Title: Becoming Judas II : Resurrection
Author: darkstar
Email: clone347@aol.com
Rating: PG-13 for war violence
Classification: see part one
Disclaimer: see part one
Summary: see part one

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Resurrection (6/8)
by darkstar
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Four hours he waited. He paced until he feared he would wear a path into her floor, and then he found the liquor under the cabinet. Tequila. Not his brand. He didn't drink the hard stuff.

He filled his glass anyway, tossing it down his throat in one putrid wash of fire that he hoped would burn away the fear inside him. He was a soldier, and soldiers were never supposed to be afraid.

But he couldn't feel her mind and there was the terror. The telepathy between them had not been strong, surfacing mostly in images of thoughts and dreams rather than words, but it had been a constant warmth inside him from the first time he kissed her. He remembered every detail of that kiss-- the tremble of her lips, the burn of the blush on her cheeks, the tears in her eyes.

/Why are you crying?/ He had been afraid he had hurt her. She was so fragile. Stardust and sunlight, sewn together with the softest skin...

/Because someday we'll wake up from this dream./

He had known this day would come. Every few nights he would wake up in sweat and terror with nightmares of it. But he had always counted on being able to feel her through whatever happened. To be able to close his eyes and find her in the back of his mind, tucked up safe and warm and happy. Now the nightmares were real, all around him, and when he stretched out for her mind, he felt nothing.

Only darkness. Not the soft, natural darkness that filled her as she slept, but a cold and cruel black. Underneath it, he almost thought he sensed another presence. A stranger's fingerprints inside her mind.

If he admitted it, that's what really twisted his gut. The thought that someone had forced themselves inside her mind, a place where he alone walked and he alone touched, and that they had hurt her using her own gift. Who would take pleasure in something like that?

He suspected he knew the name, but he dared not speak it aloud. It was treason to speak against the Beloved Leader. But if Nicolas was responsible-- there, he'd said it-- and if Aida died then he would kill the man. He was considered a healer because he could restore life energy. Repair souls. They feared those like him because if he could build up, he could also tear down.

Che glanced down at his hands. It is a strange life when your touch is your greatest weapon. A strange life he had not asked for, so why did they hate him? Even then, he could bear the abuse, but not Aida. Everyone was jaded in the world, everyone but her. He'd loved her for it. He'd love her even when that innocence was gone but oh, it hurt.

A knock on the door.

He knew, when he opened it to see Scully's swollen eyes and the stain of tears on her cheeks, that something terrible had happened. Something had been lost.

"I'm sorry." she whispered. Her eyes clouded over with a distant pain. How could she know what he felt? Had she felt it before, herself? But then there was Mulder....perhaps she really had known pain. It eased his mind but not the burning within his chest.

"Which one?" He feared the question. He feared the answer even before it left her throat. But he had to know. Was his a father without a son or a husband without a wife? Or both...

"Your son." She walked into the room, dropping her coat on the floor beside her and not bothering to pick it up. He shut the door behind her, leaning his forehead against the wood as the grief hit him.

Another child, lost. He was supposed to have been able to protect this one. He had promised.

Scully was still talking, not meeting his eyes. "I tried to stop them....but there was nothing I could do." Her lips twisted into a bitter sneer. "Nothing."

Speaking was difficult but he tried anyway. "You tried." Strange, this pain inside him. The news of the death had not boiled his blood as he had expected, but rather froze it. He could feel it hardening, drop by drop within his veins. Hate did that to a man. "You did all anyone could do."

He felt his mind slipping out from under him and struggled to retain control. There was yet a reason for sanity. A reason to live. "How is Aida?" His voice trembled but did not break. He must not break.

"How much do you want to know?" She looked up at him now, that same delicate almost-pain in her eyes. And such weariness.... He sensed she had poured her soul out in the delivery room, and in the tears that had followed. Why, he could not imagine. No other humans cried over the death of a hybrid child. Che suspected Dana Scully would mourn the death of any child, human or otherwise.

And what was it she was asking him? How much did he want to know? In other words, how much truth can you stomach today? Can you stand here and hear what they did to your wife or do you want to take another drink first?

He dared not indulge in another. He had enjoyed the first too much.

"All of it." He battened down the hatches of his soul, ready to hear every detail of it no matter how much it hurt. Aida was bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. Soul of his soul. He would not turn away from her pain any more than would her kiss. "Tell me everything they did to her."

"The good news is they want her alive. That means she will be given any medical treatment that is needed to ensure her survival. But she's going to need every bit of it. He really did a piece of work on her." He saw her jaw tighten as she spoke of it, heard the coldness in her voice that sounded like the metallic click of a gun against a man's head. He imagined she spoke like that when she killed.

"What are her injuries?"

"Extensive bruising to her face and lower back. Three of her ribs are broken and two of them are bruised. I wasn't able to find out the extent of the internal damage. The....termination procedure....only weakened her further She has yet to regain consciousness."

He closed his eyes. Breathe, he ordered. You remember how to do that? In-out. In-out. You can heal her, remember? You can take all the pain away.

"I need to get to her." He said. "I need to heal her." More than that he needed to be near her again. To touch, to hold, to protect. He had tried so hard, how could he have failed so miserably?

"They have her in a separate room to prevent injuries if she starts to bleed again. She's under constant guard. They barely let me through and I'm a doctor."

Yes, well he wasn't exactly planning on asking.

"Do you know what they're going to do with her?" Her eyes wavered, as if she was debating whether or not she could tell him. "He wants her back. Whatever it is he's trying to do, he's not finished. I think the birth got in the way." All this she said without breaking the glassy calm to her voice. What was the facade for, he wondered, his fears or hers?

"He's not going to touch her again." The words came out in a growl. His hands itched around the fingers as he imagined the look on the Leader's face as his life drained from his body. One touch was all it would take. "We have to get out of the city."

Scully nodded. "I've thought about that. Tomorrow I'm going to go to Nicolas with money to buy Aida from him. Skinner and his people can help you get out of the city once she is freed."

Tomorrow. So much could happen in a night...

"You think he will actually listen to you?" He tasted the bitterness of his own words, sour and rotten on his tongue, but it was not something he could help. Scully was a friend, and a caring human being, but she could not understand what was happening because she was not a hybrid. She accepted him as a total equal and therefore was blind in some ways to the fact that others would never do the same. Nicolas would take her money and keep Aida for his fancies. There was only one option here....yet he dare not speak it aloud.

"If I pay him enough, yes."

"He is not interested in money, Dana. He has as much of it as he needs. He hates us because we are different, and he wants to wipe our people out because of that. He won't listen to your logic."

"What do you recommend? There is no other way."

For two, maybe three, seconds, Che thought about telling her everything he had planned during the past four hours. About escape, about freedom, about not having any choice but to run and, if necessary, fight. But he couldn't involve her in it, just like he couldn't involve Skinner or any of the others. Their lives were far too valuable to the Cause to be risked over something as insignificant as the lives of two hybrids.

"You are right." He lied, hating the sound of it, but knowing it would save her life. Maybe Aida's life too, if he got there in time. "I'm sorry for my difficulty...I can't think..." He sighed, and his shoulders sank with the weight of it.

"Don't apologize, Che." She half-smiled at him, her eyes a warm shade of blue like the ocean in summer. He had never seen eyes like that in a human. All others were twisted, clouded with hate or fear. "I understand what you're feeling. You probably don't believe that, but I do. I've seen those I love in pain, too many times, and it never gets easier. You would do anything in the world to save them, to keep them safe. Sometimes you succeed." She looked down at her hands and the smile faded. "Sometimes all you can do is pick up the pieces."

Mulder's eyes were broken, he remembered. They were scarred. How many times had she picked up those pieces, and had they cut her skin as much as this cut him?

A tiny space of silence followed her words, then she stood to her feet and headed for the table. She cleared away the liquor and the shot glass without a word, then abruptly turned back toward him. "You might as well stay here until Skinner gets back. You need rest, and I need someone to talk to."

She tried to smile like it was a joke, but he saw the loneliness behind the laugh. Mulder, he thought, you are a fool. This woman deserved to be held, to be told she was beautiful, to be loved. She shouldn't have to sit alone in a small apartment in a strange city. She shouldn't have to wake up alone. And she shouldn't risk a life for a cause that wasn't even her business.

He then knew what had to be done.

"You are a good woman, Dana Scully." He walked toward her as he spoke, smiling even though he didn't know how he could. "And I'm sorry." He placed his hand on her arm.

