It's been a long time since I've written any XF fanfic. That's mainly because for awhile all I could think about was Scully's cancer and I didn't have anything to say about it that wasn't being said more eloquently by Lydia Bower, Karen Rasch, Ms. Parrotfish and Rachel Howard, amongst others. With that situation resolved -- at least temporarily -- I started thinking about stories once again. For those people who have written to ask about my "Chiaroscuro" series, I've gone back to finish all the parts and will be posting them soon. This is something different -- a random idea that blossomed into a longer story. If anyone has feedback -- good or bad -- I'm at Blueswirl@aol.com. One small note: I was a literary arts major in college, and I'm no scientist. So while I've endeavored to ground this story with some facts, I've taken as much license as I saw fit. It seems as though posting a story has become really complicated but I'll make it as quick as I can: Title: TANGIBLE Author: Blueswirl@aol.com Classification: T,R,A Rating: NC-17 Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 5th Season Summary: Sometimes, to have anything, one must be willing to risk everything. Distribution: Feel free to post this story on any archive or web page, as long as my name remains attached. Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. and I'm using them for this story without permission. So sue me. Feedback: If the mood hits -- I'd love it at Blueswirl@aol.com. TANGIBLE Blueswirl@aol.com 5/5/98 A dream! a dream! for at a touch 't is gone. O mocking spirit! thy mere fools are we, Unto the depths from heights celestial thrown. From these blind gropings toward reality, This thirst for truth, this most pathetic need Of something to uplift, to justify, To help and comfort while we faint and bleed, May we not draw, wrung from the last despair, Some argument of hope, some blessed creed, That we can trust the faith which whispers prayer, The vanishings, the ecstasy, the gleam, The nameless aspiration, and the dream? - Emma Lazarus I walk down the corridor with my head at half-mast, following the man in front of me precisely three steps back, careful to keep in line, careful to do nothing that will call any attention to me. Like mindless drones, worker bees in a hive, yet in truth there is no work to be done. Work is a word that has lost whatever meaning it once had. Now there is merely time, endless and unending, punctuated only by these visits to the Draining Room. And, of course, Outside. When we reach the end of this last labyrinthine corridor I turn to the left, no longer following the man in front of me. As though hearkening to some time-honored yet obsolete tradition They keep the women separate from the men, though there is very little reason to. Blood is blood, after all. This new, smaller hallway opens up into a vast, white space. Row upon row of silver chairs, each tilted back at a sharp angle, line the space and define it. The Monitor points its hand at me and I move quickly forward to the nearest chair, settling into it as best I can. The headrest isn't comfortable but then again it never is. With my legs stretched out before me I rest one arm at my side and place the other in the tray specifically designed for that purpose. The left arm, always the left. I think that there's something about the signal transmitted by the band I wear on my right that threatens the accuracy of the procedure. The metal of the tray is cold against my skin, bare beneath the short sleeves of the white tee shirt I wear. The steel bands come up and around automatically, imprisoning my arm above my bicep and around my wrist. I take a deep breath, and wait. Soon enough the needle descends from the ceiling, coils of transparent tubing trailing in its wake. With a faint, whirring hum the needle unerringly finds the artery in the bend of my arm, sliding through the swollen tender skin. It is all I can do not to flinch, though I hardly notice the pain. The urge to scream left me a long time ago. The needle now in place, I can almost feel the valve open, though I know the actual hydraulics are kept somewhere in the ceiling, out of my reach. I watch with glazed eyes as invisible suction draws my blood up and out of my body and into the sucking, hungry tube. The thick reddish liquid defies gravity as it swirls upward, devoured by the Machine. I watch with mild curiosity; despite the familiarity of the procedure there is something frighteningly compelling about the process. I watch until the dizziness begins to set in and then, like the others, I close my eyes and wait for Them to finish with me. Soon, I think, the word dancing across my mind. So soon. Not soon enough. I am barely conscious when it is over, which is in itself a blessing; Their fancy technology still hasn't found a way to get the needle out as easily as it goes in. I hear the locks on the steel bands disengage and feel the cool metal slide across my arm as they retract into the sides of the tray. I don't move, I don't even open my eyes. There's no need to yet. They always give you time to recover from the loss. It's the one courtesy that They can't avoid, taking as much as They do. Despite my best intentions, I fall asleep. It is the Monitor who wakes me and I jerk myself upright, disoriented and woozy. The nausea passes after a moment and I pull myself to my feet, falling once again in line. Back through the entrance, down the small hallway, and then once again into the corridors that have come to define my very existence. One foot in front of the other, I remind myself, doing my best not to stumble. A missed step, a fall to the ground might appear to Them an insurrectionist act. And we have learned too well that punishment is swift and severe. Nothing looks as good to me as the bed in my cell. I collapse onto it, ignoring the snick of the door as it locks behind me. I curl myself up into a ball and force myself to breathe. "Bad?" I nod my head against the pillow, too exhausted to answer. I don't need to, anyway. Her question isn't really a question but a greeting. She knows how it is. It will be her turn soon enough. We are under constant surveillance, and excessive conversation is forbidden, though I have never been sure exactly why. The idea of escape is no more than a dream. After a time, I open my eyes and look across the room to see her sitting, legs dangling off the side of her bed. There is concern on her face and I tilt up my lips in a halfhearted gesture of reassurance. In all this time, in the months that we have been cellmates, I have learned very little about her. She is younger than I am, which may account for the irrational desire I have to protect her. Under other circumstances, she would probably be a student, a sorority girl at college occupied with thoughts of boyfriends and parties and weekends at the beach. But here, now, she is nothing but my cellmate. The ninth, I think. Or maybe the tenth. It disturbs me to realize that I've lost track. They are always searching for more of us -- the "Special Ones", as They say. Cloning doesn't seem to work; maybe