Title: A Fading Shimmer of Gold Author: Sarah Kingman (Laura Castellano) Keywords: This is not a happy story. No character death, but this is not a happy story. I guess you could say it's post-Requiem...Scully's pregnant and Mulder's back. Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be Archive: Yes Summary: Mulder's packing up his things in the X-Files office... _____ A Fading Shimmer of Gold by Sarah Kingman Mulder reached into the desk drawer to grab another handful of what had once been his personal papers, and stopped suddenly. There, gleaming in the corner of the drawer, upside down and unreadable, lay his nameplate. He touched it slowly, unwilling to believe she'd really hidden it away like this, but the smooth brass stand was familiar, and there was no mistaking the smudge of liquid paper that had stained the corner of it one busy day, eons ago. His face registered nothing, his long dark hair shielding his eyes from scrutiny, but the way his shoulders went rigid spoke volumes. Only for a moment did he stiffen, and then relaxed once more, but it was a forced relaxation, and the deep, slow breathing that accompanied it screamed "therapy." He lifted the nameplate carefully, placing it inside the box in which he'd been collecting his things, and a shiver of pure anger ran through him. It was too crowded in here, with that second desk, the one that held his replacement's belongings. At least she hadn't given the intruder *his* desk--she'd taken that for herself, and there was now barely any trace that he'd once used it. All the years of struggle and torment, the cases solved and those unresolved, the agony when she was gone and the frustration of being cut off from his life's work--all of it flashed before his eyes in a single second, flashed like the golden of his unused nameplate. He blinked back moisture; he must have kicked up a dust in the room. The door swung open and he turned away, checking one last time to make certain all his posters and clippings were gone from the wall. He was surprised she'd left them up--were the memories too much for her, or were they insignificant, easily ignored except when she was here alone, after everyone else had gone, alone with his name to remind her of what they'd once shared? "You're really going?" He nodded. He could have spoken, and his voice would have been steady, but in that instant he felt she did not deserve a genuine response. He wanted to shove her into a drawer and allow her to linger there, in limbo, in torment, for months. "Did you ever even search for me?" His voice was rusty still, after months of screaming with the pain of the testing, and he wondered in the back of his mind if the rasp would ever disappear. Her face was shocked, as if such a thought could never have occurred to the real Mulder, the old Mulder, but this new specimen must be treated as fine porcelain, so the angry words she wanted to retort were bitten back. "Of course I did." Her voice was gentle, and he wanted to slap her, suddenly, to bring a hint of life to that moderate, even timbre. "Where?" She crossed to the desk, and he moved away, not too quickly, but she could not mistake his intent; he didn't wish for her to touch him. "Everywhere," she replied, and suddenly her voice, so calm only seconds before, was trembling. "I looked everywhere. I never stopped." He pointed mutely at the stack of case files--cases they'd worked while he was away, she and the interloper in his domain. She shook her head slowly. "We had to work, Mulder. We couldn't simply search for you night and day..." "When you were gone," he interrupted tonelessly, "I worked, too. Eight hours a day I gave to the Bureau--it was what they paid me for. The rest of the time, I searched for you. There was no "we" while you were gone. Can you say the same?" Now the anger hinted, in the flash of her eyes. "I had no choice. They assigned him." "There's always a choice." "What makes you so certain--?" "I've read your files. I've talked to people. I know just how much you missed me." He held up the nameplate, its golden surface glittering accusingly in the stark office light. "When did you put me in a drawer and forget me, Scully?" Her eyes welled with unshed tears. "That isn't fair, Mulder." He turned away, dropping the useless piece of metal back into the box, with the other remnants of his former life. Everything was gone--his home, his work, his love...all reduced to boxes like this one. "It doesn't matter now." "Where are you going?" she asked hurriedly as he picked up the carton, grimacing a bit at its weight but shouldering it without complaint. He shrugged his unladen shoulder with forced casualness. "I don't know." "Will you--will you contact me?" He made no sound, but his eyes gave her an answer that was as cold as the fields of Antarctica. "But what about...?" Her hand crept subconsciously to her swollen abdomen. "It's what you wanted," he told her, his jaw clenching, his teeth grinding with the effort to keep back the flood of emotion in his heart. "I thought you wanted her, too," she whispered. "I did." "Our child, Mulder..." "Your child, Scully." "She needs her father." "She doesn't need a father like me." He crossed the corridor and entered the elevator, turning for one last look, a look he knew he should resist but could not deny himself. "Mulder, *I* need you." The door began to close, and he suddenly jabbed at the control panel, halting it halfway. He dropped the box to the floor, and from the scatter of papers and pencils and photographs pulled the nameplate, handing it to her across the endless gulf that now separated them. "Take this," he told her. "To remember me by." The door began to close once more. "Mulder--" "Or to forget," he finished, and his voice was without any trace of humor. _____ A Fading Shimmer of Gold Pt 2 by Sarah Kingman Mulder ignored the knock at his door. It would be Scully, of course--her skills as an investigator were legendary; she would have taken the time to track him down in his new living quarters. Momentarily, he thought of the key to his old apartment that adorned her keyring, and wondered if it was still in its place. Had it succumbed to Agent Doggett in the same way his desk nameplate had done, been resigned