"Resurgam" 

by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)  
 
RATING: PG 
 
CLASSIFICATION: SRA (but please see notes below) 
 
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully struggle to come to terms with an  
"accident" that threatens to change their lives for ever, unaware  
that the danger is still far from over.  
 
***** 
 
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and its characters belong to Chris Carter,  
1013 and Fox and I use them without permission but without profit. 
 
TIMELINE: This story takes place in a near-future when the various  
inconvenient fourth season threats to our heroes' health have been  
resolved, somehow. 
 
NOTES: A note on the classification. This story does merit an R  
classification as I do take the plunge into MSR territory.  
However, this is first and foremost an angst story. The "romance"  
is NOT Romance, in any usual sense of the word. No hearts and  
flowers, certainly. There is also an element of action-adventure  
in here, though the emphasis is on character. 

THANKS to Rebecca Rusnak for beta reading and debating character
issues and motivations. Thanks also to Andrew who has always read
and encouraged, though I always forget to thank him.
 
***** 
 
Hindsight brings wisdom, but there can be no going back. What's  
done is done, leaving only the bleeding torment of regret for  
words spoken rashly, for words left unsaid. 
 
Dana Scully would always regret that night. Just one word - that's  
all it would have taken. One word. 
 
She hadn't said it. 
 
"Mulder." It had been a sigh of resignation, speaking his name  
before even hearing his voice. It was always him - always, now. He  
had taken over her life, consumed it, until there was no-one but  
him. At that moment, she had _minded_. 
 
"Scully. I'm on to something here." Excited. No guilt at heading  
off without a message, at calling her long after dark, relying on  
her being in, waiting. 
 
"It's late, Mulder." She'd turned away, faked a yawn. She had been  
worried about him, of course, but at that moment there had been  
only annoyance.  
 
"I...." His voice had faltered, softened. "I'm sorry, Scully.  
Something came up. I didn't think. I...." 
 
"No." His apology had honed her anger. "You don't, do you?" 
 
"I'm sorry, Scully. I...." He'd cleared his throat - a nervous  
gesture. Something he always did before lying, too, she'd reminded  
herself. "I want you to see this with me." It had come out in an  
awkward rush. "We're.... we're partners." 
 
"It's a bit late to remember that, Mulder." Nearly midnight. She'd  
watched the second hand, focusing on his selfishness. She had  
forgiven him too easily, too often.  
 
"Come out here tomorrow, Scully. We can do this together. Please." 
 
She'd hesitated for only a second, caught by the tone of his  
voice, the lack of his usual humour, his usual awkward edging away  
from emotion. There had been something different there - something  
new.  
 
But then there had been the long dark vigil by the phone, and the  
fear that she could never tell him about, and the imposition, and  
then the.... the _smothering_.  Too much. 
 
"Good-night, Mulder." 
 
Just one word, and that a word she hadn't said. 
 
Afterwards, she would always wonder if she could have stopped it  
right there. 
 
_If_.... 
 
***** 
 
"Is he dead?" 
 
Footsteps crunching on the gravel. Damn him. Damn him for making  
her _walk._ Damn him for leaving her with a son _he_ had wanted.  
Damn him for making the world blur and double before her eyes,  
even after all this time. 
 
"Is he dead, Mom?" 
 
Theresa Wilkinson dashed her hand across her eyes, roughly. She  
turned away, blinked into the rich blue of the darkening sky.  
There were fingers of gold in the west, but not for her. 
 
"Mom!" 
 
The voice was too high, shrill. He'd smiled when the nurse had  
told him it was a boy - smiled, and still he had left them. _She_  
had wanted a girl. Arm in arm with a teenage daughter, strong  
against men. Her eyes misted with the vision of a future that was  
not to be. 
 
"Mom!" 
 
A note of fear this time. He had strength, for a seven year old,  
pulling at her arm with sticky fingers.  
 
"What?" 
 
She turned her head slowly, softening her face as she did so. He  
wasn't a bad child, despite his father, despite the dashed hopes  
of her youth.  
 
"There's a _dead_ man, Mom." He straightened his shoulders, eyes  
wide in false bravado. He had a child's fascination with the idea  
of death, a child's fear of its reality. His finger shook as he  
pointed. 
 
"Oh!" A sharp intake of breath, of shock. Her rebuke for his  
imagination, half angry, half affectionate, died on her lips.  
 
The man's hand reached out from the undergrowth, a frozen attitude  
of pleading. Dried blood marred his pale face. She could see no  
movement from here, and as she closed the distance between them  
she could see no movement still. 
 
"He's dead." A hand reached for her skirt, clinging, scared.  
"Isn't he, Mom?" 
 
She needed to reassure, but she was powerless to say the words.  
Let one parent tell him the truth, always. She had resolved that  
once, and intended never to break that resolution. 
 
She crouched down, wet grass brushing her legs. She was intensely  
aware of every nuance of the feel of it, as if focusing on the  
moist prickle of the undergrowth could somehow ensure that the  
man, simply by not being in her mind, did not exist. Her hand was  
poised before his face, frozen, but she _couldn't_ touch him. 
 
"Mom!" Small and unashamedly a child, now. "Do something, Mom." 
 
It was almost fierce, the glance she threw at him. Her stomach was  
hollow. She was no more suited to this that he was, but she _had_  
to be.  
 
"Are you okay?" A stupid, stupid question, in a faltering voice,  
as if the words could make a reality. "Sir? Are you okay?" 
 
And she touched him, and he moved. 
 
"Do you need help?" Her son's fingers were white as he gripped her  
skirt, this sudden unexpected life more terrifying than a death  
that had been at least expected, prepared for. "Are you okay?" 
 
The man groaned, a sound of pure pain. He moved his head, one way  
then the other, his face twisted with the effort. Then slowly, oh  
so slowly, he opened his eyes. 
 
Unexpected tears choked her throat. She had no words, but spoke  
her comfort with a soft touch on his forehead, a soft flick of his  
hair. She would remember it with horror, later, when hindsight  
gave the knowledge of the sort of man he _could_ have been. Call  
an ambulance, stay away, and never get involved. That was the safe  
thing to do - the inhuman thing to do. 
 
And so she touched him. 
 
He coughed, licked his lips with the effort of finding words. He  
blinked. He had beautiful eyes. 
 
"Sc.... Scully?"  
 
***** 
 
The dull tapping sound of Scully's anger. 
 
I turn my face away - a useless gesture, now, perhaps, but maybe  
not so useless. She can't see me. I am at a disadvantage when she  
can read me. I can deduce her feelings, but it's not the same. 
 
She sighs, and the tapping stops. She is clenching her hands on  
the steering wheel now. I can _feel_ the tension, although I try  
to tune it out, to concentrate on the rush of the road beneath the  
wheels and the smell of the sea. 
 
"Mulder." A sigh, not really spoken. "T...." 
 
Talk to me. Yes, Scully, I know. But what could we talk about? How  
can you know what it's like. I know you're here only from pity and  
some misplaced sense of guilt. 
 
But isn't that _my_ monopoly, Scully? You said that once, saying  
in a moment of anger what you have always thought. "Stop blaming  
yourself, Mulder. It's selfish. It's almost arrogant. Things  
happen, Mulder. You are not the cause of everything. You're not  
that important...." 
 
Or was that someone else - the imaginary Scully who is my  
conscience? My conscience speaks in Scully's voice. Tell that to a  
psychiatrist. 
 
"Do we go left here, Mulder?" Her voice cuts in, but there is a  
waver in her calm. It is too late to pretend everything is normal,  
even for Scully.  
 
"How should I know?" I snap, then realise. She has caught me.  
Reacting to her presence. An exchange. 
 
The sunlight on my cheek is warm with the smell of summer. The  
smells bring memories almost worse than the present. I blink away  
tears, knowing it is too soon for them. A test is coming, and I  
could still pass. 
 
The car slows, then turns. Too fast, though. The movement makes me  
lean, pulls me towards Scully. I don't pull away. We are close to  
our destination now, and the weak part of me needs her strength  
for what is to come. Why here, of all places. Why here? 
 
"You okay with this, Mulder? Really?" A quick touch on my hand. "I  
know this place has memories for you."  
 
That's my Scully, reaching into my thoughts, seeing into my fears,  
_talking_ about things. My reaction has encouraged her. She is  
tenacious. _I_ would have given up days before, rejected and  
frozen out, scared of getting hurt. Her tenacity annoys me and  
touches me at the same time. I reject her help, yet need her  
still. And she stays.... 
 
I don't deserve it. I don't want it. I don't want to _need_ it. 
 
"Mulder? I know your mother swore never to come back here....  The  
memories." A pause, as if awaiting some reply. I remain silent and  
she continues. "If you feel the same.... It's not too late...." 
 
"I'm fine."  
 
What else can I say? There is a tiny crack in my voice. I hope she  
hasn't heard it, but I know she has. I can see her now. She'll be  
sending quick anxious glances towards my face, her eyes troubled  
but so kind. 
 
Her eyes..... God! It's so unfair. I.... God! Her eyes.... 
 
The breeze buffets my face from the open window. Coldness  
evaporates round my eyes. I face it full on, my back to her  
concern. Not pity, Scully. Please not pity. 
 
She is silent. I am sure it costs her to stay silent. I.... I will  
think about that later. 
 
Trees rush past like a chorus of voices whispering words that are  
not for me. How apt. I give a short bark of bitter laughter, then  
blink hard. 
 
Scully's quiet sound is barely perceptible. Just a single  
syllable. She was about to ask me why I laughed, but then  
remembered, stopped. I feel guilt at that, and a rush of warmth,  
but the bitterness is still there. It's all so.... so difficult. 
 
"They would talk about me in the hospital." The warmth wins, and I  
talk. It is the smallest of peace offerings, but maybe the  
beginning. 
 
She doesn't understand. I can hear it. 
 
"They would talk _about_ me, not to me. When they did talk to me,  
they spoke.... like.... this...." Loud. Each word carefully  
enunciated. "I can still hear, Scully. I can still feel. I can  
still think. I just can't...." I swallow hard. I have never said  
it aloud before. "I just can't see." 
 
"I know, Mulder."  
 
Her voice sounds loud in the sudden silence. We are no longer  
moving. We have arrived. I feel a burst of something close to  
panic. It is time. 
 
"Even you did it, Scully." I'm talking fast, rashly. I need a  
little time - a few minutes of safety still in the car. "I heard  
you. I thought you of all people would allow me some.... some  
_dignity_." 
 
She sighs, and I can feel the rising irritation.  For the first  
time I am glad I _can't_ see her face. 
 
"I always tried to talk to you, Mulder." Her voice is measured, as  
if she wants to say something else entirely but is sparing my  
feelings. Pity, again. I will remember it. "You were so shut off  
inside yourself. You were wrapped up in your own feelings.  
You...." 
 
A thump as she hits the steering wheel, but no words. 
 
"Tell me, Scully. Talk about your feelings. Don't spare me."  
Another bitter laugh, throwing her own words back at her, my voice  
twisted with sarcasm. Part of me knows I am treating her  
abominably, but.... God! I can inflict pain as well as feel it. I  
have _some_ power. Through all this, I have been the weak one, the  
protected one, the passive one. This feels _good_. 
 
"Okay, Mulder. I'll talk." Her voice is icy. "For two days you  
wouldn't say a word to anyone. We _tried_ speaking to you,  
including you in discussions about your treatment, but you gave no  
sign of even wanting to hear us. I was...." She wavers, then  
recovers. "I cried over you, Mulder, begging you to talk, but  
you.... You demand to be treated with dignity, Mulder. Well, you  
just try treating others the way you want to be treated." 
 
She has done what I asked. She has talked. Why did I ask? 
 
"You don't have to be here, Scully. You can go home." My burst of  
anger - of cruelty - is gone. I am screaming at her in my mind not  
to leave me. 
 
Silence. I've done it. I've driven her away. Without her I have  
_nothing_. 
 
I fumble at the door handle, desperately. I _will_ fail, and then  
I'll have nothing left to live for and I can....  
 
"Mulder." Her hands close round mine, stilling my impotent  
fingers. "I want to stay. We'll get through this together. We're  
partners, Mulder." 
 
Why did she have to say that? 
 
I pull away from her touch, and this time the door opens. The  
smell of the place assails me, hurting my throat with the  
memories. I thought its power would be gone if I couldn't actually  
see it, but I was wrong. My childhood memories are in the smell,  
and the birds, and the sound of the gravel as Scully rounds the  
car and approaches me. 
 
"Here. Take my arm." 
 
"No!" It is a cry, fiercer than I intend. I sense that I have hurt  
her again, but this time it gives me no pleasure. I have seen the  
future without her. "I need to do this by myself, Scully." Softer,  
this time. I try to turn my face towards her, but perhaps I am  
looking in the wrong direction after all. "Try to understand." 
 
I expected her to push, but she steps back, feet crunching on the  
rough surface. One step, then two. Near enough to catch me, not  
near enough to crowd, just as I wanted. Guilt stabs at me for the  
way I have been treating her. 
 
"Thank you." I think I manage a smile. I am out of practice. 
 
I pull myself to me feet. I am still so weak. Scully told me that  
they beat me very badly, though I scarcely heard her at the time.  
What's a mere beating or two when you're  facing a lifetime of  
blindness? 
 
As I step forward, images crowd my brain, as if overcompensating  
for the lack of visual stimulus. Scully's face, anxious. Samantha  
laughing as she ran from the car to the front door, excited at  
another hot summer at the sea.  
 
Samantha.... I won't.... 
 
I stumble. 
 
The softest of touches brushes my arm, then is gone. I want to  
thank her again, but this needs too much concentration. I hate the  
fact that I _need_ her touch. Ten seconds, without thought -  
that's what this journey should take. 
 
"There's a hole...." She's nervous, unsure whether to tell me,  
whether it counts as helping. "Just ahead. The door's slightly to  
the right." 
 
I don't want your pity, Scully. I don't want to need your help. I  
think these things, but I say nothing. 
 
I am nearly there, and hope rises in me. I wonder if Scully knows  
how much depends on this. If I can make it there unaided, then  
there is hope. If I can't.... 
 
If I can't.... 
 
This time I can not recover my balance. I stumble, flail wildly to  
recover, but I can not _see_. I think I have cut my face on the  
ground. It stings, but I make no attempt to move. 
 
"You mustn't expect too much too soon." Scully tries to be  
comforting, but I can hear the pity there. "The ground is _very_  
uneven. No-one's lived here for years. I nearly fell myself." 
 
Don't lie to me, Scully. Don't patronise me. 
 
"Help me up." All I say, my voice dead. 
 
I have failed. Blind I can do _nothing_. Blind I am useless and  
better dead. Blind is.... is more than I will accept. 
 
"It will be okay, Mulder." Her touch on my face is beautiful. "A  
situation is never beyond hope." 
 
"Yes, it will be okay." I raise my face to the wind and the sun  
that I can not see. "This is only temporary. I will get better. I  
_will_." 
 
I refuse to accept any other future. 
 
***** 
 
She cooked for me, and the smell was almost more than I could  
bear. Mom cooked like that, once. 
 
And now she wants her payment. Once more, she wants answers. 
 
Let it go, Scully. Please. The part of me that wants to sob in the  
safety of her arms wants to beg her stop. It hurts me to think  
about it, Scully. It taunts me, makes me think.... Were there  
choices I could have made - choices that would mean that I could  
see, now? Did _I_ cause this? Please.... 
 
But I can not let her see this.  
 
"I'm tired. I'm going to bed." 
 
She gasps. Maybe I should have used her name. 
 
***** 
 
It is strange how history repeats itself, warped, as if reflected  
in a twisted mirror.  
 
Two single defining moments, twenty five years apart, and both of  
them without memory. To build a quest, a whole life, around an  
instant of.... of absence.  
 
The first time, it was Fox Mulder, basing his life on a single  
moment of light and forgetfulness, desperate to unlock the doors  
of his memory.  
 
The second time it was Dana Scully, but her fire was just as great  
- her fervour.  But the moment of absence was not hers. 
 
And _he_ resisted. 
 
*****  
 
Dana Scully was growing obsessed with the past. 
 
The light was failing, near darkness outside. Scully dug her  
fingers into her eyes, rubbing roughly, even painfully, as if she  
could drive the tiredness from her mind with a touch. Drive the  
tiredness away, and let her see clearly, to understand. 
 
She opened her eyes, letting her gaze fall once more on the  
scattered papers on the desk. The words were out of focus, her  
eyes cloudy with too much searching, but she could almost recite  
them from memory now. She knew there was nothing she had missed,  
but part of her needed to believe that there _was_ something more  
there - a clue. 
 
"Bruising to the wrists...." 
 
The words jumped out at her, suddenly clear through the fog. The  
medical report. She shut her eyes again, wincing involuntarily.  
This, more than anything, was imprinted on her mind, the memory  
hurting her. He had been a whole day in that hospital before they  
had identified him, had let her know - a whole day with the cold  
hands and eyes of the doctors who had written those words - a  
whole day without love. 
 
She blinked hard, suddenly angry with herself. Emotion wouldn't  
solve anything. Be rational, Scully. _Somebody_ did this to him.  
_Think_. 
 
Bruising to the wrists meant restraints - handcuffs. Whatever it  
was it was no accident. Severe bruising over large parts of his  
body from repeated blows. Some internal bleeding that had flared  
up suddenly, unexpectedly, diverting their attention as he'd  
arrived at the hospital. 
 
They had only noticed the blindness when he'd seen her face in  
every footfall, crying out for her into his own darkness. After he  
had found out, he had not cried for her at all. 
 
Prognosis was.... She dashed her hand against her eyes, almost  
roughly. Prognosis was.... unsure. She knew enough to see the  
doubt behind the confident facade of the doctors. They weren't  
even sure what had caused it. 
 
She let out a long breath. She had made it through the facts  
again, calmly, like a scientist. She would collect the data and  
she would.... She would _find_ the bastards who did this to him  
and she would make them pay. She would.... 
 
"No." She spoke the word aloud, the sound strange in the silence  
of the long-empty house. The air was still thick with the smell of  
dust and plastic. 
 
No. Silently this time. No.... She would find the answers. She  
would find out what had happened to Mulder. She had left him alone  
that weekend, refused to join him when he asked. It was her  
_duty_.  
 
It was becoming her obsession. 
 
"Try to remember, Mulder...." Her words, so often repeated over,  
always receiving the same answer. "You took off somewhere. You  
called me..." She would pause, praying for the spark of  
recognition in his face, never seeing it. "There must be something  
there - some clue.  If you just remember where you'd gone, it  
would be a place to start." 
 
"I can't remember." His voice was always leaden, even surly, but  
never any sign of the anguish that she had expected, that first  
time.  
 
"Then there will be other clues. Maybe you told the Lone Gunmen.  
Maybe someone saw the van that.... that dumped you in that town."  
Each time, her encouragement was directed more and more to  
herself, less to him. "We'll find out who did this to you. We'll  
find out _what_ they did to you." 
 
"It doesn't matter," he would mumble, an angry edge to his voice.  
"It won't change anything. Even if we know, I'm still blind." 
 
"But _I_ need to know, Mulder. Allow me that, please." Sometimes  
it was anger, sometimes close to tears. "I want answers." 
 
"I want to see." A bitter laugh. "We can't always get what we  
want,  can we, Scully?" 
 
But this was before - before they had arrived at the summer house.  
When he had fallen, something had changed - something that scared  
her. It was too early to know what. 
 
And so she turned to the past - to something positive she could  
do.  
 
".... tracks show he was thrown from the back of a van. Injuries  
sustained between two and three hours before, suggesting the  
incident took place within two hundred miles...." 
 
She rubbed her eyes again, focusing on the police report, and  
started to think. This place was barely fifty miles from where he  
was found, so they were close, the people who did this thing. They  
were close. 
 
In the next room, Mulder made a soft cry in his sleep. 
 
***** 
 
end of part one 

*****


"Resurgam" part 2 of 10

by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)  
 
*****

Daylight. I can feel it, soft on my face, warm. 
 
I used to seek the darkness, willing wrapping myself in it,  
embracing it. The light never fully penetrated my apartment, and  
blinds shut out the sun.  
 
Never again. When I can see again, I will bathe myself in  
sunlight. I will live for what I have, not for what is lacking. I  
will be.... I will be happy.  
 
I can hear Scully's breathing. I know she is watching me, taking  
advantage of me. My thoughts drive me to take the initiative, to  
stop the hope becoming fear. I speak, my voice hoarse from all too  
recent sleep. 
 
"Why did we come here?" 
 
"Mulder." A weary sigh. The bed shifts beneath me and I realise  
she has been sitting beside me all along.  
 
"Why did we come here, Scully?"  There is an edge to my voice now.  
Her proximity makes me feel uncomfortable, defenceless. I need to  
regain control of my life, and I start by forcing a question. 
 
Pathetic, Mulder. Pathetic. 
 
"Throughout history people have come to the sea to convalesce,  
Mulder." The analytical voice of Doctor Scully. "Fresh air away  
from pollution. And there are fewer dangers here for.... for  
someone in your condition. No stairs. No traffic...." 
 
"Quit lecturing me, Scully". Her voice cuts off abruptly, as if  
hurt by my tone. I pause, then continue more softly. "Why did we  
come here? You _know_ what this place means to me." 
 
"I asked you. You said it was okay." She is defensive at first,  
but then her voice falters. "I just wanted to help you." 
 
Oh God! What have I done? 
 
"I'm fine, Scully." I try to touch her hand, but I can't find it.  
I will not lower myself to searching for it. "I'm okay with being  
here." 
 
A lie, of course. It hurts like hell, memories in every sound and  
smell, but then I have never been one to run away from my demons.  
I have always faced the things that most cause me pain. I owe  
Samantha nothing less.  
 
"Are you sure, Mulder?" A pause. "It seemed convenient, that's  
all. Close to...." 
 
"My mother?" The sheet is twisted between my fingers. I hold it so  
tight it hurts. "You're hoping that she'll come along and take me  
off your hands - let you off the hook? Don't hold your breath,  
Scully." 
 
Even now, my face stings with the memory. It was something close  
to hate, what I saw in her eyes. Whatever happens, I doubt I will  
see my mother smile at me again. 
 
"I don't want to have you taken off my hands." A little voice.  
This is not Scully - not the Scully I know. What is happening  
here? Have _I_ done this? 
 
"I don't want your pity."  
 
I know what I am doing to here, but I can't stop. I can't let her  
get close, not to this. It's for her own good. 
 
Her breathing is ragged and irregular. 
 
"But it won't come to that." I face her suddenly. I even smile,  
suddenly desperate to hear her happy again. I am a mess. I need to  
hurt her, to prove my power, but her happiness is the most  
important thing in my life. 
 
"Why?" A note of fear, now. "You're not.... you're not going to  
_do_ anything?" 
 
"I'm going to get better." I say it with perfect resolve,  
unwavering. "I'm going to see again. The doctor said it was a  
possibility." 
 
She is silent. Something wet drops on my hand. 
 
"I can't live like this. I _will_ get better." I laugh, though it  
sounds more desperate than I hoped. "Dark glasses don't suit me.  
They're for the bad guys, remember?" 
 
Her hand touches my cheek. "I think they suit you just fine,  
Mulder." She sounds almost shy.  
 
I almost lean into her touch, craving it, but that is too much  
like acceptance. "Are you saying you want me to stay blind,  
Scully?" 
 
I regret it too late. I should have tried a joke - the old method.  
It lets me hide.  
 
"Of course not." Her touch falls away as if she has been burnt. I  
want it back, though I know I was the one who drove it away. "But  
it's not the end. If you.... if you don't recover....." She  
swallows. "There are so many things blind people can use, now.  
They can live almost normal lives." 
 
Normal. Yeah. Without my work. Without my quest. Without my  
partner. Alone, each loss is unthinkable. Together....  God!  
Together.... 
 
"But I'll see again, Scully." I know my voice is desperate,  
pleading, but I can do nothing about it. "Why bother? I'll get  
better. It's just a matter of time." 
 
"Mulder." She clears her throat. Her awkwardness is almost  
tangible. "It is still a possibility, but.... I hate to have to  
say this, Mulder, but I have to. You mustn't get your hopes up. We  
should at least be prepared for this to be.... the start of  
something new in your life." 
 
"Don't give me that, Scully." I really am angry now. They _all_  
try to protect me, now. From the age of four _I_ have been the  
strong one, the protector. I won't run away from the truth. "It  
would be the end. There would be nothing." 
 
"Mulder...." 
 
"There would be nothing. I wouldn't find Samantha." I can not tell  
her my chief fear. This, to my surprise, my guilt, is only second. 
 
"I can look for her. I'll find her." 
 
"She wouldn't know you." I see a scared little girl shying away  
from the stranger who reaches out her hand to her, whose smile  
could mask an evil intent. Even in those innocent days she had  
been taught well.  
 
"How do you know she would know you - that you would recognise  
her? You're not twelve any more and she's not eight." 
 
Hit me where it hurts, Scully, why don't you? 
 
"But I'm family." Her words make it hard for me to speak, and they  
come out choked. "I lost her. I should be the one to find her.  
I...." 
 
"Why are you so damned negative, Mulder?" Her explosion startles  
me, making me shrink back against the pillow, turning my face  
quickly to the wall. I don't want her anger to see my pain.  
"You're decided there's no hope and you're going out of your way  
to make sure there _is_ no hope. Why do you dismiss _anything_  
positive?" 
 
