink them back and lie down next to my soulmate, whispering into his chest. "As long as we're together, then. That's all that matters." He nods, his chin brushing the top of my head as he tucks my body safely into his. Now I can sleep. From uneasy dreams, I jerk awake, terrified. I cannot move. My legs are pinned together beneath a heavy weight, and my arms are trapped at my sides in a vice-like grip. I cannot breathe. A hand covers my mouth. The faint light of early morning is visible just outside, but it is still dark within the cave. I cannot see. Panic surges through me, and instinctively I struggle. My helpless movements cease when I feel warm breath against my ear. "Don't move." A harsh, urgent whisper. "No noise." Mulder. Some of my panic ebbs at the sound of his voice, and I shake off the last vestiges of sleep. I realize it is Mulder who is gripping me so tightly, his legs twined around mine, his arms wrapped around my torso. Our naked bodies are spooned together, but there is nothing romantic about the fierce way he clutches me. I can feel the fear seeping from his body into mine. I don't understand it, but I know enough to respect it. I move my head a fraction of an inch, rubbing against his shoulder just enough to show him that I have heard his desperate message. The signal received, he slides his hand away from my mouth, bringing it down to rest protectively against my collarbone. I draw in a deep, silent breath. And I listen. At first, all I hear is silence. No howling wind, no pounding rain. The storm, it seems, has passed. Then, beyond the quiet, I hear something else. A low, distant whir. A droning, constant hum. I know these sounds. Dear God. I know them all too well. Oh Jesus. The knowledge hits me like a blow and I stiffen in Mulder's arms. Though I didn't think it was possible, he holds me even tighter, and I feel his lips press lightly against the nape of my neck. The noises grow louder, and closer, and then there is no doubt. It is a Craft, one of Theirs, and it is coming this way. No. Please, no. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away the sounds. I bite my lip, trying to hold back my screams. It seems we lie there together for an eternity. The sounds grow closer. Closer. And closer still. The humming becomes louder and louder. From behind my tightly closed eyes I can see it approaching. I've seen them enough times before that the terrifying image has been burned into my retinas. The Crafts are long, sleek, gently rounded. From above I imagine they must appear almost oval in shape, narrowing to curved points at either end. Unlike an airplane, there are no wings or landing gear visible to the naked eye. There are no windows, nothing to mar the frightening smoothness of its silver, vaguely metallic surface. To the best of my recollections, I have never been inside a Craft. I don't want to end up inside one now. How did They find us? How? My heart is thumping in my chest, so loudly. Too loudly. Irrationally I think that it will be my heart that gives us away. My heart, fueled by the blood that They want so badly, that will lead Them right to us. Frantically I wonder whether we unwittingly set off some kind of alarm, activated some kind of trap, during our rain-soaked race through the woods. Or perhaps this Craft is part of a random patrol, searching for escaped prisoners like me. That thought sends my mind careening in an even darker direction and I wonder if my deactivated bracelet did indeed send out a signal, somehow pointing Them our way. Not possible, I think. We left the bracelet behind so long ago. If that were Their only method of tracking us, They would have found us before now. It's then that I remember the chip implanted in my neck. No. Please. No. Without warning my stomach seizes in a vicious cramp. I clench my teeth to hold back the cry of pain, but a telltale hiss of breath still escapes. A second cramp follows almost immediately and I shift uncomfortably against Mulder in a vain attempt to alleviate the discomfort. The slight motion doesn't help, and the next cramp is even more severe. Not now not now please no not now -- I shift again, helpless, my body wracked with nausea and terror. I can't stay still, I have to move, I have to sit up, I'm going to be sick -- Not now not now please no not now -- I'm not sure whether it's my silent begging or the soft touch of Mulder's fingers against my forearm moving in a gentle caress that does the trick, but the fourth cramp is less intense. The pain still remains, but at least it's a little easier to breathe. I am shaking