to the back of a drawer or the bottom of a pile of old belongings, not thrown out, but still forgotten? He reached into another box, drawing out a pair of sweats, the one that had been his favorite, and wondered if they would ever fit his thin frame again. He thought it ironic that Skinner had been the one to have his things packed up and stored, rather than his partner. It spoke volumes of truths he'd rather not consider. "Mulder." If she'd shouted through the door he would have continued to ignore her, but because her voice was soft, soothing, he considered, just for a minute, opening up to her. He rejected the notion almost immediately; it was the same voice she'd used at the office, the one that said he must be treated carefully so he did not snap. He walked quickly to the bedroom on the pretext of hanging up his clothes, but in reality he was avoiding her voice; she was still so hard to ignore, but he wanted to hurt her, to make certain she knew firsthand the pain of a shredded heart, as did he. Eventually, courage beginning to wane, he sneaked quietly toward the front door and listened, not daring to breathe. He heard nothing, and concluded she had given up on him again. What could she want with him now, anyway? Oh yes. The baby. She'd wanted the child so badly, they both had, but he knew he was in no shape to be a father, not when he couldn't sleep the whole night through without screaming his agony and terror into his pillow. Her pregnancy, although he'd been aware the possibility existed, had been a great shock to him upon his return; he had never expected it to work. An hour went by, and fatigue crept upon him as stealthily as the dusk making its way over the horizon. He still had no endurance, and at times despaired of ever regaining his former strength. His therapists, both mental and physical, told him time was required, but after losing so many months, Mulder found himself impatient. Every day he was not a whole man was another day stolen from him. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing carefully, tamping down on the anger that surged throughout his entire being at the remembrance of all the stolen days and hours and minutes. Every moment he'd spent screaming at the hands of his tormenters was time he felt he should have on account, returned to him with interest, only he had no idea where to make the withdrawal. Or even if he wanted to live those minutes. At last he slept, and when he awakened, numbly thankful that the dreams had not tortured him this time, the room was dark. He glanced to his left, where in his old apartment, during his old life, a digital clock had rested beside his bed, but in this stark new home there was nothing. His watch had disappeared along with his clothing when he had been brought before his captors, and he mentally added timepieces to the ever-growing list of things he must buy. Luckily, the Bureau had continued depositing his pay into his bank account, and Skinner had not tampered with the money, could not have done so even if he'd had the inclination. Only Scully could do that, and she had not. He wondered why. He slid his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up carefully in order to avoid the dizziness that so often gripped him now, and when he felt secure, stood, clutching at the sheet for a second to steady himself. One step forward and he stifled a yell--the rubbery texture of the item beneath his foot had frightened him, but it was only his sneaker, not them, with their long arms, grey, cold, strong, come to retrieve him. After a moment he breathed again. He had been able to make his way blindly through his old apartment, in his old life, but this new place was still uncertain, so he fumbled at the wall until he found a switch, flicking away the darkness with a soft click. Things seemed better in the harsh room light, not friendly, not comfortable, but vaguely familiar, as past-lives can be. His belongings were in a different setting, in another arrangement, but he thought he recognized them. He crept into the bathroom, shivering at the touch of the cold tile on his feet, and immediately turned up the heat in the apartment; he had been cold for too many months, cold and naked, and he never intended to be either of those things again. When the furnace did not work quickly enough, he slipped a pair of new, thick socks on his feet; his therapist had forced him to go shopping, but he had been in and out of the store within fifteen minutes, grabbing up only the most necessary of purchases. Crowds of people made him nervous; it was too easy to disappear in a crowd. He gave a snort of laughter as that thought flitted across his mind, for hadn't he been taken when he was in an isolated location, when Skinner turned his back for less than a second, if that? He tried to deny that they could get to him, take him from any place at any time; he could not think of them as all-powerful or he would die. He still felt the chill of the tile through the socks, and quickly threw a towel to the floor, stepping on it and breathing a sigh of relief that he was protected from the cold at last. When he finished his activity in front of the toilet, he jumped from the edge of the towel to the carpeted hallway so his feet would not be assaulted by the icy danger of the floor, and once on safe ground, forgot the incident entirely. An unexpected sound emanated from his abdomen, and it took him several minutes to identify it as his stomach growling. The pangs of hunger were so insignificant compared to what he was accustomed to feeling that he seldom noticed them now. His therapist had told him he should set a timer, eat at regular intervals whether he felt hungry or not, but he felt foolish doing such an odd thing, so he ignored her. The tell-tale sound was an indicator, however, one with which he was slowly growing more familiar, and he knew it would not relent until he took action. He walked to the kitchen, breathing in the dust and the smell of recent paint and the faint whiff of car exhaust from outdoors greedily; the last few months had been filled with the scent of sterility. Mulder opened the refrigerator, gazed at the contents with disinterest, then slammed it shut again. He reached for the soda