"There is nothing positive." I am staring into the darkness again,  
my voice leaden. "There is nothing left. It's not you. You can't  
understand." 
 
"Then make me understand." She is quiet again. Her moods have been  
mercurial, even frightening. "Talk to me about how you feel. I  
know it's not me, but I want to bear as much of this as I can. You  
just...." She sighs. "You just make it so difficult." 
 
But how can I talk? I have needed so badly to protect her, these  
past five years. I hate to be so weak, now - so needy. 
 
And, in protecting her, have I not been protecting myself? I have  
walls. Scully has weakened the bricks, but still they have held. 
 
If I talk now - really talk - I will have no walls left. I will be  
naked before her, utterly defenceless. And then, when she  
leaves..... 
 
But I will get better. The darkness seemed so close, so  
frightening, that I forgot that certainty. 
 
"I'll get better, Scully. I want to get dressed now. Leave me,  
please." 
 
The walls stand, although my fears batter at them from within.  
 
***** 
 
She had dreamt, last night, of a fish. Its scales had reflected  
all colours, beautiful, and she had knelt in the grass, hands  
outstretched in the crystal water. It had passed, once, twice,  
tickling her fingers with a swish of its tail, but, though she had  
grasped, though she had _almost_ caught it, it had slipped away,  
still free. 
 
Dana Scully had cried as she'd sunk back on her heels, exhausted,  
despairing. She'd known she would try again. 
 
***** 
 
She had asked and asked, and still he had slipped away. His face  
had been all pain, but still he hadn't _talked_. 
 
Her obsession was growing a comfort to her. Mulder was all  
colours, all emotions, and unreachable. A minute with him was a  
strain. But the past, the mystery.... It was facts. It was  
analysis. It was something she knew she could do. 
 
It was the bruising that held her this time. Why? She gripped the  
medical report, though her mind was on the memory of his poor  
battered body in the hospital bed. His every injury was branded on  
her mind. 
 
Bruises... She frowned, wondering. Why? It was not their style.  
They hadn't at Ellen's airbase. They had taken his memory, and all  
else was frivolous. He had nearly _died_ from the injuries this  
time. Why take the trouble of blinding him, of erasing his memory,  
if they were going to kill him?  
 
Many reasons, of course, but.....? 
 
Was she on the wrong track? Was the truth simpler and yet more  
senseless? 
 
They were silent, the men who flashed into her imagination. They  
had no need of words. Their boot-clad feet spoke with all the  
eloquence they lacked. 
 
He was bleeding, face twisted in pain, but he fought - of course  
he fought. His fist lashed out, and one of his assailants crashed  
to the ground, a hoarse cry forced from his mouth. 
 
"Cuff him." The words were punctuated with gasps. "You'll pay for  
that." 
 
There were three of them, maybe four. Mulder had known that, of  
course - known it when he went in, gun drawn, badge raised high,  
and challenged them.  
 
"Freeze! FBI!" He always spoke with the authority of a man with  
half a dozen agents at his back, even when he was alone, facing  
death. "Stop right there!" 
 
They were not even his case. He had been investigating lights in  
the sky, following the rumours of their presence, oblivious to the  
parts of town they took him to. He had never been one to pass by  
something suspicious. He would never understand, but she saw it as  
noble - and stupid. 
 
And now he was silent, unconscious. Blood gushed from his head,  
the injury sucking out his memory, even his sight? 
 
"We've killed him!" They were barely grown up, she saw now -  
frightened boys. "Shit! This wasn't supposed to happen." 
 
Cruel fingers, already marred with his blood, reached for his  
neck. "He's alive." It was a sigh of relief. "Get him into the  
van. We'll dump him somewhere. They'll find him. It'll be okay." 
 
But not for Mulder. Red anger flared inside her and she clenched  
her fist, as if longing to feel their flesh impact against her  
knuckles. It might have been okay, but not for Mulder. He lived,  
but they had stolen his life. 
 
She sighed suddenly, physically shaking herself back to reality.  
 
It hadn't been like this. No head injury - not a bad one. It was  
deeper, more insidious, and more dangerous - an ongoing war, not a  
momentary mistake. It was an enemy that could still threaten him  
with more, with worse. 
 
But she would find them first. 
 
***** 
 
I have never been alone. Never. I have lived my whole life with  
the voices, with the faces.  
 
Here, outside in the wind, outside in this place, they are always  
loudest, and this time loudest of all. The wind weaves through my  
hair, and the voices claim their usual pound of flesh. There is  
nothing to _see_ - nothing to distract myself from the cruel taunt  
of memory. 
 
"Fox! Come with me, Fox! I want to go to the cliff and Mom says  
you've got to come with me." 
 
I have to frown to see her as she was then, aged six in a yellow  
dress. She has been frozen in my mind - frozen into a little girl  
with scared eyes, a little girl in a night-gown. She is an icon to  
me. I forget, sometimes, that she was ever real.  
 
Afterwards is more real. Sad memories erase the happy ones that go  
before. 
 
"Dad?" My own voice, gruff, nearly broken. "I'm just going out for  
a walk...." 
 
Please, Dad. Come with me, Dad. Talk to me, Dad. _Notice_ me, Dad. 
 
"Dad?" 
 
The wind is the rustle of his newspaper, and the waves below  
whisper like the amber liquid in his glass. He doesn't look up.  
Sometimes I wish he would hit me or rage at me. His coldness  
freezes my heart. 
 
"Dad!" Shouting, now. I am too big to cry. Crying upsets Mom, and  
still _he_ doesn't notice. 
 
"Do what you like." Still he doesn't look up. "I don't care." 
 
And now I have returned. And now I have failed. The wind buffets  
my face, suddenly cold now. Somewhere, a bird cries its mournful  
lament. 
 
I want Scully, who can silence the voices. I want Scully. I  
want.... I want to see. I want to be happy. I want.... 
 
"Hi." 
 
The voice is soft, barely there at all. It _sounds_ real, but  
memory is ever the trickster. I face the sea, not turning, not  
saying anything. 
 
"Hi." 
 
Louder now. I know who it sounds like, but that can not be. The  
first ache of fear starts deep inside me. The voice sounds real -  
a voice from outside not from my memory. God! If it's.... My mind.  
Sanity.... I have lost so much. I can't.... 
 
"Hi." 
 
For an instant I teeter wildly on the brink of panic, of insanity,  
but then the voice speaks again. The words mean nothing, but the  
timbre of the voice - the intonation, the pronunciation..... This  
is _not_ Samantha. It is a real girl, and I still have my mind....  
I still have my mind. 
 
"Hi." Even that one syllable seems punctured by my deep breaths of  
relief. 
 
"What's your name?" She steps up close, speaking with the  
artlessness of a child. Something brushes against my hand. 
 
I hesitate, wondering if I have the courage to tell her. Her voice  
is so very like Samantha's. The name "Fox" on her lips would be at  
once a comfort and a bitter torture. "Mulder," I say, at last. I  
feel strangely ashamed at that. 
 
"My name is.... Why don't you guess it?" She giggles archly,  
sounding older than her years. "I hate my name. I let my friends  
chose what they want to call me." 
 
Is she alone? Fear, again, and anger at my inability to know. I  
wrap my arms around my body, pulling away from too much interest  
in the girl. Even our short exchange could be misinterpreted by  
someone watching, not hearing. 
 
God! I _hate_ being blind. I _hate_ this life. I _hate_..... 
 
"Come on!" Somehow, unexpectedly, I want to smile. I _know_ that  
tone. I can almost see her pouting lip, her frown, her stamping  
foot. The face I see is Samantha's. "Hurry up! Chose me a name." 
 
I glance round again. No anxious voices calling for her. Surely it  
can do no harm? Something about her draws me. It is the first time  
since.... since _it_ happened that I have had a conversation that  
is _not_ about my past, my future, my.... my blindness. 
 
"What do your friends call you?" I am buying time, feeling the  
pressure of this particular choice. I want her to smile at the  
name I choose, but I can see no further than one particular name -  
the only name for a girl like this, and the only the name she  
_must_ not have. 
 
"Lots of things." Her voice swells with pride, but I think there  
is some sadness there, too - some regret. I can read things in  
voices now that I could only imagine when I could see. "I was  
Alice for a while. I liked that. Sarah, once. They're all nicer  
than my real name." She paused, as if thinking, and when she  
continued her voice was dreamy. "I had a friend, once, but she  
moved away. I liked her name. She was called Samantha...." 
 
I scream my desperate denial in my head, but I say nothing.  
Already, I feel protective of her, reluctant to hurt her with what  
she would only see as anger at her words.  
 
"Margaret," I say suddenly, thinking of the warm smiles and so  
obvious love of a family I have always envied, more so now than  
ever. "Meg," I add, quickly, to disguise the connection. suddenly  
afraid that Scully will find out, will realise. I do not want her  
pity.  
 
"Meg." She says it slowly, running it around on her tongue. I can  
hear her triumphant smile. "Meg. I like it." 
 
"Where do you live, Meg?" I like it too. 
 
"Oh, around. I come here a lot. The birds come here, and the  
flowers. It's because no-one lives here. I like looking down at  
the sea. Have you just moved here?" 
 
I laugh, and it feels _good_. It's as if my naming her has won me  
her trust, and there is no stopping her tongue. "Slow down, Meg.  
One at a time." The laughter fades and I make myself sombre. Her  
safety comes first. "Where do you live? Do your parents know  
you're here?" 
 
"I told you. I come here a lot." An awkward laugh. "No-one minds.  
My den's at the edge of the cliff in the long grass. Shall I show  
you?" 
 
She's lying. Once, I could have read it in her face, but now I  
hear it in her voice. There is some sadness here, and maybe  
something more. I must tread carefully. God, I wish I could _see_  
her. 
 
"Do _you_ mind?" She is worried now, mistaking my silence. "If you  
live here now.... Aren't I allowed here now?" The laughter is gone  
from her voice, and it quivers with anxiety. "I like coming here.  
I like _you_, Mulder. All my friends have gone away and I get so  
lonely sometimes. You'll be my friend, won't you?" 
 
"Of course you can come her, Meg." I smile in the direction of her  
voice. I half reach out towards her, but let it fall, remembering.  
"I'll be your friend, but you should check with your parents  
first." 
 
"Oh, you won't hurt me. I know all about the bad men, but you're  
_nice_. I can tell." Her voice is firm with an unshakeable faith  
in me. "Nothing bad will happen when I'm with you. You'll make  
sure of that." 
 
Her words are like water to a dying man. To Scully, to everyone,  
to myself, I am weak, useless.... _nothing_. In an instant she has  
made me strong again - the protector. I know that I will live for  
another moment like this. 
 
"Do bad things happen to you sometimes, Meg?"  
 
I am bitterly ashamed of the hope I suddenly feel. I want.... Part  
of me _wants_ her to say yes. I have spent my whole life searching  
for someone I _can_ save. 
 
"Bad things happen to everyone, Mulder." Her words are not those  
of a child. "Bad things have happened to you." 
 
My breath catches in my throat. Am I that broken that even a child  
can see? A breath of cold air passes over my face, but there is  
nothing else. Even the gulls are silent, waiting. 
 
"Yes," I say, at last. It is a croak more than a word. "Bad things  
have.... have happened to me, but I'm going to get better. It's  
not.... Whatever...." I swallow, unable to speak. There is so much  
I want to tell her, but caution holds me back. This is _not_  
Samantha. "Your.... bad things will get better," I finish,  
awkwardly. 
 
Silence. I listen for the sound of tears, but there is not even  
that. Her desertion stabs me with a sudden unexpected pain. 
 
"Meg?" 
 
Nothing. Where....? Oh, I am so _useless_ like this.  
 
"Meg?" There is a desperate edge to my voice - one I have heard  
too often in my voice recently. I felt no fear when she was here.  
"Come back whenever you like...." 
 
Please.  
 
I am alone, though not alone. The voices..... 
 
I thought it would be Scully to stop them. 
 
***** 
 
It reached into her sleep, though it was not sleep, not really,  
but closer to a waking hallucination. She was _in_ the dream, yet  
out of it, able to think logically, to ask questions. She could  
have pulled out at any time. 
 
She remained unmoving, head slumped forward onto her scattered  
papers, face turned away from the light. She remained unmoving,  
and watched. 
 
_It_ came so slowly. He hadn't even noticed it at first....  
 
"He?" Even in the dream state she could pause, confused. She was  
seeing Mulder, seeing him though her eyes as she normally did, yet  
she _was_ him, too. She was at once part of him, and detached. 
 
But "he".... "He" seemed right. She could see through his eyes,  
but she couldn't reach his emotions. Even in a dream his walls  
still stood firm and unassailable. 
 
In the dream - the vision - it manifested itself as a slowly  
disappearing light. She saw his memory as snapshots, each one  
darker than the last. 
 
Snap. Rubbing his eyes from a cloudy file, looking up at her hair,  
without its usual shine, and blurry round the edges. 
 
Snap. Lying on the floor, curled up against a pain that was still  
nothing compared with the _fear_. He hadn't _seen_ it. He had  
tripped over it, but he hadn't seen it.  
 
Snap. One, two, three, four.... Counting steps. Four from the door  
to the desk, reach up to shoulder height and feel the remembered  
thickness of the book she had asked for - the book he could no  
longer read. 
 
And the rocking..... 
 
Head in hands, lips moving in desperate plea. "Let me see, let me  
see, let me see.... It will get better. New glasses.... Please....  
What about carrots....? Please.... Just a few days away and it  
will.... Don't let it get bad enough for Scully to know...." 
 
"No!" 
 
She was awake in an instant - awake and shaking. His scream....  
God! His scream, in her dream, when he _knew_. To wake up in the  
night and to reach for the light, and for it to make no  
difference, though the heat from the bulb burnt his hand. 
 
Was that it? Had he known? 
 
She rubbed her eyes, but the image wouldn't leave her. His evasion  
when she asked him what had happened.... His refusal to talk. 
 
"Come out here tomorrow, Scully. We can do this together. Please." 
 
His last words came to her once more, and for the first time  
without guilt. His voice had been so strange, almost pleading. As  
if he'd _known_ something was wrong - that he had needed help -  
but was too.... too _Mulder_ to ask for it. 
 
And then.... 
 
She had to clench her fists until the nails were red on her palms  
before she could envisage _this_ thought - force herself to see  
the image without the emotion. 
 
Mulder, with the last of his failing vision, stumbling to the  
place he'd been investigating, knowing that they would take him,  
hoping that they would kill him. Tears from his eyes that could no  
longer see, smiling as the boots slammed into his stomach, freeing  
him from the pain of losing _everything_. 
 
"Oh, Mulder." 
 
She spoke aloud, and her fists were clenched in anger, this time.  
She walked to the window and leant there, letting the coldness  
press against her brow. He was as far from the house as he could  
be, facing away, his whole posture crying self-absorption. 
 
She hated him for that, sometimes. 
 
***** 
 
end of part two 

*****


"Resurgam" part 3 of 10


*****

"No!" 
 
I am trapped in an ever-lasting nightmare. I jerk awake from  
troubled sleep, but there is no light. The waking darkness is  
worse even than the darkness of sleep.  
 
I can wake up from a nightmare. 
 
This one was true, though - a memory returning to haunt me. I see  
again and again the moment that defines my present, my future. 
 
Darkness. Utter darkness. And the burning of my hand as I hold the  
light bulb and know the truth that I had desperately tried to deny  
for so long. The light was on. The light was on, but I was in  
darkness. 
 
I am blind. I am.... 
 
"Mulder." 
 
Not now, Scully. Not now. Please. Please leave me. 
 
The grass is prickly against my cheek. I try to control my  
breathing, to feign sleep. I used to lie in this spot, once,  
enjoying the soft caress of the sun-warmed wind on my bare chest.  
 
"Mulder. I know you're awake." 
 
My cheek is wet. She mustn't see it. I'm just sunbathing -  
enjoying the fresh air. She need not know any different. 
 
"Mulder. Are you okay?" Her clothes rustle close to my face as she  
crouches down beside me. Her voice is wary, even angry. "Do you  
need me to help you up?" 
 
"No!" I snap, wishing my voice has the force of a slap. "I can do  
this, Scully." 
 
Her breath is close to me as I struggle to sit up, refusing to  
show her the pain it still causes me. Her very presence makes me  
weak - reduces me to the useless invalid that I know I am to her.  
God! I _hate_ her for that, sometimes. 
 
"You okay, Mulder?" There is no touch with her words. I don't.....  
I don't know how this makes me feel. Do I _want_ her to touch me -  
to over-protect me - so it can justify my anger. I can cope with  
anger. It is a _strong_ emotion - puts me in control. 
 
But I say nothing. 
 
Her sigh is deep, but there is a tremor in it. "Mulder?" Nothing.  
"I need to ask you something." A pause. Again, I am silent. "I  
need you to tell me the truth. We're partners, and...." She  
swallows. "We shouldn't have secrets." 
 
Anger flares inside me, unexpected but strangely comforting.  
"Secrets?" I laugh - a harsh sound. "You have taken everything,  
Scully. You tuck me up in bed like a two-year old. You dress me.  
You.... you can hide in the darkness while you watch everything I  
think and there's...." My voice cracks, though I struggle to hold  
onto the anger. "You're taking over my _life_, Scully. I can't  
even _walk_ without you." 
 
I am shaking, my strength drained. The words spill out of control,  
as if they are nothing to do with me. I am speaking from some deep  
emotion I never knew I felt. 
 
"I'm taking over _your_ life?" Every word is slow and measured -  
dangerous. Scully's anger is always cold. "I have taken weeks of  
leave to look after you. You refuse to learn anything to make it  
easier for yourself.  You reject all the help I offer, but cry for  
me in your sleep. You...." 
 
Her words fade out. Even my sleep is not my own. I....  
 
My whole body screams silently. My grief is beyond words. 
 
Then the touch is everything, and it is beautiful, but it hurts,  
too - the fact that I need it hurts.  
 
"Mulder." Her fingertips are cool on my cheeks, but they leave a  
path of confusion. "I'm sorry. I _want_ to be here with you. Never  
doubt that." 
 
She pauses, but I can not speak. 
 
"We need to talk about this, Mulder." She sighs, but without sight  
I have no way of knowing. Angry? Regretful? "We can't go on like  
this. We need to face it head on." 
 
Her words repeat themselves in an agony of worry. "I _want_ to be  
here with you. I _want_ to be here with you, but...."  
 
"No!" It is a gasp of denial. There are black swirls of panic  
inside me and her touch feeds them, showing me what I will lose.  
"Not yet!" 
 
"Okay." Disappointed. "But soon, Mulder. We must talk about this  
soon. If I am to stay with you, I need to know where we...." 
 
"No." 
 
I refuse to listen to this. I'm going to get better. I'm going to  
get better. If I can keep her until then, things will go back. It  
will be as if none of this happened. If we talk, she will leave  
me, I know. 
 
Her touch drops. Without it, I am bereft. When she is close I feel  
pain, but I feel _alive_. 
 
"What did you want to ask me, Scully?" I say, quickly. A question.  
I can deal with that - anchor myself on my control. 
 
"I...." She swallows. Her voice is dull, disappointed. I have let  
her down again, but I had no choice. "I was wondering...." She is  
scared, I can tell. I have so seldom known Scully to be scared.  
"Was this loss of sight gradual? Did you know it was happening,  
and not tell me?" 
 
I can see her face, bright in my imagination. Scully angry is a  
wonderful sight - terrifying, vibrant. Scully unsure is....  
beautiful. She twists at her ear-ring, but her eyes are still  
defiant, always.  
 
"You did?" Warning, now. She has taken my silence as guilt. 
 
I want to assure her that she is wrong - to have her smile at me  
again - but I know she is right to distrust me. I wouldn't have  
told her. I.... I don't know why. 
 
"Tell me about it now, Mulder." There is no intonation in her  
voice. If I could see, would there be tears, or a steely anger,  
disappointment in me? 
 
"I don't know, Scully." I feel again the old familiar panic that  
comes whenever she asks that question. I am fourteen again,  
interrogated about a moment of blankness that is forever lost to  
me. "I could see. Last thing I remember, I could see. Then I was  
in the hospital...." 
 
"Nothing in between?" Her voice rises at the end, almost hopeful.  
She has needed answers on this so badly. Why does she feel hope to  
know my failure? "Do you remember calling me that night?" 
 
I frown, remembering what I wish so devoutly to forget. I have  
forgotten where I was, I have forgotten what it was I had seen,  
but the emotions are still there to hurt me with the contrast with  
what was to be. I was so hopeful, then, knowing that I'd behaved  
badly, but knowing too that my discovery was nothing to me unless  
she was there to see it too. I'd envisaged her smile in a hundred  
ways - the smile on her face when she would join me, when we would  
see it together, when I would _tell_ her. 
 
"No," I say, abruptly. "I don't remember anything." I feign anger,  
knowing _this_ is something I can deal with. "I've _told_ you,  
Scully. It doesn't matter." 
 
I am not ready to talk about it, not yet, maybe not ever. When I  
am well, perhaps..... 
 
We are both silent. My darkness has swallowed up our words, our  
smiles, our... our _everything_.  
 
***** 
 
"Damn him!" 
 
The slamming of the door did nothing to calm her anger. 
 
"Damn him!" 
 
Hot tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them back. Anger, not  
sadness, was what she needed. Tears made her a victim, showed she  
had let him get to her, manipulate her. With anger  she was in  
control, focused. 
 
The words spiralled in her head - a churning mass of words not  
spoken, words that _should_ have been spoken. 
 
"You might not get better, Mulder. You have to face that. We'll  
face it together...." 
 
Why did he still turn away from her voice, when he couldn't see  
her? She frowned, but she knew the answer. Her anger abated, just  
a fraction. 
 
"I won't leave you, Mulder, not unless you want me to. Even if we  
can't work together, I want to be with you. You won't be alone.  
We'll always be partners - friends." 
 
Had he _ever_ listened to what she said - really listened? He  
heard what he expected to hear, as if scared to look further.  
This, he would not believe.  
 
"If we can find out what happened to you...." 
 
She sighed. The room - _her_ room already - was her sanctuary,  
soothing her emotions. Anger flowed from her like water.  
 
There were files on the table - reports neatly numbered, ordered.  
Orderly notes and a blank screen needing filling.  
 
Here was something she _could_ do. 
 
Dana Scully put her back to the light and started to work. 
 
***** 
 
The most inconsequential of things possess the power to hurt, to  
torture. 
 
Birds. 
 
The trees whisper, their shadows cold on my face, and the sound of  
the birds is a memory, almost tangible. I lay here, once, the damp  
grass surrounding me like a fortress against my parents' blank  
stares and the silence of the first summer without _her_ laughter.  
 
A car door slammed. Distant voices. 
 
My lips moved silently. Don't see me, don't see me, don't see me,  
please.... Still in the grass. Don't move, don't breathe. 
 
I closed my eyes, envisaging, hoping. They would drive away,  
silence pressing down like a smothering blanket, eyes never  
wavering from the road. 
 
Who would say it first? Who would notice? Mom, I thought. She  
_did_ sometimes smile at me. "Where's Fox?" A pause, although  
where could I have been hiding? The back seat would have been  
empty. "Go back, Bill. Fox is missing. We can't leave without  
Fox." 
 
Shivering in the grass, waiting, listening. A hum of an  
approaching engine and the cold touch of the late summer air. 
 
"Fox!" She would smile through her relieved tears, holding me in  
her arms, stroking, warm. "I can't believe that we forgot you,  
Fox. I couldn't bear to lose you. I love you so much." 
 
"I'm sorry, Fox." Dad would cough awkwardly, but his words would  
be sincere. "I guess we've been unfair on you. I'm.... I'm sorry."  
He would swallow back his pain and regret. "It takes something  
like this to make you realise what's really important." 
 
We would hold each other, and we would cry. Together. 
 
Together. 
 
The sky darkened. Birds, hundreds of birds, their black wings  
whispering, their voices crying in unison. They swept to the left,  
turned in a single wave, came towards me and above me and around  
me, and the world was nothing but their sound and their darkness  
and their.... their light. 
 
They moved as one. They were together.  
 
At home, I would watch the laughing crowds spilling out of the  
school, always apart, always alone. Every smile hurt me. I had yet  
to build my walls, then - to know that they did not matter, that I  
was happier alone, with no-one close enough to hurt me.  
 
I didn't know that, then. I didn't have that strength. 
 
I cried. As the birds, as one, swept away from me to roost, I  
cried, reaching my hand towards them. My breath was smothered with  
a terrible longing, a grief I couldn't explain. 
 
"There you are, Fox. Come on. We're going." 
 
There was a look of disgust on the face looking down at me. My  
name on his lips was poison. For years, I never heard that name  
uttered in love. 
 
"Dad?" A croak.  
 
Please, Dad. I need you, Dad. Hold me, Dad. Please..... 
 
"Dad?" He was looking at me, and he had spoken. I let myself feel  
hope in that. For whole days I was invisible to him. 
 
"You're _crying_." He took a step back. "Wallowing in self-pity  
again. You disgust me, Fox. You know whose fault this all is." 
 
I dashed at my eyes, my fingers violent, hurting. I knew his words  
were true. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry." I swallowed. The birds  
were gone now. "Wait for me, Dad?" 
 