"For what-"

Her words died away as he entered her consciousness, pulling her mind into darkness. For one horrid moment, her eyes flared wide with shock and betrayal, and then she collapsed, totally unconscious. Che caught her as she fell, trying to ignore the heavy guilt pressing against his own mind. After all, she wasn't hurt. She would only sleep, and the rest would probably do her good. It was the only way he could keep her from being hurt, and didn't she deserve to be protected? If Mulder wasn't around to do the job, then someone had to.

All this he told himself as he carried her to her bed, draping a blanket over her in case the air grew chilly. He tried to believe it. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but it was the only thing. He had already lost a child; he might yet lose a wife; and he would not lose a friend. Besides, there were battles a man must fight alone.

It was time, now, for such a battle. Already he could see the sun sinking into the west, a brilliant tapestry of gold tinged with the darker shades of night. There was beauty in the twilight. Peace. They would not be expecting an attack now. They would expect it to come late at night, when the air was dead and spoke of secrets and hidden daggers.

Che took Scully's clearance card from her pocket, knowing he would need it to breach the security doors. She could honestly tell them he stole it...

He searched her drawers until he found the gun, and tucked it in the band of his pants. He did not want to kill any of them. They were blind, they were ignorant, and until this day he had almost pitied them. In a way, that feeling increased now. They did not even see the violence that was twisting them, consuming them until they were little more than animals. For that he allowed himself to pity.

But if they tried to stop him, he didn't know how much he could hold back the hate. Or if he would even try.

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

"Scully..."

The vapors of the man's voice coalesced from every corner of her darkened mind, calling her from sleep back to the cold hard plain of reality. She did not think she wanted to answer. She had not slept this well in months. There was no Pavlov. No strange eyes. No dreams of anything at all, only soft, warm, sleep.

"Scully...."

More urgent now. Afraid? She felt hands on her face, large and callused at the fingertips but gentle, like the voice. A tinge of guilt slithered across her soul despite her resolve to remain in oblivious bliss. After all, she didn't want him to be afraid.

She opened her eyes.

Skinner's face floated above hers, blurry at the edges but unmistakably him and undeniably worried. She was a part of that worry, but there was something else. Something...

Then she remembered the blood and the dead baby and Che's hands on her arm, his mind behind her soul. Suddenly the sleep was not so innocent; it turned ugly with betrayal. He had touched her mind without permission. Again. It had not burned, and it would cause no nightmares, but for a brief moment she hated him anyway. No one touched her like that. Not even Mulder. But no sooner had the hate swelled did it disappear, calmed by a whisper of pity. She had felt his desperation. She knew he believed there was no other way.

"Did he make it?" The words came out all in a breath, rushed yet hesitant. Truth was hard to swallow in its raw form, and she had already choked on enough of it to sour her on the taste.

Skinner shook his head, helping her up into a sitting position. "He used your card to break into the infirmary. Killed three guards doing it. Security found him unconscious on the floor beside Aida's bed. It took a lot for him to heal her. More than he planned, I think. It's a mercy he wasn't awake when they got there. He'll get it bad enough as it is."

Scully twisted the edge of the blanket around her fingers in silent resistance to the implications of the thought. "Why couldn't he have waited?" It was a useless question. She could have easily found the answer without his help but she did not want to find her own answers right now. She wanted someone to give her a reason why, and it had better be a good one.

"He knew Nicolas would never accept a bounty for her. So he did what he had to do."

"We could have helped them."

"No, Scully. We couldn't have. We would have tried but in the end we would have lost her. It's happened before." His eyes were very old, now. So very sad. "And now we're going to loose them both."

No, that was unacceptable. She searched his face for hope, any hope at all. He was the leader of the true resistance....he should have an answer, or a reason, or a plan. Anything but defeat.

"We can go to Nicolas with double the bounty for them both," She said, feeling very much like a four-year old child refusing to give up a favorite toy to a grownup. Just that small. "He'll have to accept..."

"Obviously you don't know our beloved Leader," Skinner snorted. "It's not about money, it's about vengeance. Che's broken his rules, defied his authority, and for that blood must be shed."

"There has to be something you can do. Object. Call the generals together and protest. Anything but stand by and watch." The anger inside her was quiet now, but she felt it grow with each moment.

"I'm sorry. Our hands are tied-"

"He'd die for you, sir!" She cut him off, not even noticing she had used his formal title until she saw the surprise in his eyes. Well, let him be surprised. She was. This felt like the old days. Back when he'd refused to choose a side, refused to intervene until it was absolutely necessary. Before he became her ally, her friend. What was wrong with him? "He'd die for the Cause. All he did was try to protect his wife and his child. Are you going to let them kill him for that? Just so you won't have to risk your own neck?" Her lips curled into a snarl. "And I thought you said you cared for them."

Skinner let her words strike him full force, making no attempt to reply until she had spent her energy and waited in burning silence for his reply. Scully spoke like this when she was afraid. She was terrified now that she was without control and helpless, that she'd have to watch two more people she cared about die before her eyes. He'd tell her it got easier the more it happened, but that would be a lie.

"I'd die for Che just as easily as he for me. That's what being a soldier is all about. Loyalty. But that loyalty can't just go to one man and one woman, no matter how important they are to you or me or anyone else. There are other lives at stake that deserve equal protection." He chose his words one at a time, justifying himself to the judges in his head as well as the woman standing before him. "Every man in our movement would risk his life and his family's life if I asked him to. It's my responsibility to know when to ask and when to keep quiet. I can't involve them in this. It wouldn't be fair. Che has killed, Scully. We might have had a chance at convincing the generals to let Aida go before, but now the full force of the law is against both of them. If we speak out, it will be just the opportunity Nicolas has been waiting for. He'd call us onto the carpet for conspiracy and then execute us right along with Che."

He paused for a moment, watching the understanding spread from her eyes to the rest of her face. It twisted him to watch the realization break her. She was not made for decisions like this, where lives must be sacrificed to save other lives. Her world had always been black and white, good and evil, light and dark. Even now, fragments of that remained. That's why she and Mulder had never joined the organized resistance. Both had a knack for the business of war but not the politics of it. He had thought he could handle the weight of leadership, even welcomed it at one point in time, but now his shoulders were beginning to weary. Too many good people had died. Her eyes eased shut, squeezing the pain back into her mind before it showed too much, and he searched his brain for something he could say to soften the blow.

"I did try, Scully." He spoke in low, please-believe-me tones, wanting to wrap his arms around her until she stopped aching but afraid she would break. Sometimes even iron needed to be reassured she was strong. Even beauty needed to reminded it was loved, to be reminded that it was safe. Did Mulder tell her that, anymore? Did he hold her? Or was he too busy killing Imperials and anyone else Nicolas told him to.... "I went to Nicolas as soon as I heard, and I offered him five thousand for each of them." He saw her eyes widen; it was a huge sum these days. "When that failed, I tried to barter for a lighter sentence, at least for Aida. I did everything I could. I did take the risk, Scully."

"I know you did," She said, arms wrapped around herself as if she was trying to keep warm. "I'm sorry for what I said... it's just..." She shook her head, her voice fading in and out like a bad radio connection. "They're so young. They remind me of..." The words faded away again, but she didn't have to finish it.

She and Mulder had been just like that once. Young, idealistic, blind to the fact that evil was sometimes stronger than love. He had hoped to shelter them from that truth, even though sometimes they had resented him for the precautions he took. Yet now he walked no more fences and in turn their eyes had been torn wide open. Wasn't that what they'd always wanted? To see it all?

/No,/ he thought, /that's what they thought they wanted. Now they're all grown up and they've seen their truth, and look where it's gotten them. She wakes up every other night screaming because the demons who tore her mind still walk her dreams, and he's killed his sister./

He realized the room had grown silent around them, and that the morning air was cold.

"You want some breakfast?" he asked. He tried to smile because one of them had to. It should be her. She was the most beautiful woman in the world when she smiled. "I could make those cheesy eggs you used to say would give us both heart attacks before lunch. Or if you want to live until dinner, I could put on some coffee."

He really thought she was going to smile-- her lips began to turn up into a grin and her eyes began to lighten-- but then she shook her head. "Thanks, but I'll pass. I want to go see Che and Aida....while I can."

Skinner nodded, pretending to agree. She was going to beat herself into a pulp over this one, wasn't she? He'd seen it happen once before, after she was released from the camps and had believed Mulder died to buy her life. If she slipped into that kind of hole now, there was no nice secluded beach cabin to hide in, and no peaceful ocean to wash away the world. /Mulder, get your sorry carcass back here and heal her before she falls apart. You're the only one she'll even let close. Don't you remember that?/

"When is it?"

"Is what?" Her question caught him in the middle of his thoughts, and for a moment he didn't understand.

"The execution."