the artificial creation of human life strips away some essential element They need, or maybe it's just superstition on Their part that causes them to steer away from unnatural methods of reproduction. They still do tests though, lots of them. Especially on women like me who are of no use as Babymakers. "You should sleep," she says, and I can see the sadness in her expression. Her hands are crossed above her protruding, swollen belly, as though to protect the baby growing inside her. I can't imagine how she must feel. I'm almost happy that I can't bear children, if only because they will never be consigned to the horror of this life. I manage to answer with the last of my strength. "Yes," I say, and then my eyes fall shut again and everything fades. When I next awaken, she is no longer in the room. I lie there for a moment or two, and then find the energy to sit up and stretch my tired limbs. Not for the first time I wish that I still had a watch, something to mark the passage of time. But there are no schedules to keep here other than those that are enforced by Them, making the need for a personal timepiece obsolete. I stand and go to the basin against the back wall to splash water on my face. It revives me, and I feel a surge of anticipation wash over me. Soon, I think. Soon. When the door to the cell opens again I am sitting cross-legged on the bed, hands folded neatly atop my white cotton pants. An Orderly is standing there, and it beckons me with a wave of its hand. "Come on," it says, and I obediently rise to my feet, walking past it and out into the corridor. Orderlies, as I call them, are different than Guards, in that they don't carry weapons, and they don't wear uniforms. Although I doubt it is intentional, the Orderlies also seem to have a higher quotient of human compassion. Most of my time is spent with Orderlies; they handle everything inside the Compound except the Draining Rooms, which are controlled by the Monitors. From the very beginning I have kept all of it neatly labeled and filed inside my mind, trying to impose order on the insanity that my reality has become. I follow the Orderly down the corridor in a silence that I finally break. "I don't want to eat," I tell it. Five words that are soft, but defiant. It stops to turn and look at me. I can almost read the confusion in its face, its efforts to reconcile my statement with the schedule. "You're hungry," it replies simply. I am, actually. Ravenous, in fact. But I don't want to stop and eat. Not now. The thought of even trying to swallow the usual bowl of protein paste is enough to make me gag. "No," I insist. "I'm not." The Orderly says nothing and for a moment I can almost feel the jolt of current shoot up through my arm from the band on my wrist, can almost feel my teeth grind together as the pain sears my body and forces me to the ground. I'm so prepared for the agony that I'm surprised when the Orderly merely nods and continues down the corridor. It takes me a second to realize that I've won the battle, small though it might be, and then I follow behind. Before too long we arrive at the set of double doors that separate the Compound from the place I have named the Waiting Room. The Orderly leaves me there, but I am not alone. There are others, like me, waiting to be processed. Waiting for a taste of freedom, no matter how brief. I stand with the others, waiting, and as I wait I marvel at how smoothly the whole transition took place. How the world I knew so well just three years before transformed so completely into this strange new one. Then again, three years ago I couldn't have envisioned the kind of devastation that we survived; nor, despite all that I had learned in the course of my own work did I ever imagine that there were those who had not only expected this, but had helped to engineer it. Finally, my turn comes, and I step up to the desk to be processed. The Officer at the desk -- an Officer because it has the uniform but not the weapon of a Guard -- extends its right hand towards me and I respond in kind. It ignores my offered palm and takes me by the arm instead, roughly pulling me towards it so that it can better access the metal band around my wrist. It picks up a thin cylindrical tube and presses the tip firmly against the circular indentation on the side of the band, and I feel the jolt of a small electrical charge. The gray screen on the side of the band reacts by lighting up with a bright orange digital display. The face reads 24:00:00, though from the Officer's point of view I know that the numbers are upside down. "You know the rules," it reminds me, and I nod, transfixed by the numbers, which are already moving. Counting down. 23:59:59. 23:59:58. 23:59:57. Time, precious time, is being wasted. They give us twenty-four hours at a time. Never more, never less. Just a little taste of freedom to keep us in line. A single day, and I will not squander a second more of this one. The Officer releases its hold on my arm and waves me on, and I head towards a second set of double doors at the far end of the Waiting Room. There are jackets there, hanging on a rack against the wall. Windbreakers, really, made of a heavy nylon fabric to help deflect the constant breeze. I pull on a jacket that is close to being my size and then step up to the two Guards in front of the doors. Though undoubtedly they have just seen me be processed, I raise my arm and allow them to check the readout on my band. One of them presses a button on the side wall and the doors open, revealing a short walkway. The walkway is glass, and through the dirty streaked surface I catch my first glimpse of the world beyond. I step into the walkway and the doors slam shut behind me. Another glance at my wrist -- 23:57:44 -- and I quicken my steps. A final door at the end opens automatically and immediately the walkway fills with a dust that makes me cough, but I continue forward until I am once again Outside. It's stretching the truth a bit to call the area surrounding the Compound a Yard but it's the only word I have that seems to fit. Maybe junkyard would be a better term; a place where trash collects. The Yard extends in a sloppy circle around the whole of the Compound structure, but there's only one exit and it's near that portal that people tend to gather. The fence that surrounds the Yard carries a vicious charge and the Guards at the portal are heavily armed and funnily enough it's all to keep the others out, not to keep us in. I'm surprised at how early it is -- the sky is still the vague hazy brown that now passes for dawn -- but then I remember that I didn't stop to eat. Without a watch I have no idea of the time but as I scan the faces of the people gathered outside the gate and come up empty I begin to think I made a mistake by rushing, my eagerness causing me to waste time instead of save it. I cross the Yard, hoping that it's just too dim yet to see what I'm looking for. Since it's early, the Yard isn't as crowded as it is sometimes; in the middle of the day, others like me endlessly wander the perimeter. Boring as it may be, it's a change