Title: Afterimages (1/1)
Author: Ravenscion
E-mail: ravenscion@hotmail.com
Rating: R (language, disturbing images)
Category: V, A, UST
Spoilers: Pine Bluff Variant
Summary: Aftermath of Mulder's traumatic experience w/ the New Spartans
Archive: Anywhere that it's welcome; please keep it intact and attached
to my sobriquet.

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, and all of the
other characters and quoted dialogue belong to Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and the FOX network.  I am using them without permission
and intend no copyright infringement, etc, etc....

Notes: This is my first attempt at fan-fiction, which is in part why
I am attempting to post anonymously.  I know, no guts, but there it is.
Nevertheless, feedback, positive or negative, would be most welcome.  I
would like to know whether this was a good idea.  I hope I have complied
with the rules of a.tv.xf.c, but I could not locate a FAQ, so apologies
in advance for any errors.

This story is an effort to examine how Mulder might have felt after his
brush with death in the "Pine Bluff Variant," as well as one of its
possible consequences, and while not MSR, exactly, is nonetheless
written from a very pro-'shipper point of view.  It was inspired in part
by the poem "The Haystack in the Floods," with apologies to William
Morris.

And no, I wasn't planning to quit my day job.

************************************************************************

Mulder watched from a distance as his partner told him he had been
set up.

He should have felt outrage.  Hell, he wanted to feel it, to feel
anything that would lock his mind back on the case, on his duty, on
his identity as an FBI agent.  But for the last few hours, he had been
too bound up in alternating waves of urgency and detachment, recurring
panic and distance, to do more than stumble along, knee deep in the
surf, just trying to remain upright.

The sensation of simply being alive itself cast a fog of sensory
overload about him.

The sensation of death, looming just behind, one false step away from
seizing him, knotted the muscles of his back in near agony.

Through this turmoil he had driven, in the car Bremmer had left for him,
his conscious mind giving direction to his storm of emotion, away from
the horror he had so narrowly escaped.  In the end, though it was the
only thing he could do, returning to the bank had seemed little more
than an afterthought.

Mulder tried to focus on the case, to challenge Skinner, to make sense
of what Scully had told him, but he found himself slipping in and out of
focus, the tumult within filtering out the events around him.  He had
been that way for some time, ever since the world had exploded and he
had somehow found himself alive in the aftermath.

He heard himself say something about the people that had died in the
theater.  He felt sick, appalled, but only vaguely so.  For some reason,
his mind seemed more interested in minor details -- the tang of auto
exhaust, or the black sweep of Scully's trench coat -- than the
conversation he was supposed to be having.

Get a grip on yourself, he thought.

I'm alive, he thought back.

"Agent Mulder!"  A voice cut across his hearing, bringing him out of his
reverie for a moment.  "Our government is not in the business of killing
innocent civilians."

That brought him back, all right.  "The hell they aren't!"  For a
moment, rage gave him something to cling to, something to anchor him.
"Those were tests, on us, to be used against someone else."  Mulder
held onto the anger, glaring at the U.S. attorney in front of him.  He
could almost smell the cigarette the man wasn't smoking.

But even as the attorney spoke, Mulder felt himself drifting again.  He
knew he should be listening, recording every word for later analysis,
but he was tired, so very tired.  The man was saying something about
bills and no evidence and....

"You knew about this all along!"  Scully exploded next to him, bringing
him back once more.  "You knew about this the whole time."

Mild amusement swelled in Mulder as he watched the son-of-a-bitch
actually wilt momentarily.  Dana Scully under full sail could take the
starch out of just about anyone, and Mulder could tell she was royally
pissed off.  She was actually panting as she stood next to him.

Downright erotic, an unhelpful part of him mused.  He silenced that
thought.

Instead, he drew on her fury, letting it energize him once more.  He
demanded that the bills be re-checked, bearing down on himself as his
opponent absconded into lies about evidence and federal prosecutions
and all the bureaucratic crap that held his world together.

"That money is as dirty as you are, isn't it?"  Mulder watched himself
-- he was hanging in there, but his control was starting to fray again.
He hoped Scully would rejoin the battle, but she remained silent.