crackers in the cupboard; they were effortless, and fulfilled the requirement without fuss. Munching idly on a cracker, he turned to wander in to his couch, the couch that still smelled of leather and sweat and countless nights of lying awake, dreaming of himself and Scully, together, together in a way they could never be again. It was one of the few images from before that he actively sought from his memory, for even though it was torture, it was also sweetness. He felt confident no tears would come, no matter how his heart twisted, for surely he had cried them all in the previous months, waiting and hoping to be rescued from the endless rounds of testing. He walked past the door and froze, his face a study in terror--had that been a noise outside? Were they here to take him back already? His fingers wandered up to stroke across his implant scar; surely if they wanted him back he'd feel something. He knew it was much more than a simple microchip. He had been a brave man before, he supposed; in his past life he had faced down mutants and terrorists and serial killers and yes, even aliens, without flinching. Surely, after what he'd endured, he could handle a little fear. Better to find the truth now than to settle himself on the couch, swath himself in memories and then be cruelly yanked from them again. Silently he stepped toward the door, flinging it open without warning, and stared at where she sat, leaning against the opposite wall. Her eyes were tired, and in her hands she held the nameplate, its glitter faded in the dim hallway light. She held it out to him hesitantly. "I won't leave," she told him, her voice sincere, but not quite steady. "We have to talk." He stared at her coldly for an eternity, then stepped back and motioned her inside. He hoped the walls he'd built around his heart would hold. END There will be a part three, and probably more. I never anticipated this turning into a series, but it looks like it's taken on a life of its own ;) Feedback is manna! _____ A Fading Shimmer of Gold Part 3 by Sarah Kingman "It's hot in here," she observed, stepping past him so he could close the door. "Not to me," he replied abruptly. He knew courtesy dictated he say more, but he was not inclined to make this moment easy for her, and besides, courtesy had been discarded in the past months, along with so many other human characteristics. "May I sit down?" She rubbed at her lower back, and something within himself reminded him that she was carrying a child. He stopped the voice in his mind before it could point out that she was carrying *their* child. He jerked his head toward the chair, not wanting her to sit on his couch and sully the memories, and she took the seat hesitantly. "I don't know quite what to say," she told him after a few uncomfortable moments. "Then go." He remained standing, relishing the false sensation of power it gave him. She shook her head stubbornly. "Not until we talk." He waited, arms crossed, for her to begin the conversation she was so adamant they have. She shifted position, looked at the floor, the wall, and finally at him. He wondered if his eyes revealed the emptiness he felt. His choices were emptiness, or such intense emotion he feared he would go mad with the feeling, therefore he buried himself in the emptiness; he had lost so much, he would not risk losing his sanity. "I wanted to tell you I'm sorry." Her voice was soft and gentle again, and something in him wanted to rub it with sandpaper, roughen it, make it real. "Sorry for what? Abandoning me?" Even he was surprised by his bitterness, and he was afraid if he did not exercise extreme control, he was in danger of losing the safety of the emptiness. He calmed himself with effort. "Apology accepted." "Mulder, I didn't abandon you." "You didn't find me, either." "I tried." He threw open the door suddenly, unwilling to continue the game. "We're going in circles, and frankly, Agent Scully, it makes me tired." His use of her title stung, he could tell, and was glad to see the tiny wince cross her features. "Mulder--" He interrupted her wordlessly, with a rough jerk of his head toward the open door, and in defeat she rose, walking through it with her head held proudly high. Before he could close it behind her, she turned, and there was something in her eyes with which he was not familiar, something that spoke of anger and jealously, and while certainly he was intimate with these emotions, he was shocked to find them directed at him. "You didn't find me, either." The words were simple, soft, but there was steel behind them, and he felt the walls crumbling; he knew them to be true--hadn't he castigated himself endlessly for that very truth? He thought of railing at her, of forcing her to acknowledge how much he'd suffered while she was gone, but the crushing weight of guilt had found him and would not let him speak except to acknowledge. "I know." "Can't we begin again?" She held out her arms to him then, inviting him into them, and he wanted to go to her, to erase the past and make a future, a future with her and their child. He almost took a step forward--his feet wanted to move but he managed to hold himself. To embrace her would be to allow the flood of emotion he'd been keeping at bay to overtake him, and once the feelings began, he knew they would never stop. His therapist had been urging him for days to admit to feeling something, anything, *any* human emotion, but he refused, knowing she did not understand the danger. He embraced the emptiness instead, feeling its safe cocoon surround him even as his heart, which he had thought to be irrevocably broken, dropped yet another chipped and useless piece. "No." He closed the door and turned away, but strength left him suddenly and he sagged against it, sliding slowly to the floor as he fixed his gaze on the opposite wall. It was stark, white, sterile, and while it prompted uncomfortable memories, it also spoke of safe familiarity. He had forgotten a time when nothing could hurt him, but he was secure in the knowledge that this pain he could endure. He sat there, reliving the recent past as much as his tortured mind would insist, until exhaustion overtook him. He tried to stand, but found his legs refused to support his