now within the confines of Mulder's arms. This is my fault, I think, as despair washes over me. We have come so far and risked so much and yet it will end here, like this, because of me. No. Please. No. My voice echoes inside my head, silent pleas that I want to scream aloud. No. Please. No. It feels as though the walls of our cave are shaking. I'm too afraid to look. No. Please. The humming noise is impossibly loud, now, and yet the rational part of my mind tells me that there's no way that the Craft is right outside the entry to our hiding place. It's too big, and the way in is too narrow. Still, it's close enough, and hovering. They must know that we are here. They must. Terror grips me, and time slips away, Mulder's sweaty body pressed firmly against mine. I have no idea how long we have been lying here together, how long we have been waiting for the inevitable. All of my senses are working overtime, and so when the humming noise gradually begins to fade, at first I think it's my mind playing tricks on me, adrenaline sending false signals to my brain. But as more moments pass, I realize I'm not imagining it. The humming is fading. The Craft is moving away. Thank you thank you thank you -- Finally the sounds are all but gone, and silence reigns again inside our cave. Soon the only thing that I can hear is the muffled sound of Mulder's raspy breathing against my ear. We wait, motionless, for a little while more, unwilling to reveal ourselves even now. We wait until I can't stand it any longer, and I squirm in Mulder's grasp. "It's gone," I whisper. The two words seem to echo loudly inside the small space. "Yes," he murmurs in response. "Let's go." He releases me, and I feel strangely vulnerable as his hands slip away from my body and our sweaty limbs untangle. The sun has risen outside, and enough light slips in to illuminate our hiding place to enable us to find our clothes without the flashlights. We dress and pack in a hasty, tense silence. I know Mulder is as afraid as I am that They are still out there, lurking. When we've gathered all our things Mulder grabs his pack and tentatively eases his way outside, the rifle at the ready. I know all too well that the rifle is no match for Them, but I understand that it makes him feel better to hold its solidity in his shaking hands. He looks around cautiously, and then indicates with a nod of his head that the coast appears to be clear, so I gather my pack and follow, gratefully stretching my cramped limbs. It feels odd to stand outside. It's chilly, and everything is covered in misty dew. In the clear light of early morning, the damage the storm has wrought is glaringly apparent. The trees that we ran through have been ravaged, and branches lie strewn across the ground. I glance up toward the path that we had been following, only to find that it appears to be completely obscured by the debris. It is completely quiet. There is no sign of Them. We stand there together, silently, awed by the enormity of the destruction. Mulder shoulders his pack and I follow suit, adjusting the straps to fit more comfortably against my sore shoulders. He turns to me and takes me in his arms in a strong hug that surprises me with its intensity. My stomach churns again and I pull away. Right now, I don't want to be touched. I meet his eyes and I see concern in their depths. I shrug it off, but I don't have the strength to offer him a smile. "What now?" I keep my voice deliberately low. "No going back," he mutters, waving his hand in the direction of the ruined trail. "Looks like the best way is down." I nod in agreement, and wait for him to lead the way. He stares at me for another long, searching moment, and then begins the tricky process of maneuvering down the steep incline. The ground is slippery and covered with fallen debris, and it's hard to walk without sliding every few feet. I copy his movements, stepping where he steps, doing my best to make as little noise as possible. There's no telling whether or not They are still out there somewhere, watching and listening. It's arduous work, but we finally reach the bottom of the hill. There's a trail here, of sorts, though it is largely overgrown. We follow it anyway. We don't have much of a choice. END PART 3/4 TANGIBLE 3: FALL [4/4] by Meredith & Blueswirl All disclaimers etc. can be found in Part 1. This is just story. We walk for the better part of an hour in almost complete silence, speaking to each other only when necessary about the conditions of the path. Neither one of us is willing to attract any unwanted attention, though