He worked his aching shoulders, trying to loosen them up.  He had driven
with his hands locked in a death-grip on the steering wheel, forcing his
attention onto the road and not the myriad other mundane things that
now seemed endlessly fascinating as they passed him.

And forcing it away from the baleful memory of the skin-head, now dead
in the grass where Mulder had almost died, would have died, but for the
merest of chances.

Damn.  He was definitely drifting off.

In front of him, Cancerman's little brother was asking him what he
wanted.

Mulder did his best.  "I want people to know the truth."

He didn't even hear the answer, just felt the man brush past him.
Mulder watched him for a moment, and then felt his legs get weak.  He
leaned against something.  So damn tired, he thought.

And his mind went into replay.  Again.

"There's a car for you, just over the horizon," said Bremmer.  "Head
south until you get to the highway."

Mulder tore his gaze from the beautiful grass in front of him, trying
to get his brain to work.  "Who are you?"

"Go on.  If they come out here and find us, they'll kill us both."
Bremmer nodded ahead.  "Go on."

"Go."

Mulder ran, adrenaline flogging him, his lungs drinking the cold, sweet
air.  He ran from the gun he felt aimed at the center of his back, ran
in spite the pain from the muscles that constricted between his shoulder
blades, waiting for the bullet.

He ran on, though his legs threatened to give out with every stride.
Keep it going, Mulder, just another 50 yards.  Just as far as that tree,
just over that rise -- he chanted the litany to himself, his mouth dry.

"Agent Scully, get him out of here."  Skinner's voice brought him back
yet again.  Mulder felt his head start to pound.  Why does that guy
always sound like his jaw is frozen?

"Come on, Mulder, I'll drive you home."  Scully moved closer to him,
her light touch electric on his forearm, guiding him gently out toward
the street.  "It's over," she said.

It's never over, he thought, but he followed her.

*  *  *

Mulder sat rigid in the passenger's seat, unable to relax into the
motion of the car, watching his partner drive.  He soaked up every
image: the alert movements of her eyes, the deliberate sweeps of her
hands on the wheel...the dark red fall of her hair, the pomegranate
red of her mouth.

Scully turned her gaze on him for a moment, watching him watching her.

Mulder closed his eyes.  It had been close, today.  Death had been near
enough that he had nearly lost himself completely, despite his years of
training and field experience with the FBI.  Work on the X-Files had led
him into harrowing situations before, plenty of times, and he had long
lost count of the foolish chances that had nearly gotten him killed in
the line of duty.  But this had been different.  Nothing he had seen
before had prepared him for the feeling of utter helplessness that
had overcome him as he waited for his execution.

It was as close to rape as anything he had ever suffered.

And now, though he felt so alive that even the non-descript faux leather
of the armrest could captivate him, he nonetheless felt the chill of
terror and regret creeping up his spine.

It crept up from his knees as he knelt next to Haley in the cold mud.

The moment Bremmer had produced the tape recorder, Mulder had known the
game was up.  He could only stand and listen as Scully's lovely voice
and his own condemned him to death.

And now he could only kneel there in the chill, watching the weak sun
dance on the water, as the New Spartans decided how they would dispose
of him.  He hoped it would be quick, and clean.

Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn, I'm not ready to die.  Not now.  Not like
this.  He would have run, would the effort not have been so pathetically
hopeless.

"Mulder?"  He must have made a sound.  Scully had turned to face him, a
frown crinkling her forehead.

"I'm okay, Scully," he heard himself say.  I am not okay, he thought.
"Just need rest."

Mulder felt some of her attention go back to the road.  He closed his
eyes again.

"We've made some decisions," Bremmer rasped in his ear.

That didn't sound good.

Mulder looked over at Haley, saw Bremmer set a packet of car keys on his
head, telling him to get out of there, not to show his face again.  His
heart swelled in a moment of wild hope.  They're letting him go, he
thought.  Maybe...

"On your feet."  Bremmer's voice killed the thought half-formed.

Mulder felt the sudden urge to urinate.  "I don't need a car."  His
voice sounded inane.  "You can call me a cab, that would be fine."