weight. Instead, he crawled the short distance to his couch, climbing onto it with effort. He buried his face in the leather, and too late remembered the memories hidden there. He fought to keep them at bay, but was too tired to win, and soon they enveloped him with their cruel sweetness. He wept for a long time, falling into a trouble slumber at last. The golden rays of the early morning sun woke him, and he blinked sleepily against their insistent glare. His eyes felt crusty and sore, as if they were muscles that had been exercised too much, and he thought with grim amusement that indeed, they had. They had seen far too much, and last night had cried copious amounts of the tears he'd no longer been able to suppress. He felt curiously cleansed, although still willingly embracing the emptiness inside, and wondered if this was the therapeutic benefit to tears he'd often heard women describe. His therapist would be pleased, should he decide to tell her. He didn't know if he would. Perhaps he would give it to her for Christmas. He wondered when Christmas was--he still had trouble keeping the months and days straight, but had been assured by her that this was normal, after suffering such a trauma. He turned his head to automatically glance at the wall, where he'd kept a small calendar in his old life, and his eyes were assaulted with a vision of gold. The sun touched it, much more gently than it had awakened him, and he stared, unfeeling, calm, at the nameplate glittering on the chair where Scully had left it. He blinked slowly, allowing the remembrance of their conversation to creep in just one word at a time. "...didn't..." "...find..." "...me..." "...either..." "...I..." "...know..." It was too much, and he pushed it away. Didn't he know, as he'd told her? Hadn't he lived with the guilt and the pain and the helplessness every day of his life since she'd been taken? How much more did she want from him? He slid off the couch, still not trusting his legs, and stretched his arm toward the chair, shuffling forward two paces on his hands and knees. The nameplate taunted him, but he ignored its cries, picking it up gently, running his finger over the meaningless letters that used to form the words that used to be his name. He marveled at his ability to withstand the storm of emotions banging at the door of his mind and heart and soul, keeping them at bay with grim determination. Perhaps his temporary weakness of the night before had ultimately strengthened him. After a few moments of allowing himself to look, he turned the nameplate over so the letters were hidden, leaving only the slight glimmer of the brass stand with its liquid paper stain visible. He sighed lightly, knowing what must be done, wanting to perform the task and put it behind him, but weary at the very thought of moving. Finally, he reached behind him, toward the desk that had always been the center of his old life, and slid open a drawer. The nameplate fit into it perfectly, and for one amused moment he considered that perhaps Scully had been right, perhaps in a drawer was where it belonged. He was no longer that man. Without further dwelling on the incident, he pulled himself carefully to his feet and walked toward the bathroom, its freezing cold floor still covered with the protective towel. He would climb into the shower, turn the water on as hot as he could stand, and wash away the past. End part three. _____ A Fading Shimmer of Gold Part 4 by Sarah Kingman He almost didn't go to his appointment. The idea of actually climbing into the car, forcing himself to concentrate long enough to drive there, and then sitting through a grueling torture session with Monica was daunting, and he was tired. The hot shower had sapped what little strength he'd had. It was only because Skinner arrived that he went. He'd settled himself in his chair, afraid to face the memories of the couch again, and flipped the television to something mindless, easy to ignore, when there was a knock at the door. He looked up, startled, but it wasn't Scully's knock. This one was much stronger, less tentative, and Mulder guessed who it had to be at once; they were the only two people who would come to his door now. No one else knew where to find him. He considered not answering, but knew that reaction to be pointless; Skinner would not wait in the hall for hours, he would simply ask the landlady to let him in. Skinner had known her for a long time, had ingratiated himself with her when she discovered he was looking after poor Mr. Mulder in 307. Instead, he gently opened the door, then returned to the safety of his chair without speaking. Skinner stepped inside and shut the door behind him, assessing Mulder's condition with one look. "You have an appointment," he said at last. "I'm not going." "I wish you'd reconsider." If Skinner had tried to bully him, or force him, or even shame him, Mulder would have dug in his heels and refused, but the quiet acknowledgement of his friend's concern disarmed him. He stared up at Skinner, hands clasped together tightly between his knees. "I don't want to," he said simply. "I know." Skinner stood back, giving him space, and opened the door a bit. "I'll go with you. You won't be alone." "I'm always alone." "But you don't have to be. It's a choice, Mulder." Mulder walked through the door, not answering, and Skinner continued from behind him. "You'll make a different choice when you're ready." They drove to Monica's office in silence, Skinner seeming to understand Mulder's need to immerse himself in the emptiness once more, an armor against the things Monica would try to make him feel. They sat in the waiting room, side by side but not speaking, and when Mulder's name was called and he was asked to enter the inner sanctum, Skinner picked up a newspaper from the table beside his chair and opened it. "I'll be right here," he told Mulder. Mulder nodded, swallowed hard, and turned to face his demons. "What kind of night did you have?" Monica asked, after greeting him and offering him decaffeinated coffee and a seat. He scowled at the decaf, but it was all he was allowed, and at least it tasted somewhat like coffee. "Fine." He tried not to think of Scully as he spit out the word. Monica leaned back