His feet lashed at the grass as he walked away. 
 
And now I hear the birds once more, and the distant repeated  
memory of Scully's feet receding through the grass. 
 
The laughter, the support, of a group will ever be as alien to me  
as the cry of the birds. I am on the outside, and now I can no  
longer even look through the glass at the lights, the smiles, the  
warmth, that is within. 
 
But I am stronger now. Blood wells up in my mouth, but I do not  
cry. The last bird falls silent. 
 
***** 
 
Her first hope had failed, days ago now.  
 
"Agent Scully." Frohike had half reached out, as if to guide her  
into the small office, then let his hand fall, a cough failing to  
cover his awkwardness. "Come in." 
 
"Did Mulder tell you where he was going?" The words had rushed out  
with no preamble, a sharp edge to her voice - anxiety, tension.  
She had been shaking inside, scared to hear their answer, but  
needing it, too. 
 
The seconds had slowed, time moving like thick water, wading  
through it. The squeak of a chair. A page, half turned, then let  
fall.  
 
Frohike had coughed again. Byers' eyes had flashed a quick glance  
at Langly, barely a second. Silent  messages, and she could not  
read them. 
 
"He did." Her voice had been steel. It had not been a question.  
"What did he say?" 
 
A pause. Frohike hadn't met her eye. "What did he tell you?" He'd  
swallowed. "How long since you spoke to him?" 
 
She'd blinked fiercely. "I spoke to him this morning. He didn't  
say anything...." 
 
Such simple words, but each one resonant with feeling. She'd  
spoken _to_ him, but he.... God! Had he even heard her at all? So  
cut off in the darkness, hurt but.... but infuriating too. There  
had been some guilt at leaving him alone in the hospital for a  
day, but relief too, and hope - hope that, without her, something  
of her absence would penetrate, would show him how much he needed  
her. 
 
Rejection hurt. When he needed her, it was stifling, imprisoning,  
but it was.... 
 
"God!" She sighed fiercely, rubbing a hand across her face, angry  
with herself. She was remembering the facts, the clues. Emotion  
would get her nowhere. On with what had been said, then - forget  
what had been only felt. 
 
"I spoke to him this morning. He didn't say anything...." No  
tears, Dana. Focus. "He didn't say anything about.... where he'd  
been." 
 
"Is he in trouble?" Again, the words had been measured, as if he  
had been cautiously testing the wisdom of each one, weighing up  
what to conceal. 
 
"He's blind." Harsh, even angry. It was the only way she could  
deal with this. "He was beaten, and he is blind. I don't know who  
did it, and I don't know where. I don't know...." A pause. Don't  
lose control now, Dana. Don't.... "I don't know whether he'll see  
again." She'd laughed - a harsh sound with no mirth in it. "I  
guess you could say he's in trouble." 
 
Their silence had spoken their horror more eloquently than a  
thousand exclamations. She had softened, just a little. 
 
"If you know _anything_....." 
 
"He... he called us...." Frohike's voice had been stumbling,  
unsure. "He promised us....." 
 
"Hey, guys!" She's tightened her grip on the back of the chair,  
breath catching at the sound of Mulder's voice. "I'm on to  
something here. Just you wait. I promise you it will blow your  
minds." 
 
"Friday night." Langly ejected the tape, looked at the label.  
"Twenty-three fifteen." He shrugged. "Sorry. He _knows_ we do it." 
 
"Can I...." She'd cleared her throat, fighting the prick of tears.  
It was no _time_ for this. "Can I hear that again?" 
 
"There's nothing there." Byers' voice had been hoarse. "We've  
looked for background sound - anything that might show where he  
was." He shook his head apologetically. "We wanted in on it. We  
didn't want to wait." 
 
"Can I hear it again?" Her voice had risen, slightly desperate.  
"Can I have a copy?" 
 
His voice had _smiled_ on the tape. A bitter painful reminder of  
what they had lost, but it made her smile, too, showing her what  
could be. Then, it had been all she had left of his voice. Mulder  
hadn't spoken to her - to anyone - for two days.  
 
That second night, she had taken the tape home, and cried. 
 
"Blow your minds...." 
 
"Oh, Mulder...." Silent tears dropping onto the pillow. Dust in  
the beam of light taunting her by the fact that _she_ could see  
them, while he was in darkness. 
 
"Just you wait....." 
 
But how long, Mulder? How long will you make me wait? How long  
_can_ I wait? I can't....  
 
"I'm on to something....." 
 
"If only I'd gone with him. If only, if only, if only, if  
only...." Rocking to and fro, whispering a silent litany of guilt  
and reproach. 
 
"Blow your minds...." 
 
"Damn you, Mulder!" A thud as the pillow hit the wall. "Talk to  
me. Think. Remember. Talk to me. Remember. Get better. Damn you,  
Mulder. _Try_ to get better!" 
 
She clenched her fists, now, her muscles taut, making herself  
small, making herself focused. This memory was.... nothing. Forget  
the grief, forget the pain, forget the anger. 
 
The facts were everything. Facts in neat lines, and clues.  
Answers. Emotion had no place in her job right now. 
 
Think, Dana. No - think, Scully. Agent Scully, professional,  
controlled, calm. Only Dana wanted to cry for the broken man who  
had been her partner. Scully was.... Scully was everything she  
needed to be. Scully was strong. 
 
She was.... 
 
Her thoughts wavered, her doubts like a cloud in her mind. But she  
needed to believe this - _needed_ to. 
 
She was Scully. 
 
***** 
 
 Time is nothing. 
 
The birds are silent, and the air is moist, cold. The grass is  
damp, seeping into me, chilling me. It doesn't _matter_. Reason  
tells me it is evening, but I do not _feel_ the knowledge, not  
really. All hours are the same to me - dark, empty of all but the  
past..... Nothing. 
 
There was anger in the sound of Scully's departure - her footfalls  
quick and tense. She will be watching from the window, her lips  
tight and tense, waiting for me to call. 
 
I will not call. If I can not walk in by myself, then I will.... I  
will.... 
 
Oh God! I _hate_ this life. I can't.... 
 
"Mulder." 
 
I breathe out. The soft voice drains the anger, the frustration,  
from me like so much water. I straighten my back, even smile. 
 
"Meg." There is no need to hide from her. A little girl is no  
threat. I am pleased that she has returned, and with _her_ I need  
not be afraid to show it. "You came back." 
 
Suddenly, unexpectedly, she giggles. "You do look funny. All  
grumpy like a monster. Your hair's all shiny and bunched up, and  
there's a.... a leaf on top of your head." 
 
When she falls silent it is like an empty cavern in my world. I  
_need_ to hear that laugh again - to know that it is all for me. 
 
"You ain't seen nothing yet." I reach up, running my hands through  
the dew-dampened hair. I rake it forward, tousle it, and growl at  
her, like the monster she likened me to. 
 
Her laughter is warm sunshine and I bask in it. Laughter has  
always been other people, laughing in their closed groups, or  
their cruel laughter as they point at me, whispering words  they  
make no attempt to hide. Even Scully.... Hers has been fond, not  
malicious, but still she has laughed at me, rejecting beliefs that  
are as important to me as life. 
 
"Oh, you're so funny, Mulder." Meg's voice is light with things I  
have only dreamt of. "Roar at me again." 
 
I have lived for this, for a wrong to be set right. I jumped out  
at Samantha, once, the week before she.... the week before. She  
screamed, fell over, and cried. Mom shouted at me. 
 
I pull myself up on my hands and knees, ignoring the pain of my  
bruised body. Her laughter moves, near and far, near and far. She  
is teasing me, tiptoeing close, screaming, running away again in  
feigned terror.  
 
"Come on, Mulder! You can't get me!" 
 
I edge forward into a darkness that is rendered light by her  
voice. A foot. Two feet. Wet grass at my knees and beneath my  
hands. 
 
"Come on!" 
 
Then silence. I move forward, growing in confidence, driven by my  
need to hear her again. Step, step, step.... Wind whispers above  
me but there is no other sound. 
 
Fear flutters inside me, sudden and painful. I am in the dark and  
I am alone. She has left me without a word, without a goodbye. I  
am _lost_. There is no sun to guide me, now - no warmth on my  
face. 
 
"Meg?" My voice is wea, and that scares me more than the  
stillness. I whisper to myself - I am strong, I am strong.  
Already, she is my strength, my light. I am a grown-up to her - a  
big brother. I become what she expects to see. 
 
If I could keep that strength when she is gone.... 
 
"Meg?" Louder now. I crawl forward, hand reaching firmly for the  
next piece of darkness.  
 
There. Simple. Not so hard, is it? 
 
There is a catch in the wind, and I realise in a wash of warmth  
that it is her breath, and that she is trying not to laugh, to  
give herself away. 
 
I step forward again, secure. I snarl, twisting my face in a mask  
of evil. 
 
It feels _good_. Was it always so close to the surface, this side  
of me - needing another little girl to release it? I have known  
her so little, yet this feels right. Only a child can get through  
to me like this. 
 
"Mulder?" Quiet now, teasing. She is away to the left, laughter  
bubbling in her voice, and something else too. Pride?  
Satisfaction? Triumph? 
 
"Meg?" I pause, held by this note, wondering. The wind is  
different here, too - colder, free of the rustle of leaves. Fear  
prickles my spine, inexplicable. 
 
"You came." She laughs, and the fear passes as if it has never  
been. "I knew you could do it. You've come all that way."  
 
It is a test, but I smile. With Scully I would feel tricked,  
patronised, but this girl is artless, innocent. She saw, she  
understood, and she made me strong again.  
 
"You should go into therapy, Meg," I whisper, by words fragmented  
by the deep breaths of tiredness.  
 
Her only answer is a laugh, further away now, towards the cold  
wind. She is daring me, challenging me. My chest is heaving, but  
giving up is out of the question. 
 
I move forward, once, twice, then freeze in horror. There is mud  
beneath my hand - slippery mud, sloping away. I can feel the  
nothingness in front of me. 
 
I know this place.  
 
"Meg!" I snatch my hand back, scrabbling wildly. "Where are you?" 
 
Silence. 
 
"Scully!" I will not search alone. I _can_ not search alone.  
Inches from a deadly drop to the rocks, and trapped in blindness.  
If I search, I will die, and she will not be saved. 
 
I didn't hear her scream.... 
 
"Scully!" The wind takes my words and carries them away. "Help!" 
 
I am frozen, powerless. In the darkness, I am nothing. I am.... 
 
"Mulder, I'm here." She is quiet as a whisper, as a hallucination,  
but it is _her_ . It is Meg. "What's the matter." 
 
"I thought you were...." I swallow, wanting to hold her tight but  
not knowing where to reach. "I thought.... Samantha. She fell....  
I...." I take a deep breath, forcing control. "Promise me you'll  
never go this close to the edge again." 
 
"I'll be okay." She laughs, but there is something strange in her  
voice. Hurt, even. "I always play here." 
 
"Don't." I shut my eyes, though it is a futile gesture. Those  
memories are more real to me now than her voice, and there is no  
strength now in her closeness. "Don't. Please. Don't." 
 
Nothing. 
 
***** 
 
end of part three 

*****

Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk

For Deep Background (X-Files Fanfic Research) and my X-Files fanfic, go to: 
http://www.astolat.demon.co.uk/

"The truth IS out there. It's just a pity that I'm in here."

From Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk Sun Sep 28 11:22:56 1997
Subject: NEW: Resurgam (4/10) by Pellinor
From: Pellinor <Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk>
Date: Sun, 28 Sep 1997 16:22:56 +0100

"Resurgam" part 4 of 10

by Pellinor (Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk)  
 
RATING: PG 
 
CLASSIFICATION: SRA  
 
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully struggle to come to terms with an  
"accident" that threatens to change their lives for ever, unaware  
that the danger is still far from over.  

*****

The phone call was an irritation, calling her from the secretive  
pages. It rang, once, twice, three times, harsh and distracting.  
Scully sighed, turning her head sharply away from the noise,  
trying to concentrate on the words, on the promise of answers. 
 
Five, six, seven.... 
 
It wasn't anybody - not anybody important. The police, the Lone  
Gunmen, the doctors.... She'd called them all within the last  
hour, as she called, always, several times every day. Their  
answers had been as they always had been. "No progress yet." 
 
Eleven, twelve, thirteen.... 
 
She'd turned her back on the ringing, too, that morning she had  
found out about him - turned her back, thinking it was _him_. He  
had ditched her, and she had not been willing to forgive him, not  
without a fight. She had almost smiled at the thought of him  
frowning, worrying, his mind envisaging possibilities as terrible  
as the ones he always inflicted on her. 
 
It had been Skinner, then, and his voice had been grave, even  
reluctant. The first person who had known Mulder's name had been  
the faceless agent in the fingerprint section. 
 
"Scully!" She grabbed the phone in a sudden burst of movement,  
remembering that morning, how every ring had been another long  
second for Mulder, alone. 
 
A small pause. "Dana?"  
 
She sighed, ran a hand across her forehead. "Oh. Mom. It's you."  
The scattered papers drew her eyes, a magnet for all her  
attention. 
 
"You sound disappointed to hear from me." Her mother's voice was  
tight.  
 
The doctor's report.... She would ask him, again - speak to him in  
person, the next day, when..... 
 
"Dana?" Warning. "Are you okay? Is _Fox_ okay?" 
 
"Mom." She pressed her hand down across the papers, pushing hard  
into the desk, holding them away. She needed to focus on _this_ -  
on the phone call - if she was to convince her mother. "We're  
okay." 
 
Her mother breathed out slowly, as if shaking her head. "How's Fox  
really, Dana?" She paused. "No-one expects him to be okay. It's  
too soon...." 
 
"I don't know." The frustration in her voice surprised her. "He  
won't talk to me. He needs help, but he hates it when I offer.  
He's...." She glanced at the window, the tightened the grip on the  
phone, her knuckles white. She hadn't noticed it had grown so  
_dark_. She swallowed, tried to compose herself. "He's outside  
now. He went out this morning. He.... He can't come in without me,  
but he won't...." 
 
"He's outside?" There was no anger in the interruption. Sadness.  
Sympathy. Something else? "Oh, Dana." 
 
She twisted the phone cable in her hand, struggling against tears  
she would never let herself shed. "I tried, Mom. I asked him. I  
tried. He wants to be the... the big macho man. He wants to feel  
in control. He hates me being stronger than him and it's.... it  
makes me so angry." 
 
Silence. 
 
It was so _dark_ outside, and cold snaked in through the open  
window. The night reproached her, speaking in the imagined voice  
of her mother. He's alone and scared, and you _left_ him, Dana.  
He's scared, and you're _angry_ at him? I thought I knew you,  
Dana, but.... 
 
"Mom?" She spoke quickly, desperately. "I.... I didn't mean that.  
It was selfish of me." 
 
Her mother's words were nothing she expected to hear, peeling the  
scab off a memory best forgotten - a memory that still hurt. 
 
"Have you told him yet." Quiet, without reproach. "Have you told  
him what you told me in the hospital?" 
 
"No," she almost shouted. "Of course not. I can't." 
 
"Why not?" Her mother was casual, conversational. 
 
"I can't. It would.... it would complicate matters." She pulled  
her gaze back at the papers, needing their anchor. "I can't...." 
 
Can't bring emotion into it. Can't do anything to distract from  
what's really important. Can't reduce my focus on the case.  
Can't.... 
 
"You can, Dana." Though quiet, her mother's voice was steel. "It's  
only fair. He feels guilty about making you do all this, Dana. He  
needs to know the truth." 
 
She opened her mouth, couldn't make a sound. 
 
"It's difficult. Of course it will be difficult." On and on,  
leaving her no escape. "You expect him to face things that terrify  
him, just by living, by being there with you. You want him to  
be... to be vulnerable to you, needing you for everything. You  
need to give him some of that back - make yourself vulnerable to  
him." 
 
She turned away from the phone, still clutching it, wishing she  
didn't have to listen. 
 
"Trust goes both ways, Dana." 
 
There was a loud click as she put the phone down, her hand  
fumbling, missing. The paper crackled between her fingers, but she  
couldn't _read_ it.  
 
She _hated_ that. 
 
***** 
 
The mud has dried on my hands.  
 
I am frozen, transfixed out of time. Death is at my fingertips,  
smiling, trying to claim me. I see the images of falling, as clear  
as if I had eyes, but I can not _see_ it. An inch forward there?  
An inch back there? I have lost my direction, my way. 
 
_She_ fell. 
 
The memories lash against my mind, vivid, instantly familiar  
though seldom recalled, not since... since _that_ happened. Now,  
my only pictures are in memories. 
 
"Fox! She could have been killed. It's all your fault." 
 
He raged at me then, that summer before I betrayed his trust once  
too often and sank beneath his notice. Tears of shame poured down  
my face. I didn't know, then, that attention was everything - that  
anger was to be cherished. 
 
Samantha was crying, her face streaked with mud and tears. Mom's  
hand moved gently over her head, stroking, stroking.... 
 
"I asked you to look after her. Just a few hours, while I worked  
in the study. That's not too much to ask is it, Fox?" I was beyond  
words, fighting tears. He reached out, squeezed my chin between  
his thumb and fingers, forcing me to look at him. "Is it, Fox?" he  
whispered, his voice steel. 
 
I had no words. His fingers held me tight, unable to shake my  
head. His anger swelled like a flame, fuelled by my silence. 
 
She had screamed, wild cries of terror. Her fingers had been mud- 
caked and bleeding, clutching desperately at the clumps of grass  
that alone were keeping her from falling off the edge. The tiny  
tiny sound of the roots snapping, one by one by one, echoed in my  
nightmares for ever. 
 
I had reached for her  hand and pulled her back to life. _That_  
was best forgotten. I had put her there, too, as surely as if I'd  
pushed her.  My father told it like it was. 
 
"Can I trust you ever again, Fox? You let me down again and  
again." He sighed, shaking his head. There were finger-shaped  
bruises on my chin, afterwards. "Why can't you be more like your  
sister?" 
 
Panic rose in me - desperation. I _needed_ to speak, to.... Dad,  
Dad. I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry.... Just give me another chance.  
I won't let you down again, Dad.  
 
I was silent. His fingers stole my words. 
 
My mother's voice lapped around us like a gentle wave, murmuring  
reassurance. Warmed by it, Samantha's sobs quietened, then faded  
away. 
 
The fingers relaxed. Drained, we stood in silence, a ragged circle  
beneath the darkening sky. Guilt pounded in my head louder than  
any voice. 
 
When she moved, I saw it as if I were in a dream. She pulled  
herself to her feet, letting Mom's hands slip from her head and  
fall, limp and weary, to her lap. She took a step towards me, her  
mouth curving in a tentative smile. 
 
"Thank you, Fox." Her voice was the smallest of whispers, weakened  
from screaming. Her arms tightened round my middle, and she  
whispered once again, her words deadened by my chest. "You saved  
me, Fox. Thank you." 
 
I could see nothing through my tears. The world doubled, trebled,  
then steadied. I was anchored by her love, after a summer without  
it. 
 
Then I had nothing. The cold air lashed at my body, still warm  
from Samantha's embrace. 
 
"Keep away from him, Samantha." My father's voice was a bark of  
fury, of disgust. "It's all his fault. He'll be punished for it." 
 
The soft touch of Mom's hand on Samantha's shoulder mesmerised me.  
I tried to lose myself in it, to imagine it was for me.  
 
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry...." I was looking  
at Samantha, but the words were for my father. I needed his trust,  
his love. 
 
"I can't trust you any more, Fox." His voice was low, regretful.  
It hurt more than anything. "I don't know if I can ever trust  
you." 
 
He was right. He trusted me just one more time. I lost her. 
 
***** 
 
"What the Hell are you doing?" A shout, urgent, even angry. 
 
I shake my head, pulling myself from the memories - from the cold  
anger of the father who is so close to me, now, in this place.  
 
I lick my lips. "Scully," I whisper, my voice dry as falling  
leaves. 
 
"Get away from there!" Her hand tightens on my shoulder. She is  
angry, but she is _her_, and she is real. "Are you trying to kill  
yourself?" 
 
I shake my head, suddenly scared at the darkness, the weakness. I  
need so much to see her face. 
 
She sighs, and I feel the touch of it on my cheek. When she speaks  
again there is a strange catch in her voice. "Were you, Mulder?" 
 
Terrible words. 
 
My control shatters. I will say anything - _anything_ - not to  
think about her words. "I.... I didn't know which way I could  
move. The edge.... I knew it was close. I.... I can't see. I  
can't...." 
 
"It's okay, Mulder. It's okay." She pulls me into her warmth, soft  
hands stroking my hair. "I shouldn't have.... I'm sorry." 
 
Then silence. The waves whisper in the rhythm of her hands,  
lulling me, sapping my strength. 
 
"Scully...." I move in her arms, my voice rising. "Scully...."  
 
"It's okay." But her voice is sharper now, almost desperately. She  
is holding me tightly, fiercely. A grip of fear, not of comfort.  
"It's okay, Mulder. It will be okay." 
 
"Scully." A sharp stab of panic hurts like a physical pain. Her  
touch makes me feel smothered, trapped. "Let me go." I pull  
sharply. "Don't _touch_ me, Scully!" 
 
She gasps, pushes me away. I am an island again, safe behind my  
walls. It is cold without her. 
 
"Why, Mulder?" A whisper, tight with control. "Why?" 
 
I swallow, turning away. She mustn't see how close I am to  
breaking down. "Why what?" I fire at her, my voice raw.  
 
"Why do you push people away all the time." Her words come fast,  
like bullets, drawing blood. They are bitter, not questions. "Why  
do you fend people off with a joke or an angry word. Why do  
you..." She swallows, and when she speaks again her voice is  
different. "Why do you reject me?" 
 
The darkness swirls around me. 
 
"Why do you reject me, Mulder?" Soft, now, and deadly. "We can't  
go on like this." 
 
I force my face into a smile, hoping that, once again, habit can  
take over. "I knew I should have worn...." 
 
"No!" 
 
I freeze, caught by her anger, by her shout. The smile fades. The  
mask slips. She has left me nothing. 
 
"Don't deflect it, Mulder." Her hand closes round mine, trapping  
me, but her voice is level, almost emotionless. "I want the truth,  
not this.... this _barrier_ of pretended humour." 
 
I am in a cage, trapped with no escape. She can _see_ me - see my  
every mood, my every expression - while I am blind. Her voice  
gives nothing away.  
 
"Scully." I mouth her name, without the voice to give it  
substance. I clear my throat, but do not try again. 
 
"It hurts, Mulder." A whisper. "It hurts me." 
 
The words lance through my fears, making me pause. They sound so  
strange on her lips. I am not the only one who hides behind walls. 
 
It cost her to say these words. I.... I know this.  
 
"I don't want your pity." Words I have said so often, these last  
few days, but never this quiet, this devoid of anger. "I.... I  
hate not being in control." 
 
Her finger moves gently on the back of my hand, but she is silent,  
awaiting more. 
 
The darkness presses in, suffocating. She wants more. She  
wants.... God! I can't. I can't even walk away, get in my car and  
drive away, hearing her tired "where are you going, Mulder?",  
knowing I have hurt her, but knowing that I am free, in control  
again. The feel of the steering wheel beneath my hands, and her  
hurt face fading away in the mirror..... 
 
She is speaking - words I can not hear.  
 
"I want to go inside now." How can my voice be so level, so  
reasonable? I dig my nails into my palms, wishing that she will  
let the matter drop. 
 
"Did you hear a word I said, Mulder?" There is no anger there, but  
something.... Anxiety. "I said, I'm not staying with you because  
of pity." She takes a deep breath. "Remember that phone call, just  
before you.... just before it happened....?" 
 
It is as if her words have flicked a switch. Everything falls into  
place, bright with terrible clarity. It hurts, more even than  
pity. 
 
"You feel guilty?" I shake my head, incredulous. "You think you  
could have prevented this? Oh, Scully. You mustn't think like  
that." 
 
Her breath is coming in sharp gasps. She is sobbing. Confidence  
surges within me. I am stronger than her, now, and able to  
comfort. 
 
"Don't stay with me out of misplaced guilt, Scully. It... it  
happened. I don't blame.... No-one could blame you." 
 
Her sobs burst out, but they are _not_ sobs. She is laughing, a  
bitter sound close to hysteria. I have never heard this sound from  
her - never. I must have hurt her deeply. 
 
My hands drop to my sides. I am lost in a nightmare of dark, not  
knowing what to do, what to say. Why is she laughing? What have I  
said? I can not _see_. 
 
"You?" Her laughter is cut off as if with a knife. "You can _say_  
this? You whose whole _life_ is based on guilt? 
 
"Some guilt is misplaced, Scully," I mutter, defensive, hurt by  
her words. The memory of my father's dislike is still loud in my  
mind. No pain, no regret, is enough to atone for _some_ mistakes. 
 
Her presence fades away. I can't see her. There is nothing to  
distract from the images of the past - from the bright light and  
Samantha's face and my father's blank stare.  
 
"Guilt is not the reason I want to be here with you, Mulder," she  
says, at last, each word slow and careful. There is a tremor in  
her breathing. 
 
But she doesn't deny that she feels it. I will store that up and  
remember it.  
 
"When you were in the hospital, I...." She pauses. Something in  
her voice holds me, pulls me out of my selfish reflections. This  
is difficult for her. "I realised that I don't want us to...." She  
swallows. "If we can't work together, I want...." 
 