The skin-head's hands made a garrote of Mulder's collar, dragging him
upright.  Stand up, Mulder, said a disdainful voice inside him.  You're
supposed to be an FBI agent.  At last, his legs stabilized.

"Let's go," said Bremmer.

"Go where?" Mulder heard his voice catch.  He clamped down on himself.
You're going to die, Mulder, try to do it with some semblance of
dignity.  The voice in his head sneered at him.

Bremmer was saying something about witnessing the murder of a federal
officer.  Mulder spoke to the skin-head behind him, tried to sound
light-hearted.  "Hear that?"  It wasn't working.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."  Mulder could hear the man grin
odiously over his shoulder.

Then the walk began.  Mulder forced his legs to move, forward through
the wooden framework and hanging plastic shreds.  Like prayer flags, he
thought, prayer flags for robots -- a fitting place to die, in an insane
sort of way.

He wondered if they would find him.  Not for a while, probably.  No way
these bastards would just leave him here.  Hell, there was no telling
what they would do.  Maybe they would dismember his corpse, and some
coroner someday would wind up puzzling over his femur and tibia,
wondering where the rest of him was.

The plastic thundered in the soft breeze around him.  His blood rang in
his ears.  I wonder if part of me will wind up in Daytona Beach.

The dismemberment capital of America, one of his instructors had said
years ago.

You're losing it, Mulder, said the voice.

He felt adrenaline course through him.  He wanted to run, but couldn't
seem to take the first step, not that it would have mattered.  The
skin-head would have him down before he took two strides.

I don't want to die.

"Stop here," said Bremmer.

"We're here," said Scully.  Mulder stared at her.  She had stopped the
car in front of his apartment building.  She looked like an angel.

He sighed heavily.  "Okay...come up for a minute?"  He did not want to
be alone.  

Scully looked thoughtful, nodded.  "I want to make sure you're okay."

"I'll be alright," he said, climbing out of the car.  She was at his
side a moment later.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs," she said.  Mulder followed her, found
that he was leaning on her as she led him inside and upstairs to his
door.  He propped himself on the frame as she found his key from among
her own.  He fumbled momentarily for his own keyring, suddenly unsure of
its whereabouts, then desisted as his fingers touched cool metal in one
of his pockets.

Scully was already opening the door.  She took his arm again and led him
within, guiding him to his couch.

"You need sleep, Mulder," she said, sitting him down.  "You've been
under a lot of stress."

He half-laughed, half-coughed.  "Don't I know it," he said.

She regarded him closely.  "I'll get you some water," she said, slipping
away toward the kitchen.

Mulder watched the motes dancing in the beam of fading sunlight cast
through the apartment window.  He breathed deeply, savoring the peculiar
scent of his place, and then reached down to tug at his laces, yanking
off his boots and heaving them into a corner.  They landed with a slap
on the wooden floor. 

Scully was in front of him again, guiding his hands to the glass she had
brought for him.  He sipped from it, wishing for a moment that it were
bourbon instead.  He pushed that thought aside too and fumbled for the
bottle of aspirin that was a fixture on the end table by the couch.

Scully sat on the coffee table in front of him, placing a hand on his
knee.  "What happened, Mulder?"  She lowered her gaze briefly.  "I was
worried about you."  Her voice fell to a near whisper as her eyes
returned to his.  "You don't seem like yourself."

"What happened?"  He laughed sickly once more.  "I robbed a bank," he
said.  "Then I watched some psycho kill a man just for the fun of it."
He stared at his feet.  "Couldn't do a damned thing."

"That wasn't your fault Mulder."  Scully's hand tightened on him
slightly.  "Don't blame yourself for it."

As usual, she could sense his distress, Mulder realized.  And as usual,
she was searching for some way to help.  She's always here for me, he
thought.

He looked down, shook his head.  "I don't really.  Still, it doesn't
sit very well, does it?"  Scully did not answer.

What would you do if she weren't here, Mulder?  His contemptuous
alter-ego had returned.  You'd have gone over the edge by now, no doubt
about it.

"After the bank," Scully said carefully.  "What happened then?"

Mulder looked up at her.  "Bremmer had a tape -- of us.  Here.  Talking
about Haley."  She paled.  "Yeah, that's how I felt," he said.  "I was
sure they were going to kill me."