in her chair, kicked off her shoes and tucked her stocking-clad feet up under herself. "Tell me about it," she invited, sipping at her own coffee. He noted with jealousy that hers was fully loaded. He shrugged. "I slept." "Did you dream?" "A little." "Did you eat?" "Yes, Mommy, I ate," he answered sarcastically. His head hurt, and he didn't want to play her game of cat-and-mouse, knowing he was the mouse, knowing she would pounce upon him, rip out his entrails, and there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable result. "Do you think I'm patronizing you?" He gave her an incredulous look. "You *are* patronizing me." She grinned. "Don't like it much, do you?" "Of course not." "Then don't do it to me, and I'll return the favor." He looked puzzled, muddled, wondering how she thought he could possibly patronize her when she held all the power. "You control these sessions, Mulder," she reminded him. "I'm here to help you work through what happened to you, but I can't help if you won't talk to me. It's your decision, but we both know you'll never get any better than you are if you don't let it happen." "I don't want to get better than I am. I'm fine right now." She paused, taking another drink of the cooling coffee, then asked pointedly, "Are you happy?" The question was so absurd he ignored it, but she waited, forcing him to think about the words that hung in the air between them. "You don't understand," he ground out at last. "I never will if you don't help me." "The only reason I'm here is because agreeing to see you every day was the only way they'd let me go." "The only way your doctor would release you from the hospital." He didn't acknowledge her clarification; of course it was what he'd meant. What other meaning could his words have held? "Mulder, I don't want to send you back to the hospital, but you have to help me. You have to give me a reason to want to keep you outside--let me see that you're trying, at least. Otherwise, I'll have no choice." "I get through the days," he told her, feeling the desperation trying to creep up on him and stamping it back down, for it was one of the feelings, one of the dangerous ones, and he couldn't let it free. "I eat, I bathe, I exercise, I sleep. I take the pills I'm supposed to take. I haven't tried..." He didn't say it, but they both knew what he meant. "But Mulder, what you've described to me is simply existence. You're not living." He didn't answer, only stared at the floor for a long time, until she finally prompted gently, "Do you want to begin to live?" He thought the question through, turning it over and carefully examining all sides. Did he want to live? He was miserable in his current existence, but he was safe. He knew, without asking, that living meant feeling, and feeling meant the risk of insanity he'd so carefully kept in check. He was certain that, given time, he'd manage to release those emotions one by one, little by little, safely, but not now. Not yet. If he tried to feel them now, it would be like taking the lid off a pressure cooker when the pressure was at its highest point, and he would blow himself to smithereens. At last he shook his head slowly, knowing she'd take his response as a negative, knowing he had to give her more or he'd find himself right back in that hospital, maybe even in restraints again, drugged and helpless, and should they come for him while he was there, he'd be unable to fight them. He already planned to fight them tooth and nail if they tried to take him again. He wouldn't go quietly next time. "I'll try," he whispered after a time. "I will. But it's too soon." "It's never too soon to begin living, Mulder," she told him gently. 'It's never too soon to die, either,' he thought, but did not voice the words out of self-preservation; he had no wish to antagonize her, for she held his future securely in her hands. He stood, abruptly. They still had most of their time left, but he was suddenly exhausted with the effort, and needed fresh air. He left the office, walking past Skinner without comment, and pushed open the door to the outside. He felt Skinner and Monica exchanging glances behind him, but he ignored them, concentrating on nothing but breathing, slowly, deeply, in, out, in, out, in. He knew what he had to do, and wanted to scream and weep at the injustice, but there was no choice, not really, not unless he wanted to end up a prisoner again. He had to talk to Scully. And he had to listen. End Part Four _____ A Fading Shimmer of Gold Part 5 by Sarah Kingman He'd made Skinner drive him here, had insisted he leave, but was silently grateful when Skinner parked the car down the block and waited. He stared at her door, knowing she was behind it for, her car was parked on the street, and wondered if he really had the strength to raise his hand and knock. He'd endured untold horrors at the hands of his alien captors, and yet facing down a small woman was the most difficult thing he could imagine. He supposed that was a testament to his suppressed emotions; there once had been a time he said he loved her. He'd forced his arm to rise, his fist to form, and prepared to reveal his presence, when courage abandoned him. A lump strangled him, and he tried to clear his throat without making a sound. At last, fearfully ashamed, he turned away, taking two steps toward the street before his gaze fell on the car where Skinner waited. He had to face one of them; who would be the easier to withstand? Skinner, no doubt, for Skinner would only look at him sympathetically, say nothing at all about his decision, and drive him home. On the other hand, something in him didn't want to disappoint Skinner; the man had been with him when he'd been abducted, and had been the first to see him after his return. Scully had been out of town on a case with Agent Doggett. That had hurt the most. He still remembered staring up through the haze of drugs and fear and pain to see the familiar face, the feeling of relief so strong he'd cried unashamedly, tears running down his face to mingle with the dirty, unkempt strands of hair that curled about his shoulders. Skinner had come to save him from those who held him, drugged him, tormented him. If only Skinner could have rescued him before