"We will work together!" I cut in, fiercely. "I'll get better.  
Everything will carry on. This is.... this is nothing." 
 
Part of me nags the question, the doubt: Who are you trying to  
convince, Mulder? Who? 
 
"Mulder!" Sharp. "Listen." 
 
This is it. I can hear the words already, like a physical pain in  
the darkness, as clear as if she was speaking them. "If we can't  
work together, I want to...." "Unlike you, Mulder, I want to have  
a life." I hear the truth. She is with me only for the work. Those  
questions.... I am a case, now, nothing more. When she has her  
answers, she will be gone.  
 
She will be gone. 
 
"Don't, Scully." I cry out, scarcely aware of my words. "Don't....  
I'll get better soon. Don't talk about it. Don't change things. If  
we say.... things, we can't be partners again. We're partners,  
Scully." 
 
God, I hate myself. Weak, like a pleading boy. This is not me.  
 
"Partners." The word falls like a stone. "Yes." 
 
Silence.  
 
"Will you help me inside now, Scully?" I speak formally,  
desperately clawing back some control. It has to be done at the  
cost of one admission of weakness - that I need her help. 
 
And so much more.... Scully, I.... I.... I hate this. I hate  
feeling like this. I want my life back.  I want.... 
 
"Not yet, Mulder." Her voice is taut. "This has to be said." 
 
I draw my arms tightly round my body, ready to withdraw from her  
words. I ache all over, muscles held tightly, painfully. 
 
"I don't want this to be the end, Mulder - whatever happens," she  
says, levelly. She has whispered these words over and over, I can  
tell - rehearsed them. "I want to be with you, even if....  
whatever happens. You are more than a partner to me, Mulder. I  
care about you. I _more_ than care. I...." 
 
Her words fade away, as if she wants to say something more, but  
simply can not. I frown, listen to her words again, and then my  
mind fills in the blank and I laugh - I _laugh_. 
 
She can't. Not me. Oh, God! She can't. I.... I can't deal with  
this.  
 
She is silent. I have hurt her deeply, but I can't stop. What is  
wrong with me? What is....?  
 
I gasp for breath. Shout at me, Scully. Get angry. Hate me. Sneer  
at me. All my life.... I can _take_ that. I can deal with it. I  
can handle contempt, loneliness, hatred, blame. But this.... I  
can't..... 
 
"It's a joke, Scully." My voice is marred with cruelty, but I  
_need_ this. "You don't... You can't.... You.... you're only  
saying this to make me feel better. It's.... it's patronising.  
It's not true. I don't feel the same." 
 
"Damn you, Mulder!" Her anger is terrible, painful, but I _know_  
this. I am on solid ground again. "Why are you doing this? Why  
can't you admit how you feel? I'm not asking you to love me, but  
to say.... I _know_. I've seen it. You've leant on me so much.  
You've taken advantage of me, fallen apart when they separated us.  
You call me at all hours, expecting me to be there. I've covered  
for you. I've saved you. I've helped you. I've held you when  
you've cried. You expect me to be everything for you, but can you  
ever once _say_ it? You're a coward, Mulder." 
 
I gasp deep breaths of air. "I can't...." 
 
"I know you've been hurt before, Mulder." Her voice is softer,  
now, but still angry. "I know it's hard for you to open up. But  
we've been through so much together. It hurts that you can't trust  
me enough to.... to _talk_." She touches me briefly and I flinch.  
"It's hard for me, too, Mulder, but.... I've trusted you enough to  
say this tonight." 
 
"I can't...." A pull myself tighter into the darkness.  
"Samantha.... All my life.... Control." Deep breaths. "We weren't  
allowed to talk about it. It's your fault, Fox. Don't insult her  
memory by pretending to be sad now. It's too late for tears...." 
 
She touches me again, gently now, and I realise I've been talking  
aloud. Another barrier fallen. She is leaving me with _nowhere_ to  
be.... to be myself.  
 
"I don't like needing someone, Scully." Nails in my palms, keeping  
my voice coherent.  I have studied psychology. I can deal with  
this. "I don't want to live like that. It's what I'm like. It's my  
way of dealing with the.... the trauma I suffered at a formative  
age - a coping mechanism. You.... you won't understand. It's  
different for you." 
 
"Bullshit." Sharp. Angry. 
 
My defences crumble. 
 
Her voice is tight. "If I was like you I'd have been out of here  
ages ago. When you were in the hospital, remember? Two days you  
ignored me, ignored everyone. It _hurt_ me, Mulder. I was saying  
things, pleading  with you. Do you think that was easy, Mulder? It  
hurt when you ignored me, but did I give up, Mulder?"  
 
Does she want a response? I am unable to move, pinned by her  
voice. 
 
"Would you have gone, Mulder? If it had been me in that bed?" She  
stabs me in the chest with her finger. "Thought only about how it  
hurt you to be rejected and given up without trying? Thought only  
of yourself?" 
 
I want to scream, but am trapped in silence, in darkness. This  
blindness is like a cancer, poisoning _everything_. 
 
"You expect me to give so much, Mulder, but you won't give  
anything in return." She is relentless, and every word is true. I  
deserve her hatred. I can deal with her hatred. "When I had  
cancer, you were angry that I wouldn't tell you my every thought.  
But have you _ever_ confided in me - really opened up?" 
 
I shake my head, slowly. The blindness has stolen my strength and  
a sob catches in  my throat. 
 
Silence. 
 
"Mulder?" She is drained, now, all emotion gone from her voice. An  
arm reaches for my shoulders. "Talk to me. Please." A pause. "I  
hate what they've done to you - all of them." 
 
I am all weakness, now. I _am_ the blindness, now. This is not me.  
"I just want to see again," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I just  
want to see." 
 
"I know, Mulder." She strokes my hair, but her voice is distant,  
sad.  
 
We are silent in the night, weary beyond words. We are touching,  
but we have never been so apart. 
 
We have never been so apart. 
 
***** 
 
end of part four 

*****


"Resurgam" part 5 of 10


*****

She saw him in the night, again, as she was held in that nightmare  
place that was between thought and dreaming. She was apart, this  
time, a powerless observer, watching the dream unfold in a  
snapshot of clarity, terrible. 
 
"You want the truth?" The man's face was twisted with cruelty. His  
broad fingers closed round Mulder's hair, holding his head  
immobile. "You want the truth?" 
 
Mulder emitted a strangled gasp. His neck was pulled back, his  
words choked by pain. A trickle of blood snaked down his cheek. 
 
"You want the truth?" The man crouched down, his voice almost  
crooning. "Do you?" 
 
Slowly, slowly, his hand relaxed. Mulder's head slumped forward,  
and he coughed weakly, his chest heaving for breath. Physically,  
he had suffered much. 
 
"Tell me, Mulder." A soft whisper. "Ask me. Beg." 
 
Mulder's muscles tensed. He drew himself up, his face a mask  
against the pain that racked him. "Just tell me where she is." The  
words were ragged, but it was a demand, not a plea. 
 
But she knew him so well. She could see how much it cost him, how  
much he wanted to break down, to weep. 
 
"Okay." The man smiled, a death's head smile of triumph. "I'll  
show you. You should be careful what you ask for, Mr Mulder." 
 
There was a noise behind her - a soft whisper of a noise - as  
something was wheeled into the room. She tried to turn, to see  
what it was, but she could not do it. Held in the dream, she could  
not do it. 
 
But Mulder saw. The horror in his eyes would live with her for  
ever. Horror, and beyond horror.... 
 
"You can touch, Mr Mulder." The man _smiled_. "See for yourself. I  
know you like to see evidence with your own eyes." 
 
"No!" It was an incoherent cry. Mulder shut his eyes tight,  
screwed them up as if he'd never open them again. "I won't.... Not  
true. Not true." 
 
"Ah, but it _is_ true." The man's fingers had none of the silken  
smoothness of his voice. He prized at Mulder's eyes, his fat thumb  
digging deep into his cheek, dragging the flesh down. "See for  
yourself. You wanted the truth." 
 
Mulder's mouth moved, an incessant river of murmured denial. "No,  
no. Not true. Won't look. Won't. Can't. Won't look. Not true...." 
 
Her mind screamed with the pain of being held there, unable to go  
to him, unable to comfort. The dream held her paralysed. 
 
When the man ripped Mulder's eyes open, they were dead, sightless. 
 
When Dana Scully awoke, there were tears on her face. 
 
***** 
 
The soft pad padding of bare feet on the floor. 
 
Samantha. She would come to me in the night, sometimes, seeking  
comfort when the anger downstairs grew loud enough to reach into  
our sleep. I could turn her tears to smiles quicker than Dad ever  
could, quicker even than Mom. She was so generous with her love,  
and I was so needy, so starved. 
 
Her footfalls were feather light. If Dad heard..... 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
Scully. There is no jolt at the realisation. I knew it was Scully,  
of course. My descent into memory was deliberate. Scully would say  
I'm distancing myself, seeking the past to escape the present.  
Perhaps she is right. I feel drained, unable to argue. 
 
I make a non-committal sound. Acknowledgement. Nothing more. 
 
"Mulder. I'm sorry. It's late. I've been dreaming....." 
 
A nightmare? I feel the strength flowing back into me. Scully in  
my arms seeking comfort, and my hand on her hair.... Her weakness,  
her need, makes me feel good. 
 
"It's okay, Scully." I reach out, but can't find her. I can still  
reach out with my words. "It's only a dream. It's okay." 
 
"Mulder." Sharp. Then she sighs, and there is a light touch on my  
hand. "It is documented that some blindness can be psychological."  
Her voice is tense, almost scared. "If someone sees something they  
simply can not deal with...." 
 
My illusions shatter and my mind screams. She doesn't need me. She  
doesn't need me. She doesn't need me....  
 
"Mulder?" 
 
My name is a warning, a demand for an answer. I play back her  
words, hearing the meaning this time, and anger stabs me, hot and  
painful. Does she know me at all? 
 
"Can you really think I would _choose_ to be like this, Scully?" I  
almost spit at her. "Do you really? This.... this living death?" 
 
She is silent. I didn't _hear_ her go, but....  God! Five seconds,  
six, seven.... 
 
"Scully?" The weak whimper of my blindness. I become what she sees  
me as - someone who needs, not someone who gives. 
 
She breathes out, but the relief I feel is mixed. She is here. I  
am not alone. But.... It's just so difficult. She makes me feel  
trapped, like a victim. I want to be in control, to make things  
happen, to give. When she is away, I need her. When she is with  
me, I almost hate her. 
 
"I'm sorry, Mulder," she says, at last. "I shouldn't have said  
that. If I'd thought about it.... " She yawns, but it sounds  
feigned, though I feel her regret is genuine, and her desperation.  
"I just need to know, Mulder." 
 
"I just need to see."  
 
I turn away. I sound like a churlish boy, I know.  
 
I expect her to snap, to shout, but she says nothing, just touches  
my hand again with fingers that hurt me like a tongue of flame. 
 
I don't know why. God, I don't know why.... 
 
***** 
 
Alone in the darkness, face buried deep into the pillow so he  
wouldn't hear, she let herself cry. 
 
As the pale grey light of morning reached in through the curtains,  
she dried her eyes, straightened her back, and faced what was to  
come. 
 
There was nothing else to be done. Her mother had been wrong. She  
had to seem emotionless to him - be there for him, but nothing  
more. He was spiralling down in his own misery. She had to be his  
rock. 
 
At what cost? A small part of her nagged the question. At what  
cost? 
 
***** 
 
"Mulder. You've got a doctor's appointment this morning,  
remember?" 
 
She is brisk, even emotionless. It is as if her almost-confession  
of yesterday has never been and I am nothing to her. A patient. A  
chore. 
 
"I'm not going." I pull the bedclothes up to my chin, turning my  
face away from the door. 
 
Even my blindness doesn't save me from her expression of anger. I  
have seen it often enough for it to be as clear to me now as it  
has ever been. A sigh, but no words. A rustle of clothing. I can  
_see_ her face. 
 
"I mean it, Scully. I'm not going." I face her again, and the  
darkness almost surprises me, so clear was the image. It makes me  
next words catch in my throat, sounding more gruff than I  
intended. "What's the point? _He_ doesn't know. Time will heal,  
that's what he said." 
 
Her sigh is strange - not angry, not this time - but her words are  
calm, controlled. "Not just time, Mulder. If you are going to  
recover, you will need a lot of medical help." 
 
I refuse to listen to her stress on the first word of her last  
sentence. I _refuse_. 
 
"I'm not going." My voice rises with anger, trying to regain the  
control on the conversation. "You want to control me - make me do  
everything on _your_ terms - but not this. I.... I....."  
 
"I know, Mulder." She changes tack again, her voice a soft whisper  
as she sits down beside me. The bed shifts, and I can feel the  
warmth of her body, so close. "I know it's difficult. I know it  
scares you...." 
 
"I'm not scared. I'm..... I'm tired. I couldn't sleep last night.  
_You_ woke me up. I...." 
 
It's the wrong thing to say, the wrong excuse to give. Blindness,  
insomnia, fear.... Where will the pity end?  
 
She is silent, her closeness radiating understanding, sympathy. It  
makes me want to..... God! It is more than I can deal with. 
 
"Change the appointment, Scully." An order. "I'm tired." 
 
"I know, Mulder. I know." She touches me, feather-light on my  
face. 
 
My mind screams, flinches away. The pity in her voice.... God! I  
want her to shout. I want the power to make her angry, to make her  
unhappy. I want.... I want.... Not this. 
 
But I can not move. Her pity is like a warm blanket, and her  
strength.... 
 
Tears prick my useless eyes. I mumble into the warmth of her body,  
words I don't think I want her to hear. "I'm so tired, Scully. So  
tired. Help me...." 
 
Another defeat.  
 
"He might have answers, Mulder." She speaks softly, but gives no  
sign of having heard the words I should never have said. "One way  
or the other.... We're in the dark now." 
 
Great choice of words, Scully. I try to smile, maybe even succeed.  
It's either that or.... what will probably come later, when I am  
alone again. 
 
"I know this is..... difficult, Mulder, but I'll be there with  
you." 
 
"I can do it by myself," I snap, and hear her badly disguised  
intake of breath. "I don't need you to hold my hand." 
 
She is silent, and I know I have hurt her again. 
 
My mind is a whirlwind. I am glad I've upset her. I hate myself  
for upsetting her. I want her to go. I want her to hold me. I need  
her. I hate needing her. I.... I.... 
 
I want to see. I want things to be normal again, her behind her  
walls, me behind mine. I want to be strong again, choosing which  
cases we investigate, leading the way to solutions, bowing to no  
authority, alone. 
 
A sob escapes me. God, I _hate_ my weakness. I'm nothing, just as  
my father said. 
 
She speaks at last, her voice tense. To me, it sounds as from a  
great distance. "I wouldn't hold your hand, Mulder, but I thought  
you might need a friend." She pauses, gives a strained laugh. "You  
can hardly drive there yourself, Mulder. That's not pity, that  
just.... is." 
 
Something in her voice touches me. She _is_ trying, and I've been  
so.... I've treated her so badly. I frown, trying to see myself  
through her eyes. I am a text-book example of fear, shying away  
from what the doctor might say, clinging to her, yet resisting her  
at same time. 
 
I don't want her to see me like that.  
 
I pull away from her, though I smile, showing her it is not a  
rejection. My heart is pounding, but I force myself to smile.  
"Okay, Scully. Let's face the firing squad." 
 
There is little humour in her laugh, but at least she tries. It  
means a lot, fills me with some hope. A little. 
 
***** 
 
Scully gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. The engine  
died.  
 
"Mulder!" Her whole mind screamed her anguish. He was  
approaching.... what? A building, this time. His hand was on the  
door, his face closed with concentration. "Mulder! No!" 
 
But it was inexorable. As the building flared into excruciating  
light, there was no sound in her imagining - no sound but the  
simple cry of pain that was ripped from his lips as the light took  
his sight, as the shock wave flung him through the air, merciless. 
 
His body was black against the flame, and the look on his face was  
one of surprise. 
 
"Scully?" 
 
She shook her head, knowing it would be a long time before those  
images left her. "Sorry, Mulder. We're back."  
 
Then nothing. What could she say? If she offered to help him to  
the house, or if she left him.... Both would be wrong, to him. 
 
"I want to sit outside." His voice was unreadable. 
 
"Again?" She sighed, tightening her grip on the wheel. "Mulder, we  
need to talk." 
 
"I need to be alone. I need to think."  
 
It was almost audible, the walls going back up, everything she had  
gained that morning lost. She didn't know _why_. 
 
"We need to talk, Mulder." Her tone was level, determined, not  
reflecting her thoughts. "About what the doctor said." A pause.  
"Damn it, Mulder. This affects both of us." 
 
"It needn't affect you." He fumbled at the door handle. "I need  
some time. I want to think.... about this." 
 
She clenched her fists, took several deep breaths. He made it so  
hard for her not to feel anger with him.  
 
"Okay, Mulder." She opened the door, stepping out into the fresh  
sea air. Mulder was out already, facing her across the car, though  
not seeing her. "But we talk later, right?" 
 
He mumbled non-committally. 
 
She half-closed her eyes, looking at him, and once again saw his  
body arch against the flames, his eyes lashed with a light that  
blinded them, his face twist with pain. He crashed to the ground,  
bleeding and trapped in the darkness, and he was alone. She could  
not help him. 
 
And he wouldn't let her help him now. 
 
***** 
 
"Mulder." 
 
Her voice is greedy, claiming me even before Scully's footsteps  
have fully receded. I have been here for.... an hour? Scully came  
out with a few terse words and the demand for more, but I am not  
ready for her, not yet. 
 
"Mulder." 
 
I smile, but glance towards the house, placing a finger to my  
lips. I am not ready to share her with Scully. She has reached  
into so much of my life, left me with no little to call my own.  
Meg is _my_ secret.  
 
"Where were you, Mulder?" She is beautifully petulant. "I was  
looking for you. I missed you. It's no fun here without you." 
 
I lean my head back and laugh. In a few words, she has made me  
strong again, worthy of love. The dark maelstrom inside me is  
released. My laughter is closer, perhaps, to tears, but that too  
is a release I can not allow myself in front of Scully. 
 
"I had to go to the doctor," I tell her, when I can speak. 
 
"The doctor!" She makes a sound of disgust. "Those horrid  
medicines, all smelly, in bottles.... I hated doctors." 
 
"I hate them too." I lean closer to her voice, smiling  
conspiratorially. We are like children, whispering secrets in  
class. Please, Miss Scully. Fox and Meg are being _naughty_. "They  
smile as they take your blood, and they look stern when you try do  
to _anything_." I lower my voice. "My partner's a doctor." 
 
"Did they look stern at you today?" 
 
Reality comes crashing back, and my smile fades. "I... I don't  
know," I stammer. "I can't.... They said...." I run a hand across  
my face, almost roughly. "What do they know about it, anyway?" 
 
There is a pricking feeling behind my eyes, but I can not cry - I  
_must_ not cry. 
 
"I'm sorry," Meg whispers. "I didn't  mean to upset you. I forgot  
you can't see." She sighs, and I feel her breath like a wisp of  
wind. "When I think how you will never see anything again, I want  
to cry." 
 
My lips, trying to offer words of comfort, but I can make no  
sound. I'm sorry, Meg. It's not your fault. You couldn't know what  
you were saying....  Loud, this thought, but louder still is the  
denial. Never? Not never. No... 
 
"I don't want to play any more." Her voice is still close to  
tears. "I'll...." 
 
"Don't go." I reach out a hand, saying the words I can never bring  
myself to say to Scully, even when that's all I can think of.  
Don't go. Don't leave me alone. Don't go. "We can talk. We'll feel  
better soon." 
 
"What do you do?" Like me she is mercurial, or hides her feelings  
well. Her question is casual, no trace of sadness. "I mean, what  
job?" 
 
I lick my lips, wondering whether the truth will scare her, but I  
am too weary to lie. "I'm an FBI agent." 
 
"Cool! Have you got a gun?" she asks, her voice high and excited,  
leaving me no time to answer. "Do you shoot people? And rescue  
people? Have you been shot? I _said_ nothing bad would happen to  
me when I was with you. The FBI finds girls who go missing, don't  
they?" 
 
There is a flash of light. The only pictures I see now are  
memories, and I have never been good at holding onto the happy  
ones. A flash of light, and a lifetime of blame, of emptiness. 
 
Nodding is the hardest thing I have done. Not always, Meg. Not  
always.... But I can not say it. She didn't mean it, but.... Oh  
God! It is so different from yesterday. Her words are innocent  
barbs today, each one hurting more than the last. 
 
"Will you be sad now you have to stop working?" 
 
"I haven't stopped working." I turn on her fiercely, then remember  
who she is. "I'm on medical leave," I continue, more softly. "When  
I can see again, I'll go back." 
 
"Oh." Her tone carries no conviction. "I'm sorry. I thought the  
lady said...." There is a catch in her voice. "I'm sorry. You  
don't want to listen to me." 
 
"I _do_." Again, I reach for her, but my hands close round nothing  
but empty air. "What is it, Meg?" 
 
I can't upset her, but.... I want to sob, to put my hands over my  
ears and shut out sound as well as light. I don't want to hear  
this. I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear this.... 
 
"The lady." She sniffs, as if fighting tears. "The lady with red  
hair. I heard her. She was on the phone, talking to her Mom. He  
won't face it, she said. He refuses to accept that he'll never see  
again. It makes me so mad, Mom. I feel trapped, in here with him.  
I want to get back to.... to life. He's just...." 
 
"No!" I turn on her, shouting my denial. "Stop it. Just stop it." 
 
Silence. But not silence. I hear the words, endlessly repeated in  
Scully's voice. Never see again. Never. Want to get back.... 
 
The sound of crying cuts into my thoughts. Meg. God! What have I  
done? I deserve rejection, but she's done nothing - nothing but  
tell me the truth. 
 
"Meg?" 
 
Nothing. I am alone - alone with the echoing words of the truth. 
 
I think I would rather live with the lie. Without it, I.... 
 
I refuse to complete that thought. 
 
***** 
 
"Mom? I _told_ you...." 
 
"Mom?" A throaty chuckle. "Care to sample my apple pie, Agent  
Scully?" 
 
Scully took a deep breath, trying to calm the emotions that the  
sudden ringing of the phone had brought to the surface. Her mother  
could hear them, sometimes. No-one else. 
 
"Frohike. Nothing yet." She ran her hand across her face, so  
weary. The words on the files were a blur before her eyes, but  
yielded no answers. Having to say it aloud brought home the  
reality of her failure. 
 
"Nothing here, either." He laughed uncertainly. "Mulder sure knows  
how to cover his tracks when he doesn't want to be found. I  
thought we could track down anyone." 
 
"Practice." She gave no answering laugh, her mind full of the  
terrible life Mulder had had to lead, hunted and hurt.  
 
She chewed her lip, staring at the window, the phone forgotten in  
her hand. She'd have given anything to see him safe, free from the  
attentions of men who felt threatened by him. He was no threat  
now. He would be safe, forgotten. 
 
But not like this, Mulder. Not like this.... 
 
".....wrong way?" 
 
She shook her head, blinking away her pity. No time. He needed her  
strong. He needed answers. "What?" She cleared her throat, her  
voice catching in her throat. "Wrong? What?" 
 
"We were talking...." She had never heard Frohike so hesitant.  
Mulder's blindness had hit him hard. "We've all tried looking at  
the evidence. There isn't any. We're getting nowhere." 
 
She opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her lips.  
What had she gained? Nothing but facts and vivid imaginings of  
possibilities that could not have been. 
 
"We thought.... Maybe we're being too scientific. Oh, I know how  
you'll be looking, Agent Scully, but remember who we are." He  
laughed awkwardly. "Have to say something unscientific three times  
a day except on Sundays." 
 
"So how should I be proceeding?" She toned down the impatience in  
her voice, warmed by his clumsy attempt to put a rare smile into  
her life. 
 
"This is Mulder we're dealing with. We should suit our method to  
the man. Fly off on hunches. Make educated guesses." 
 
"Guesses." The word dropped like a stone. 
 
"Hunches. Approach the question from the other side. Instead of  
looking at him and trying to work out where he was, look at the  
places and work out where he _might_ have been." 
 
"Air bases. UFO hotspots...." 
 
"Government facilities. Medical laboratories....  We have a  
list...." 
 
"A list?" she almost barked into the phone. "How many places?" 
 
He paused. "A lot. Everywhere within a few hundred miles of where  
he was found." His voice rose, as if desperate to give her some  
hope. "We're checking them against recent intelligence. Something  
must have made him go there _that_ night, as opposed to any other.  
Reports of lights - something like that." 
 
"Lights." She shut her eyes, seeing again the image of his limp  
body flying through the air, silhouetted against the flames. "The  
doctor said...." She shook her head, trying to banish the image,  
failing. "Some sort of light damage. An explosion? They don't  
think they can heal it. It's not like anything they've seen  
before." 
 
Frohike swallowed. "Typical Mulder," he said, at last, his voice  
gruff. "Always needs to be unexplained." 
 
"Give me the list," she said, quickly, and the moment passed. Back  
to business, as she could cope with. "I'll start checking." 
 
For the first time, she felt hope - an unfamiliar emotion. 
 
***** 
 
end of part five 

*****



*****

I had nightmares when I was young. 
 