of pace. On the other side of the fence, people stand as close as they dare. Some are searching for familiar faces; occasionally, the lucky ones find each other. There are others who stand there hoping to be admitted inside the Compound, despite their lack of qualifications. Maybe it's because they don't know what happens inside. Maybe it's because life Outside is too miserable for them to bear. I reach the gate and the two Guards there give me a cursory glance and then unlock it to wave me through. They raise their weapons to ward off the crush of people that surround the door and just as I step between them I am knocked to the side by a man running as though pursued by the Angel of Death. One of the Guards turns to stare after him while the other, well-trained, keeps his strange weapon on the crowd. It's obvious to all of us that the frantic man belongs inside the Compound, and not just because he's dressed in the same telltale clothes that I wear. It's the manic intensity with which he runs that gives him away, the way in which he streaks towards the door to the walkway and dashes inside as soon as it opens. I watch him until he disappears, a morbid curiosity making me wonder if he'll make it in time. Sometimes they don't. I step through the outer gate, the final barrier, and find myself amidst the people who gather there. Some of them stare, and I stare right back. I'm used to it by now. I am special, after all, for no other reason than that I'm necessary. I am needed. They are jealous of me, and I of them. They would give up the reality of freedom for the illusion of safety. I pray every night for the opportunity to do the reverse. I walk through the crowd, passing men, women, the occasional child, my eyes flicking restlessly from one to the next. There's a strange, almost carnival-like feeling amongst the assembled throng. People barter items in trade, a pair of battered sunglasses for an unlabeled can of food. An armful of clothes for a flashlight-size battery. Anything and everything in exchange for a half-full bottle of water. There are a few others like me, wandering along dressed in their own blue jackets. Only a couple, here and there, and when our eyes meet, we turn away. The crowd isn't yet half the size it will be at midday, and I make it to the outer edge without finding what I'm looking for. I consider waiting. I tell myself it won't be long, I'm early but not that early. I remind myself of the plan. And then I look at my wrist. 23:51:12. I start to walk. I know where I'm going, pretty much. There's a road, a real paved street that begins about half a mile through the weeds. The path to the road is well-worn and easy to follow and I start off, walking fast. My heart is thumping with adrenalin and it feels good, it feels right. The wind is blowing hard, like it always seems to now, and my hair whips across my face. I stop for a moment and grasp it with both hands, winding its length into a makeshift braid. It's long and heavy and I have nothing to secure it with so I tie the ends into a knot, hoping that will hold it in place for awhile. Probably because it's early, I make it to the road without meeting anyone on the path, which is fine as far as I'm concerned. There's never any real trouble near the Compound; maybe people are afraid of the Guards. But the further you go Outside the more you have to fear. You never know if the person approaching you is going to turn out to be friend or foe. It's much easier walking on the asphalt, even though it's cracked or damaged in spots, mainly because the wind doesn't stir up as much dust as it does in the field. The soft white shoes I wear are already dirty. They're not really made for hard walking but I press on regardless. There's more traffic on the road -- traffic, what an absolutely hysterical concept -- and I keep to the far side, my head down, my eyes straight ahead. A young woman passes me, and shortly thereafter a family, huddled together as they trudge along. All of them headed in the opposite direction, towards the Compound. The family's youngest child, a little boy, stops in his tracks when he sees me, his eyes wide and his mouth hung open in frank curiosity. I'm almost tempted to smile at him and then his father takes him by the hand and pulls him along and the opportunity is lost. Just being away from the Compound has me feeling so much lighter, I reach the edge of the town without realizing how far I've come. I stop at the point where the road I'm on intersects what used to be the main street and look up to see that the sun has fully risen. Through the veil of the dusty, damaged air the sun seems more pink than yellow, more distant somehow than it used to. But it's definitely morning, and now I'm starting to get concerned. 22:26:17. The town looks deserted, but I know better. There are still people here, people who keep out of sight. Underground, mostly, in whatever cellars and basements are still accessible, away from the wind and from those whose intentions are less than noble. There's not much left above ground, anyway. Most of the structures have been ravaged, although not totally demolished in the way that some cities were when it all came down. There were no bombs here. The damage that has been done here mostly came afterwards, when the town was looted and burned by the fever survivors. I realize that I've stopped moving, and I force my feet to continue forward, creeping into the ghost town with more than a little trepidation. I glance around, looking for anything that might threaten me, all too aware that I am alone and unarmed. For some reason the abandoned buildings look more foreboding than they ever have before. There was a time when that wouldn't have caused me to hesitate, but the woman that I have become does exactly that. I stop and think about returning to the road, about sitting there under that distant pink sun and waiting it out. There's only one way to get to the Compound. I could sit there, and wait. 22:22:56. I keep moving. I am retracing steps that I've taken sixteen, no, seventeen times before. I know the library is near the center of town, one of the few structures that still bears some resemblance to the building that it once was. Its facade was made of marble, not wood or even brick, which meant that there was little of it that was of use to anyone else. Most of the buildings that I pass are unidentifiable now, having been pillaged past the point of no return. I try to occupy my frightened mind by picturing how the town must have looked before, when people milled the streets in the course of another ordinary day. Perhaps it is because my thoughts are so consumed with the past that I fail to realize that I am no longer alone on the wretched sidewalk. Perhaps it is because I am listening for the sound of my name that I fail to hear the growl. Perhaps it is because I am so busy searching for what isn't there that I fail to notice what is. The skitter of broken glass on concrete causes me to whirl around and it is then that I see it. A dog, so large and menacing that it would be better described as a