by this point it seems apparent that the Craft is long gone. We've walked long enough and far enough that the hunger I'd been ignoring finally sweeps over me with a vengeance, leaving me light-headed and dizzy, and I realize just how long it's been since we've eaten anything. "Mulder." I reach out and grab him by the arm. "Let's stop for a minute. Eat something." He casts his eyes around and motions towards a slight clearing up ahead. "Over there," he replies. "There's a little more space." I follow him over to the designated area and sink to the ground, relieved to be off of my feet. I slide the pack off my shoulders and begin to rummage through it, coming up with a bruised apple and a single can. "That's it for me," I tell him, feeling slightly uneasy. "What have you got?" "Don't worry," he says. "There's some more in my pack." He pulls out the can opener and takes the can from me, prying off its lid. String beans. My stomach lurches at the thought but I ignore its protests. Food is food. We make quick work of our snack-sized meal, washing it down with half a bottle of water. Though my stomach feels uneasy, the cramps don't return, and I decide that I'll probably be able to keep down the food. I push my pack behind me and lay down on it, using it as a pillow as I stretch my legs out in front of me. It feels good to be resting for a moment, the sun warming my face, and the silence surrounding us seems more peaceful than ominous. Beside me, Mulder pulls out the worn map and studies it, tracing the faint lines with one finger. "Do you know where we are?" I ask. He shrugs. "Not really. We haven't passed anything that could be considered a marker. According to the sun, though, we're basically headed north, so that's good." It seems luxurious to be speaking aloud, to be having a real conversation. "So this path's taking us in the right direction?" "Seems to be," he replies. He folds the map back up and tucks it away. "As long as we stay headed towards the northwest, we can't get too far off course." "Good." Drowsiness starts to overtake me. "How are you feeling?" he asks, and I smile to reassure him. "Fine," I murmur. "Better now." My eyes flutter shut and I let them, anxious to get the most out of this short break. I'm close to dropping off when a sudden noise startles me, a jarring crash from deep within the woods. My eyes fly open and I sit bolt upright, my breath coming fast. Mulder's been caught off guard too -- I can read the fear in his face. We sit stock still for a moment, but the noise is not repeated. "It's nothing," Mulder finally says. "Probably a small animal out there somewhere, running into a fallen branch." "Yeah," I answer warily. There's no way to be sure. "It's okay, Scully." He places a hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze. "They're gone. I'm sure that Craft was no more than a random patrol, out scouting. They didn't see us, or any sign of us, and now They're gone." His words are calm, even confident. I desperately want to believe him, to feel as certain as he does that the danger has passed, but I'm too much on edge. "That doesn't make sense, Mulder," I reply. "Why would They be patrolling way out here? We're not anywhere near an old city or a town. Why would They think that there'd be anyone out here?" He frowns, his forehead creasing into familiar worry lines. "What are you saying? That They were out here deliberately? Looking for us?" "Maybe." I feel a twinge in my stomach and I reach for the water bottle, hoping that the clear liquid will keep the nausea away. "It makes just as much sense as a random patrol." He shakes his head. "No it doesn't. They have no idea that we're out here, and you're not wearing that bracelet anymore. So there's no way they tracked us here." Cautiously, I raise my eyes to his, my fingers moving to touch the back of my neck. "What about the chip?" He doesn't answer right away, and my anxiety ratchets up another notch. "No," he ultimately says. "This is the first Craft we've run into on this journey. If They had some way of tracking you through the chip, They would have come after us before now. There would have been no reason to wait all this time." I don't answer. There's nothing I can say to refute the logic of his words, but it doesn't make me feel any less uneasy. Mulder hasn't spent as much time around Them as I have. And the one thing I learned about Them while I was trapped in the Compound is that They do things for reasons that we can never understand. "C'mon, Scully," Mulder says, rising to his feet. "Let's see if we can get out of