The terror I felt then is beyond description. I was alone in the  
world, alone in the darkness, suffocated in the darkness. Everyone  
- the loved, the hated, the unknown - all disappeared into the  
void that had taken Samantha. Nothing existed. There was just me  
and the darkness, me and the darkness, me..... 
 
And the noise of my father crunching seeds.  
 
Crunch. It's okay. I'm here. You're not alone. It was only a  
dream. 
 
Crunch. I'm here. I'm awake. I can't sleep. You lost her. You tore  
us apart. 
 
Crunch. We can't sleep. How can _you_ sleep, knowing what you did?  
 
Crunch. If everyone _did_ leave you it would be no more than you  
deserve. 
 
The next morning I would be clumsy from a night without sleep, and  
his eyes would be full of contempt. I dropped the milk jug once.  
He couldn't bear to look at me, then. 
 
After he left, I dreamt too. The same fear, again, but this time I  
_was_ alone. There was no sound of crunching seeds, and in time  
the fear faded and I slept again.  
 
Alone in the darkness, there is fear, but there is safety too. If  
there is no-one there, there is no-one to hate you, no-one to  
reject you. 
 
Scully's footsteps are the crunching of my father's sunflower  
seeds. 
 
"Mulder?" 
 
Just my name - always just my name. It is as if she can't think of  
what to say to me. I sure as Hell can't think of what to say to  
her. Always, before, we have had a case to discuss, a framework  
for our conversations. We have so seldom gone beyond that. 
 
"You okay, Mulder?" She sits beside me, her hand touching my  
shoulder - a soft touch, just for a second.  
 
There is nothing I can say. The truthful answer is not one I want  
her to hear, and I am beyond lying. 
 
"I was on the phone." There is a brightness in her voice that  
stabs me with a leaden pain. She sounds like a prisoner given the  
promise of release. "I was talking to..." 
 
"Your Mom." God, it _hurts_. "About me." 
 
"Frohike," she says, firmly. "He thinks there is a way to find out  
what happened to you." 
 
I turn towards the sea but say nothing. Can't she see? What use is  
it, knowing? What use at all? It changes nothing. 
 
"Don't you care, Mulder?" There is a sharp edge to her voice. "If  
not for yourself, then for me. _I_ need to know. Like you with  
your sister...." 
 
"That's not fair, Scully." I round on her, blazing. "Don't bring  
her into it. _Don't_." Any time is bad, but here.... Here I feel  
so close to Samantha's memory - so hurt by it. 
 
"I'm sorry." Again the feather-light touch on my shoulder, and  
again the quick snatch away. "But try.... Mulder, I thought you of  
all people would understand this." 
 
I _won't_ understand her. _I'm_ the one who's blind. 
 
She sighs, a long sigh of.... what? Without seeing her face, I can  
not read her - she can hide herself from me. While I.... I must  
keep my face turned away, always. I hate being so naked before  
her, unable to see where she's looking. I must keep my expression  
guarded at all times. 
 
"I was listening to the birds last night," I say, casually. "Did  
you see them? I never learnt much about birds." 
 
My heart is beating loud in my ears. Answer, Scully. Talk to me. A  
nice safe conversation, steering a precarious course between the  
maelstroms that seek to drown me.  
 
She acknowledges me - a vague sound, nothing more. 
 
"Birds?" My voice rises and I must press my nails into my palms to  
calm it. "You were a rugged outdoor type of girl, weren't you?"  
Silence, still the silence. "We can talk about these things now,  
Scully." I press harder, my hands shaking. "Without distractions  
of work. We can talk, really talk, about.... all sorts of things.  
Birds. Music. Books...." 
 
Listen to me, Scully. Please listen to me. Please.... My blindness  
is all my thoughts. Please don't make it be all my words too.  
Please.... 
 
"Why were you like that this morning?" she cuts in suddenly, and  
her words are a blow, pushing my back into the darkness, away from  
hope. "Why did you refuse counselling? Why did you refuse  
rehabilitation classes? Why did you refuse to learn...." 
 
"Because I'm going to get better," I scream, all my fear, all my  
anger, all my frustration coming out in those words. They erupt  
uncontrollably, pouring out of my control, pouring into a darkness  
that is spinning, lashed with red fire. "Because I'm going to get  
better. Because I'm going to get better. Because...." 
 
Her hands are reaching, reaching. Hands closing round my flailing  
wrists, holding me still. Voice crooning, words I am beyond  
hearing.  
 
The spinning slows, stops. I am hunched forward, gasping for  
breath, and there is something warm and soft against my body.  
Scully. 
 
"Mulder, I.... It's okay. Deep breaths, Mulder. It's okay." 
 
Her warmth and my breathing is everything. I breathe, breathe,  
breathe.... It slows, slows, then fades beneath my notice, and  
then there is nothing but Scully. 
  
I will pull away from her, make myself feel angry with her. I  
will. Soon. Just - a - minute - more.... 
 
"Mulder? I'm sorry." Her hand strokes down my hair, lingers a  
second on my cheek, then is gone. She is gone. 
 
I want her back. Oh God, I want her back. I mustn't.... 
 
She clears her throat, sighs. She is lost for words. She pities  
me. She feels contempt for my weakness. She no longer knows me.  
She has seen too much. She.... 
 
"I'm sorry, Mulder." Her voice is soft, but I have seen beneath it  
now. "I understand. I know it's difficult to accept. But you know,  
don't you? Your reaction just then...." A gasp of breath almost as  
if she is fighting tears. "You know." 
 
"I know what the doctor said. What does he know? The doctors have  
been wrong before. They were wrong about my mother. They were  
wrong about you." 
 
She hesitates, as if she wishes she didn't have to speak, as if  
she wishes she were anywhere else but here. "There is a small  
chance, perhaps," she says, at last. "They don't know. But this  
denial.... You should at least be prepared for the worst - be able  
to live like that, to look after yourself. You can't go on like  
this." 
 
"Telling your version of the truth again, Agent Scully?" I go on  
the attack - the only way to stop breaking down entirely. "As  
always. Stick to your cold scientific facts, regardless of who you  
hurt by doing so. If hope is illogical, you deprive me of hope.  
Samantha. Aliens.... Now this." 
 
"That's...." One furious word, then nothing. I can feel her anger,  
but worse is the pity that prevents her from expressing it.  
 
"Why are you trying to make this hard for me - to kill my hope?"  
They took my gun, but I can still strike out with words. 
 
"I'm not trying to make things difficult." Every word is tight and  
distinct. She is exerting the utmost control to keep from....  
what? Anger? Grief? "It will be easier for you if you start  
learning.... things. Rehabilitation. You will be able to look  
after yourself, and I know that's what you want." 
 
"You mean,  that's what _you_ want." 
 
It is as if I am possessed. Why am I saying this? She is right. It  
_is_ what I want, but.... 
 
"I want you to get what _you_ want, Mulder, and you know it." I  
can not read her voice, but there is some sadness in it, and  
impatience. "You want to be independent. You want to be able to  
live by yourself. You don't want to depend on anyone." 
 
It's true. It's true.... So why do her words hurt like ice in my  
veins?  
 
"Scully, I don't...." Caught by the question, I nearly tell her,  
but then I remember Meg's words. It is enough to push me over into  
anger, to feel the comfort, the certainty, of going on the attack.  
"You mean, you don't want me to depend on you," I snap accusingly.  
"You want me to look after myself so you can wash your hands of  
me." 
 
Anger is unambiguous and I cling to it. It is something I can deal  
with. _Her_ anger too. 
 
"I don't." Her response throws me. There is such weariness, such  
sadness, in her voice. It is as if she has given up hiding, and  
that _scares_ me. "I don't want to leave you." 
 
"You say I won't see again." I twist my face into a mask anger,  
needing to provoke her into an emotion I can handle. "We won't be  
partners. We won't...." I swallow hard. Now is not the time for  
_that_. "We've only been together through work. You want to move  
on." 
 
"Stop telling me how I feel." Her voice sounds more distant to me,  
as if she is pulling her arms round her body, withdrawing. 
 
"But you said." I clench my fists. My muscles tremble with the  
effort of staying strong, of not breaking down. "We never really  
talk, only about work. We're partners. We're just partners. You  
never have time to see your friends, you said once. Friends.  
_Other_ people." I heave a great breath, surprised at how shaky it  
is. "If I can't work with you,  we won't...." 
 
"Is that it, Mulder?" It is as if her voice has burst into light.  
It is no longer inward looking and withdrawn. She touches my hand  
again. "You're afraid I'll leave you?" 
 
I bite my lip hard against the urge to nod, to take refuge in her  
warmth and strength. That is not me, and that is not our  
relationship.  
 
"I won't leave you, Mulder," she whispers, her touch soft. "Not if  
you don't want me to. I told you yesterday. I would..... I would  
like us to have a future together, whatever happens." 
 
For a second, just a second, I so desperately want to believe her.  
Help me, Scully. Stay with me. Look after me. I need you. I need  
you, Scully.... 
 
Her fingers touch my face. 
 
"No," I murmur, moving in her arms. "No...." 
 
Her touch is cold, suddenly, speaking to me with a dark little  
voice, insistent. 
 
On and on, stroking. I'll look after you, Mulder. I'll be your  
doctor, your big sister, your mother. I'll protect you. I'll be  
your eyes, your strength.  
 
"No!" Louder now, the fear, the rejection, coursing through my  
veins. 
 
Not like this. No. Not like this. Not with her strong and you  
weak, her the protector and you the child. You'll be lost. You'll  
lose yourself. She'll take over everything, leave you no privacy,  
watch your feelings on your face when you are blind to hers. She  
will pity you, never respect you. She will.... 
 
"No!" A bird flaps loudly away, disturbed by my shout. I push at  
her arms, desperately, flailing. 
 
Her very touch saps me of strength. I mustn't have her near me.  
She tempts me to much - tempts me to give in, to be weak. 
 
"Why?" So small, her voice. It shakes as with a suppressed sob. 
 
This is not Scully. I want Scully back. I want to be Mulder again.  
Strong. Controlled. Safe behind our walls. Reaching beyond them  
only causes pain. We must retreat behind them again and lick our  
wounds, and emerge with the protecting barrier stronger. 
 
"I don't...." I swallow. Speaking is so hard. She needs _some_  
explanation, but there is no way I can tell her the truth. "I  
don't.... I don't want this." 
 
"Me?" The softest of whispers. 
 
My bruised ribs scream as I hold my breath against the plea that  
wants to burst out. 
 
Silence. Only the soft whisper of the grass as she walks away. 
 
The darkness of solitude is safe, but it dwells within a  
nightmare, still. 
 
***** 
 
In this place, the air is heavy with the dull sense of loneliness.  
It was not always so. We laughed in the sunshine, Samantha and I.  
There was grass to crawl through and trees to climb, and the steep  
path down to the cold waves of the sea. 
 
I try to hold onto the memory, cherishing it. The future is  
darkness without Scully, but the past.... Long, long ago in the  
past, I was happy once? 
 
Samantha smiling, confiding. The summer always made us  
inseparable, though at home, we were never close, each in our own  
circles of friends, the barrier of years too great to surmount. I  
was on the fringes of a group that despised girls. My intelligence  
made me suspect, so I over-compensated, desperate to belong. My  
insults and taunts used to send her home crying to Mom. 
 
Mom reminded me of every one, afterwards.  
 
Samantha smiling..... 
 
I can't do it. I can't remember. The dark cloud blocks out the  
sun, and the shadow falls. I can only see Samantha as she was,  
that last summer, and hear her cruel laughter. 
 
"Look at Fox. They all hate him at home. They let him join in  
because they want to copy his school work. They talk about him  
behind his back." 
 
I lay on my stomach in the grass, turning the page of a book I was  
scarcely seeing. I was eleven, and a boy, and a little girl's  
insults should have flowed off me, leaving no hurt. 
 
"Yes, he is, isn't he?" A giggle. "Do you know what they call  
him?" Her voice sank below my hearing, whispering a word that was  
drowned by her laughter. 
 
Mom and Dad were.... somewhere. They whispered a lot that summer,  
and were angry when I disturbed them. They spoke to me less and  
less, and now Samantha..... Sometimes I went through a whole day  
without anyone talking - really talking - to me.  
 
"He wanted to have a treasure hunt today. Bor-ing. Dad says he's  
nearly a man. It's disgraceful that he still wants to play." 
 
Nearly a man. I was nearly a man at _four_ - the older brother,  
the man of the house when Dad was away. Oh, I could play the  
overbearing big brother often enough, but with Samantha I could  
just be a child, carefree. 
 
"Mom said he's got to look after me today. We can ignore him all  
day, but he still can't go inside." Another giggle, gleeful. 
 
I drew myself deeper inside myself, trying to shut out her taunts.  
All summer it had gone on. All my overtures were rejected. "I've  
got a new friend now," she would say, not even looking at me. "I  
don't like you any more. You're no fun." 
 
"Samantha." I grabbed her by the shoulders once, shaking her.  
"Shut up about that new friend. Katie doesn't exist, and you know  
it. Dad says you're far too old for an imaginary friend." 
 
"Dad thinks it's just a phase. Mom thinks it's cute. And Katie  
_does_ exist." She smiled smugly. "And you're hurting me, Fox, and  
Dad is watching from the window. Does he look angry!" 
 
It surprised me, the pain I felt that summer, how alone I felt. It  
shamed me, too. I added another layer to my shell, shutting out  
the world, reducing the power of rejection to hurt me. 
 
After the near-accident, she was as affectionate as ever - more so  
- but I didn't forget. I kept my distance, pushed her away.  
 
I was still doing so four months later, that cold November night. 
 
"Did you _want_ her to be taken, is that it?" A rare burst of my  
father's anger - another memory long forgotten. Even on the cool  
breeze, now, I can still smell the alcohol on his breath. "Did you  
just watch as she was hurt? Did you pull from their grasp and push  
her in, instead, making them take _her_ after all? Don't think we  
haven't seen how cold you've been to her since the summer." 
 
"I didn't think you'd noticed anything about me, Dad," I  
whispered. Guilt was too difficult to bear, then.  
 
They had been drifting away from me, slowly cutting myself out of  
their notice, out of their lives. I know why, now, of course, but  
even then it hurt, dreadfully. Samantha had been all love, all  
support, but I had shut her out as thoroughly as my parents had  
rejected me. 
 
I think my Dad was right. Probably. 
 
***** 
 
"We've got him!"  
 
"Where?" 
 
Scully smiled, and the lump in her throat of unshed tears faded  
away for the first time in hours. Even with Frohike's list, _she_  
had got nowhere. The conversation with Mulder had left her unable  
to concentrate on what was important. 
 
"A small town some fifty miles from where he was found." It was  
rare to hear such triumph in Frohike's voice. "Run-of-the-mill UFO  
hotspot. Light reported a few weeks ago. A small installation of  
some sort. A motel owner remembers a man answering Mulder's  
description, name of Marty Hale. Bed unslept in, but sunflower  
seeds round the couch." 
 
She laughed, feeling the shadow lift. "Sounds like Mulder." 
 
"Yeah. For a guy of his talents, he sure lacks originality on his  
choice of pseudonyms." 
 
She smiled, but her mind was racing ahead. Gun. Yes, got that.  
Tell Skinner? Best not. Arrange for someone to look after Mulder  
while I'm away.  
 
"You're going there." It was not a question. "Do you want the guys  
to forge you some ID to get you in the installation?" Frohike was  
almost panting with eagerness. "We've got some hot new  
software...." 
 
"No." She couldn't laugh. Her voice was icy. "This has been  
underground for too long. I want to confront them openly with what  
they've done." 
 
"Agent Scully." Frohike sounded awed. "The software may be hot,  
but you...." 
 
"Don't say it, Frohike."  
 
But she smiled. He was open and honest - a refreshing change.  
Mulder was hiding behind a dozen layers of armour, and it was so  
damn tiring trying to understand him, even more so trying to  
connect with him. 
 
"Good luck, Agent Scully." He sobered, and his voice was sincere.  
Mulder's condition had moved him, she knew that, though, like  
Mulder, he expressed his concern through awkward jokes. 
 
"Thank you." Her eyes glistened with tears.  
 
It had been straightforward, their conversation - a painful  
reminder of what she and Mulder could never have, not now. 
 
And never would....? 
 
She would get his answers for him, but there was a limit to how  
many times she could try. 
 
***** 
 
My life is measured in the ebb and flow of other people's  
footsteps. I sit here, a statue in the darkness, waiting, and they  
come, walking on stage, performing, then going. Samantha, skipping  
through my memories. My unsmiling father finding me in the grass.  
Meg on her silent feet, bringing light and making me forget, for a  
second, that I am still in darkness.  
 
And Scully. 
 
My life is about waiting. I am no longer an actor, but a spectator  
- not even that. A spectator without sight. 
 
Just hearing her footsteps starts the confusion.  
 
"I've found out where you were when.... when it happened," she  
starts without preamble. "_If_ you're interested." 
 
"You're going then?"  
 
Now that it has come, I feel a blank despair. Nothing more. I will  
not plead. I will not reproach. 
 
"I need to, Mulder." She sighs, speaking with the weariness of  
someone who has covered this ground so often, and has no desire to  
tread it again. "I need to know if there was something that I....  
that could have been done." 
 
"Not something that _can_ be done." 
 
My life will be blank and empty when she is gone. I will tune out  
emotion now, speaking with a voice that is dead. She has made her  
choice. 
 
Her clothes rustle as she crouches down beside me. "Mulder, I...." 
 
"Don't, Scully," I cut in. Now, I am not ready to hear what she  
has to say. "You don't need to explain. I understand." 
 
She stands up again. The few feet between us could be miles. "You  
of all people should understand, but I doubt you do." 
 
"Maybe I don't want to." 
 
She sighs deeply, but says nothing. Her silence grates on me.  
Hiding again. Without her words, I can not begin to read her. 
 
"Talk to me, Scully." There is the slightest waver in my voice,  
almost of pleading, but I master it. "Lecture me. Shout at me. I  
know you want to. Ever since.... _it_ happened you've....." 
 
"God, I _hate_ you sometimes, Mulder."  
 
She does what I ask. Why did I do it? There is no comfort here,  
for either of us. Just her voice, saying words that will keep us  
both awake tonight.  
 
I wrap my arms around my stomach and squeeze, holding tight. I say  
nothing. 
 
"You're blind, yes, and I'd do anything - _anything_ - if I  
thought it would make you better, but you.... you can't use it as  
licence to be cruel. I assure you, Mulder, blind or not, I will  
get angry with you if you deserve it. I will not treat you _any_  
differently. Like I said, I refuse to treat you with respect - as  
an equal - unless you start acting in a way that deserves my  
respect. Right now, you're like a.... a spoilt little boy." 
 
Her breath comes in fast gasps. The words were an angry torrent  
without pause, hitting me like bullets. I can offer no defence,  
and no reproach at her for saying them. 
 
I want to be angry - to be strong enough to offer a defence. I  
can't. 
 
"I won't be long, Mulder." She is detached now, as if all emotion  
has poured out of her. "I'm not leaving you." 
 
The cold spreads though my body. I am blind. How will I live when  
she is gone? I will be a prisoner in one room, unable to move.  
 
"I'll ask someone to come over - to look after you." 
 
"I don't need looking after," I burst out, fiercely. I think my  
words are meant more for myself. "I can look after myself." 
 
"A child, Mulder." For a moment it seems almost as if she is  
smiling, even laughing, ruefully. Then her voice hardens. "If you  
had bothered to learn what they wanted to teach you, then you  
could. You still can, one day. But not now. Not yet." 
 
I say nothing. She has left me a way out - a gleam of hope. 
 
"I thought I'd ask...." 
 
"Not Mom!" A bolt of panic strikes me. "Don't ask Mom. She can't  
come. She's.... she's still weak from her stroke. She'd want to  
come, but she can't. Not here. Not this place. Don't... She'd feel  
guilty, having to say no, and I don't want to put her through  
that." 
 
"Not your Mom." The anger has gone, as her voice is almost warm,  
sympathetic. I want to react against that, but maybe I need it  
right now. "My Mom. She was supposed to be visiting Charles this  
week, but it didn't work out. She'll be glad of the sea air." 
 
For the first time, treacherous tears prick my eyes. Does Scully  
ever know how lucky she is? My words were for her benefit, not  
mine. On _this_, I am not lying to myself. I know how my mother's  
refusal would have been phrased. I have heard variations on it all  
my life. 
 
"Okay." I shrug, my face turned away. There is nothing else I can  
say. I don't want her to go. I don't want not to want her to go. 
 
She sighs deeply, and still she doesn't touch me. "Will you come  
in now, Mulder?" 
 
I am weary beyond fighting. On this, I will accept my weakness, my  
defeat. 
 
I nod mutely. 
 
***** 
 
end of part six 

*****

"Resurgam" part 7 of 10


*****

"You want the truth? _This_ is the truth." 
 
A boot lands in my stomach. I can't breathe. I can't breathe, but  
hands pull at me, hauling me to my feet. Harsh footsteps and the  
grate of metal on metal. 
 
"You should have been careful what you asked for. Now you're  
getting it." 
 
I am dragged forward. A crack of light, and I know what is coming,  
dread running cold through my veins. I turn my head away, strain  
against the strong hands that hold me. 
 
"No." Iron fingers dig into my cheeks, forcing me to face what is  
to come. "It is your truth." A laugh. "You _will_ face it." 
 
The voice.... The voice is Scully's. It has been all along -  
Scully, her voice cruel as she forces me to face the truth, not to  
hide. 
 
Metal on metal, and then the light. Oh God, the light. It hurts,  
Scully. Hurts. It rips my sight away. And so cold. Nothing. Not  
worth it at all. Not worth anything. 
 
The light consumes me, and then, suddenly, painfully, I am in the  
darkness again, fingers clenched on the sheets, heart pounding  
with terror. 
 
I take deep breaths, forcing the cloudiness of sleep away, forcing  
myself to focus through the fear. 
 
Bad dream. Nothing else. Not blind. I'm not blind. The darkness is  
night - normal. Light will come in the morning and the dream will  
be forgotten.  
 
Forgotten. 
 
***** 
 
She was woken by his cry. 
 
"Mulder?" Soft footsteps tracing a route already familiar to her,  
from her bed to his. "Are you okay?" 
 
Just seconds, she took, but she was too late. The time for crying  
was past. He had retreated within himself, his face dead,  
emotionless. Talking would be futile, she knew that. He would  
never confide, not now. 
 
But she had to try. 
 
"Mulder?" His hair was damp, and his face shone with sweat in the  
pale grey light of early morning. "Bad dream?" 
 
He shook his head, a tiny movement, but his face showed no  
connection with her. His lips moved. "Bad dream. No.... I thought  
it was. Not a dream. Not." 
 
She frowned, whispered the words to herself, but failed to make  
sense of them. Almost like a reflex, she touched his brow, feeling  
for fever, but he was cool to the touch.  
 
"Do you want to talk about it?" She kept her voice casual. The  
heavy presence of sleep made her less confrontational, less  
insistent. Tomorrow would be as yesterday had been, she was sure  
of it, but this moment now was like an oasis in the night, calm. 
 
He shook his head, more emphatically this time. "You said I should  
face the truth," he murmured, slowly. "The truth was my whole  
life. I didn't run away." 
 
There was a dreaminess to his voice. It made her wonder if he was  
fully conscious, even yet. 
 
"No." Soothing. So many things she needed to say, but this was not  
the time. "You didn't run away, Mulder. You always were a  
fighter." 
 
He mouthed a word, but she could not read it. A single syllable,  
his expression sad. 
 
"Sleep now, Mulder." She ran a finger softly up and down the white  
cotton of his sheet. "My Mom always said that nothing is as bad as  
it seems." 
 
He lay unmoving, accepting, as she tucked him in. She bit her lip,  
frowning. His calmness, his detachment, was almost unnatural.  
Something had changed. Whether it was cause of hope or despair,  
she couldn't tell. 
 
"It will be okay, Mulder." She touched his face, her voice the  
lowest of whispers, then sank even lower and touched his  
unresponsive cheek with her lips, so softly as to be scarcely a  
touch at all. 
 
And he reached for her. No words, but a pleading hand reached for  
her, fingers closing round her wrist, holding her tight. His face  
was turned away, and she knew his subconscious was expressing a  
need that he was not yet, perhaps never, ready to express in  
words. 
 
"Do you want me to stay with you, Mulder?" A soft whisper. Her  
breathing, her heart, sounded loud in the waiting silence. "Stay  
while you fall asleep?" 
 
Still the silence. It oppressed her, almost scared her.  
 
"You would choose a time when I'm hardly dressed." A breath of  
laughter. She held it, hoping to hear an answering laugh, his  
familiar line in innuendo. Nothing. She sighed, the laughter  
fading. "Don't get ideas, Mulder. It's just that there's no need  
to be modest around you, not now. Not now you can't...." 
 
She wept. 
 
***** 
 
Dana paused with the gun in her hand, a finger running almost  
lovingly along the barrel, although her face was grim. 
 
"Are you sure this is the right thing to do?" Margaret Scully  
spoke softly. It was too soon to put her doubts into her words, if  
at all.  
 
Dana shook herself from her reverie, her face sure, no sign of  
doubt. "I need to know what happened to him, Mom." Almost hostile.  
"He _could_ remember, I think, but he refuses to even try. It's  
important to me to know." 
 