wolf. Which at this point might not be an inaccurate guess; strange things have happened in the last few years. It is huge and black, foam dripping from its muzzle as it contemplates me from two blocks away. Long ago it might have been someone's pet. Now it is nothing but my enemy. I try to play by the old rules -- ignore it and it will go away -- but it's a new game now, and to the wolf-dog all I am is prey. My few cautious steps only cause it to move forward, slowly at first, and then faster, its long nails clack-clack-clacking on the asphalt as it begins to run. As its loping gait increases in pace my heart speeds up to match and my feet find the rhythm. I start to run, hoping against hope that I can put enough distance between us to save myself. My shoes slip against the cement as I run, my arms pumping at my sides, my breath soon coming in gasps. The wolf-dog howls and I glance over my shoulder to see that others have joined it, at least three that I can see, all of them hungry, all of them mad. All of them abandoned, and though there is a part of me that feels for them I can't afford to think of them as anything other than a menace. I reach the end of the block and now they are so close that I can hear their labored breathing, smell their foul stench. I have lost all sense of direction, the library lost to me now, the only thought in my mind that of escape. But there is nowhere to hide. All of the buildings are open, exposed, glass missing, doors torn down. There is nowhere to go that they cannot follow me. "Help!" I scream, calling out to the pairs of unseen eyes that I am sure are watching me from their hiding places inside the ruined buildings. Calling for a samaritan that in this time and place does not exist. It feels as though I have been running forever when in the distance I see the iron bars of fire stairs, attached to a ramshackle structure at the end of the street. The stairs lead nowhere, the upper story of the building having long since fallen away, but they still dangle from the framework, above the ground, away from the wolf-dogs. It seems like a chance, no matter how slight. I force oxygen into my lungs, struggling to breathe in the windy, dusty air, and a howl of my own escapes my lips as my mind orders my body to do its bidding. When I near the stairs the wolf-dogs are literally nipping at my heels and I burn the last of my energy in a sprint, bending my knees as I jump. My right hand catches the edge of the bottom rung and I hang there for a dangerous second until I am able to bring my other hand up to join it, my body now suspended just above the wolf-dogs who are circling and snapping below. My feet are like bait to them, tantalizing sweat dripping off the bareness of my exposed ankles. I clench the muscles in my stomach and pull my legs up, tucking them close to my chest. I fight to better my handhold on the bars, to pull myself upwards to reach the safety the iron stairs promise. I get one leg up and over and am straining for the other when my sweaty palms cause me to lose my grip, and I feel myself slipping. No, I think, not this, and my panic and fear emerge in a scream. "Shit!" I yell, as though mere profanity will create a miracle for me and enable me to hold on. C-R-A-C-K! The noise is so loud in the stillness that it startles me almost enough to lose my tenuous grip. It is followed by two more -- C-R-A-C-K! C-R-A-C-K! -- and it is only then I realize that what I have heard is the echo of gunpowder igniting with air. I glance over my shoulder, behind me and below, and see that the lead wolf-dog has dropped, blood streaming from a series of wounds in its head and shoulders. The other wolf-dogs wail, stomping around their fallen leader, until another blast -- C-R-A-C-K! -- causes them to disperse, scattering in all directions like dust to the winds. Exhausted, my arms trembling with exertion, I hang for another long moment and then allow myself to tumble to the ground, where I crumple to a heap not far from the dying predator whose life has been taken to spare my own. I lie there, shattered, one arm tossed carelessly across my face, my legs tucked beneath me. I hear the sound of approaching footsteps but don't bother to raise my head, until I hear my name. "Scully!" I lift my head, my eyes dizzy, unfocused, sweat streaming down my cheeks. He is running towards me, and in one hand he carries the long rifle whose bullets saved my life. He is tall, and lean, unnaturally tan from the poisonous rays of that distant sun, and I have never seen anything so magnificent in all my life. "Scully!" He reaches me as I rise to a sitting position and is therefore able to crouch beside me and throw his arm around me for the briefest of moments before pulling away, the rifle still clenched in his grip. "Are you okay?" I manage to nod, though the capacity for words still seems to be beyond me. For some reason all I can focus on is the jagged shape to his short brown hair, and I know that he's been at it with the switchblade again. His hazel eyes search mine thoroughly before turning to gaze at the fallen carcass beside me. The wolf-dog shudders once and then is motionless, and it is only then that Mulder turns his attention back to me. Rising to his feet, he offers me his hand and pulls me up to stand beside him. "You're early," he says, as he brushes a loose strand of hair away from my face with a weatherbeaten hand. "I didn't eat," I explain, savoring the sudden, insane relief I feel just to be near him. After a moment, I add, "You're late." He nods, his forehead creasing with guilt that I want to wipe away. "I was getting some things together." I take his hand to comfort him but it's really me who I am comforting. "I figured it was something like that." Mulder squeezes my hand in response, and glances around again in the wary manner that he's always had, the wary manner which is now more deliberate than I remember. When he is finished, he slings the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and asks, "Are you sure you're okay?" "Fine," I tell him. "Just a little hungry." His lips twitch up in a hint of a smile that blossoms into a full-blown Mulder grin, the kind that I treasure. "Guess you should have eaten before you left." He laughs, and the sound is small and hollow in the vast empty street. So I laugh with him, and hand in hand we make our way past the carcass of the wolf-dog and down the block. If life were but a dream, my Love, And death the waking time; If day had not a beam, my Love, And night had not a rhyme, A barren, barren world were this Without one saving gleam; I'd only ask that with a kiss You'd wake me from the dream. - Paul Laurence Dunbar My attempt to elude the wolf-dogs led me in the wrong direction and we end up circling back, over two blocks and then down to the old library building. We walk up the entry stairs and then, bypassing the doorway which was once the front entrance, make our way over to the left side. The frame of an old side door allows us to access the concrete stairs that lead to the basement. It is musty down there, and dark, but Mulder