he'd been subjected to all the agony, but he couldn't blame Skinner for that now. He placed that blame squarely on Scully's shoulders, rational or not. He couldn't forget the glitter of his nameplate, shoved to the back of the drawer. At last, making a decision he knew he would regret, he turned back to the door and resolutely knocked before he could change his mind. She opened the door immediately, as if she'd been standing there, waiting for his signal, and for an endless moment they simply stared wordlessly at one another. "Do you want to come in?" she invited at last, and before he could give her the automatic negative answer, felt his feet shuffling, carrying him forward. He wondered with dim, wry amusement if Skinner, watching from yards away, had breathed a sigh of relief. He shivered, and she immediately went to turn up the heat; he was touched by her gesture, on some deep level he'd rather not acknowledge just yet--she had to be too warm. "Uh...thanks." She smiled briefly and gestured him toward the sofa. He sat, gingerly, on the edge of the cushion, ready to bolt if necessary. "I'm glad you came," she offered at last, through the uncomfortable silence. He nodded. "Monica said I should, and I knew she was right." "Your therapist?" "Yeah." The silence grew again, and finally he heaved a sigh. "Scully, I--" "Mulder, if we're ever going to get past all the anger and hurt, we have to be able to talk. We can't keep running away from our feelings." He jumped to his feet and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, turning his back to her swiftly, afraid to let her see. He felt her approach, knew if she touched him he'd be out the door, but she only stood a little to the side and waited. "Why?" he ventured at last. She seemed puzzled by his question. Her brow furrowed, he knew, he could hear it in her voice, and almost laughed at himself; the familiarity of her was still so...familiar. "Why?" "Why didn't you find me? Why didn't you stop them..." His voice trailed off into a whisper and he couldn't go on. "Mulder, I know you feel betrayed--" "What do you know of what I feel?" he demanded at once, fiercely, furious. "You didn't remember a thing!" "About...?" "Your own abduction! You didn't have to live with this, you weren't aware, you don't *know* what they did to you, Scully. I know. I remember every painful, excruciating detail every single time I close my eyes." He closed them now, breathing heavily, his therapeutic in, out rhythm forgotten, simply trying not to hyperventilate. He'd done as Monica asked, as Scully and Skinner asked, as they all wanted him to do; he'd allowed feeling, and now all he wanted was to crawl back into his safe cocoon, hiding from the world and the universe and his ex-partner. He wanted to bury himself in numbness and never feel again. And he had only scratched the surface. She did touch him, then, or at least she tried. Her hand brushed his shoulder, but he moved away, holding so tightly to the flood inside that he knew one more word, one more gesture, would break him. He groped blindly for the door, not wanting to see her again, hoping that outside, darkness would have miraculously fallen even though it was only late afternoon. He'd made it outside, taken at least ten steps toward where he felt certain the car was parked, when he bumped into her. She stood before him, a wall of steel and determination, but her eyes held the unmistakable glint of china about to shatter. "We had so much," she told him quietly. "We don't have to lose it all." He looked away, down the street, off into the distance, anywhere but into those eyes, those eyes into which he had been falling for years. "I don't know," he replied at last. "It might be too late." "Mulder, it's only too late if *we* say it's too late. I'm not ready to give up yet." She waited for him to answer, to give the obvious response, the expected one, but he could not, not yet. Instead, he stepped around her, taking a step past. Something in him, something he was afraid to set free, made him turn back. "We'll see," was all he told her before going back to the car. She was still standing there when they rounded the corner and drove out of sight. End part 5 _____ A Fading Shimmer of Gold Part 6 by Sarah Kingman "Did you make any headway?" Skinner asked as he drove toward Mulder's new apartment, one floor below his own in the same building. Mulder didn't know what had made his friend give up the Crystal City condo he'd owned, but he suspected memories had something to do with it. There was nothing in Skinner's new place to remind him of his failed marriage; the old place had been full of her, even though she'd never lived there. Mulder knew firsthand how difficult memories could be to exorcize--wasn't his new home full of them? He didn't answer for a long time. Finally, shoulders slumped and voice weary, he said, "Just take me home." Skinner said nothing more, leaving Mulder off on the third floor and going on to the fourth. Mulder walked down the cream-colored corridor, thinking how new and clean it smelled compared to his old residence. The newness, he felt, should signify a fresh start in his life, but somehow he knew the baggage he still carried from before would always haunt him. Perhaps Monica was right. Perhaps there really was no escape from what you were. He remembered Skinner's words of that morning, about how loneliness was a choice, and wondered how many lonely people in the world actually knew that to be true. He wondered if *he* believed it to be true, but deep inside, down inside the cocoon, he knew he did. He knew he was choosing to bottle up the emotions that would give him freedom, closure, but the great fear of losing himself completely, whatever actually remained of the man Fox Mulder had been, was overwhelming. He stared at the drawer where his name was hidden, stared at it for an uncomfortably long time before reaching hesitantly out and drawing it open. The light in the room was almost gone, and the dim glow of the streetlamp muted the shimmer, but the gold was still there, undeniable. Images assailed him, coming suddenly from all sides, breaching his walls, destroying his defenses, and with an audible cry against the pain, he fell to the floor, curling