"And to him, then." She held her daughter's gaze, though it was  
still so hard to speak of such things. "When you came back...." A  
deep shuddering breath, the only outward break in the calm. "Dana,  
I saw how important it was for him to know the answers, but he  
didn't push you, remember? You said you couldn't remember, and he  
smiled, said it didn't matter." 
 
"He was lying?" Dana's voice was sharp. "Are you saying he wanted  
me to remember, then? That he thought I was weak for running  
away?" She turned away, hiding her face. "Like Melissa did, just  
before...."  
 
"No." Firm. She stood up, putting a hand on Dana's shoulder. "I  
can't speak for him, but I think what he realised - what Melissa  
showed him - was that all the answers in the world are less  
important than one life. You were back, that's what was important.  
The present. The future. What happened in the past was a...." She  
shrugged, but there were tears in her eyes, too. "Just not as  
important, I guess," she finished, weakly. 
 
Dana pulled her arms close to her chest, defensive, holding on to  
her anger. "He never told me Melissa had made a difference. He  
never tells me anything. He never lets us really talk." 
 
"Dana!" One stern word, snapped out with all the rebuke of  
childhood, then her voice was soft again. "I just want you to ask  
yourself what you hope to gain by this. The past can't be changed.  
What use are answers if you lose him?" 
 
"Lose him?" It was the old Dana again, the small girl, needing her  
mother's advice. "What.... what do you mean?" 
 
"If he needs you today, and you're not there, will he let himself  
need you again tomorrow? You complain that he doesn't confide...."  
She let a note of anger rise into her voice. "Looking at you right  
now, I can see why."  
 
Dana turned away. She reached for the keys, fingering them  
harshly, even impatiently. No defence. No rebuttal. Just....  
nothing. 
 
"Dana?"  
 
"I've got to go, Mom," Dana said urgently. Her every muscle looked  
tight, tense. "I need to do this. After I come back, I'll.... I'll  
see." 
 
Margaret said nothing. She could not bring herself to speak her  
approval, knowing how hollow the words would be. 
 
"You think I'm _wrong_ on this? You disapprove?" Dana whirled  
round. Her eyes blazed with anger, challenge, but there was  
something beneath that - a tiny echo of the little girl who would  
do anything for her mother's approval. 
 
"I'd never dare to disapprove, Dana." She tried to smile, but  
there was a coldness in her voice that she couldn't banish. "I  
learnt long ago to let you make your own...." 
 
"Mistakes?" Harsh. There was a stricken look on her face, almost  
of betrayal. 
 
Margaret gave a small smile, rueful. "Decisions. I know that  
opposition always makes you even more determined - determined to  
show the doubters that you can do it, can even do it well." Her  
smile was sincere this time. "The fire in your eyes when you told  
us you were joining the FBI, and then when you told me the X-Files  
were expected to fail...." 
 
"Are you saying that I'm stubborn?" 
 
The look on her daughter's face pushed her over into real laughter  
for the first time. "Stubborn? Oh, Dana...." 
 
"But I do need to do this." There was a touch of hurt in her voice  
- the first indication of how thin the mask of control was. She  
was as emotionally vulnerable as Fox, though she hid it better,  
refused even to acknowledge it to herself. "I just need to know it  
there was anything I could have done. When he called me...." 
 
"Oh, Dana." She pulled her into an embrace, smoothing her hair as  
if she was a child again. Two seconds, three, it would last,  
before she pulled away. "If it's important to you, then go, but  
please be honest with yourself. You want the answers for yourself,  
not for him." 
 
"Is it _wrong_ for me....?" 
 
She shook her head silently, her eyes cutting off her daughter's  
outburst. "No," she said, at last. "But to lie to yourself.... To  
tell yourself that this is best for Fox, too...." 
 
"But I don't know what's best for Mulder!" It was a cry, but there  
was anger there as well as grief. "I try, but.... he makes it so  
difficult." 
 
"Perhaps that's a good sign, Dana." They were on opposite sides of  
the room now, but she could still reach out with her voice and  
offer comfort. Dana needed it as much as Fox, though she would  
never admit it. "He's been through so much. You can't expect  
acceptance, not yet. If he was easy to deal with, wouldn't that  
show that he had cut himself off, given up?" 
 
Dana opened her mouth, then closed it again, saying nothing.  
 
"He just needs time, Dana." 
 
"So I'll give him time." She picked the gun up again, her focus  
narrowing. "All day. Maybe more. I'll give him time, myself  
answers, and both of us...."  
 
She breathed out harshly, closer to a cry, but the sentence  
remained unfinished. The gun in her hand spoke eloquently enough. 
 
Be careful, Dana. Be careful.  
 
Margaret whispered the words silently. She knew her daughter well  
enough to know they would be greeted with anger, should she ever  
speak them aloud.  
 
***** 
 
"So." 
 
I breathe in sharply, hold it. My hands are behind my back,  
pressed flat against the wall. Neither inside nor outside. Neither  
smothered nor free. 
 
"I'm going." 
 
Harder. I press harder. Grains of stone dig into my skin,  
painfully. I focus on _that_ pain. I refuse to face the other, not  
now. 
 
Not with her watching. 
 
"I'll come back." A whisper of air as if her hand brushes so close  
to me, but then falls without touching. "I hope to have some  
answers." 
 
Okay, Scully. Answers. Why do I feel like this? Why do _you_ make  
me feel like this? How can I live? 
 
I say nothing. 
 
"I need this, Mulder. Mom will look after you." 
 
I twist my hands, grinding. Blood trickles down my fingers.  
 
"Damn it, Mulder." A shout. "Why won't you say anything?" 
 
Why doesn't she _know_ that? Does she know me at all? It's.... No.  
No, it's not. She doesn't know me at all, and that's how I have  
wanted it. That's how I still want it.... 
 
"Are you mad with me, because that's pretty damn selfish, Mulder." 
 
Mad? No, Scully. Not mad, not with you. With myself, for feeling  
like this, perhaps? I would give anything not to care that she is  
leaving me, to be strong. 
 
Her footsteps recede like bullets through my body. Outside, I am  
free, but I am also alone. Cold, and alone. 
 
***** 
 
"She _will_ come back, Fox."  
 
"I know." 
 
I pull my arms tighter round my knees, facing away from the voice.  
She mustn't see my face - mustn't. I'd forgotten she was here, let  
myself take off the mask and.... and cry. I must be more careful.  
It is so easy to forget there are people in my world other than  
Scully. 
 
"I know it's difficult right now, but it will get better. You are  
so strong, Fox. I saw that when Dana was.... away. I know you'll  
deal with this, you and her." 
 
"I know." 
 
Rocking to and fro, away from the wall and back to it, away and  
back, away and back. Away.... Go away. Back.... Leave me alone.  
Away.... Stop lying. Back.... I don't need protecting. Away.....  
 
"Even blind, you can work, get around, read.... almost anything.  
You can't shoot suspects, but is that such a loss?" 
 
"I know." 
 
She pauses. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, full of  
sympathy. God, I _hate_ that - hate, hate, hate. I hear the tone,  
only, and not the words. 
 
And she speaks again. 
 
"I said, she will come back, really. She wants to stay with you  
because of you, not because of your condition. Why is it so hard  
to accept?" 
 
Leave me alone. Leave me alone.... Reaching into my thoughts. I  
can't read their faces, but they can read _everything_. I am naked  
before them. 
 
"I think you should both talk about it when she gets back - really  
talk about it. Be honest. It's so hard for both of you to  
admit.... things." 
 
"It?" My voice is hoarse, unused to speaking. I have said nothing  
since the dream that was not a dream.  
 
"The future." 
 
It is like drowning in icy water, the dread that washes over me.  
Future without my work, without hope, without Scully. Without  
Scully. This is her first bid for freedom. She will come back, but  
there will be more - more and more - until one day she is gone. 
 
I give a harsh bark of laughter. Why would I want to talk about  
the future? Why would I want to _think_ about the future? The  
future is.... no life worth living. 
 
"I want to sit out there, please." I speak calmly, my voice  
utterly level, pointing in what I think is the right direction. "I  
want to be alone to.... to think about what you said." 
 
She murmurs, a sound of doubt. 
 
"I'll take my cell phone," I say brightly, relieved that I can  
still do it - still hide behind my tone of voice, if nothing else.  
The revelation gives me strength. "If I need anything I can call  
you. Please..." I swallow, nearly losing my control already.  
"Don't watch me from the window. I... I don't like the thought of  
being watched when I can't _see_ that I'm being watched." 
 
She pauses before speaking. "Okay," she says, at last. "If that's  
what you want." 
 
She disapproves, but she lets me go. She treats me as an adult.  
Even with everything, I almost smile at that. I am being released  
from the prying eyes of the house into the freedom of the  
sunlight. 
 
But as she leads me by the arm, I feel a cold dread descend on me.  
A prisoner being led into solitary confinement, alone. 
 
***** 
 
Not this. She hadn't expected this. 
 
The cold blank face of the guard, and the gun levelled at her  
head.... She had expected these, prepared for them. She  
straightened her back, held her head high, and stared defiantly,  
coolly, down the dark barrel.  
 
"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully from the FBI. I demand to talk to  
whoever is in charge." 
 
There was the smallest flicker in the guard's face - a small  
relaxing of tension, a grudging look of respect. Her voice, her  
whole bearing, showed she would brook no argument. 
 
"My superiors know I am here. Needless to say, I will be reporting  
any.... infringements." 
 
But it was difficult - God, it was so difficult, keeping control.  
Fear she had considered, and dismissed. That she would crack with  
anger, do something rash, had been a possibility she had worried  
about, briefly, while driving to this place. But this.... this  
_grief_. It was surprising. It was almost debilitating. 
 
There was nowhere to hide. The minutest detail of the scene was a  
stab of pain. 
 
The twisted tree to the left.... Had he seen it, smiled at the  
memory? The long hours of a winter stakeout in the car enlivened  
with a heated argument. The grotesque likeness of an alien, or  
just a tree? "Seeing things again, Mulder." "You have no  
imagination, Scully". She had smiled and he had pouted. 
 
The notice warning against trespassing.... The last words he would  
ever read? How had he smiled when he'd seen that? "Too late. I'm  
already inside." A triumphant smile, but nervous too, expectant,  
knowing that his hopes had so often been dashed. 
 
And the cold eyes of the guard and the barrel of the gun. To know  
that his last sight had been of a stranger, an enemy.  
 
"Did you?" She wanted to scream at him, to break down,  to batter  
the guard with her fists. "Did you make it ugly for him, his last  
sight? Was it you? The last thing he saw should have been  
something _good_, not this. I'll make sure you pay for this." 
 
But she said nothing -  raged inside, but said nothing.  
 
"You can't come in, Agent Scully." The guard's face had softened,  
but his voice was still like steel. "This is a restricted area." 
 
"Then I'll stay here." She focused on his eyes, trying to forget  
everything else. "Ask someone to come out. I'm not going until I  
get some answers." 
 
"You may have a long wait, Agent Scully." The guard's impassive  
mask slipped, and he even smiled. Something in his voice made her  
frown. There was authority there, and control. It was as if she  
had been expected, and the normal guard replaced with this....  
this _enemy_. 
 
She stepped forward, hatred taking over, but the gun was instantly  
focused, deadly. She breathed out slowly, making no further move  
forward.  
 
But she didn't move back. 
 
"What did you do to my partner? What did he see?" All her anger  
was in her voice, but it was a cold anger, like ice. "This is  
supposed to be a scientific installation. What can you be hiding?  
Have you have anything here that merits _that_?" 
 
The man shook his head, his eyes grey and devoid of feeling. "I  
don't know who you mean, Agent Scully. I do know that I can call  
on.... people to remove you. They will be more persuasive than  
me." 
 
"You're threatening me? You admit it?" 
 
The man smiled - a cold smile with no humour in it. "Police, Agent  
Scully. I meant police. Did I say otherwise?" 
 
"Police? Go ahead. Call the police. They'll have an assault charge  
to investigate." She reached for her phone. Her fingers were heavy  
and trembling. 
 
"Agent Scully." Warning. He stepped forward into the sunlight, and  
she saw how tight his finger was on the trigger. "We are....  
protected. You have no proof, no warrant. _You_ are in the wrong  
here." 
 
"Let's just allow them to decide...." 
 
"Agent Scully." It was the voice of a nightmare, and she could see  
at once that death was in his look. "Put the phone down. Turn  
round. Go." His voice softened suddenly, grew almost warm. It was  
the most chilling thing of all. "It's the sensible thing to do,  
Agent Scully. I wouldn't want to hurt you." 
 
She stood firm, but inside her mind was reeling. 
 
What was I thinking. God! What was I thinking? No more hiding.  
Just walk straight up to the door and demand an answer. Shame them  
into confessing? But they have no shame, I knew that, didn't I?  
 
She had even mused, idly, blindly, on half-remembered stories. The  
Master Doorkeeper, guarding the place of all secrets, the home of  
all magic, letting no-one pass unless the could find out his name.  
The foolish tried to trick it from him with futile spells, but the  
wise just stood there, face lowered, a supplicant, and asked,  
"what is your name?" 
 
To those who knock, all doors are opened.  
 
And now she almost laughed - either that or tears. _She_ had been  
the blind one, with no plan except her righteousness.  
 
She had failed him. 
 
***** 
 
Yesterday, I was blind. Today, I can see. My eyes are sightless,  
but I can see, can understand. My realisation after my dream has  
not faded. It taunts me still, on and on.  
 
"You'll never see again, Mulder. Never. You were running away. You  
must face the truth at last. You have lost everything. Your future  
is nothing." 
 
Over and over and over.... 
 
My head sinks forward, lolls on my chest, unsupported. My hands  
hurt, and I have no energy to move them, anyway. There is a soft  
despairing moan, and I suppose it is my own. I am detached from my  
body, distant. There is just me and the darkness, me and the  
darkness, me and the darkness. 
 
Oh, I want her. I want to hear her voice and feel her hands,  
comforting. I want her, but I don't want her. I will bristle at  
her sympathy. I will feel defenceless and lash out, pushing her  
away. It is what I am. I can't help it. I can not change what I  
am. 
 
I wish.... 
 
No. I refuse to complete that thought. This is the better way.  
Life alone, in the darkness, is more than I will accept. Life with  
her pity is.... more than I can expect. She has gone. If she  
hadn't gone, then....  No. I can't let her in, not on these terms,  
not as the weak one.  
 
Blind, I can not live without her. Blind, I can not live with her.  
Blind, I can not live. 
 
There. I have said it. What now? 
 
"Play with me, Mulder?" 
 
I raise my head. Even my neck muscles feel so tired. I am beyond  
Meg now. Nothing she says can change anything. 
 
"Mulder?"  
 
"Not now, Meg. I'm.... thinking." My voice is hoarse. I shiver.  
The wind has turned suddenly cold. 
 
"Come to my special place - the one I told you about." Her voice  
is all smiles. "It's a good place for thinking." 
 
"Your special place." I shiver at the memory. Samantha screaming,  
her hand slowly losing its grip. It is the same place, or close to  
it.  
 
"It's.... special. The wind makes you see things clearly, and the  
sound of the sea...." She pauses, then continues brightly. "Come  
on. Follow my voice." 
 
"Your hand?"  
 
I push myself to my feet, still unsteady and sore. My hands are  
stiff with dried blood. I will go there. Beyond that, I am not  
sure, but I will at least go there. A good place for thinking,  
with the sound of the sea in my ears and the wind on my face. 
 
"No. My voice. You must come freely." 
 
It is so hard, taking one step in front of the other, trusting  
only a voice. The darkness is still, but I am in turmoil.  
Suddenly, I hope that Mrs Scully _is_ watching - that she will  
rush in like the mother hen and save me from the choice that is  
coming. 
 
A bird screeches. Meg talks, a crooning sound with no words in it.  
There is no other sound. 
 
And then the air is different. I am getting attuned to these  
things already - small things that I would never have noticed when  
I could see. There is no _land_ ahead of me. Wind, sea, and a  
steep drop to death. 
 
But Meg's voice is ahead of me, still, warm and coaxing. "Come on,  
Mulder. Just one more step. There's a hollow in the grass. That's  
my den. I want to share it with you. Please." She sounds on the  
point of tears. "I was so lonely before you came, and now you  
don't care. You said you wouldn't play with me, because _you're_  
sad. What about me? Don't you care about anyone but yourself?" 
 
"I.... I'm sorry, Meg." But I do not move. Maybe she is telling  
the truth, maybe not. It is too soon, though. "Scully said I was  
selfish." A whisper, not meant for her ears. 
 
"Maybe she's right." She is closer now, a nasty edge to her voice.  
"You expect her to give up her whole life to look after you, but  
you won't even be grateful. No wonder she told her Mom she was  
leaving you as soon as she could. Get you trained to look after  
yourself, then leave. That's what she said." 
 
"No!" A whimper rather than a word. I want to scream my denial,  
but wasn't I thinking that myself, just minutes ago - minutes that  
feel a lifetime?  
 
"You won't find your sister now." She is relentless. "Just because  
you're so selfish as to go rushing into petty places that you  
shouldn't, and you've lost her forever. I wonder how she's  
screaming now...." 
 
No. No.... I can't hear this. I can't.... Attack. Yes, that's it.  
Attack. Fight. 
 
"Who are you?" I whirl round, but the voice is from all sides,  
now, disorientating. "You're not a child. Are you one of them? Did  
_you_ do this to me?" 
 
"Oh, Mulder." She laughs, then - such a sweet sound, though to me  
it grates like torn metal. "Do you always ask so many questions?  
Just do what you want to do and stop asking." 
 
"What - I - want - to - do?" I echo her words, slow, wondering.  
 
What I want to do? Scully's tears and a lifetime of guilt.  
Samantha returning and needing her brother. A man smiling in  
triumph and he stubs out a cigarette. 
 
And for what?  
 
"Can you live like this, alone, blind?" She is so soft now, like a  
caress. "This way will be quick. A minute of pain as compared with  
a lifetime. No contest." 
 
"No." I pull my mind away from the drop, filling it with Scully's  
touch and the warm voice of her mother, and the smell of cooking  
in the house. I allow myself a laugh, trying to dispel the shaking  
deep inside. "You made a mistake. I might have done it, if you had  
pretended to be in trouble. When you _tell_ me to do it...." Real  
laughter bubbles up inside me, closer, perhaps, to tears. "Don't  
you know that I never do what I'm told?" 
 
Silence. 
 
I am shaking, full of fear, but I _will_ do it. I can feel the  
sea, and the wind, and the smell in the air. I can find the house,  
alone. I can walk, slowly, but I can do it. And I _will_ do it,  
better each day. I will.... 
 
"No." Her voice is a stone, cold and hard. 
 
"Yes."  
 
Slowly, slowly, I take a step forward. It is the right direction,  
I.... I.... hope. It is.... 
 
A huge blow hits my body, and it is like nothing I have ever felt  
before. Not a hand, not a foot, but a.... thing, and it is all  
over, and it is cold, so cold. 
 
And I am falling, falling. I flail wildly for some grass - for  
anything - but there is nothing but.... nothing. 
 
And then the pain, and the _light_. 
 
***** 
 
end of part seven 

*****

"Resurgam" part 8 of 10


*****

Still she didn't cry. Head held high, she walked towards her car.  
She could almost feel the man's eyes digging into her back, almost  
feel his triumph. 
 
They had won. They had.... 
 
Focus, Dana. Focus. One step at a time, though your legs are like  
lead, dragging you away from hope. Focus. Think. 
 
The sky was so blue, so cruelly beautiful. Her thoughts flitted.  
She wondered if she would ever take joy in beauty again, or if it  
would be forever tainted by the fact that _he_ couldn't see it. 
 
Then she rounded the corner, and was hidden, out of the man's cold  
gaze and the range of his gun. She paused, the shadow lifting.  
Hope that had been imprisoned by the man flowered again, vague and  
formless. 
 
Get a team. Come back. Get a warrant. Ask Skinner.... 
 
She was cautious now, and didn't let the hope make her smile.  
Still, they held her, kept her attention. She was focused inwards,  
now, scarcely aware of her surroundings. 
 
No warning. Nothing. 
 
Before a hand clamped over her mouth and there was warmth on her  
neck, breathing, breathing. 
 
And a voice. "You will continue to your car, Agent Scully. Make no  
sound. I will.... accompany you. I have something to tell you." 
 
Something hard was jammed into her back, and she knew it was a  
gun. She was too desperate to feel fear. Without risk, there was  
no hope of getting answers. 
 
"Now. Walk." It was barely above a whisper, but there was command  
in it, and control. The hand was removed from her mouth, but the  
gun remained. Only two pairs of footsteps sounded on the road -  
hers and.... his. 
 
"Unlike my partner, I have told people where I was going." She  
knew enough not to turn her head. Let him hear the calm of her  
voice, not see the uncertainty on her face, in her eyes. "If  
you.... do anything to me, you _will_ be punished." 
 
"Just keep walking, Agent Scully." But there was a note of emotion  
in the voice now, and she could almost smile at the victory. 
 
"Why? Are you making sure I drive away, so you can get on with  
your little secrets?" She gave a harsh laugh, though it was  
difficult. The presence of the gun was beginning to affect her. He  
was a man, and.... She swallowed. She had too many memories of  
being threatened, taken away by force.  
 
"That's your car, Agent Scully. Get in the driver's side." She saw  
a movement in her peripheral vision - a hand wiping a brow. He  
_was_ bothered by this. If she could see his face....  
 
"Why? So you can make me drive to a secluded spot and then kill  
me? Is that your job?" She put all the disdain she could muster  
into her voice, trying to rattle him. Even as she said it she knew  
it was what Mulder would have done, but it was too late to back  
down. "Are you going to kill me like you killed my partner?" she  
snapped, fighting the tears that wanted to rise through the anger. 
 
"We didn't kill your partner, Agent Scully." He sounded almost  
bored. "Now, get into the car before someone sees us."  
 
The gun pressed in, painful. 
 
"You killed him. You took away his sight. You took away his work.  
His work is his life. You took away his...." 
 
And then she trailed off, unable to speak, feeling a horror that  
was worse than what was to come. His will to live..... God! His  
will to live.... And I _left_ him.... 
 
"Oh, Mulder," she whispered, silently, her shoulders slumping and  
her resistance washing out of her. "I'm sorry." 
 
The sky seemed to flicker, to change. Its vivid blueness seemed  
tawdry, somehow, and insignificant. It was an indulgence, coming  
here. This was no cause worth fighting for. 
 
It was no cause to die for. 
 
But the gun was at her back, inexorable. 
 
***** 
 
Death is close now. It is so hard to think, but this I know. Death  
is close. 
 
I am.... where? Hard under my body, jagged. Rocks? There is the  
sound of waves close to my ear, and sometimes water splashes on my  
face. I don't like it. It drags me back to the words. In the other  
place there are no words, no thoughts, and I can _see_ there. 
 
Drift, drift. Let myself drift. Think of the pain and let it take  
me under and away into the  place of light. 
 
Scully is there, and her hair is beautiful. So red. Her lips are  
moving. She is concerned, but relieved too. She is telling me we  
are in New Mexico and that I need to drink. I... I don't think I'm  
in New Mexico. Why does Scully think I'm in New Mexico? But Scully  
is always right about things like that. Not about aliens,  
though.... 
 
Splash. Shit! Someone is groaning and I think it might be me. I  
can't move from the splashes. I can't move at all. I tried, once,  
long long ago. Weeks, perhaps. I am too tired to try now. 
 
Scully again. She is here for longer now, and the times between  
her visits are shorter. She is smiling - such an incredible smile  
- and she touches my arm and tells me I'm in Alaska. Alaska. Make  
your mind up, Scully. But I am so cold - so cold. Alaska is more  
like it. New Mexico was a joke. 
 
I want to touch her too. I raise my arm and.... 
 
A scream, this time. I wonder who it was. Maybe I should help  
them, but Scully is here. She can do it. I am in bed and my whole  
body is numb and my mind is swimming. She says we've found the  
girl but the kidnapper still has the boy. You're way ahead of me,  
Scully. Which boy? 
 
Scully strokes my hair, and she smiles fondly. I have a vague  
feeling that I should be pulling away, but can't understand it.  
Why should I dislike it when she cares for me? 
 
Splash. 
 
She is gone. Oh God, she is gone. Just memories. I am blind. I am  
alone. I am.... I don't want to die, Scully. I want to live. I  
want you.  
 
Splash. 
 
The splashes are pain and the pain is death. I don't want to die.  
I will let myself go instead to the place without pain - the place  
where Scully is, and I can see her. 
 
Simple. 
 
****** 
 
Her eyes flickered to the mirror, the merest fraction of a second,  
then back again. Her face was dead, frozen in defeat. She would  
not put up a fight. 
 
"Up ahead. Just there. Turn left."  
 
No fight. Slowly, she turned the wheel to the right, almost  
dreamily. The course was all wrong. Fear was making her clumsy,  
and the gun pointed at her body, never moving. 
 
"Good. Now stop. Turn off the engine and let me take the key." 
 
She did as she said. Slow movements, slow, fighting the leaden  
grip of fear in your limbs. Slow. Small shaky breath. Good.... 
 
"Very wise, Agent Scully." He undid his safety belt, reaching  
forward for the key. "I don't want to hurt you. I just need  
to...." 
 