has a flashlight that makes dim circles on the ground before our feet. Flashlights are rare, and batteries rarer still, but Mulder is just as resourceful as he was when we worked together. I'm used to surprises where he is concerned. We speak only once, when I break the quiet between us with a question. "Did you get it?" "Yes," he replies, one hand carrying the light, the other still clenching mine. "I've got it. But..... there are no guarantees." "I know," I answer, which is the only answer I can think to give. We make our way through the fallen plaster and broken floorboards until we are deep inside the rubble. Once there, we stop, and I stand still and hold the light as he moves aside piles of debris to uncover his secret cache. He breathes a sigh of relief that the objects he has concealed are still there, though I know that very little time has passed since he last visited their hiding place. He pulls out a hiking pack that has seen better days, and then another smaller backpack, the kind I remember carrying when I was in school. What looks to me like a pile of rags turns out to be a handful of clothes, and beneath that is a random assortment of cans, most of which have lost their colorful paper labels. There are other items barely visible in the dim light, but it is obvious to me that Mulder's carefully hoarded stash has been considerably depleted. There's even less left after the trade than I expected. "Here," he says, giving me the clothes. I take them from him: a couple of tattered shirts and a pair of jeans that looks amazingly intact. No further words are needed, and as he rummages through the other things I lay the flashlight on the floor, pull off the telltale clothing I wore from the Compound, and begin to dress. There are no undergarments in the pile of clothes that Mulder has scavenged for me and so I leave on the white panties that I am wearing. There is a tank top, made of faded brown nylon, and I yank it over my head. It's the closest thing I've had to a brassiere since all of this happened and as I dress I allow myself a few seconds of fond reminiscence about the lingerie I kept in my apartment back in D.C. Matching bra and panty sets, bedecked with ribbons, satin and lace in one glorious, sachet-scented pile in the top drawer of my bureau. That was then, and this is now. Tank top on, I reach for the tee-shirt. It's black, and except for a small hole near the neckline, in near perfect condition. Then I pull on the jeans, which don't fit quite as good as they look, but once I fold over the waistband they stay balanced on my hips. Mulder has finished messing with the stuff left in his hidey-hole, emerging with one can clenched in each fist. He looks at me, standing there, and pauses before he speaks. "Are you sure you want to do this?" I know what he's asking, and I know why. And I know what this could mean for both of us. But right now, selfish though it may be, I can't see any other way. I extend my left arm towards him, with its bruised and blackened flesh. "This isn't living," I tell him, and he nods. He balances both cans in one hand and reaches out for my arm with the other, running his index finger lightly along its length. "No," he says, "it isn't." And the way in which he says it makes me realize that the same is true for him. I step away from him and pull on the plaid shirt that looks like it should be flannel but is actually cotton, with a rip down the front near the placket but not so near that it won't button. The pile of clothes is finished now, and I stoop to put back on the shoes I'd been wearing when I left when he stops me, pointing to the faint edge of the beam created by the flashlight. There are shoes there, tennis shoes, and in the pale glow they look brand-new. That illusion is shattered once I lean forward and pick them up, but they are in fairly good condition nonetheless. I slide them on and they are only a little big. They will probably give me blisters but they feel so much sturdier than the shoes I was wearing I make up my mind then and there not to care if they slip. "They're perfect," I tell him, and another of those half-smiles crosses his face. "Good," he replies. "They weren't cheap." That causes another little chuckle to ripple between us and then Mulder is standing before me, the two cans again in his hands. He's opened them with something, maybe a can opener but more likely the Swiss army knife that has done more for him than almost anything else. One unlabeled can has been revealed as a container of pineapple chunks, the other what looks to be slices of Mandarin orange. Conscious of the dire circumstances that we face, I immediately protest. "I don't need both. I'm not that hungry." Mulder shrugs, and glances over his shoulder at his secret cache. "There's no way we'll be able to carry all of it anyway." I know that he's right, but part of me still feels guilty. "Then share them with me." He nods, and we both sit down on the dirty ground, tucking our legs beneath us. He holds one can and I the other, and we take turns, eating the little pieces of fruit with our fingers. We are halfway through the cans before I take a piece of pineapple between two fingers and guide it to his mouth. His lips part to accept the fruit and he takes in a good bit of my fingers with it, sucking on them deeply before pulling away to chew and swallow the tidbit that I have given him. That is what begins it, and we finish the two cans by feeding each other, piece by succulent piece. I think about how many meals we shared together before, how many salads and burgers in how many diners, and realize that none of those meals were quite as precious as this one. When we are finished, Mulder carelessly puts the cans to the side. There is no need to bury or hide them now; we will never be coming back to this place. To this hidey-hole beneath the library where we first found each other again. It will no longer matter if people or wolf-dogs discover this secret space, for we will be gone, never to return. Leaning forward, Mulder reaches for my right hand, holding it gently in his grasp, turning it slightly so that he can better see the orange numbers on the band that glow so brightly in the near-dark. 21:39:14. "We should get going," he remarks, as casually as he is able. I incline my head just the slightest bit in agreement, tamping down the sudden nervousness in my stomach that threatens to cause me to lose the food I have just consumed. With that, Mulder gets to his feet and I follow suit, holding the light again as he checks the contents of the two packs he has filled. The larger one holds eleven of the random, unlabeled cans; three extra C-size batteries for the flashlight; two well-worn blankets; two boxes of the shells needed to fire the rifle; a torn pillowcase which is revealed to contain a small, opened stash of beef jerky; three matchbooks, nearly full; two more of the cotton-but-should-be-flannel-shirts; a half-full bag of rice; six differently-labeled plastic bottles of water. The smaller knapsack holds another blanket; five more of the random cans; three T-shirts in