"Noon." he said, glancing down at his watch in appreciation for any excuse not to look at her as he gave the news. "The town square. Expect a mob. Nicolas wants to make a point, and he wants plenty of people to see him do it."

She slid on her shoes in silence, walking toward the door. Her hand closed on the knob as her head turned very slowly back toward him.

"Promise me you'll kill that man someday."

She did not wait for his answer, but walked out into the hall and left him alone. He stared after her for a moment, like he had meant to say something but forgotten it, but the words never came to his mind. Instead he picked up his com link and began to compose a message for Mulder, one that would be delivered immediately over his own private channel.

It was time for someone to stop playing soldier and come home to the woman who needed him. If Mulder didn't have the sense to see that, then they'd have a little chat and if he still denied it....

Skinner would break the man's jaw. He'd do it with nothing but a friendly spirit, but at the same time he would make sure Mulder learned a few things that would not be forgotten, at least not until the bruises healed.

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Despair cloaked every inch of the confinement quarters, a slimy mix of blood-scent and urine stench and fear-sweat that saturated the very air until you felt your lungs decay from just breathing it.

Faith lay clasped in the hollow of her hand, a tiny wooden rosary, the beads satin soft from the warmth of her fingertips, slicked from the sweat of her plams. She had stopped by Che's apartment-- or what was left of it after the security teams swept it for "evidence"-- and found the rosary buried under the ruins of Aida's shrine. She wouldn't have seen it at all if it wasn't for a tiny ray of sunlight that happened to catch the mahogany wood at exactly the right moment and bounced into the corner of her eye So many things in life were like that. Thirty-second glimmers in sunlight that vanished if you tried to look at them directly.

She tried to repair the broken icons, but the damage was too great, so she merely whispered a prayer over the ruins and left before anyone saw her. Yes, she still prayed. Call it habit, or call it desperation, or call it a search for hope. Either way, it was all she knew to do, right now.

Cell 1172. Block C. The section reserved for violent offenders. It was death row, the last stop for murderers, rapists, Colonists, and eighteen-year old girls whose only crimes were the color of their blood and the strength of their soul.

Scully gripped the rosary tighter. If God was still in the humanity business, he'd better be working on some almighty terror of a judgment for the men who would sit by and let this happen.

She flashed her recovered identification card to the guards at the entrance to the cell block, stopping long enough to show them Skinner's written permission for visitation. No one asked questions. She wouldn't have trusted herself to give answers for them if they did. Not without landing herself in Block C right along with Che for treason.

She ignored the whistles and the lewd remarks as she walked down the row of cells, not caring what the perverts said or thought or did just as long as they kept their hands inside the bars. It would be a dreadful thing to have to break fingers this early in the morning. Cell 1172 was at the end of the hall, on the l eft. Just a few more paces and she'd be there. The fluorescent lights bounced off the glossy white tiles of the floor, burning her eyes. She could only imagine what it must be like for the prisoners who were subjected to it constantly. It must be maddening. But then, that would be the point, wouldn't it?

When she reached the cell, for a moment she couldn't even tell if anyone was there. Then she saw them, huddled together in the far back corner as if they could escape the glare of the lights or the hissing of the other prisoners who seemed to hate hybrids as much as Nicolas did. He leaned against the wall, the sallow light turning his skin a strange pale color while at the same time scooping out great shadows under his eyes. Livid yellow and blue bruises covered the entire left side of his face, continuing down his neck, and his lower lip was swollen to twice its normal size, a bit of dried green blood caked across a cut in the center. Looks like they'd given him a proper welcoming. One of his arms cradled his ribs like something was broken, while the other held Aida's body in his lap, pulling her to his chest in a heartbreakingly futile gesture of protection.

She had no bruises, Scully noticed. Did they really leave her alone or did Che come behind them and pick up the pieces again?

His eyes stared intently into something he alone could see, until he realized she was watching him. A slow smile broke out across his face, shadowed by a grimace as the effort stretched the broken skin of his lips. With infinite care, he slid Aida from his lap to the floor, his hand smoothing her cheek as he stood to his feet and walked over to the bars.

"You're still speaking to me? Even after last night?"

Something warmed her face like a smile even though this was not the place for such things. "It was a foolish thing to do, Che." She said, taking care to keep her voice soft and without any trace of condemnation. He would face enough of that at noon. "I would have helped you."

"I know. That's why I had to do it. You need to live, Dana. There aren't enough people like you left in the world as it is. You believe in something."

Her shoulders jerked in a half-laugh. "You sound so certain of that. I'm not even certain of that, anymore."

"You believe in truth and you believe in Mulder. Between the two of them, I'd say you have a pretty good chance of making a difference somewhere."

"And what about you, Che?" She set her hands on the bars. "You were making a difference. I saw it every day in the infirmary. What did you believe in to give it all up?"

"I always knew I'd have to fight someday," he told her. "I just count myself lucky that it took this long to get here."

"How is Aida?" Scully looked over his shoulder to the still form of the girl.

"I put her to sleep." Che said, glancing back to look at her, his eyes softening as soon as they brushed her face. "I thought it would be easier than making her wait...."

"I brought this for her." She held up the rosary. "I found it in your apartment, and thought she might like to have it."

He took it from her fingers, his hands running lovingly over the well-worn wooden surface of the beads as his eyes traveled back to another time. "When my father gave this to my mother, he told her he had made it so every time she prayed, part of him prayed with her. I said the same thing to Aida when I gave it to her. Thank you for bringing it....thank you."

Silence, for moments.

"Don't give up yet, Che. I'm going to Nicolas myself. That's what I wanted to come here to tell you. I'm not going to stop trying."

"Skinner already went-"

"I know. But I have to try, and maybe he'll listen to me, who knows? He won't be expecting it from a woman-"

"Stay away from him, Dana." Che's eyes moved to hers and this time they were not so soft. "He is evil."

"I have faced evil before."

"Not like this." He took a deep breath then began to talk more rapidly than before. "When I went to Aida, I healed her. Everything I could heal. There was something deeper than the bruises, Dana, something inside her mind that ate at her soul. It tried to shut me out like it had intelligence, like it knew what I was and wanted to stop me from healing her. When I pulled it out of her, it was cold and burning all at the same time. It was pure darkness. I've never felt anything like it. It drained all of my energy away. Nearly killed me. I didn't know what it was, until Aida regained consciousness and I asked her about it. She was afraid to tell me, at first. She's never been afraid to tell me anything...."

"What was it?" Scully leaned in closer, her eyes darkening in concern mingled with the first glimmerings of suspicion, and yes, fear. What he described sounded exactly like Pavlov's mind had felt inside hers. Pure darkness, that's what he'd said. Evil. But Pavlov was dead and his darkness with him. So what....oh, she trembled to even think it.

"She told me Nicolas did...things...to her mind. That she didn't know how, but he was inside her head, not in her thoughts, but deeper. That's all she could say before she started crying. I don't know what he did to her, Dana, but I don't want to take the risk of it happening to you."

Too late, she would have told him, if she had the nerve to bare her soul. I'm already scarred. Nicolas had the ability to enter minds? Deeper...than thoughts? And little Aida had been victim to that... Her bones quivered with the very idea of it. This was supposed to be behind her, as far away from the present as Pavlov's grave.

Yet she had to walk into Nicolas' office and beg for mercy for her friends. And she had to do it without fear, or else he would sense it and then she would be undone.

"I'll be careful." she said, pasting her best I'm-fine-Mulder smile on her face. "I always am."

"He won't listen."

"He'll have to."

Che shook his head, a bemused smile in his eyes. "Do you ever stop trying?"

"Once," she said. "After they let me out of the camps, I gave up on Mulder and lived for months under the belief he was dead. It nearly killed me. I decided then that I never wanted to live that way again."

"Does he know you love him?"

"He barely sees me enough to remember my name." That cameout more bitter than she had intended, but it was too late now.

"I think you should tell him. It might give him a reason to hang around."

She could never say that to Mulder. She hadn't even been able to say it before, when they were comfortable enough to touch and to even co-exist. What made Che think she could say it now, after so many months of separation and the awkwardness that brought?

"I'll consider it." How did one refuse a dying man? "I'd... better go. My time allotment is almost up." Yet she hated to leave, hated to walk away and never see his smile again or hear Aida's laugh as they shared dinner. She must have worn that thought in her eyes, because he brushed his fingers across hers through the bars in a touch meant to give hope even though he should be hoarding what little he had for himself.

"We'll be all right. They can only kill our bodies. It's always been deeper than that between Aida and I."

She pulled her hand away from the bars, nodding slowly.

"I think I know what you mean."