Scully started at that, and he realized he had said it to her before.
"No, I mean it this time.  I was certain."  He set the empty water glass
on the table next to her.  He heard himself tell her what had happened,
then.  He spoke simply, reciting the unadorned facts, but he sensed
that she perceived far more.  Her eyes were bright with compassion.

And he was back in the surreal forest of frame and plastic, looking
over his shoulder at his killer.

"Down on your knees," he said.  "Hands behind your back."

Mulder stared long at Bremmer, looking for something, anything in his
lupine features.  But there was nothing there.  His eyes were empty.

Mulder knelt.  So this is the place, he thought.  This is where I die.
He wondered if Scully would be the one to find him.

Scully.  Oh, God, he thought.  I never told you.

He cursed himself, guilt and terror and regret assailing him all
together, clawing at his composure.  He felt the almost sexual glee of
the skin-head standing above him, felt the emptiness of the spot where
Bremmer stood behind him.  And he felt the hollow feeling of a road not
taken.

All these years with Scully, and he had never had the courage to tell
her what she meant to him.  He had just strung her along, clinging to
the ties between them but pushing her away whenever she got too close.
He had relied on her devotion to ensure that she would follow him into
whatever straits he led her, no matter what price she had to pay as a
result.  At times, on his own terms, he had pushed the limits of their
intimacy, but not once had he closed the final distance between them,
never had he returned her devotion in the measure she deserved.  And in
about 10 seconds, when he would be lying with whatever was left of his
face planted in the midst of bone and blood and brains, it would be too
late to change any of that.

The click of the round being chambered shattered the silence around him.

Mulder closed his eyes, felt the maw of the pistol behind his head.  His
ears were ringing again, his chest tightening in panic.  He fought to
control his breathing, fought the urge to pant.

Fought not to plead.

He almost lost it, but then settled into a strange calm.  And she was
there with him.  At the end, she was there, a perfect image drawn from
his perfect memory.  'Mulder...'  Her voice caressed his mind.

'Dana,' he breathed...

The gun roared behind his skull.

And he was alive, the skin-head falling next to him.

Mulder lurched forward, swallowing fiercely against his need to vomit.

And she was there with him, on the couch, her hand behind his shoulder.
He felt his hands trembling over his face, felt his body quaking in
reaction.

A dry sob heaved in his chest.

"Mulder..."  Her hand took one of his, drawing it gently from his face.
His eyes sought hers, let them bring him back to himself.  Calm returned
to him.

It had been just too close this time, he thought.  He had to say
something.  He could not again risk checking out without having had the
courage to tell her how he felt -- to tell her she was the hope of his
love.

"Scully..." he began.  "There's something more I have to tell you."

She waited, one russet eyebrow arched slightly, and Mulder found that,
though his mind raced with what he wanted to say, the words would not
come.  I have to tell you that the reason I work 60 hours or more every
week is that I get to spend the time with you.  I have to tell you that
the reason I've spent virtually every night for the last five years by
myself is that I haven't wanted anyone but you with me.

Say something, Mulder, he thought.

He folded both of his hands around hers, tried again.  "Dana," he spoke
quietly, "for a long time, we've been close.  Friends.  Partners."  God,
this sounded stupid.  He almost gave up, but her hand tightened around
his, encouraging him.  He took a deep breath.

"I want to be more than that for you," he said.

Mulder waited, staring nervously into the intense blue of her gaze, and
saw comprehension there.

And acceptance.

Something to build on, he thought.  The red tide of his unrest finally
began to recede.  He drew breath to speak again, but she silenced him
with her fingertips, and then leaned in close, her sea wind essence
washing over him.

Her lips caressed his cheek.  The kiss was chaste and gentle, yet it
shocked into awareness every fiber of his being.  Her arms tightened
around him for a moment, inciting in him a joyous pizzicato, and then
she was laying him back on the couch, standing up to draw a blanket over
him.

"Sleep now," Scully said.  Her fingertips glided along his face.  "I'll
be here."

Mulder closed his eyes and at last felt himself relax.

He knew she would be.

**********************************************************************
[end]