various colors; two additional plastic water bottles; a half-used roll of duct tape; a Bowie knife that I have never seen before. Mulder nods with satisfaction as we conclude our inventory, and I am struck once again by his resourcefulness. By the resourcefulness that enabled him to gather this small pile of treasures that we will so desperately need. By the resourcefulness that has enabled him to stay alive as long as he has. "Ready as we'll ever be," he announces, and closes up both of the packs. I take the smaller of the two without bothering to argue, as I know it is a fight I would certainly lose. Having shouldered our burdens, we make our way out of the dank basement back into the open air. Once we reach the strangely filtered sunshine, Mulder switches off the flashlight and I turn my back to him so that he can stuff it into my sack. We start down the street and then pause momentarily while Mulder checks the back pocket of the faded jeans that he wears to ascertain whether he is still carrying the crumpled map that cost him four cans of food and a box of cigarettes. Reassured to find it safe in its resting place, he leans over and places a chaste kiss on my forehead. And then we are on our way. We see a few more people, now, making their way through the streets of the woebegone town. As a result it doesn't feel as desolate as it did when I arrived; it's almost strangely normal. Some of the people I actually recognize, people who have made this place a permanent home or at least a temporary one. We pass the street where we left the dog and its body is gone. I wonder who took it away, and shudder to think why they might have done so. It isn't until we reach the outskirts of the town that I realize that I've never even known its name. I know that it's located somewhere in what we used to call the midwest; the east coast of what was formally known as the United States was basically destroyed by the bombs and fires that ravaged everything during the war. It was only later that we learned about the Compounds that had been built in the heartlands, built to serve an alien purpose. It was only after They began snatching us up by the truckload, separated by blood type, that we began to realize the hideousness of Their strategy. It was only then that we discovered that Their plans for colonization could only be accomplished with a certain amount of unwilling assistance, and that those who did not qualify as necessary would be banished to fend for themselves in a world that no longer existed. Mulder was one of those who was left on his own. One of those who somehow managed to survive the bombs, and the fever; the riots, and the looting. One of those who somehow managed to hide long enough and keep himself alive long enough to emerge on the other side, defenseless and alone. Homeless, but free. One of the luxuries that the Compound afforded me -- perhaps the only one -- was the opportunity to think. To think about how things were, and how they are. To think about how some were spared, and some were not, due to the cruel hand of fate. Sometimes it almost makes me laugh to think how unconscious people were about the specificity of blood type. A person could have walked into any bar, before, and asked all of the patrons to identify their own blood type; only a random handful would have been able to answer the question correctly. Despite all of the panic about AIDS no one really gave any thought to their blood type, only whether or not the blood running through their veins was infected. Yet, that simple bit of information became the litmus test that decided who should live and who should die. Because in the end, They needed us. Despite the war that destroyed so much, and the fever that killed so many, They couldn't find a way to truly inhabit this planet without us. Despite all of the experiments conducted in tandem with certain highly-placed, powerful individuals, They couldn't find a way to truly merge with us and still remain Themselves. So They didn't; didn't merge, that is. The attempts at alien-human hybridization were abandoned and instead tests were conducted to discover what it was that They needed in order to live on this planet as we had done for so many hundreds of thousands of years. And the answer was found in our blood. The blood in the human body plays an integral role in our ability to absorb and metabolize the oxygen we need to keep ourselves alive and functioning. And the same was found to be true of Them. The only wrinkle in the plan was that They didn't have blood, at least not the kind that we have. And short of some kind of hybridization that would have robbed Them of whatever They considered to be imperative, They had to find some way of obtaining it and absorbing it to keep Themselves alive. Absorbing it didn't prove to be a problem, especially if it was blood of a specific type. Obtaining it became the obstacle, and soon enough, it became frighteningly easy to do that as well. In the terms of human science, type O blood is known as a universal donor, as it can be given to a person of any other blood type and be absorbed without clotting. It's the most common type, followed by A and B. Type AB is very rare -- less than 6 percent of humans are born with that type of blood. People with AB blood can accept transfusions of any type, but they cannot donate to anyone who is not also AB. Ironically enough, when it comes to alien-human transfusions, AB is the only type of blood that They *can* accept, the only type that will not clot or risk killing Them. From this, all of the nightmarish horror sprang. The creation of the Compounds, the destruction of all that we once knew and considered, if not sacred, then at least routine. My mind whirls with all of these thoughts as we walk, and walk, and walk. We walk to the far end of town and take the main road four miles further until we reach the onramp for the interstate. It's a steep uphill grade and the straps of the pack dig into my shoulders as we make the climb. When we get to the top we are on an overpass that crosses above another freeway. From that vantage point, the devastation is clearer to me than it has ever been before. Through the thick, cloudy, dusty air I can see hundreds of cars, some crashed, some merely abandoned, scattered across the road in all directions. Most of them have been scavenged for any parts that might be of use; none of them work, all having been drained of whatever gas and oil they once carried. There aren't any people visible from where we are but I know that were we close enough to look, we would find bodies in some of the cars, and the thought makes me shudder. There are cars scattered on our part of the freeway too, and Mulder and I keep our distance from them as we walk. He has told me about people who hide inside them, waiting to ambush travelers who might pass them by, and I notice that his grip tightens on the rifle as we move along. He has reason to be wary. There is a deep scar on the left side of his face, stretching from his temple down to his cheek, above the stubble that he needs to shave. He was attacked