/I think I lived that once, and I want to live it again. Mulder's soul cannot be so very far from mine if I feel it calling with my every breath./

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Scully dreaded the word, because after she said it she would began to walk away, and the steps would take her to Nicolas, soul to soul against the same breed of serpent she had faced once before. She cringed at the memory of the venom in her veins, but there was no choice. She had to try this one last resort. She would be brave and she would be strong and she would show no fear. /No fear. No feeling at all. Lock up your mind and throw away the key. He can't get in this time. You know how to play the game./

And she walked back down the hall and did not look back.

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

Click-clack. Click-clack. Her shoes beat a nervous tattoo across the floor tiles as she walked down the hall, the staccato rhythm no where close to matching the speed of her heart.

Traitor, she whispered to the racing of her pulse. You've survived hell thirty different ways since the first night the stars began to fall, and now you're sweating over a simple conversation with a man?

A man who tore the minds of innocent women even though they were little more than girls...just like the monster in her dreams...

A man who murdered babies....just like the men who took her Emily...

A man who held the life of her friends in his hand.

Maybe if she thought about that long enough, the hate would supersede the fear. It would be welcome release, but she could not afford the danger of allowing her emotions to her face. Already she felt her skin stretch taut with the strain of holding them back.

"I need to speak to the Leader." Scully stopped at the secretary's desk, matching the girl's annoyed frown with the same icicle glare she used to give Kersh's secretary when the little slut flirted with Mulder. "It's urgent."

"I'm sorry." A fake smile on neon pink lips. "You'll need an appointment." She reached for a calendar, her dime store acrylic nails tapping her impatience against her pen. Scully glanced from the girl to Nicolas' door. There was only one security guard near enough to the door to actually pose a complication, and she could get around him easy enough. She started walking toward the door.

"I might can get you in next week if you--hey wait! You can't go in there!"

Her cry alerted the security guard, but by then Scully was already through the door.

When the door broke open, his head snapped up from the intelligence reports he had been reading and his hand flew to the gun under his desk, whipping it up to kill level before the woman was even halfway into the room.

She held her hands up to show she was unarmed. Her blue eyes asked him not to shoot, asked him what threat could a tiny helpless redhead pose to a big strong soldier? His fingers paused around the trigger.

"I need to speak with you Si-" Her words were cut off as one of his security guards barreled into her from behind, knocking her to her knees. Instead of pain, her eyes merely flickered with annoyance as she rolled out from the punch, then sprang back to her feet, using the momentum to drive her knee into the man's groin. The guard gasped, doubling over in pain.

Nicolas felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Her eyes had lied. She was small-- he could probably splinter every bone in her wrist with one twist-- but she was most certainly not helpless.

She finished the job with a blow to the back of the man's neck that dropped him as neatly as a sack of flour. Nicolas searched her eyes for any sign of pleasure at the kill or triumph, but found only a cold disdain. Yet her emotions betrayed her. Beyond her thoughts there was a deep satisfaction that her skills had proved worthy one more time. That she could kill if she wanted to. Yet she did not. So the woman had restraint.... excellent. She would be so busy trying to bury her own emotions that she would not notice his prodding until it would be too late, until he was already inside her mind.

Three more guards appeared at the door, alerted by the sounds of struggle, and he watched the muscles of her back tighten in preparation for further combat. As much as he would enjoy watching her in that capacity, the curiosity pricked him as to what she had to say that could be so important for her to fight her way into his office.

"It's all right." he held out his hand to stop the guards. They paused, obediently, though their guns remained drawn and her eyes remained on the weapons. Taut, flashing fire. A cat, he thought. Beautiful and soft but watch the claws. "There was just a little misunderstanding. Take your friend to the infirmary then leave us."

They scuttled to obey, and then the door shut. Leaving her alone with him. He couldn't contain the smile now; it broke out across his face like wildfire. "So." He said, his eyes trailing over her face down to her shoulders, down to the chest that heaved slightly with exertion. "You must be Dana Scully."

"I am." She smoothed her hair back into place as she talked. Such tiny fingers, so white and pale against the fire-gold strands. Almost like they were made of porcelain, which was, he knew, so easy to break. "I apologize for my...unorthodox...entry, but there is a matter of great important that needs your attention."

"The Leader's ear is always open to the needs of his people." He said, gesturing toward a chair. "Please, sit."

"Thank you, but I'd rather stand."

Her eyes hardened stone now, betraying nothing, but that mask revealed more than she knew. The barest hint of uneasiness clung about her, a vapor of emotion that vanished before he got close enough to decide if it was real or imagined. Once he entered her mind, he would know for sure. But it would have to be done delicately. She could not suspect, not yet.

He settled back into his chair and began to lazily stretch his mind toward hers. "What can I do for you?"

She was silent for a moment, then her eyes met his with such clarity that he feared she was staring him through to the soul. No wonder Mulder was afraid that she would discover everything about him. Those eyes burned through lies like fire through mist. "I have come to ask you to reconsider General Skinner's offer for the lives of the two hybrids."

His left eyebrow quirked in surprise. "And why would you concern yourself with the affairs of Impure murderers?"

"They are young, sir. Impetuous. I know that crime must be punished but judgment can often be tempered with mercy."

"Mercy?" He laughed. "You and Mulder both seem to have such idealistic concepts of what that means. The hybrid Che smuggled his unregistered female into our city, then murdered several of our brothers in arms when he discovered she had been captured. You would release him to kill again?"

He rested at the border of her consciousness now, face to face with a massive stone wall of defense instincts that stopped him cold in surprise. These were far thicker than even Mulder's. Seemingly impenetrable. Yet there were cracks, tiny spider web cracks and flaws and chinks, as if once, the walls had tumbled. If they fell once, they could fall again.

"I do not think he would kill again, sir." He began to sense anger-- even from outside her walls he could feel its heat seeping through the stone. If he could feel at the fringe of her subconscious, what would it be like at the core? A furnace. Yet none of it showed in her eyes.

"That is for me to decide. As the Leader I have more than one or two lives to take into consideration. Thousands look to me for protection and leadership. If I allow one Impure to defy us, tomorrow there will be two more wishing to follow in his
footsteps. The next day there will be three, then four, then they might even start thinking of us as our equals."

Her eyes were steel now, her voice a blade. "And you are so sure that they are not?"

"For someone who has fought as long as you have, Dana, I would have expected a little less naivete."

Her lips turned up into a mockingly sweet smile. "For someone who has fought as long as you have, Nicolas, I would have expected a little more ability to tell who the enemy really was."

Fury engulfed his veins, but at the same time a sense of wonder swelled within him. This....woman...had criticized him to his face and she had smiled even though he could have her shot for it. The passion in her burned against his mind like a white sparkler held close to bare fingertips. He grew dizzy with the heat of it, with the heat of his own desire to control such spirit. Suddenly he remembered to speak.

"The enemy is anyone who does not support our Cause." He kept his voice even, matching hers steel for steel. He moved his mind around the walls in hers as he spoke, searching for some kind of gate, some kind of portal. "You may not understand it but you will accept it and in time you may even come to agree with it." He baited her with the last remark, wanting her anger to swell again he could find the source of it.

"Agree with the murder of two people just because of their genes? Because it's not politically convenient to give them a fair trial and keep them alive? I'm sorry, sir, but I don't see how that's any different than the beings we claim to fight."

Her voice rose a little there, and as her emotions crested, he picked up on a strange...presence...inside her subconscious. A humming, soft and metallic like the humming that used to fill his own brain when the Colonists had put their implants in him...

Implants. The realization hit him and he almost screamed with delight. She wore an implant. It would open her mind to his just like a flower to the sun.

"It's war." He said, following the humming to try and find the source. "The Cause must be preserved from all threats, no matter how we have to do it."

Her consciousness burned now, and Nicolas resisted the urge to check his face for scorch marks. Her voice shook slightly, whether from emotion or withheld anger, he wasn't sure. "They are barely more than teenagers. They don't deserve to die."

"They will pay for their crimes, today at noon in the city square. If you don't like it, close your eyes."

Almost there....almost...

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? No witnesses." She turned and walked toward the door, stopping as her hand touched the doorknob. Her head snapped back toward him, her voice sharp and cutting. "And stay out of my head. I know what you're trying to do and it won't work."

And just that easily, he found himself cut off from the siren call of the implant, from even the fringes of her consciousness. The door slammed behind her and she was gone. He found himself staring after her, not quite believing what just occurred.

She knew counter-offensive. Impossible. Had she picked it up while fighting off the alien Pavlov, or was it something instinctive that she had yet to consciously control?