tightly into a ball, cradling himself against his chest. He wanted to cry, he felt tears try to come, but all he could do was gasp for breath as the horrible slideshow in his head continued. It began with the recent months, of course, as all his nightmares did, but then he saw himself in other situations, times and places where he had been a whole man. He cried at Scully's bedside, at his mother's side, for the photo that was all he had left of his sister. He felt the crushing weight of guilt at believing he'd been the cause of so many catastrophes that had occurred begin to diminish, realizing with sudden, sharp clarity that all of it, every last detail, had been out of his control. He saw himself, pinned to a table like the most insignificant bug, his wings being systematically pulled from his body while he screamed his agony to an uncaring, merciless tormentor, and at the same time remembered holding Scully in his arms after Donnie Pfaster had tried to kill her. He thought of opening his eyes to find her brilliant smile gracing him, remembered how devastated she'd been when she realized the CD she'd risked their relationship for was completely empty, and felt her desperation and hope when she'd asked him, oh-so-tentatively, even after all their years together, if he would consider fathering her child. An experimental procedure, she told him, not at all guaranteed to work, but the only chance she had, and he had agreed willingly, knowing if she was ever to become a mother, he had to be the father, because who else could understand, who else had shared the experiences and the horrors and the infrequent joys? Who else could she trust? He remembered telling her that even though the procedure was performed in a sterile, clinical environment, (and he shuddered even now at the memory of sterile, clinical environments), he wanted to be with her, to love her, to at least pretend, for one night, that their child was created in the natural way. She had agreed, reluctantly, not because she did not love him, but because she was afraid to love him, and he had understood, had seen it in her eyes and in her expression, and had taken her hand and led her toward the bedroom gently, telling her, "Trust me," and she had simply nodded and they had fallen into one another for a single night of bliss. He recalled her pulling away, after that, as if embarrassed at having allowed her inner passions to show, but he had known, in his own secret satisfaction, that she still felt them, that eventually they would be expressed again, and that the expression would be easier the next time, less traumatic for her rigid, forthright mind. He did not realize he had been sobbing aloud until the door opened and Skinner knelt at his side. "Mulder." He felt a hand on his shoulder, somewhere through the haze of recollection, and knew that he must breach the surface now or drown in what he had feared most. He heard his name called again, and then again, before he found the breath to reply. "Walter." The word came out roughly, unfamiliar after all these months, for he had not addressed Skinner by name a single time since he'd returned, but Skinner appeared relieved at the familiarity. "Come on, Mulder." The hands went under his arms, raised him up and settled him in the chair, the nameplate still clutched tightly to his breast. Finally, after Skinner had seated himself on the couch and waited for an eternity of minutes, Mulder reached that elusive surface and could articulate. "You have to help me," he said urgently, his eyes feverishly seeking out Skinner's. "You have to help me." "Of course I'll help you, Mulder." "You have to help me remember. You have to keep me from going mad." Skinner nodded, taking off his glasses and polishing them before returning them to his nose. He left Mulder sitting there, still lost in the few memories that had escaped the door he'd managed to slam shut once again. He knew, now, what was behind the door, and while it frightened him beyond belief, he knew with a certainty now that he could survive. Not that he *would* survive, only that he could. And that he had to try. Skinner returned a few minutes later carrying a plastic bag, and Mulder grinned; had he been left to his own devices, he'd have gone off with nothing, but Skinner had even remembered such banal necessities as deodorant and toothpaste. "Let's go," Skinner offered, and Mulder stood, shaky but resolute. "Where are we going?" he asked, feeling only moderate curiosity, and wondered when Skinner had become the only one he trusted other than Scully, and if he would ever feel that trust for her again. "Someplace where you can remember." Mulder said nothing more, only followed, knowing it was time. It had to be life or death, and he had chosen life. He only hoped he could reach his goal. It seemed light-years away. End part 6 _____ A Fading Shimmer of Gold Part 7 by Sarah Kingman He stood before her door again; it had been four days, but he was certain now that he was ready. The task would be difficult, but it was no longer daunting. Talk to Scully. It was something they had avoided for so very long. Now they had to give, and they had to take. Both of them. He knocked with surety this time, not allowing himself to hesitate, and for a terrifying instant was afraid she might not be at home; he knew it would take forever to reach this moment of courage again. He breathed a sigh of relief when the door swung open, and smiled, a smile which died a quick death when he saw her face. Her hair was mussed, her eyes red, her face pale, she was dressed in old pajamas, and he vaguely recalled having seen them somewhere before, perhaps on one of their earliest cases together. "Come in," she said, her voice roughened from emotion, and he didn't pause to wonder at her lack of surprise at his appearance. He obeyed, sinking to a chair without her invitation, because the last few days had been hard on him physically, and in spite of his fragile confidence, his body was exhausted. She took a good look at him then, seeing the paleness of his skin, the circles beneath his haunted eyes, and grinned without mirth. "You look like hell." "So do you," he returned, no rancor in his voice, only truth. "I've been thinking," she