by group of teenagers wielding makeshift weapons. It was a shovel that left the gash on his face, and he was lucky to not have been killed by the blow to his head. When he awoke, nearly a day later, everything that he'd managed to gather was gone, including most of his clothing. Sunburnt, starving, and parched with thirst he had gotten to his feet and stumbled over his Swiss army knife, which had been forgotten in the dirt. And with only that in his hand, he began again. Continued on his search. His quest to find me. Because he carries the rifle, Mulder is in the lead, which gives me the opportunity to study him without his knowledge. There is so much about him that is different than I remember, and it is a conscious reminder to me of how much he has endured. He talks less than he used to, in simple sentences and short, terse words. He has spent much of the last thirty-nine months alone, and it is harder now to break through the barrier of his solitude. Even after he found me, and we first took advantage of that space beneath the library to discover each other again, he said very little, expressing his feelings for me with actions instead of words. Seventeen times we met at the gate to the Yard and made our way into town, using the small fragments of time that I was allowed to catch up on years of separation. I told him of the trucks in which I was carted across the country, penned in amidst a crush of other captives, headed to an unknown destination. I told him about the Compound, and how it worked, and of the punishments for disobedience. I told him about the days that blended together until they became one seamless, miserable mass. I told him about the nights, and of my bleak conviction that they would never end. I told him much more than he ever told me, and I think that even now he seeks to shield me from the horrors of his experience. What little I know I have pieced together as much from what he hasn't said as from what he has. We were separated when They evacuated the city; things were a disaster then, in the aftermath of the first bomb. After his blood was tested and found useless to Them he was dumped with many others in a zone that was deemed safe, though that wasn't true for long. The fever did not pass him by; he suffered for months before he fully recovered. By then, many of the people who had cared for him had themselves succumbed to the disease. After that I'm not sure what happened to him, nor how he lived. The rioting and looting was still going on, though perhaps not as viciously as it once was; there was little left at that point to be taken. It was then that Mulder began to learn about the Compounds. There are seven of them, or so he has told me, scattered across the midwest. He learned of their purpose and it was then that he made up his mind to search them all if need be, in order to find me. A crazy idea at best, but then again, crazy ideas have always been Mulder's hallmark. And his tenacious determination paid off, for both of us, when he found me at the fourth one. We walk for miles yet see no one on our journey, which I find somewhat surprising. No humans, and none of Them. I'm not sure which I'm more afraid of encountering. We do see a few more of the wolf-dogs, but only from a distance. Other than that, it's horrifyingly quiet, with only the scuff of our shoes on the cement to relieve the deadly silence. Finally we stop, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I slide the pack off of my back. Mulder opens his pack and takes out a water bottle, while I bend over to fix the lace on one of my shoes. He hands me the bottle and I take a long sip, then move to pass it back to him. It is at that moment that I catch a glimpse of myself in a cracked side view mirror that hangs on one of the cars. I hand him the bottle, and then step forward, transfixed. I can't remember the last time that I saw my reflection, and it takes a moment of strong consideration before I recognize the woman in the glass. The woman's face is pale and her hair is long and strawberry red, the color intensified by the strange light from the sky. Much of it has escaped from the makeshift braid and tumbles haphazardly across her shoulders and down her back. I move closer to the mirror, a sudden vain impulse causing my fingers to reweave its plait. As I braid, I look at the eyes of the woman who gazes back at me. Her eyes are large, and blue, the dark circles beneath a testament to all she has endured. To all I have endured. I turn away from the fragmented mirror and move back towards Mulder, indicating to him with a nod of my head that I'm ready to keep going. We are headed north, north and a little bit west, according to our plan. There's nothing back east now, no point in returning to the place that we once called home. And the Cities that They have established for Themselves are down south, at least from what Mulder has heard. Apparently the hot, dry climate of the former desert states is more comfortable for Them. So we walk north, attempting to put as much distance between us and Them as we can in a single, solitary day. The hazy sun is high in the sky when we stop to eat; my arms shake a little as I drop the pack to the ground and I hope that Mulder has failed to notice. We have stopped at what was once a weigh station for the trucks that passed along the interstate. Its concrete structure is still standing, and its partially enclosed roof allows us a bit of respite from the sun and the wind. I can already feel the tingling in my cheeks from the sunburn I won't be able to avoid. Mulder sits down beside me, stretching his long legs out in front of him with a barely audible sigh of relief. The tennis shoes he wears are more tattered than my own, and I wonder how many miles they have carried him along. He opens the latches on his pack and asks, "How are you doing?" "Fine," I tell him, and I mean what I say, even though I'm tired, hungry, and more than a little bit thirsty. I take the bottle of water that he offers me and drink nearly a third of it without noticing its warm, tepid taste. "Even better now," I add, and pass the bottle his way. Lunch for us is a handful of beef jerky and the contents of two more cans, one of which is more pineapple. The other turns out to be string beans, which don't taste nearly as good straight out of the can. We finish the rest of the water bottle and then Mulder tucks it back into his pack, saving it for a time when it might be refilled. Then we lean our backs against the concrete wall, side by side, and rest. Mulder has a watch that he scavenged from somewhere, but it is really the band on my wrist that tells us when it is time to pick up and keep moving. 