It fascinated him, intoxicated him. When she broke, it would be as diamond shattering, with a thousand fragments of brilliance that would tumble from his fingers. He would break her; of this he had no doubt. The implant would allow him into her subconscious just as soon as he found its channel, and this he could do without even being near her. After all, he'd visited her dreams before.

Such a lovely thing, to watch her nightmares.

Soon enough, he would create them.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Scully bit back the urge to run as she left Nicolas' office, traversing the long hallway back to the sun and the air and the safety. She wiped the sweat of her palms on her pants, trying to still the shaking that had gripped her hands as soon as the door had shut behind her. It was not so much the way he had groped her body with his eyes, as if she was one of his women. That she had expected. It was not so much the fact that she had felt his mind brushing hers, leaving smears of bloody fingerprints at the fringes of her consciousness. That she had been warned of.

It his was eyes.

The same, electric blue eyes that mocked her in her nightmares.

And it was the way those eyes sang to the metal in her neck, until it hummed and throbbed throughout her mind. Whispering. Murmuring.

Calling her to him.

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

Noon.

The sun stood dead still in the center of the cloudless sky, bleeding fire down to the earth and blistering the town square until even the shade turned to scorch marks rather than relief. A hot breeze stirred the sand and the withered grass, spreading the collective stench of sweat and dirt and anticipation throughout the restless crowd. Scully could hear the sea of whispers that rode behind the wind, echoing throughout her mind as she pushed her way through the seemingly endless clog of people.

/What are we here fer anyways? I got twenty casings of ammo t' put away before I can go to lunch./

/Didn't you hear? Some piece of hybrid scum is gonna get wasted./

/So what'd he do?/

/Dunno./

/Murder probably. Or rape. Those pigs don't know how to control their own instincts./

/I heard he killed three of our boys trying to break into the infirmary. He and the little sow who helped him are gonna get what they deserve. Frickin' animals./

And the man spit into the dirt near her feet.

She wanted to break his jaw. She wanted to fight, to let out the rage burning her veins with more fury than the sun, until her gun was smoking in her hands and blood covered her fingertips and there was no more hate in her. That was the thing about battle. You started out hating, but after the first five minutes, you felt nothing. Violence was the universal novocaine. No wonder Mulder was so addicted to the missions he ran.

You could fight an alien and you could fight a man, but bullets did nothing against a state of mind. Or guilt.

She was supposed to have saved them, because isn't that what she and Mulder were meant to do? Protect the weak. Save the innocent. /Take a look at him and take a look at yourself and then tell me if you still believe that./ Pavlov's voice, again. She could always count on him to surface in her darker demons.

Yes, she realized, she still believed it. Despite the blood and the scars, she had always clung to the hope that somehow everything would fall back into the way it was. That's why it hurt so much to see it all crumble. Mulder would hurt too, if he was here. Or would he? Maybe he would agree with Nicolas, agree with the mob. Those suspicions were also her fears, and he wasn't here to allay them.

/Mulder!/

She wanted to throw her head back and scream until it echoed off the sun down to whatever god-forsaken battlefield he was on.

/Mulder, I need your help! I can't save them alone! I never could./

She should be out there, fighting with him, rather than swimming through this sea of flesh and ignorance, pushing her way to the front of the crush to watch her friends die. Just when she had found out again what "friend" meant...

/Mulder is your friend./

No, Mulder was her soulmate. There was a difference. She'd die for him but it was so hard for them to sit down and just...talk. That's what she'd had with Che and Aida. Somewhere to go and laugh and just talk.

Close your eyes, Nicolas had said. You don't have to see them die.

Tempting, but no. When this was all over, and Nicolas and his boys were on trial like the Nazis they were, someone had to point the fingers. She'd be right there on the witness stand. Let Nicolas smile at her then.

Scully reached the fringe of the crowd, and stopped to catch her breath. A barricade and a healthy detachment of soldiers kept the spectators back from the execution scaffolding-- a wooden platform rising ten feet above the crowd, with two posts standing in the center, ugly and naked in the sun. A memory blossomed from the depths of her mind, momentary blurring reality until she found stared instead at the past.

/The desert, outside a cheap whiskey joint, en route to this hell. Three posts, three men, backs ripped open like butchered cattle. Echoes of screams in their eyes. Echoes of whips across their skin. Criminals. Left to die in the sun. Skinner's voice. (It wasn't personal. Purely judicial.)/

She doubted he would say the same, were he beside her now. Was he even here, today, or did he use his rank to hide in an air-conditioned office far away from the memories and the screams? Or had he just seen this too many times to care?

That wasn't fair; she knew he'd tried, but he should have tried harder, right? Someone should have tried.

She blinked and Che and Aida hung on scaffolding, stripped and torn. She shivered and the image disappeared in waves of shimmering heat.

"Clear a path! Clear a path!" The soldiers ringing the square begin to herd people away from the road as the grumble of a truck motor drew nearer and nearer. She heard the roar of the crowd, beginning at the far end of the square then spreading until the entire mass of people roared as one hungry beast.

"Murderers!"

"Filth!"

"Die!"

Scully cursed her lack of height, shoving and elbowing until she reached an open view. Her eyes squinted against the sun and the sting of sweat in her eyes, and she brought her hand up to shield her vision. Her heart quivered within her chest, a deep shuddering ache.

The truck moved slowly down the road-- too slowly-- giving the crowd plenty of time to hurl insults or more tangible evidences of hatred at the two prisoners huddling in the open truck bed. She could see it all so clearly, even from this distance. Pain was always crystal clear.

Che stood, or tried to, until the guards around him toppled him with a blow to the back of his knees. His arms were bound behind his back at an angle that must have been agony to his shoulder muscles, but his face never let on. He seemed totally oblivious to the profanity of the crowd, to the spit of the guards, to the debris peppering his skin. He knelt near Aida, shielding her from the rocks and rotten vegetables as best he could, and his eyes never left her face. His lips were moving, whispering something meant for only her ears and the angels.

Scully could imagine his words, for they would be very much like those Mulder said to her the night they both had been captured and dragged through a mob not so different than this to face what they thought would be a similar death.

/Be strong. Be strong. Only a little while and they won't hurt us anymore. Don't look at them. Look at me. At me and nothing else./

Aida leaned into her husband as if she was trying to disappear, her tiny body shivering despite the oppressive heat. There were fresh bruises on her skin-- the guards must have given them a farewell party before loading them onto the truck-- and the streaks of sun-dried tears stained her face. But when he kissed her, a soft and gentle press of his lips to hers, she smiled. Just for that long.

Then a rock hurled through the air, catching her in the mouth, knocking her away from Che and out of sight, momentarily. Che's eyes locked on the crowd as if he saw who was responsible, his face twisted into something dark and inhuman as he spit a curse toward the man. A billy club across the shoulders silenced him. He barely hit the floor before the guards hauled him back to his feet. Aida was jerked back up to eye-level, pulled by the hair until she whimpered. The crowds must not be deprived of their spectacle.

His body shook now, but Scully knew it was not fear. Even from this distance, she felt the rage. She shared the rage.

She blinked, quickly, to hide something that couldn't be tears. She could not permit tears or trembling, or any signal of weakness whatsoever. Nicolas would be waiting for it. If there was ever a time that she needed her infamous control, it would be now. Especially because the truck was passing her section of the crowd, almost to the platform and its whipping posts.

The shadow of the vehicle fell across her, the dust from the treads billowing up to choke her lungs and burn her eyes, but she paid it no heed.

Che's eyes passed over hers, so very young but older than even Mulder's now. They reached to her very soul, calming her. Forgiving her, because he knew that even if he didn't need it, she did. His gaze carried hers to Aida's neck, to the rosary which hung around it, guarding her soul. He smiled, flashing his teeth to her just like when she had first met him. /Thank you.../

For a long moment, she held onto those eyes, because no one was really dead if you remembered them. Then the truck passed her and he looked away.

Thirty seconds later, the vehicle ground to a stop and the guards dragged the prisoners up the steps to the platform. She saw Nicolas now, standing in full military dress at the other side of the platform, flanked by several of his higher-ranking goons. Hitler himself would have been jealous at the evil in the man's smile as he watched the guards untie Che's hands then lash them to the post above his head. The same procedure was repeated for Aida, only then his smile darkened into a sneer, his eyes dripping lust.

Che noticed this, and shoved his angry stare between Nicolas' gaze and his wife's trembling eyes. This amused the Leader.

After the prisoners had been secured, Nicolas moved to the forefront of the platform, raising his hands to silence the crowd. The roaring vanished instantly, replaced by the silence of devoted subjects. Scully felt her lips curl into disgust. She contemplated screaming again just to cause a distraction.