"What did you do to him?" She was from stupefied rest to furious  
movement quicker than thought. Her voice filled the car, her  
fingers gripping his gun until they were white and shaking. "Tell  
you what you did to him!" 
 
Not a cause to die for, no. She had scarcely dared _think_ her  
defiance. Her emotions could always be read on her face. Think  
weak, Dana. Think cowed. But it was naked fury now, and no need to  
pretend. 
 
"But, Agent Scully." He laughed, though his hands were up, his  
eyes nervous. "That's what I was going to tell you anyway. _They_  
would kill me if they knew. I needed to make sure you were away  
from there." 
 
"So why didn't you tell me? Why did you threaten me?" The gun  
didn't waver. She was implacable. "Funny how you only think to  
mention this _now_. I wonder why." 
 
"Would you have come with me if I hadn't forced you? Would you  
have risked _that_?" 
 
She blinked hard. "If I thought it would help Mulder, I would have  
risked anything." 
 
"Would have?" He seemed to draw comfort from her words. "But not  
now? This apparent brush with death has taught you that there's a  
limit to how far you'll go for him?" He laughed. "I understand,  
Agent Scully. Loyalty's so very easy when there's no inconvenience  
involved." 
 
"Would have," she echoed, her voice steel. "And still will. So,  
unless you want to see how well I can shoot, I suggest you tell me  
what you did to him."  
 
And let me get back to him.... 
 
"You don't get it, do you?" Again, he laughed. "They didn't do  
anything to him. They never do. He did it himself again." 
 
"Blinded himself? Put his own handcuffs on? Beat himself? I don't  
think so." 
 
"It's a scientific installation, Agent Scully. For the sake of  
national security it has to be kept secret. You know that. Agent  
Mulder knew that. There are notices everywhere." 
 
She supported her gun arm with her other hand, keeping it steady.  
"You said you wanted to help me. That's enough of this  
justification. I want the _truth_." 
 
Why? Why do you want the truth? What good will it do him? Her  
mother's voice spoke in her mind, and she saw Mulder's bent head  
and his eyes that needed so badly to cry. 
 
She cut off the thoughts as with a knife, pushed the gun forward,  
and put all her hate into her eyes. This was Krycek, Luis  
Cardinale, the smoking man.... everyone who had ever hurt those  
she cared about. 
 
"This is the truth, Agent Scully," he said, softly, no trace of  
laughter this time. "He broke in, knowing the consequences, and he  
was captured. He struggled, there was a bit of a fight, and he was  
subdued." 
 
"What - did - you - do - to - his - eyes?" She spat out each word,  
clear and distinct. 
 
"There is a.... place. We test.... something there. Something that  
involves very bright light. Everyone must wear goggles, or they  
risk losing their sight entirely." 
 
"And you dragged him there." She felt sick, her words leaden.  
"What did you do? Did you laugh, and tell him you were going to  
show him what he'd come looking for? Is that it? There were  
_bruises_ on his face, like finger marks. Was that you, holding  
his face tight, making him look until he...." 
 
She swallowed, unable to say any more. Even without words, the  
images continued, so painful. 
 
"He ran, Agent Scully. He broke free. We tried to warn him, but he  
went straight in there. He said he wanted the truth. I.... I guess  
he got what he wanted." 
 
She took a deep breath, then another. She _had_ to keep in  
control. The nightmares would come later, but now was the time for  
questions.  
 
"Why are you telling me this?" she asked, though it was a  
struggle. She was so weary with all this. The truth sickened her.  
 
"I was ashamed to be part of it, when they just dumped him  
afterwards. I said we should call the ambulance. No-one would  
blame us. He disobeyed all the warnings." He sighed. "They thought  
the publicity would be detrimental to our work. The public might  
see it a different way. Questions would be asked. I.... I found  
that inhumane." 
 
She eyes him levelly. "No-one would blame them? _I_ blame them,  
and you. And you know what? I think you should tell your story to  
the police and see who they blame?" 
 
"Oh, I think not Agent Scully." 
 
And there was a gun in his hand - a second gun, from.... where? He  
had moved so _fast_.  
 
"Put the gun down." The world narrowed, for her, until it was  
nothing but the barrel of her gun and the gaping hole of his. "I  
said, put the gun down." 
 
"Oh, I know about you, Agent Scully. You didn't even shoot your  
sister's murderer. You won't kill me, not in cold blood...." He  
smiled. "I, on the other hand, am trained for it. If you shoot me,  
even if I die, I _will_ shoot you. Do you really think it will  
help your Agent Mulder if you're dead?" 
 
She opened her mouth, shut it again. Her gun was steady but her  
mind wavered. It was true. God, it was true. She hated him for it. 
 
"Now, get out of the car, Agent Scully." 
 
"You tricked me." Bitterness, reproach, burned inside her. "You're  
not acting against their knowledge, are you? They _sent_ you. Why?  
To tell me your version of what happened, in the hope that I'd go  
away and let it drop?" 
 
"But you will let the matter drop," he said mildly. "You know what  
happened. If you push it, we may get a small rebuke." He smiled.  
"It was one Graham, I believe, who suggested we dump him. He  
always was a bad influence. Not a team player, if you know what I  
mean. We let him go, and all will be forgotten. But your Agent  
Mulder.... Trespass. Resisting arrest. Espionage.... That's only  
the beginning. Someone may be watching him even now. He may not be  
out of danger. Can you take that risk?" 
 
She bit her lip, torn. She couldn't let him go, but she couldn't  
challenge him, not if there was a risk of dying. Mulder needed  
her. No answer, no revenge, would alter that. 
 
And then there was the sound of a car engine. The man smiled. 
 
****** 
 
"You're going to die, Mulder. It will be so slow. Feel what it  
will be like." 
 
It is a cold voice, and it is everywhere. I called it "Meg" once.  
As an artless little girl she made me feel so good about myself,  
her words a brief moment of light in my darkness. 
 
Splash. Water in my nose, my mouth. I cough, and the stab of pain  
keeps me awake, having to hear her. 
 
"Yes." Long and drawn out, almost loving, that single syllable.  
"Like that. The tide is rising. So many times you will nearly  
drown, then it will recede again. But it _will_ get you in the  
end. Half an hour - an hour at most. An hour of fear and agony as  
your breath is stolen from you, minute by painful minute." 
 
Splash. Rushing in my ears. I want to run away, to the place where  
Scully is. Please.... 
 
"Finish it now, Mulder. Take control. That's what you've wanted,  
isn't it? It's why you've hated being blind so much? You can  
_control_ this. You're so close, Mulder. Just push yourself off  
the rock...." 
 
Death....  
 
Death doesn't tempt me, not now, but her words are alluring.  
Control. I run my tongue over my lips and whisper the word,  
savouring it. 
 
"Control, Mulder. Control. Control...." 
 
Water everywhere - my body sinking into water. Splash.... 
 
It doesn't end. 
 
***** 
 
She was shaking, afterwards. No-one could see her. 
 
"I _was_ wrong." 
 
There was a void where her hope had been. It was only now that she  
realised how badly she had needed this to work out - how much she  
had pinned _everything_ on finding out the answers. 
 
"What did I need answers for?" 
 
She gripped the gun, still needing it. It helped her think.  
Answers.... For closure? To wrap up the past like a completed  
case, sign it, then file it away for ever?  
 
For Mulder? No. She shook her head sadly, regretfully. Not for  
him. How would knowing this make things easier for him? 
 
She ran her hand over her eyes, wiping away tears that, even after  
everything, she could only shed in private. Her fingers shook as  
she reached for the phone, shook as she pressed out the number. 
 
"Hello?"  
 
She swallowed, trying to steady herself. Her mother's voice could  
always make her weak, make her a child again. "Mom?" she managed,  
at last. "I'm coming home." 
 
"Dana?" Her mother's voice was all concern, now, the tension of  
their parting forgotten. "Are you all right?" 
 
"I'm f...." Then she paused, biting back the normal reply - the  
one that always flowed from her mouth without thought. Mulder was  
right. She had to give a bit, too. "I'm tired," she said. "Tired.  
Shaken. Sorry. I'll be okay." 
 
"Shaken? Why? What happened?" 
 
"I think I want to tell Mulder that first," she said, carefully,  
realising it for the first time. "This is about him. I owe him  
that much. 
 
"You're not hurt, though?" 
 
"No." She shook her head, slowly. Not hurt, not physically.  
Emotionally, though.... Despite the training, staring into the  
barrel
flashbacks and nightmares, though she would never say. She blinked  
away that train of thought, remembering her main cause of concern.  
"Mulder, though. Is he okay?" 
 
"He's outside. He asked me to leave him alone. This was.... a few  
hours ago. Just after you left." 
 
_This_ caught her, made her inhale sharply. Just a few hours. So  
much had had changed, and just in a few hours. But she knew  
Mulder, too, and knew how confused he was right now. So much could  
have changed for him, too. 
 
"Could you just check up on him?" she asked, trying to keep her  
voice level. "I'm.... It would help me if I knew he was okay." 
 
Her mother hesitated. "He asked me not to watch him. I promised.  
He needs to be in control of _something_." 
 
Scully cleared her throat, unsure. Her mother's voice was tinny  
and distant. She was unable to judge the tone, the real meaning.  
Was she supposed to persist, or back off. 
 
"I know, Mom," she said, at last. "But, please. Just this once."  
She sighed shakily, wondering how much to admit to. Nothing, if  
possible. Nothing. "It would set my mind at rest." It was all she  
could bring herself to say. 
 
"Okay." The tone was clear this time, and it was disapproval.  
Footsteps padded away, and there was a click - a door opening. 
 
Scully swapped the phone into her other hand, stretching her  
cramped fingers. The memories returned full force. Her mother was  
dealing with Mulder, so she could be swamped by those last  
terrifying minutes. 
 
She had _known_ she was going to die. 
 
The engine had roared closer, the man had smiled, and half a dozen  
guns had pointed at her, had clicked into place. 
 
"Put the gun down." 
 
She'd kept her head high, but had lowered the gun, feeling the air  
resist like water. She hadn't blinked. Resistance was foolhardy,  
but submission was.... not Scully. 
 
"Step out of the car." 
 
She'd reached for the handle, moving slowly, oh so slowly, but  
then had paused, wondering. The direction of their eyes, their  
guns.... Her mind whirled. Had she been wrong, even now?  
 
"Not you, Agent Scully." A gun had jammed into her chest, but the  
soldier's eyes had been cold, not deadly. "You stay here. Give me  
your keys." 
 
She'd done as the soldier had asked, watching as he'd thrown them  
into the undergrowth. She'd known where they had landed. She'd  
been _supposed_ to know where they had landed, she'd realised,  
catching the look in his eyes. 
 
A slam, shaking the car. 
 
It was only then that she'd realised that there was no-one in the  
passenger seat. The man had been standing outside, four guns at  
his head, as..... 
 
"Dana, put the phone down. Now!" Her mother's voice was fractured,  
breathless, pulling her into the present like a slap. 
 
Dread swept over her, blotting out everything but him. "Mulder,"  
she gasped. "What...." 
 
"Dana!" It was a shout, almost angry, then her mother softened,  
urgent, yet sympathetic, too. "I need to call an ambulance. It's  
Fox. He's fallen. I can't get to him. I don't know. I'm sorry...." 
 
There was a click, and then nothing. 
 
***** 
 
end of part eight 

*****

"Resurgam" part 9 of 10

*****

Dana was pacing, pacing, arms clutched tightly around her body. 
 
"If he dies, I'll never forgive you, Mom. Never." 
 
Her mother winced, but made no defence, no apology. She knew how  
grief needed to lash out, how guilt could become impossible to  
bear alone. "He's not going to die, Dana," she said, softly. "The  
doctors...." 
 
"What do they know?" She had never heard such bitterness from her  
daughter before. "I'm a doctor. We make diagnoses assuming that  
the patient _wants_ to get better. The injuries _could_ kill him,  
if...." 
 
"So we'll be there for him, Dana. We'll make sure he has something  
to live for." 
 
But it was so difficult. She was a mother, so she was calm,  
strong, offering hope and comfort. She was raging inside, needing  
to shout and to weep. _She_ had been there from the start, through  
the terrible long minutes when they struggled to keep him  
breathing, and, before that, when they were scared to move him at  
all in case his back was broken. 
 
She had borne it alone. She was only human. How could she not  
rage? 
 
"..... tried. He won't listen." 
 
She shook her head, bringing herself back to the white sterile  
room and her daughter's pale face, still devoid of tears. 
 
She hadn't heard. She wouldn't ask. "Why won't you cry?" she said,  
suddenly, surprising herself. "It's eating you up inside." 
 
Dana looked as if she'd been struck in the face. She hesitated,  
then drew back her shoulders, going on the offensive. "Why did you  
leave him alone? Why did you let this happen?" 
 
"He asked me to, Dana." Soft, though her words hurt so much. "He's  
an adult. Just because he needs help with getting around doesn't  
make him helpless in other ways. I respected his right to make his  
own decisions." 
 
And _you_ left him, Dana. You left him alone too. Words she knew  
her daughter didn't need to hear - that she knew the truth of all  
too well.  
 
"But you shouldn't have _done_ that." Dana's eyes were shining and  
moist, but she kept her voice angry, without a tremor. "He wasn't  
capable of making his own decisions. This proves it." 
 
"Don't ever tell him that, Dana." She took a step forward,  
reaching for her daughter's hand, but Dana pulled away. "Don't  
even think it. You must know him well enough for that." 
 
"I judge people by their actions". She clasped her arms tighter,  
her voice high and stiff. 
 
Judge, Dana? Who are you to judge? Are you without fault in this?  
You left him. You weren't honest with me about his state of mind,  
or I'd have acted differently, perhaps.  
 
"He doesn't need judgement." It was all she said - the truth but  
not the whole truth she spoke in her thoughts. "He doesn't even  
need sympathy. He's so like you, Dana. He just wants to feel...."  
She shrugged, seeking the right word. "Useful, again, I guess. In  
control of his life." 
 
"So he can end it? Is _that_ the control you want me to give him?  
I can't do that, Mom." 
 
"Then you may as well walk away right now." She blinked hard,  
seeing again the image of his twisted body, half-submerged by the  
cruel waves. "I hardly know him, Dana, but I know this about him.  
If you tell him he can't do something, then he'll want to do it,  
to prove that he can." She laughed, ruefully. "He's like a teenage  
boy, desperately asserting that he alone is in control of his  
destiny. I _know_ teenage boys, Dana. Teenage girls, too. One  
teenage girl in particular, who was exactly like that." 
 
"Teenage...." Dana looked stricken. "Twelve years old...." 
 
"I'm sorry, Dana." Now was the time, and she moved close, pulling  
her daughter towards her. "I had to let him go. I thought.... I  
still think it was right." She stroked Dana's hair. "Guilt will  
get us nowhere, Dana - or blame. We should think only of him right  
now." 
 
"I am thinking of him." The words were muffled, and there was a  
long pause before she continued. "Now...." 
 
Then she pulled away, and her eyes were fierce. "I won't leave  
him, Mom. I'll be with him all the time. This won't happen again." 
 
And Margaret Scully wondered if her daughter had listened to  
_anything_. 
 
****** 
 
The noises come first, and the smells. I know where I am, but it  
is the immediate things that claim my attention - pain, sounds,  
soft pressure on my arm. It is too soon to think, to wonder _why_  
I am here. 
 
When I open my eyes, I will see Scully. I.... I hope I didn't do  
something wrong. I want to see her smile. 
 
"Mulder?" So strange. She sounds almost afraid to see me awake.  
Why? The beeping sound speeds up. Have I hurt her somehow? 
 
"So, I'm still alive." 
 
I mean it as a joke, but it comes out wrong. I am distracted by  
fear. I can't see anything, and I can't understand why. 
 
She breathes out loudly, and there is even a tremor in the sound.  
She is not pleased to see me. What am I missing here? 
 
"Scully?" 
 
And then I remember. It is all I can do not to scream. 
 
"Is that a bad thing, Mulder?" 
 
How can I speak? I don't understand. Bad thing, Scully? What.... 
 
She sighs again. She sounds so weary, so sad, as if I have  
confirmed something she dreaded hearing. "You've been badly hurt,  
Mulder," she says, at last. "We'll talk about this later." 
 
"No!" It _is_ a cry, this time - as loud as my raw throat can  
muster. "Now. Don't go." 
 
I remember, now, and I remember everything I felt back then. I  
don't want to be alone with that right now. I will heal, and I  
will grow strong, and I will bear things alone. Tomorrow.... 
 
"Okay." That scared tone is in her voice again. "But you need to  
be honest with me." A deep breath. Her fingers dig into my arm.  
"Was it deliberate?" she asks, a whisper, barely audible. "Did you  
jump?" 
 
She doesn't want to hear the answer, so sure is she that it will  
be yes. Does she know me so little? The hurt takes my voice away. 
 
"You did. Oh, Mulder."   
 
Her hand snatches away, just for a second, then returns, but its  
absence was enough. She will offer me support, but her instinct  
was the despise my weakness, to withdraw in anger and disgust. 
 
I want her to smile on me again - to know that I had the strength  
to fight it, in the end. "I didn't jump," I whisper. "I didn't  
want to die." 
 
Silence. It is like a physical pain, this need to see. Is her face  
closed in disbelief, or softening with trust? She is as distant  
from me as the stars. 
 
"You never once wanted it, when you were going to the edge? Not  
once?" When she speaks, her voice is cool, every word carefully  
guarded. 
 
I am unable to answer. I can't lie, but I refuse to tell her the  
truth. She would ask questions, want to know more than I am  
willing to give. 
 
She sighs. Brisk footsteps approach the bed, and I hold my breath,  
hoping yet fearing a rescue, a distraction, but they fade away  
again. There is just the two of us, trapped in this claustrophobic  
nightmare. 
 
"I was pushed, Scully," I say, at last. "She pushed me. She wanted  
to kill me." 
 
"Who?" Still neutral, guarded, but her fingers dig into my arm.  
"Did someone threaten you?" 
 
"It was Meg." It is hard to say her name, to remember how she  
tricked me. "I.... made friends with her, a few days ago." 
 
"You didn't tell me."  
 
Her tone leaves me unable to speak, crying inside. Why, Scully?  
Why should I have told you? You owned my whole life. Meg was  
something that was all mine. For just a few minutes, I forgot....  
everything. 
 
"Did she tell you not to tell me?" Insistent, now, pressing on,  
giving me no time to answer. "Did it never occur to you that she  
could have been one of _them_, coming to finish the job? God,  
Mulder. For someone who claims to trust no-one, you sure are  
gullible." 
 
"She wasn't one of them," I murmur. "She was.... only a little  
girl. She reminded me of.... of my sister." 
 
"Oh." It was more a breath than a word. Her hand moves on my arm. 
 
Her sympathy is like the jaws of a trap, closing on me, making me  
want to scream. "But she wasn't a girl," I say, harshly, wanting  
to repel her. "She was a ghost." 
 
"A ghost." 
 
I have lost her. Why did I do it? 
 
"Maybe not a ghost, but she.... I think. I don't know." I am  
babbling, filling up the silence that is so heavy. "She pushed me,  
and it wasn't with her hands. Some sort of psychic energy." 
 
"A ghost." 
 
I remember when she would laugh at my theories, naive and amused.  
Then she stopped laughing and would listen with a detached  
neutrality, sometimes even respect. I have never heard her sound  
scared before - scared of a single word. 
 
"Maybe she died there, once. She said I had to go willingly. Maybe  
she needed someone to take her place, or just.... just wanted a  
friend." I pause, flashing once more the image of Samantha's  
terrified face as her life hung from the strength of a clump of  
grass. This time I focus on the image, and understand. "I think  
she tried to get Samantha once. We thought it was an imaginary  
friend. I saved her. I wonder.... Maybe this was revenge." 
 
There is no horror in remembering, not now. I am strong again,  
working on a case, trying to unearth the truth. Even blind, I can  
do this. Every word is like soothing medicine, restoring me. 
 
"We always felt a sense of.... hatred about that place,  
afterwards. I thought it was.... guilt. Blame. Memories...." I  
swallow, knowing I am going too far. There was more than once  
source of hatred in that place, and more than one target. "I must  
go back there and study her," I continue, speaking fast. "I wonder  
if it's really female." 
 
"Mulder." Her tone is like a blast of cold water in my face. "You  
said you had to die willingly." She pauses, breathing deeply.  
"There's no shame in admitting it. We can get help. I won't leave  
you." 
 
She doesn't believe me. She doesn't believe me. What did I expect?  
 
"It was her," I say, sounding like a surly child. "It's the  
truth." 
 
Her hand strays to my forehead, stroking, hurting. "You've been  
through a lot, Mulder, but there _is_ hope." 
 
"Do you think I'm crazy, Scully?" I say, bitterly, close to  
breaking down. "Hallucinating? Drugged? Making myself believe a  
huge lie because I can't face that fact that I'm suicidal?" 
 
Her hand stiffens, the moves again. "I don't think you're crazy,  
Mulder. I just know that you've been through a lot, and you're  
still trying to come to terms with it. I think...." 
 
"You don't believe me." I turn my face away from her touch, my  
voice low and hurtful. "I get so sick of you, Scully - your  
constant disbelief. I've put my life into this.... my work. My  
crazy theories are _part_ of me." I invest the word "crazy" with a  
bitter sarcasm. "Do you know what it feels like, not to be  
believed, not to be trusted?"   
 
Oh God! What have I said? I have said too much, revealed too much.  
I am hurt too much to keep myself in control. 
 
"I do trust you, but I can't pretend to believe you when I don't,"  
Scully says carefully, as if every word is a battle. She ignores  
my indiscretion, and that hurts me too.  
 
"Then we have no future together." The hardest words I've had to  
say. "This isn't a case, this is my life." 
 
"Damn it, Mulder, what do you want me to say?" 
 
I shake my head, the darkness swirling around me, suffocating. "I  
don't know." 
 
"You know me, Mulder. You know I can't believe _that_." She is  
almost in tears - from her, a terrible sound. "I wish I could,  
but...." 
 
"And I can't live with what you believe, Scully. I can't live with  
you looking upon me as someone who tried to kill themselves and  
was only rescued by an accident. You'd be watching my every move,  
questioning me, imprisoning me. I.... I can't live like that." 
 
Silence. Her hand is still on my face, but it is still, now. I  
feel nothing of her in the touch. We are so apart, now, the breach  
insuperable. 
 
"You were disorientated," she says, at least, her voice small.  
"It's easy to forget where the edge is. It could have been an  
accident." 
 
She sounds so lost. It is enough - enough to make me give into the  
pain and the fear. "I didn't want to die. I tried to find the way  
home," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I couldn't find the way. I  
couldn't see. Then she...." 
 
She presses her finger over my lips. "You fell, Mulder. It was  
accident." 
 
Neither of us believes it.  
 
****** 
 
Dana Scully watched him sleep. She was near sleep herself, her  
eyes half closed, her body weary beyond belief. The silence lulled  
her.  
 
He groaned quietly, shifting slightly, and she stiffened, her  
heart speeding up. Don't wake up, Mulder, please.... She clenched  
her hands on the wooden arms of the chair, whispering silently and  
intensely. 
 
He groaned again, then settled. His breathing stilled. 
 
She sighed with relief, settling back into the chair, but not  
relaxing, not this time.  
 
He would awaken soon.  
 
****** 
 
She clenched her hands as fists, then opened them, over and over.  
 
"I'm sorry, Mulder. I was wrong." 
 
His face was bright with hope. "You believe me? About...." 
 
"I was wrong. I shouldn't have left you that day. I should have  
looked to the future not to the past. I shouldn't have searched  
for the answers - not if you didn't want me to. I should have  
respected your right to...." She swallowed hard, remembering  
unanswered questions in her own life. "Your right to not want to  
know." 
 
He was silent. He looked as if she had struck him in the face,  
rejected him. 
 
A spark of anger flared inside her, and she listened to it. It  
always cost her so much to admit she was wrong. Couldn't he see  
that? Couldn't he at least acknowledge her? 
 
"Mulder," she began, treading a fine line between guilt and anger.  
"Did you hear what I said?" 
 
"I heard you, Scully." He paused. "So you found what you were  
looking for?" 
 
She took a deep breath, then another, but it was not enough. The  
anger broke through. "Is that what you think of me? You think my  
apology is worthless because I only make it after I've found out  
what happened to you, when it's too late to act any differently?" 
 
"I.... No....." He moved his head from side to side, looking in  
pain. "What did you find?" he whispered, at last. 
 
"You said you didn't want to know," she said, and there was a note  
of reproach in her voice. Hours she'd been practising for her  
apology, and he'd sabotaged the script, made it worthless. 
 
"Why am I blind?" His heart was beating too fast and his face was  
a mask of desolation. There was no defence, no apology. 
 
She ran a hand across her face, wondering suddenly what was wrong  
with her. Why should he need to apologise? 
 
"I'm not quite sure," she began, her voice soft now. "There was  
a.... place. Not far from here. They _say_ they test something  
involving very bright lights. I don't know. Lasers, perhaps.  
Frohike says there was a report of lights in the sky." 
 
"Lights?" His voice rose, and there was life in it too, and even  
hope. "They did this because I was too close to the truth? We  
_must_ go back there, Scully, and expose it. If I could  
remember...." 
 