these woods before nightfall." We gather our things and head out with Mulder again taking the lead. The food and the brief rest have me feeling slightly better, but I'm cautious with my movements, unwilling to do anything to further upset my stomach. My mind spins with thoughts of Them, and despite my best intentions I suddenly flash back to life in the Compound. How helpless I felt, trapped in a prison of Their making. How vulnerable I felt, alone in that artificially sterile environment. How violated I felt, subjected to the endless draining and the painful tests. The tests... A cramp shoots through my abdomen. The tests... I clutch my stomach with one hand, willing the spasm to subside as I continue to walk. The women unable to be Babymakers, taken singly and in groups to lie on metal tables deep within the labyrinth, forced to endure Their endless experiments. The tests... It comes to me suddenly, in a moment of horrifyingly vivid clarity. They need our AB blood in order to survive on this planet, and will always continue to need it. Unless They found another way. Unless They managed to create some sort of hybrid, offspring that would still be alien, yet possess inherited AB blood that would allow it to survive. AB blood inherited from its mother. The cold terror that overwhelms me is like nothing I've ever known. Not my abduction. Not my imprisonment. Not the tests. Not the fear for Mulder's life. Nothing. I swallow harshly, putting a fist to my mouth to stifle the sudden urge to scream and scream, scream until I descend into the comforting oblivion of madness. No. It can't be. I can't think about this now. No. No. NO. A noise, soft yet urgent, registers at the corner of my waking nightmare. "...Scully?" How long has he been calling me? Mulder has stopped walking, turning to find me 20 yards behind. Frozen, I imagine. I am frozen. "Scully?" He asks a question with my name, the cadence laden with an invisible query. Am I all right? Am I all right? Oh, Mulder. I'll never be right again. I think I'm nodding; my face feels blank, empty. The words have to be forced unwillingly out. "I'm... fine, just..." I swallow, but the lump of horror won't go down. "...just tired." It isn't possible. It can't be possible, not now. I can't think about this now. I've got to catch up to Mulder and keep walking, walking, walking... walking until we find the Settlements and are safe, and then I can think. Then I'll think about this. Then, and only then. One step, and I've broken out of the ice. I take another, and they become easier. Another and another, and I'm at Mulder's side again. "Let's go," I say. I know I say it because I hear the words and he hasn't opened his mouth. Let's go, let's go, let's go until we are far, far from here, as far from this point as we can get. He's looking at me quizzically, but there's nothing for me to say. Not now. I move past him quickly, following the trail as my lifeline. The trees are beautiful this time of year. I know we are in the heart of Autumn by the chill in the air and the quaking of the golden aspen. The woods here smell fresh and earthy, a scent distinctly cleaner than the filthy air near the Compound. The pollution caused by Their damage to our atmosphere seems to settle close to the ground, collecting in the lower elevations and around population centers. Here, away from the remnants of civilization, the air is more like what I remember from years and years ago. Sweet, clean, cool. I've silently named and categorized all the trees we've seen, at least the ones I know. I can't remember any of their Latin names. We walk and walk. I keep my eyes on the ground. I wonder if I can still recite all the alpha amino acids backwards. A med school party trick, almost easier after a few drinks. Valine, tyrosine, tryptophan, threonine.... //the cold was so cold, aching cold, frozen in green ice, frozen AWAKE// ...serine, proline, phenylalanine, methionine.... //the tube was gagging, draining life, providing life, incubating a monster, so COLD// Keep walking. Keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Follow Mulder, watch his flannel-shirted back. Concentrate on his steps. //it swirled and convulsed, could feel every millimeter it grew// ...lysine, leucine, isoleucine, histidine..... //want to die, want to purge, want to move, want to cry, want to SCREAM// ...glycine, glutamine, glutamic acid.... glutamic acid... Dammit, I have to concentrate. I can't think like this. I don't need these memories. I've got to walk, got to think about something else. Got to stop thinking. We have been