"My brothers and sisters," His voice carried well, as any tyrant's did, full of warmth and camaraderie and just enough sadness to make him appear human. "We have here today two Impures who have defiled the sanctity of our land. The woman is an Unregistered, a leech who crawled out of the gutters of the Outside world to eat our food and enjoy without merit the precious freedom that you all work so hard to preserve. When she was arrested, the man murdered three of your brothers out of anger for our justice. They are here to face that justice now, and you all are witnesses to it."

The roar begin to rise again, but it dimmed to a murmur after one wave of his hand. Scully had to give the man credit for one thing; he had the common rabble eating right out of his palm. Or at least, too scared to do anything else.

"Some of you might believe these methods harsh," His eyes searched her out and fastened her gaze to him like she was a butterfly and he the pin. "but I assure you, we do only what is necessary for the preservation of our law, the law you yourselves have created. Without law we are no better than these Impures, than their Colonist masters. This law has seen fit to punish these creatures for their crimes against us all. Each will receive eighteen lashes, then will be put to death in the manner normal for their kind. Is this the will of the people?"

A hundred voices swelled to answer him in a mangled roar for blood and death. Nicolas seemed to drink in their voices for a moment before quieting them. "Then so be it." He turned back to the soldiers, speaking to the two brutes holding the whips. "Begin."

The men saluted, walked over to the prisoners. Nicolas' eyes shot back to her, his smile returning just for her benefit, a smooth curve of lip and flash of teeth quicker than the flick on a snake's tongue across the blood of a mouse. Two mice, to be exact.

The soldiers tore Che's shirt from his body, then moved to Aida and ripped her dress open down the back. Her skin was pale, the bones of her spine easily seen. Scully could see them tense, quivering.

/Go on,/ Nicolas challenged. /Close your eyes. Run away./

The soldiers adjusted their breathing masks, meant to shield them from the blood of their victims. She knew that the toxins would dissipate into the heat. long before they reached the crowd, but it would form a beautiful irony if just this one time, they did not. The whips floated through the dead air as the soldiers drew them back above their heads.

Scully set her jaw in defiance, her eyes burning holes in whatever soul Nicolas had left. /I'll show you a witness./

For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

The whips sailed toward their victims in a viper hiss that ended in a girl's strangled scream as leather cut flesh. Aida's shriek filled the universe, a slap across the face of the conscience of every man and woman in the square. If they were alive enough to feel it, Scully didn't know. Che held his pain in silence.

The soldiers paused long enough to let the pain sink its teeth into their prey. Then the whips hissed again. And again.

Scully ground her teeth together until her skull ached, trying to keep silence when her bones roared within her. Trying to keep her eyes clear even as the tears stung them as acid. She counted each time the whip sailed through the air, each time it tore her inside. And she watched it all. Memorized it.

Someday, she would tell everything just as it happened. How Aida mercifully lost consciousness between the seventh and eighth lashes, but that Che had the misfortune of strength, and was still clinging to the last threads of awareness after the whips were laid aside, exchanged for two small cylinders of metal. She would describe the stilettos in detail, in case any of the jury members were, for some reason, not familiar with the device which killed aliens and hybrids and innocent lovers.

She would blink back tears, as she did now, but her voice would not shake as she told them how they moved to Aida first. They probed her neck with her fingers until they found the exact spot that would allow the metal to pierce her spinal cord and enter her brain. She would mention that Che was still facing his beloved, how his head had never moved from the girl's face throughout the entire beating. This was the first time, however, he had cried. Only one tear, tracing its way through the dirt and the blood on his face.

She would tell them how it carved a gash down her own soul.

Then the stiletto fell. The kill came quickly compared to the torture before. Aida's body jolted as if it had been thrown onto an electric fence, stiffening then disintegrating into a pile of green blood.

Scully decided she would not tell them how close she came to vomiting. Some things were meant to be kept secret.

The soldiers moved to Che next, and she did not think he would struggle even if he had the strength. His soul was dead; he had watched them kill it before his eyes . She saw no fear on his face, only resignation. It is finished. Relief.

One soldier held his head still, and the other raised the stiletto toward the sky.

She prayed for his soul, for Aida's soul, that they would find the happiness they deserved in a better world.

The stiletto plunged into the back of his neck.

Five minuts later, he was dead and the crowd was gone. Skinner's words floated through her empty, aching mind. The same thing he had said before. /Look away from it. You can look away now./

She was among the last to go.

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

Scully did not return home immediately, preferring the organized chaos of the infirmary over the grave silence of the apartment in hopes that the clamor of new life would push from her mind the lingering echoes of death. If the other doctors noticed the sudden sharpening in her focus, or her abrupt desire to work three straight shifts, they would only nod in approval at her devotion to the Cause. They would not notice the way her hands trembled when she held the newborns, or how the sheen across her eyes was a little too bright to be caused by a simple reflection of light.

She worked until her head began to pound from the wailing of the children and the screaming of the birthing rooms. Even then she refused to let up, not until the smell of antiseptic and blood and baby formula overwhelmed her all at once, in waves of dizziness and nausea.

At first they told her to "sit down", but when they saw the pallor of her face and the fever shine to her eyes, the order changed to "go home."

Home. An empty apartment and an empty bed and an empty soul. How lovely.

She did as she was told, too weary to do anything but obey.

The moonlight startled her, for within the infirmary there was no such thing as time, and she had forgotten that it was not true for the outside world. What time was it, anyway? Three shifts....four hours apiece....

Midnight.

Somehow it did not seem quite fair that the world should have kept moving with so little notice for what had been lost under the noon sun. She contemplated this injustice as the night wind blew the smells of the hospital from her mind, attempting to coax her from her morbidity with hints of jasmine flowers and far away roses. The stars seemed to push their brilliance deeper into her eyes, as if they were whispering to her that they were still beautiful, and they could prove it.

/Then bring them back./ She told them. /Then I'll believe you're beautiful./

They shook their heads at her bitterness, and the moon pulled a cloud over his face to hide him from her pain. She doubted they would ever know how close she was to letting go. If they did, then would they please relay the message to Mulder, if he wasn't too busy killing....

The walk back to her apartment should have taken five minutes but it stretched into fifteen. She did not know where the time went, only that it passed her by, as if she was no longer a part of earth. Maybe she had died too, somewhere in between the fire of the sun and the lash of the whips, and just forgotten to let her body know.

Scully closed her eyes, resting her head against the frame of her apartment door. This would not do. She was a doctor and a soldier. Blood was her occupation. She had seen her entire family fall prey to the virus, and had murdered the monsters that used to be them with her own two hands. So why was she so affected by two more deaths, mere grains of sand in the endless shore of human suffering? People died every day.

The difference was, this time she had chosen to care. Why, she had no idea. Maybe it was Che's smile or Aida's laugh. Maybe she had been trying to prove that she could care for her fellow humans again, just like in the days when saving the world was something good and noble and beautiful.

Maybe she had just wanted to prove she could feel at all.

She would not make that mistake again.

This she vowed in the silence of the hallway, in the silence of her heart. She froze the pain, inch by inch, until her soul tingled with freezer burn but not with sadness. She would feel no sadness. She would feel no anger. She would accept what was lost and move on. It's what she had learned to do to survive, and she could do it again.

But then she opened the door and saw the roses on the table.

There were a half-dozen of them, perfect in every way, their perfume thick as velvet in the night air, arranged in a elegant glass vase. A small card sat beside them on the table.

Scully turned it over.

Deepest sympathy for the loss of your friends.

Kindest regards, Nicolas.

In the low light, she could almost see the smile.

/It doesn't matter. You don't care. You don't feel.../

Her fingers trembled.

/Ice, Scully. Remember ice. Remember all those days on the run when they were dying by the millions and you didn't care. Feel that again. Feel nothing. Mulder's learned to do it, so why don't you?/

Within her soul there was a tinkling, a groaning as the ice began to crack. To bend.

All at once it shattered, and the sound of it was the sound of a perfect vase and six hideously perfect roses crashing into the far wall. Breaking into a thousand pieces. Just as she was breaking.

She grabbed the roses from the floor and began to rip them apart, one by one, every fiber of her body shaking with the need to scream. The desire grew like a volcano building inside her. Building...

A second crash startled her before the eruption hit her throat. She spun to see a man running into the room, his gun drawn and fear in his eyes.

He saw the blood on her fingers, from where the thorns had cut her flesh, and she swore he screamed even though he didn't make a sound other than her name.

"Scully?" He moved toward her, but it couldn't be him. He was out on a battlefield, fighting and killing and feeling nothing. But here he was, holding his hand out to her while his eyes burned with pain for her pain.