"Wait." She touched his arm, staying his voice, then regretted it  
immediately. She should have let him carry on, watching him derive  
hope from his imagined future, not telling him, yet, that it was  
an impossibility.  
 
But he needed the truth, too. It was wrong to let him draw hope  
from a lie. 
 
"I don't think it was anything much, Mulder," she said, hating  
what she had to do. "They said you broke in and ignored the  
warning signs. Everyone has to wear goggles. They said you just  
ran past...." 
 
"No." It was barely that, more like a groan. "No...." 
 
"I don't know if that's the truth, Mulder," she said, softly. "The  
man who told me said it was the truth - that he wasn't supposed to  
tell it. Then it seemed as if he was one of _them_ after all, and  
I thought he was covering up for something else. But they came and  
arrested him, in the end. Or seemed to. So, maybe...." She  
groaned. "God, Mulder. I don't know what to believe." 
 
"You want the truth? This is the truth." A dull whisper. "I  
thought it was a dream." 
 
She leant forward, willing him by her silence to continue. 
 
"I dreamt of someone holding my face and making me look at a  
bright light. They forced me. It hurt." There was a catch in his  
voice. "They said I had to face the truth. I wasn't sure if it was  
them speaking, or you. I thought it was a dream." 
 
She was scarcely able to speak. "I thought...." She cleared her  
throat. "I thought that was a possibility, too. Did they make you  
forget, like at Ellen's airbase?" 
 
"I thought you didn't believe that, either." His tone was bitter.  
He was pulling away, she could tell, regretting confiding his  
dream. 
 
"I believe more than you'd think, Mulder," she said, gently. "But  
I also believe - I've been.... convinced - that it would be  
inadvisable to pursue this, not without careful thought." 
 
"Just accept that I brought it on myself?" He turned away from  
her, his voice rising, faster and faster. "Believe their story?  
Why not? You think I'm suicidal. You called me Ahab, once, and  
said that I'd be responsible for getting myself killed, and  
everyone else. Blame me, like my father always did. I brought it  
on myself. A nice neat answer, and you can get on with life. This  
is my fault so you can walk away and forget me." 
 
His face was red with exertion and wet with tears. He was  
straining, straining desperately to roll away from her on to his  
side, though she knew every movement was agony to his broken  
limbs. His whole body was heaving, and she knew he was close to  
panic. 
 
"Mulder." She repeated his name over and over, murmuring like  
running water. She was wary of reaching out, of acknowledging his  
grief, scared to push him further away from her. 
 
One day, she knew, he would retreat so far there would be no  
reaching him, not at all. 
 
Slowly, slowly, his breathing slowed. He ran a hand across his  
eyes, drying his tears, and she watched him, glad he couldn't see  
her.  
 
"I don't blame you." She touched him at last, her hand shaking  
slightly. He was warm to the touch. "_They_ caused this, and we  
must never forget it. They caused this, just as they took your  
sister. Your father knew that, and I'm sure he never blamed you,  
either. You're wrong to blame your...." 
 
"Please stop." His face was expressionless, his voice dead. It was  
more terrifying, more extreme, than his wild panic. "You don't  
know anything. I shouldn't have mentioned my.... my Dad. I wasn't  
thinking straight. You knew that. It's not fair to talk about  
him."  
 
"No." But then she shook her head suddenly, refusing to retreat,  
refusing to stick to their unspoken rules. "Why not?" 
 
Silence. Her breathing was so loud in her ears. I've gone too far.  
I've lost him, she thought. Then, stopping her apology before it  
reached her lips: I _had_ to go this far. Five years of silence.  
We can't go on like this. If we're to have any future together.... 
 
"Why can't you talk about him, Mulder? Why can't you talk  
about.... everything?" She tried to keep her voice gentle - a  
request not a demand - though she suddenly wanted to shake him, to  
beg him with tears streaming down her face. "I know it's hard to  
talk, but isn't it harder to keep it inside?" 
 
Silence. 
 
"I want to do the right thing, Mulder, but you won't give me any  
help. We're.... Sometimes I think we're strangers." 
 
"I think you should go, Scully." That same dead whisper, but she  
could see through the voice. The tears were very close, still,  
though he was determined not to shed them.  
 
She opened her mouth to speak, then remembered her mother's words  
and shut it again, thinking hard. "I'll go if you like," she said,  
at least, "but I would like to stay." 
 
He swallowed hard, wincing even now at the pain in his throat.  
"You asked about my father. He never loved me. My mother did once,  
I think, but not after Samantha..... went. If even his parents  
don't love a child then that child is not worthy of love. That's  
why I think you ought to go." 
 
Tears started in her eyes. Only one sentence, and it told her so  
much about the man he'd become. Her arms ached to take the twelve  
year old Fox Mulder into her arms and just _hold_ him. 
 
But she stayed still, not moving as much as a finger. She had  
gained so much, so quickly. One wrong word, and all that could be  
lost. "Do you want me to go?" she asked, voice barely above a  
whisper. 
 
"No." He mouthed it only, incapable of sound.  
 
But the look on his face was one of utter defeat. 
 
****** 
 
end of part nine 

*****

"Resurgam" part 10 of 10

*****

Scully gasped when I said yes, accepting the offer of a drugged  
road to oblivion. I see pictures in my dreams, and Scully is  
smiling. 
 
The needle withdraws, and the cool drug courses through my veins.  
Not long now. I am running away, being weak, but I can't.... Oh  
God, I can't take much more of this. Scully is forcing me in a  
corner, leaving me no escape. 
 
The nurse's footsteps fade into silence. Scully is watching me,  
expectant. She will grab me, seize every opportunity to talk.  
Before the nurse came, she forced me into an admission I wish I  
hadn't had to make.  
 
This time, I will attack. 
 
"You're asking so much of me, Scully," I almost shout, sudden in  
the silence. "You have to give, too." 
 
"What do you mean, Mulder?" Her voice is cool. There was emotion  
in it, earlier, but she has had time to exert control. I _hate_  
that. 
 
"It's easy for you. You can see me. You can read my face. You can  
see me if I.... if I cry." It is hard to say that word, but I know  
she saw me. It is a token gesture, so she thinks I'm trying. "You  
have all that, and you still want me to talk. It's not fair,  
Scully. You can remain like.... like an unopened book to me." 
 
I find it is not an attack after all. My mind is slowed by the  
drug and has tricked me. I have confessed something, revealed more  
of myself. Another failure. 
 
"It's hard for you, isn't it?" Her response surprises me, disarms  
me. Not anger, but not that cloying suffocating pity, either.  
Just.... understanding. "I hadn't thought of that. Has that been  
the main problem all along?" 
 
"I need privacy, Scully. I need a place to...." I swallow,  
wondering how far to go. "To hide," I whisper, at last. "This....  
blindness took that away. And then you wanted to know how I was  
feeling...." 
 
I think I am being clever. I think I am saying just enough to make  
her back off, to feel she understands me, but I will still remain  
myself, alone. 
 
Which is what I want. 
 
Isn't it? 
 
"I'm sorry, Mulder." She doesn't even touch me. "I'll back off if  
you want, but I don't think it would be for the best. Something's  
got to give. We've been five years without really talking...." 
 
"Five years," I echo, desperate. I can see where she's going. "Why  
change now?" 
 
She sighs. "We have to. After what's happened...." A quick touch.  
"We won't be working together as partners. We have to redefine our  
relationship, or lose it." 
 
I don't want to lose it, Scully.... 
 
"We used to talk, Mulder," she says, regretfully. "Remember our  
first case, when you told me about your sister? And when my   
father died.... I told you about him being unhappy with my choice  
of career. What went wrong?" 
 
I started caring, Scully, that's what happened. When I told you  
about Samantha I didn't care if you thought I was crazy.  
Afterwards, I needed your good opinion. I wanted to seem strong to  
you.  
 
"When I had cancer...." She stops, clears her throat, then  
continues. "I could talk to my counsellor, but you.... I  
_couldn't_ talk to you. So few male agents fully respect us, but  
you.... I think you did respect me. I didn't want to lose that. I  
wanted you to see me as an agent, not as a victim." 
 
There. She has beaten me. She has done what I asked, and has  
given. It was hard for her, as hard for her as it would have been  
for me. 
 
There is no escape for me. 
 
"I do respect you, Scully." My voice is hoarse. It takes effort to  
speak now, to focus through the waves of drowsiness. "I.... It's  
too soon." 
  
"Too soon?" 
 
"Too much. I...." I try to pull my thoughts together. "You're  
talking about how you felt a year ago. It's a safety barrier. This  
is.... different. It's everything at once. Before, we only talked  
about work, not feelings. I've got no work now. My life _is_ my  
feelings. That's.... that's difficult. And you want to talk about  
them.... I can't. It's too much. I don't want to talk about them." 
 
Another wave passes over me, then releases me. I have a moment of  
clarity, and my words echo back in my ears. I curse. I _am_  
talking about them. This is so difficult. 
 
I try again. "My life has changed so much, Scully. This one thing  
- this blindness.... I want _something_ to stay the same. You and  
me.... As it always was." 
 
"Why not you and me, better than it was? Is that so scary?" 
 
Yes, Scully. Yes. Why can't you see it? 
 
"Are you scared that if you allow yourself to get too close to  
anyone, they'll leave, and you'll get hurt?" 
 
Oh God, oh God. She _can_ see it. I wish she couldn't. The drug  
has pushed me to the brink of sleep, and I am unable to keep up  
the facade, to construct the careful fabric of lies. 
 
"Before all this, when we were partners....." I am held by her  
voice like a butterfly on a pin, with nothing but her and the  
swaying waves of darkness. "If I'd left then, years ago, would you  
have been hurt?" 
 
I can do nothing but nod, blinking back tears. I feel naked before  
her, again. 
 
"Can't you see, Mulder? We had the power to hurt each other long  
ago. We _have_ hurt each other. We are already close, whatever  
name you give to that relationship. We've always trusted each  
other with our lives, why not with.... with this?" 
 
Because if you knew me, you'd leave me. My father said.... 
 
Her hand closes on mine as the waves overcome me. I fall into them  
willingly, glad for their refuge. 
 
****** 
 
 She is on to me as soon as I awaken, alert to my slightest  
movement. 
 
"Mulder, I've been thinking. There's something I've got to say." 
 
Not now, Scully. Leave me alone. Please. I need some space. You've  
taken so much.... 
 
I groan and shut my eyes, feigning sleep. 
 
"I've not been fair to you." She persists, ignoring the hint. I am  
alert inside, now. This may not be what it seems. "I've been  
asking you to confide, but I don't think I ever said what I felt.  
I don't know if you understand what I'm asking for us." 
 
Her voice is taut. I realise she had been practising this,  
screwing her courage up to this moment. I say nothing, but I will  
listen. I owe her that. 
 
"It's hard to say. We've never really talked, and I mean _we_, not  
just you." She takes a deep breath. "When I heard what you said  
about.... about your parents.... It made me wonder if you  
understood. I thought I'd told you a few days ago, but.... Mulder,  
I want us to have a future together, as friends, at least, but I  
would hope...." She shifts on her chair, the legs screeching  
against the floor. "Mulder, I...." 
 
"No!" It is a shout of near panic. "Don't say it. Please." 
 
Her hurt is so loud. It is in her sigh, and the rustle of clothes  
as she subsides into the chair. It is in the noise of her  
swallowing and the tension in her breathing. 
 
But it's me, not her - something wrong with me. I have to make her  
understand. "I'm sorry, Scully. I don't want things to change. I  
can't have a relationship, not now." 
 
"Why not?" A note of desperation - just a little.  
 
"I can't. Not now. Not when I'm.... when I'm weak. Not when you  
call all the shots. Not when I can't see you, and can't even move.  
I need to know it's not pity. I need a relationship of equals." 
 
"Of equals?" Her voice goes deadly, icy. "Or with _you_ as the  
strong one? You want a replacement little sister you will look up  
to you?" 
 
"That's not...." The words die on my lips. I remember how I lapped  
up Meg's every word, revelling in the fact that she looked up to  
me as her protector.  
 
"No. It wasn't fair." She touches my hand briefly. "But it's what  
it seems, sometimes. Whenever you ditch me, saying you want to  
protect me...." 
 
"I would never see you as weak, Scully. Never." It is not quite  
true. I know her strength, but sometimes I wish her weak, almost  
revel in the fact that, sometimes, I can rescue her. "But I don't  
want to be weak, either." 
 
"You're blind, Mulder, not weak." 
  
"Can't you understand, Scully?" I reach for her arm, but can't  
find it. I want get through to her. "I will be dependent on you to  
see for me. I will be _dependent_. I don't want to be dependent." 
 
Then I wonder at my words - at how important it was for her to  
know the truth of them. I knew this all along, but a few days ago  
I would not have told her. Something _has_ changed. It doesn't  
feel bad. 
 
"And I don't want to be short...." 
 
I laugh, bitterly. "Please, Scully. Don't be frivolous." 
 
"I'm not being frivolous." Her hand rests on my arm, warm and  
dependable. "You need my help to get around; I need your help to  
reach high shelves. You've always consulted me on medical matters;  
I've needed your help on psychology." 
 
I want to object - to say she doesn't understand - but she is  
_speaking_ to me. I am silent, digesting it. 
 
"Do you understand, Mulder? You are so much more than the  
blindness. It can make you stronger, not weaker, as you cope with  
it, rise above it." 
 
"But I'm not coping," I almost cry, unable to stop the words now.  
She is assailing me from all sides. Part of me even wants to  
confide, to hear her words of comfort. "I didn't jump, but I _did_  
consider it." 
 
"I know." She strokes my hand, and there is no sign in her voice  
of her despising me. "You've had so little time. No-one expects  
you to come to terms with it all at once. Everyone would find it  
difficult, Mulder - everyone."  She takes a deep breath. "_I_ find  
it difficult, Mulder, and it's not even me. When I was so  
desperate to find out what had happened to you.... I think that  
was just my way of running away from.... from emotions I didn't  
want to face. I felt so helpless, so unable to stop you hurting." 
 
"I used to want a peg-leg." I remember the last time I told her -  
a time we failed utterly to connect. "I thought it would be easy  
to be considered heroic just for living." I swallow hard. "I was  
so wrong, Scully. I don't want to be thought strong for just  
_coping_. There is so much more I want to _do_." 
 
"You still can, Mulder." 
 
"I need to prove that to myself, before.... before we let anything  
change between us." 
 
She sighs, almost groans. "I'll respect that, Mulder, if it's the  
truth. But if you're just gaining time to think up a few more  
excuses - to push me away further...." 
 
"What makes you think I feel the same way as you do, Scully?" I  
make my voice harsh. She is cutting close to the quick. "What  
makes you think I want this?" 
 
She is silent for a while. When she speaks it is a surprise, a  
tangent. "I called your mother when you were asleep," she says,  
almost casually. 
 
I stiffen, say nothing. Where is she leading? 
 
"I told her you were in the hospital again. She didn't know about  
you being blind." She touches my hand, her voice soft. "Why didn't  
you tell her?" 
 
"She's not coming." Even after so long, it still feels like a lead  
weight upon my chest. 
 
"She wanted to come. I told her it was hard for you. I said it was  
better if you asked her yourself - if you had the control over  
it." 
 
I laugh harshly. It is all I can do not to cry. "I bet that suited  
her just fine." 
 
"Why didn't you tell her?" She pauses. "Did you tell her about all  
those other times you've been sick?" 
 
Something about her voice makes me crack. It's the confidence in  
it - her naive opinion that all mothers are like hers. "Why didn't  
I tell her? Maybe because it hurts less to imagine that she would  
come if she knew about it than to tell her and then hear her say  
she _won't_ come. Maybe because, sometimes, I want to imagine that  
I had parents who loved me...." 
 
"Oh, Mulder." She squeezes my hand, her voice hoarse with....  
tears? "You've never given her a chance to love you. You've just  
assumed that she doesn't, and then never put yourself in a  
position when she can reject you..... or when she can love you." 
 
We are at the heart of things here. I need the drug to carry me  
away from this - need it. "She can't love me, Scully. I lost  
her... her baby. It was supposed to be me. How can she love me?" 
 
Now forget I said it, Scully. Please. 
 
"You make assumptions, Mulder. You assume people will reject you,  
and act in a way that _forces_ them to reject you. Your  
mother...." A quick touch. "And I've seen how you antagonise other  
agents...." 
 
"They hate me. They laugh about me. I don't care...." 
 
"Even those who might have respected you," she continues, firmly,  
ignoring me. "You're so self-destructive. You're as outrageous as  
possible to people who know are biased against you, and even rude  
to people who might have liked you. You've spent years pushing me  
away, ditching me, concealing things. Sometimes it's seemed as if  
you've been daring me to leave, so you can confirm your belief  
about yourself." 
 
"Scully." A groan. 
 
I can't take this, Scully. I _hurt_. Leave me some dignity. Don't  
shred me like this. Please. 
 
"Can't you see what you've been doing?" She is suddenly so gentle.  
"What you're still doing now? You can't accept the fact that I  
might _want_ to be with you." 
 
"Because you pity me." 
 
"Mulder!" It is a cry of exasperation. "Yes, I pity you for what  
has happened. Is that so wrong? I pity you, but I can still  
respect you." She pauses, her voice wavering. "I can still love  
you." 
 
"You didn't, before. Only now you can pity me too." 
 
What is wrong with me? I can't stop being surly, pushing her away?  
It is as if I am possessed, saying hurtful words I don't want to  
say.  
 
"We had a relationship, before." There is no anger in her voice.  
"We were partners. We didn't talk much about other things. There  
was no reason to change things. It was only when.... events forced  
a change, that I questioned it. We couldn't continue as we had  
been, but I wanted us to continue. I... I asked myself why." 
 
I choose my words carefully, needing to get this right. "If I  
accept a relationship with you, I am accepting that someone else  
is responsible for my happiness. I will have to rely on people for  
so much. I want to be.... autonomous. I don't want to give in to  
the blindness." 
 
"Mulder." Her voice vibrates with.... anger? Grief? I can not  
_read_ it. 
 
"Scully!" I almost shout, urgently. "I can't see." 
 
She breathes out. She understands, and that throws me. "I'm sorry.  
I'm.... angry that you can have such a view on it, but sorry, too  
- sorry for you. It must be so lonely." 
 
"I'd rather be lonely than let people hurt me." 
 
I have always thought this was true. The words sound hollow, now. 
 
"The way I see it, giving into the blindness means letting it  
destroy your life." There is some bitterness in her voice. "It  
means getting over-sensitive to pity and letting that stop you  
accepting support, and friendship. It means accepting the  
certainty of a lifetime alone in the darkness because you're too  
much of a coward to risk the possibility of some hurt in the  
future, _if_ it doesn't work out." 
 
"I'm not a coward, Scully." 
 
"If you say so, Mulder." 
 
Leave me, Scully. Leave me alone, if you think so badly of me....  
I want to say the words, but can not. She is telling the truth. I  
_am_ a coward. On this, if nothing else. I thought I was being  
strong and independent, but all the time.... 
 
"No." Sharp, interrupting my thoughts. "You will _not_ lapse into  
self-pity." 
 
"You said...." 
 
"No." Softer this time, but no less firm. "You can turn that  
around right here, right now. You're in control, not the  
blindness. Just one word, Mulder. You can change things." 
 
I can't speak. 
 
"But don't say it, Mulder - not if you still think it means you're  
admitting defeat, handing your life into my control. I want this  
to be your victory - our victory. Salvaging something from the  
darkness...." 
 
"You've looked after me before," I begin, slowly. My thoughts are  
whirling, but through them all I see the images - the memories -  
that haunted me when I thought I was dying.  
 
"You've looked after me, too." There is a smile in her voice. I  
have missed her smile. "When I've let you. I'm stubborn too,  
Mulder. We both have a lot to learn." 
 
"You looked after me." I liked her smile in Alaska. I wonder if I  
would have recovered at all without her beside me, urging me on -  
just like I brought her back, too, once. "I guess I can get used  
to it." 
  
And suddenly she is laughing, and moisture falls on my face. 
 
****** 
 
Hours have gone by like years. We have covered so much that the  
morning seems a lifetime away. We are both weary, now, and  
drained. 
 
"You'll work again, Mulder." 
 
"Perhaps."  
 
"No." Her protestation is hoarse, her voice all but worn out.  
"Don't say that, Mulder. You will work again. Not as a field  
agent, perhaps, but there's so much you can still do." 
 
"No, Scully." I shake my head slowly. I feel calm now, as if I am  
floating on a pool, knowing that no ripple can disturb me.  
"Perhaps. Leave it at that. Please." 
 
"But your work.... It's part of you. It makes you whole." She  
touches my cheek. "It's what makes you Mulder. You needn't lose  
that." 
 
"I know." I nod, but I have to make her understand. "I'm not being  
defeatist, but I've got to take this slowly, now. I.... I let  
myself hope too much, a few days ago. When I lost that hope, I  
nearly couldn't cope with living. I don't want to make the same  
mistake again." 
 
"I understand. But...." 
 
I know what she is scared to say. There is still a chance that I  
may see again, partially, if not entirely. I mustn't think of  
that. I must learn to live, blind. 
 
"It's okay, Scully." 
 
I feel.... strange. I feel at peace. Part of it is sheer  
exhaustion, but part of it.... I have talked about things I have  
borne inside myself for twenty five years.  
 
"Where do we go from here?" Scully's voice is tentative, now. A  
few hours ago she was my rock, my anchor. She is paying the price  
now. She is as exhausted as I am, if not more so.   
 
"We'll see." I moisten my lips. "I want this to work." 
 
"I can't hold you." 
 
I smile. "I'll be able to sit up soon. The cast will be off  
eventually." Then I take a risk, thankful at last that I can't see  
her face. "You can kiss me." 
 
Her face was a hand's-breadth away, her voice close to my ear.  
Something soft brushes against my lips, an instant only, then  
withdraws. 
 
"I want it to work, too," she whispers. 
 
I have to tell her the truth. I clear my throat, hoping she will  
not withdraw, be hurt. "I need more than this, Scully. I can't  
live on just...." I swallow. The word is so hard to say. I still  
can not associate it with myself. "I need more than love," I  
manage, barely audible. 
 
"I know. I do, too." 
 
We both breathe out, deep sighs of relief, and I know we both had  
the same fear.  
 
"So." She speaks again, her hand soft on my face. "Where does that  
leave us." 
 
I give a wry laugh. It comes easier now, but it is still a strain.  
"I'm still blind."  
 
"Mulder." God! She is crying. What have I done? 
 
"I'm sorry." I reach for her hand, and this time I find it, hold  
it tight. "I need more than.... it, but.... maybe." There are  
tears in my eyes too. "This is all new for me, Scully. I can't  
promise, but.... I'll try, Scully. I'll try." 
 
"I know, Mulder." Her tears fall on my face and I savour the feel,  
touched by the closeness, the trust it shows. 
 
She would always conceal them, before. 
 
I smile. 
 
****** 
 
END 
 
****** 
 
NOTES:  
 
The title is Latin for "I will rise again", and just seemed to fit  
with the theme of reconstructing life after major injury. 
 
I know this is a bad admission, given the subject matter of my  
webpage, but I have no idea if the coast as Quonochontaug is like  
this at all. My story needed a nice little cliff. "Talitha Cumi"  
seems to show one, and that's good enough for me. 
 
As for the end - I was very proud of producing what I thought was  
a nice happy ending, in which Mulder and Scully resolved their  
various communication problems and reached a new understanding. It  
was hard persuading them to reach this ending, I can tell you, and  
at times I despaired of them ever obeying. Mulder is the most  
disobedient character I know, and insists on reacting to things  
the exact opposite way from how I want. Anyway, I have now been  
informed in no uncertain terms that the ending is, in fact, a sad  
one, since Mulder remains blind. If you find it so, I apologise. 
 
Conscious-stricken by the reaction this story produced, I did  
consider going back and giving him a cure, but I just wasn't happy  
with it. Before you all rush over here with your weapons, I'll  
just explain.  
 
My original motive in this story was to force Mulder and Scully to  
deal the prospect of a _permanent_ life-changing event. I have  
read many death stories, and many stories in which one or other of  
them is badly injured and recovers, but only two or three in which  
they are badly injured and don't recover fully. If Mulder was  
facing the prospect of having to leave the FBI, how would he cope  
with the loss of his work? How would this affect his relationship  
with Scully? How would he deal with having to depend on someone  
else for _everything_? After exploring these themes throughout,  
suddenly curing him at the end seemed just too convenient - too  
fairy tale. I couldn't do it. 
 
Note, however,  that I say the _prospect_ of permanent injury. I  
needed the story to end with Mulder thinking he would be  
permanently blind. This doesn't, of course, mean that he _will_  
be.... 
 
A note on point-of-view: I chose to write Mulder in the first  
person to show how absorbed he is in his own feelings, unable to  
communicate them.  Scully is in the third person, partly to avoid  
confusion, and partly because, for a large part of the story (the  
part where she is concentrating on finding out what happened), she  
is desperately trying to deny that she even _has_ feelings on this  
issue. It is also, of course, to show their failure to  
communicate. I was surprised at how easy it was to write. I hope  
it worked. 
 
FEEDBACK: Need you ask? Of course. This is a new departure for me,  
so all the normal insecurity is increased. 

*****

Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk

"The truth IS out there. It's just a pity that I'm in here."