quiet for hours, silence and the occasional sound of wildlife going about their normal business our only company. I know Mulder is disturbed by my distance; the air is thick between us. But it's for the best. It's for the best that he not know. Recently I've not had the opportunity to protect him as much as he's protected me, but I will not let anything harm him, as God as my witness. Nothing. I take a deep breath, shaky with resolve. Glutamic acid.... cysteine. Aspartic acid, asparagine, arginine, alanine. The names pulse in my head in time with my footsteps. Now, perhaps, the chemical elements. It's finally too dark to see much further. It looks as if the woods begin to break farther ahead, so we decide to camp within the cover of its safety. Just in case. I hear Mulder talk about hunting tomorrow, in the area where the forest gradually turns back into field. He thinks the chances of finding game are better there. We should meet the highway soon after the clearing. I nod and begin to set up camp, taking quick stock of our supplies. We have a fair amount of water. We are running quite low on food. Our clothes are dirty and beginning to wear. I vaguely wonder if we'll be warm enough to continue to travel without heavy coats. Mulder has coaxed a tiny fire within a circle of gathered rocks, and he beckons me to it with a gentle wave of his hand. "Want to pick the can?" he says softly. I point listlessly to a dented, unlabeled choice, and when he opens it I can't even feel joy that it's Chef Boy-Ar-DeeBeef Ravioli. "We have a winner!" he grins happily, pouring the gloppy contents into our pot, which has been warming over the fire. The consistency and color make my stomach churn as hunger battles with the rest of my body's wishes. After it's heated enough but not too hot to eat with our fingers, Mulder scoots close to me so we can share the meal. For show, I try to force down a bite or two before scooting backwards, away. "You've got to," he says evenly, noting my hesitancy. "It'll just come back up again. You eat it." He shakes his head no, and I see the dark resolve hiding behind his eyes. I suddenly panic that he knows -- somehow he knows -- but I know I'm wrong. "I don't care. You eat your half, or I'll throw it away." "Mulder. Don't be unreasonable," I protest. "I'm not the one being unreasonable. Eat. You haven't had nearly enough food lately, even considering our limited rations. If it comes up later, I'm sorry -- but maybe you'll have absorbed some nutrients before it happens." I can't help but snort. "From canned ravioli?" He doesn't reply, just thrusts the rest of the dinner at me. I know why I don't want to eat, and it's not the nausea. But because I have no way to escape his glare, I choke down the food, cursing the potential recipient of its weak nutritive value. We clean up quickly and lay down for the night. I am exhausted, bone-weary. I barely notice his body next to mine until he pulls me close under the blanket. I know I am stiff and unyielding in his embrace, but I have shut down. I can't think, don't want to think, can't feel, don't want to feel. He strokes my hair, my arm, whispers softly in my ear. "Don't worry, Scully. We haven't seen any sign of the Crafts. This morning was a fluke." He waits for my reply, and I nod in the dark to appease him. After a beat, he speaks again, the words my undoing. "I love you, Scully." As he falls quickly to sleep, my tears escape, held in check too long. I cry for Mulder, I cry for me. I cry for Emily. But with the cleansing, I feel clear, purposeful. I know what must be done. Once, a lifetime ago, I had an alien fetus growing in my womb in a cold, icy prison. A vaccine killed the fetus and saved my life. *Mulder* saved my life. I have never forgotten that miracle, nor the determination and love behind it. It is laughable, incomprehensible, that I would be faced with an even more hideous violation. A hybrid. We are in the wilderness, undergoing a primitive journey that we will be lucky to survive. We have no science, no vaccine, no miracle at our disposal. This... this *thing,* this entity inside me, is a threat to our safety and our lives. I, too, have the intense love and determination that fueled Mulder's trip to Antarctica those many years ago. Nothing stopped him then, and nothing will stop me now. If my worst nightmares are true, I will do whatever it takes. I will destroy this entity before it has a chance to destroy us. END TANGIBLE 3: FALL. To be continued, obviously. ;-) Feedback loved and definitely encouraged: Blueswirl@aol.com Meredith41@hotmail.com