"Mulder...."

"What happened?"

"They're dead..."

"Who?"

"They're...." Her voice trailed away into silence.

Something in her was breaking, something she had not known was even alive anymore, but she was not alone. Not alone.

Her pride told her to remain still. Her soul screamed for relief.

And before she knew she had moved, she had wrapped her arms around him, her tears eating through his shirt and into his skin, but he didn't flinch. He didn't pull away.

"Scully, what is it?" He sounded afraid. She should say something to reassure him, but she couldn't speak. Her fingers dug into his back, leaving smears of blood on his uniform.

"Scully..." The fear sharpened until his eyes pressed as daggers into hers through the low lamplight. Probing, so gently, her soul. "Tell me. Please."

"He killed them...." she whispered, the words broken by the tears. "And I was alone..."

"You're not alone anymore." He breathed the words into her ear, warm and soft and begging for forgiveness, while his arms tightened around her shoulders.

And she clung to him because she needed him in order to breathe.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Speak to me baby
In the middle of the night
Pull your mouth close to mine.
I can see the wind coming down
like the black night...
Hear the rain fall.
See the wind come to my eyes.
See the storm broken...
Speak to me
Hold your mouth to mine
'cause the sky is breaking
It's deeper than love.
I know the way you feel.

- The Sky is Broken
Moby

The world did not end-- as he had feared when he first heard the crash-- but rather it turned upside down. South was north; sky became earth, and Scully was in the middle of it all, the center of this newly inverted universe, her fingers clutching him as if he was her last rosary. She kept her eyelids stretched shut as canvas pulled taut over a waterdrum, but the edges leaked tiny streams of something he would have easily called tears had she been anyone else. For her, he could find no words, though fragments of description drifted through his brain. /Sacrilege. Profanity. Something that should not be. Something I could have prevented.../

He did not know what to do, so he held her. His face pressed against her hair, inhaling a scent he once remembered as lilacs and spring rain. Now she smelled of strange things, of hospital corridors and antiseptic and too many hours spent under fluorescent lights. Of weariness. These foreign sensations mingled with an even wilder aroma of blood and roses that thickened the semi-darkness around them until he realized that she was the center of that as well. And the blood belonged to her....

/She's hurting....you can feel it in the quiver of her skin, skin torn open at the seams and bleeding onto your nice, pristine uniform. Don't just stand there. Ask her why she hurts...ask her who dared..../

He swallowed whole the lump of cotton silence drying out his mouth and forced his words to hold steady. "Scully, I need to see your hands."

"Why?"

"You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

That was the usual denial, although he noticed the slight differences-- how she did not resist as he withdrew from the embrace, how she winced as he caught her wrists and turned them palms up to him. He was possessed for a blink of a heartbeat by an unusually persistent demon that made him afraid, so afraid, of what he would see. But he could not turn away, now. She was waiting, palms up and eyes dark behind the veil of tears.

Stigmata, his first impulse whispered. She has finally become a saint. He did not know-- could not know-- that the wounds were not of faith but of sacrilege.

The vague similarities to miracle faded as his gaze lingered. He saw the tiny cuts, the jagged tears in the skin, noting they were not severe, only bloody. Something like a stain of crushed flower petals soiled her fingertips, as a child who had dipped her fingers in wine. The fear subsided. Instead he merely ached. Her blood always made him ache.

"How?"

She freed her wrist from his, holding her hands at awkward angles from her body, an expression on her face like she wanted to hide but wasn't sure where. "I was tired... a vase slipped...."

"You said someone died."

She blinked, as if she was only now remembering she had spoken aloud. Her eyes were too transparent, pouring her emotions over him in a cold bath he was not prepared to face. "Yes." Nothing more.

This was not the Scully he knew. This was another woman, a Scully with bleeding fingers and torn hands, trembling from emotions and so easily broken. He could handle the ice. He could handle the denial. But to see her stripped down to the bare skin of her emotions, without a trace of her usual walls or logic....now this was something different. Strange. Fearful. He could not account for its sudden emergence.

/Like you were around to figure out why, soldier-boy. You were off trying to be a hero in someone else's war./

Guilt could be afforded later. Now, at this moment, he must proceed with caution, pushing hard enough to learn the mystery but not hard enough to shatter. First things first.

"The cuts don't look serious." He glanced down at her hands again. "Let me help you clean them."

It was a sure danger sign when she made no protest, merely following him into the bathroom and sitting down on the toilet seat. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he searched the medicine cabinet for the necessary items. His imagination kept replaying a cruel scenario in which he turned back to her and saw only a pile of broken glass. She stared at her hands, watching the blood drip from the tips of her fingers to leave dark ugly spots on her clothing.

Then again, perhaps she did not see the blood. Her eyes were so far away... The silence lay close against his spine, a string of tiny leaden weights slowly deadening his nerves.

"They aren't deep." He heard his own voice bounce back to him off the tile, a thin hollow sound. "You were lucky."

"Aren't we all? All us true humans....lucky. We're alive."

Mulder nearly winced at her tone as he reached for the peroxide. She wasn't supposed to be bitter. He had always been the one with enough lost faith to go around for the both of them. Whatever poison infected her now, he wished he could draw it out through her wounds into him. Let it rot his veins, but never hers. Her eyes squeezed shut as he passed the cotton swab over her hand, dabbing each cut in turn. The wounds fizzed with tiny white bubbles as the disinfectant began to work. Perhaps there was still time to prevent infection....

He tried again to unlock her words.

"Who died, Scully?"

"Everyone dies, Mulder. You know that by now. Even the innocent ones..."

A tear slid down the corner of her eye, tracing the curve of her cheekbone then rolling down her jawbone. For one minute, he thought she was going to cry out loud. But she did not....perhaps her instincts kept a portion of her defense intact, even now.

He finished with her right hand and began work on the left, each movement born from infinite care. Her skin was not marble, tonight, but flesh that felt pain and reacted to it. He could tell this by the tiny spasms in the nerves of her hand each time the antiseptic touched her wounds. Sometimes she would visibly wince.

The same woman had undergone torture, suffered beatings without breaking. This was not that woman. Realization hit him of how easy it would be to hurt her this night, to bruise parts of her soul that normally were rock hard to the touch. A new fear dawned in him that somehow, by mischance or accident, he would leave such bruises.

/C'mon, Scully, snap out of it. Jerk your hands out of mine and tell me that you don't need my help, thank you very much. Tell me who died, and use that angry tone of voice where your eyes flash and your skin flushes red. Strike me across the face for leaving you alone. Do something, anything. Eurydice, awake./

By now he was finished with the cleaning, and reached for a role of cloth bandages-- a rare commodity, even for Commanders, one to be used only in emergency, but he didn't care about the rules. He only wanted the soft things against her skin. Only the gentle things.

"They are broken." she whispered, breaking silence without warning. Her eyes could not meet his, still focused on her nothingness.

"What is broken?" He spoke slowly, carefully, waiting to prod her along ever so gently yet not wanting to scare her into silence again.

"The vase....the flowers....it was a beautiful vase but it shattered and it was my fault and I couldn't put it back together. I couldn't save them."

"We can get another vase. More flowers."

"No. We can't." She shook her head, grave sadness etched in the worry lines of her forehead. "These flowers were different from all the rest. There were only two of them, you see, and all they had was one another. But the vase slipped, through my hands, they slipped, through my hands, onto the floor, and everyone watched and laughed as the pieces shattered...."

/Disassociation through metaphor.../ The dormant profiler inside his brain stirred to life again. At the same time he cursed Skinner for not bothering to include details in the message he had sent urging a prompt return home. As it was, he could only play the game and hope to coax her back to reality.

"Why did they laugh? Why didn't they try to help you?"

"They wanted it to break." Her eyebrows knit together in a thin dark line. "They were jealous, of the flowers, afraid. And he wanted her....like the shards of glass on the floor...he wanted her to be in pieces....I didn't know, though, I didn't know until I lost my grip...But I tried to put them back together....but I was alone and I didn't know how..."

Two fat tears, dripping off her chin and sliding down the bridge of her nose. He brushed them away with his fingertips, begging her through his skin to come back. She didn't have to talk; he wouldn't ask anymore questions; he just wanted to look into her eyes and have something look back.

"Scully, look at me." he spoke with very real doubt that she heard him. /Please.../

She did not move. He half-imagined she had turned back into stone again, a beautiful Madonna of white marble and the coldest blue eyes.

"You aren't alone now. Do you feel me, here? You're in there, Scully. I can feel you. It's safe to come back out now. We don't have to talk. Not tonight." He spoke all in a rush, not really sure of what he was saying but desperate to make some sort of connection. "We don't have to even whisper. We will sit in silence and I will hold you so close, without a word."