admitted, and he noticed for the first time, the papers scattered about the floor. He looked more closely and realized they were his; at least they contained his name, but the data therein was unfamiliar to him. "What is this?" He touched it with the toe of his sneaker, wondering if it had fallen to the floor or been deliberately scattered in a fit of anger or frustration. "Medical records," she said shortly. "Yours. Supposedly." He raised curious eyes. "Supposedly?" She fished around the papers, withdrawing a few and handing them to him, and he took them with fingers that trembled, scanning them quickly before returning them to her. "I've never seen that doctor in my life," he told her flatly. "I know. I know that now." He closed his eyes tightly, relieved to note he didn't have to concentrate on his breathing any longer. "Him?" She nodded. "He impersonated me once, too." "So you thought..." "I thought you were dying." He digested the information, forcing himself to do it slowly, one word at a time, safely. "...thought..." "...you..." "...were..." "...dying..." "That must have been devastating for you," he offered at last. She looked surprised. "It hurt to believe you'd keep it from me." "But you did believe it." For a long time, he thought she wouldn't answer. "I shouldn't have," she admitted at last. "After all we've been through, I should have known." It was his turn to be silent, and the ticking of the clock on her wall filled the room with seconds, more seconds wasted between them. "When you were returned," he said at last, hesitant but knowing the subject must be broached, "I couldn't face your death. I tried to run away." She nodded. "I know. Missy told me." He made a noise of self-deprecating humor. "But the important thing, Mulder, is that you came." He stared at the floor, afraid to meet her eyes. "And that I searched for you." He sighed. It was a truth, one he knew he had to accept if they were to ever go forward. There was another long moment of silence, not uncomfortable this time, and she held out her hand. He stared at it, longingly, feeling an inkling of the trust he used to feel, knowing it was all there buried beneath the surface if he could only find it. And he wanted to find it. Slowly, slowly, his fingers extended, brushing the tips of hers gently before sliding to lock with them, breaching an immeasurable gulf he'd previously thought unreachable. They sat that way, unmoving, for a long time, and at last he broke the embrace, not because he wanted to pull away, but because his fingers were growing numb. She smiled slightly, and he knew without asking that she felt the same thing. "I have an appointment in the morning." He raised his eyebrow at her sudden change of subject. "An appointment?" "With Dr. Sheffield. Would you like to hear your daughter's heartbeat, Mulder?" A smile broke out across his face, the feeling unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. "Life goes on." "Whether we want it to or not," she agreed. He pulled her quickly into his arms, his ear pressed against her abdomen as if hoping to hear the miracle they'd created at once. "But now, Scully...now, I think maybe I do." He moved away after a while, breaking the mood along with the embrace. It was a beginning, yes, but their relationship was still far from being repaired. "I should go." She clutched at his hand for a brief instant. "We'll talk again?" "Of course," he promised. "Will you go with me tomorrow?" He gave a slight shrug. "Let me call you later." He knew she wanted more, but it was the best he could give her at the time, and after a moment she nodded reluctantly. At the door he paused, turning back to see her hopeful eyes. "We've both made mistakes, Scully." She nodded. "We have a lot to forgive." "But we can do it, Mulder. Can't we?" "I hope so, Scully. I do hope so." Back in his apartment, which he would soon come to think of as "home," he vowed to himself, he closed the door quietly, forced himself to prepare a sandwich, and sat in front of the silent television, munching it solemnly. It had been a long day--a long week. The time spent with Skinner had been productive, if painful, and he had finally allowed himself to feel, losing not his sanity in the process, as he'd feared, but instead shedding some of the awful weight of despair that had shrouded him for so long. He thought of Scully, of all she had endured since becoming his partner, and the wonder was not that she hadn't spent every waking moment searching for him; the wonder was that she was still there at all. He still felt anger at her perceived abandonment, and jealousy that she had worked with someone else while he'd been gone, that he had not consumed every one of her thoughts, but he knew it was time to begin letting go. He wondered what less than stellar emotions she felt toward him, based upon his actions of the past and present. Certainly she had the right to feel them, even as did he. That fact was indisputable. The only question that remained was what they would choose. Everything was a choice. Skinner had been right. It was up to him to choose to live or die. He reached over to the desk and opened the drawer, making no move to touch the dimness of the plate inside at first. She had put it away, and he no longer cared what her reasons might have been. He wanted to know them, someday, but not now. It seemed right, somehow, that he be the one to remove it from its exile, the one to choose to live, and he did, slowly and reverently, holding it up to the light so the letters gleamed as they once had. "I didn't die, after all," he commented to the empty room. "Only hibernated for a while." ---------- The END of it all Feedback is manna! Author's notes: In the course of writing and posting this story, I heard from those who thanked me for taking Mulder's side, and those who thanked me for making Mulder out to be a jerk--it was interesting to read all the differing perspectives with which people read the story. In the end, I only tried to listen to the characters in my head, and do what they would have me do. While I don't think this is the scenario CC is or ever would show us, the joy of fanfic is the fact that it brings about so many possible endings. This is only one. Sarah