Silence.

"Please..."

He raised her bandaged hands to his lips and kissed the center of the palm. Once. Twice. Three times. The bandage was rough against his lips, tasting faintly of blood and antiseptic, but he imagined she could feel him through the cloth. He needed her to feel him.

After the fourth kiss, her fingers animated, running stiffly along the sides of his cheeks. He lifted his face toward hers, seeing recognition once more inside her eyes, but at the same time such an ache. As if her soul were bleeding, inside, where no one was supposed to see. Where only he could see.

"I'm tired." she said. "So tired I can barely sit up."

"Then we'll go to sleep."

She struggled to rise, wavering. He stopped her.

"Let me." /Let me do this for you. Let me bear all the weight tonight./

"I can make it, Mulder. I can walk alone."

"But you don't have to."

She closed her eyes and nodded. He slid his arms around her, his fingers running lightly up the skin of her arms to encircle her back, and lifted her against his chest. Her head rolled back against his shoulder as she opened her eyes. Weariness glazed her pupils, a thick sluggish exhaustion seeping from her into him, draining his energy as well. The distance across the room seemed measured in miles rather than feet. At last they were at the beside, and he supported her with one arm as he pulled back the blankets from the bed and eased her onto the sheets. A single curl tumbled from her hair to dangle over her eyes. He reached to brush it back into place, when her fingers caught his arm with a grip near desperation.

"Don't leave me alone. He'll come back for the pieces, in the dark he'll come back..."

"Shhh." He leaned forward, kissing reassurance onto her forehead. "No one is coming in here tonight. I promise."

/Let them try, whoever they are. Just let them try./

It was not by accident that he slid his gun under his pillow when he climbed onto the bed beside her. Caution never hurt anyone.

She shivered, even though she was wrapped up in the blanket, and he pulled her against him, trying to urge his warmth into her. It did not take her long to drift towards oblivion. But the tremor never left her, not even in sleep, always a faint quiver in her bones that sometimes reached her lips in a moan or feverish half-speech. Her hands clung to him with such force he feared it would press fresh blood from the wounds. He wondered how long it had been since she slept.

Mulder himself did not indulge in slumber, choosing instead to lie awake with hopes of piecing together the mysteries she had spoken of. Two things he was sure of-- someone had died and it had been brutal enough to shock her. That said much and nothing all at once. In the morning, perhaps, answers could be found, if not from her lips then from Skinner. That could wait until the coming of the daylight, an intrusion that was yet far away.

And so for the rest of the night, he kept his promise and held her in silence, without words. He suspected that with the morning light her walls would stand tall yet again, and who knew when she would let him close, allow him to comfort? Allow him to hold, to touch?

/God, Scully, if you'll just let me hold you, I promise I'll never leave again. I'll never fight again. Just say you'll forgive me for leaving you alone./

Perhaps that was the real reason he fought sleep. He was too busy re-mapping the landscape of her fingers, re-memorizing the way he could feel her heartbeat through the bird thin bones of her back as it adjusted to match his beat for beat.

It was that same rhythm which eventually called him into oblivion after her, and led him to wander in search of her through all his dreams.

Mulder woke from visions of broken glass and Pavlov's eyes--his nightmares or hers, he didn't know-- expecting to find her in her own bed, a rigid independence to her spine and a stone wall three miles high behind her eyes. He expected it with such intensity that he was very nearly shocked to find her still in bed with him, her arms wrapped around him and her face buried in his chest. Her breathing rose and fell with the beating of his heart, but it was not the lullaby cadence of sleep. No, she was awake. Yet she remained.

/If I am dreaming, never let me wake up./

Her fingers tightened along his shoulder blades as she felt him stir, and still she did not pull away.

/If I am awake, never let me sleep again./

Did he dare to speak, or would the spell break with the silence and turn them both back into the man and woman they were during the daylight? Oh, he feared the magic between them, yes, but he wanted it more. So much more.

"Scully." A breath. An incantation. A prayer.

The silence stretched between them for three very long heartbeats before he heard her whisper tiptoeing across the darkness back to him. "I was wondering when you'd wake up." It sounded like she was smiling. Not a big smile, but a very small flip of her lips into a glimmer of light and hope. Her smiles were so rare, these days. As was hope. Why are you here, he wanted to ask her. It was more than a question of why she had not reverted back to her internal fortresses; he wanted to know why she had returned to him, why she still opened her arms to him if she knew what he was. /But then she doesn't know, does she? Not all of it. Even now, you lie./

His mind reverted momentarily to the bloody row of corpses that marked the truth, and he decided that if this moment was a lie, then he would embrace it. Although he could not accept totally the belief that it was untrue. How could this love be false? How would their breath and heartbeat move in tandem if it was anything but the truth, the only truth he had not compromised? He would never compromise her. Only *for* her.

She pulled away from him, and for a moment a flash flood of fear washed over him. She was leaving, she was pulling away now that he was awake and why, why had he spoken and shattered the charm....

But she did not leave him. She moved onto her back, folding her hands above her stomach and staring up at the ceiling like she was going to read her next words from the darkness. How many of their secrets, he wondered, were indeed written in darkness, unknown to even each other? It was not a matter he wished to dwell on at this moment. Not when she was so close, and so very beautiful.

Mulder waited for her to speak, sensing she needed to be the one to open any conversation. Unusual behavior or not, Scully was still Scully and she would feel a need to justify her moment of weakness. He would let her.

"About last night," she began, her voice soft but firm with its customary control. "I think I owe you an explanation."

"You owe me nothing." he said. "But I know you won't let me convince you of that, so tell me whatever you need to so you can convince yourself."

"I broke down." she said, and through the darkness he could see her fingers wrap around one another, clenched so tight the skin showed flashes of bone white around the joints. He feared she would bleed again. "I have been under a great deal of....stress....lately, and I was tired, and I allowed myself to lose touch with reality. That was a failure on my part. For that I apologize. It will not happen again."

He reached out and disentangled her fingers from each other so he could hold her hand in his, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. "Scully, you don't have to be in control all the time. Not around me. Once, you knew that, or at least I thought you did. Have you forgotten? Have I been gone that long?"

"One day was too long."

"I would have come back if I could have."

"I know." A bit of silence. "I told myself that every night, before I went to sleep. That you were alive and safe and someday you'd come back to me. I never quite imagined it would turn out this way, in this city, but here we are again and even though it has been a very long time, no....I have not forgotten. But that doesn't mean I will accept my failures blindly, no matter what you say."

"You certainly haven't changed much."

"I wish I could tell you that was true."

"To be honest, I am a little surprised that you're letting me talk about this with you. You usually make me work for it more."

"I guess I do, don't I." She half-laughed before growing sober again. "We've lost enough time playing games like that. I realized that a long time ago and promised myself that when I saw you again some things would change" Her fingers laced through his until they were palm to palm. She wanted nothing more than to continue, but the words came so hard. So slow, like each time she had to fight to just get them past her throat and her fear. What was she doing? What was she saying? "This is one of them." Aida's words echoed in her mind. /You have that kind of love inside of you. It's wounded now....on the outside...but still strong. Don't hold it back. Let it heal with him, not apart./ She felt the tears sting at her eyelids again. /This is for you, Aida. I know you see this, somehow./

She had not realized she had fallen silent until the sound of his voice startled her from her memories.

"I like the change. I only wish I had been here to discover it sooner."

"You did what you had to. The fighting can't wait-"

"The whole world's falling apart, Scully. There will always be a battle somewhere. But I don't have to fight all of them at once."

Certainly her ears deceived her. He was going to stay with her? She wouldn't have to come home alone and eat alone and wake up alone? No, this was too fast. Too good to be true. She held her breath and let him continue, praying that the miracle was real.

"I should never have left you alone for so long. That isn't why I came here. I came here to be with you, and that's what I need to do."

She leaned closer to him, drawn by the warmth of his hands and voice. "I'm right here. I've been here the whole time."

"I know." He just wished it had taken something less than bloody hands and tear stains on skin to open his eyes to it. He had failed, but would not fail this time. Nothing would hurt her....he would not allow it....

"I have to tell you a story." she said. "It's beautiful, at least part of it is, but it is not always beautiful. There is sadness, and there is ugliness--" her voice trembled here, but she fought to keep it under control. "but there is love. I owe it to them to tell it to you. I owe them so much."

The pain in her voice cut him skin to soul, and he placed a finger over her lips. "If it hurts, Scully, don't. It can wait."

"If it hurts," she said. "that means it will heal."

To this he had no reply.

to be continued... part 7