16:15:56. The afternoon passes even more slowly than the morning. We talk very little, each of us conserving our energy. By midafternoon, my body is ready to call it quits. Unlike Mulder, I've gotten very little exercise of late, and the quiver in my thighs reminds me of that fact with every single step. We stop only once, to share some more water. Although it tastes good as it runs down my throat, I'm almost sorry that we stopped because it allows me to notice how sore I've become. Mulder pulls the map from his pocket and studies it, running his finger along the torn page. He checks the position of the sun overhead, and then his watch, before he announces his decision. "Another hour," he says. "Then we should get off the highway." There's tension in the lines of his face. "What?" I ask, knowing that something is wrong. "Nothing," he says with a shrug, folding up the map and putting it back. "Just thought we would be further by now." Though I know he didn't intend them as a criticism, his words make me feel as though I have been holding us back. I make more of an effort to pick up the pace, walking beside him now, doing my best to match his stride. I know he is tired, too; I can see it around his eyes, in the way that his shoulders hunch under the pack that he carries. We actually go on for closer to two hours; by the time we reach the offramp that Mulder deems appropriate, the sun is low on the horizon and the light is dwindling away. We have arrived at the remainder of what was once a populated suburb. We stick to the main road, passing by the damaged husks of strip malls and convenience stores. Everything has been looted past the point of recognition and again I marvel at the extent of the damage. The road we are on takes us into a residential section of this forgotten city, the boundaries of individual properties still easily distinguishable amidst the rubble. It is eerily deserted, and I wonder if there are people here, hiding, if we truly are as alone as we seem to be. I walk beside Mulder and as I walk something catches my eye, the glint of something metal in the overgrown weeds. "Wait," I tell him, taking him by the arm and then pointing in the direction of the hidden object. He sees it and nods, but as we move cautiously towards it he raises the barrel of the rifle, suspicious of a trap. I bend at the knees and part the weeds with my hands. It's a pot, a little pot made of stainless steel. The imprint of its maker is still visible on its copper bottom. I hold it up to Mulder for inspection, a silly grin crossing my face. I feel a child's sense of pride in my discovery. "Good sleuthing, Sherlock," Mulder declares. "Now all you need is the stove that goes with it." My smile widens. These days, I'm happy to hear the corniest of Mulderjokes. As the sun threatens to disappear entirely, we pass the remains of an elementary school. The last beams of light dance across the iron frames of playground equipment, monkey bars and tetherball poles and basketball hoops. I can't see the painted hopscotch squares on the asphalt from this far away, but I know that they are there. White painted lines that are no longer of use to anyone. I don't know exactly what Mulder's looking for; someplace safe, I assume, though his definition of safe is probably much more stringent than my own. I busy myself by watching the shadows that have crept up around us for any signs of motion, by listening to the emptiness around us for unfamiliar sounds. It's oddly silent; there are no crickets to be heard, the hum of electric power lines long since gone. We are ghost people, walking through a ghost town. We round a corner and now the yards are spaced farther apart than before. This must have been a more expensive area; inhabited by people who could afford big houses and big green lawns. It's too dark now to see; the shadows have swallowed us up. Mulder pulls the flashlight out of my pack and turns it on, but the little circle of light it provides isn't much help. I never knew that it could be this dark. In the blackness, the display on my metal bracelet glows more brightly than ever. 11:09:33. Eleven hours, I think. And it is at that point that it hits me. There's no going back now. Even if I wanted to; even if we turned around now and walked straight through. We would never make it in time. There's no going back. And suddenly I'm no longer capable of going forward, either. I look around, straining my eyes to see beyond the crescent of dim light that is available to us. The block that we are on ends in a cul-de-sac; the house at its farthest end seems to me to be the most logical place. "We should go there," I tell him, using my hand to indicate the house. "It's at the end of the block, on its own little hill. Besides," I remind him, "it's too dark to keep walking." Mulder weighs my words, considers them, and finally agrees. "Let's go," he says, using the flashlight to illuminate our path. When we reach the house, I almost regret my decision. The word haunted crosses my mind as we stand just outside the ragged remains. But I manage to keep putting one foot in front of the other as we circle the structure, looking for the best possible space to make our camp. We settle on what was once probably the living room. Three of its walls stand intact and the fourth is still half there, which affords us some measure of protection from the wind, as well as any unwanted visitors. We waste another few minutes looking for a basement, but find none. If there was one, its entrance has been long since blocked. "Doesn't matter," Mulder says, as though he were reading my thoughts. "Outside, we can build a fire." He looks up at the sky and adds, "We'll probably need it." I agree; I can already feel the chill through the shirt that I'm wearing. I wish that I'd been able to bring the blue windbreaker from the Compound, but its color was too obvious. The risk, too great. Speaking of risk, I'm surprised that Mulder is willing to build a fire. "Aren't you afraid that someone will see the flames?" He shrugs. "I'm more afraid of sleeping above ground without it. If there are animals, hopefully it will keep them away." We lean our packs against one of the walls and begin gathering wood. There's plenty around, most of it probably remnants of the furniture that used to fill this home. We pile it up in the corner that is the most protected from the wind, stacking it precisely so that it will burn hard and long. It takes four of Mulder's matches until it catches; when it finally does, the flames build steadily until we have a solid little bonfire. It warms the space, and gives it a cozy feeling that helps to ward off some of my anxiety. It is not until we are seated near the fire and Mulder is rummaging through his pack that I remember the pot that I found. Excited now, I pull it from the sack that I have carried and hold it in my hands. "We can cook some rice in this," I tell him, thrilled that in some small way I have managed to contribute to our efforts. He responds in the affirmative and I take that as a signal to use up part of one of the water bottles in cleaning the pot, drying it off with one of the tee shirts we brought along. I fill the pot with the remainder of that water bottle and then together we make a place for it amidst the burning wood. As we wait for the water to boil, Mulder busies himself with several of the cans. We've used up a lot of the water; probably more than we should have, considering the circumstances. Mulder is positive that we'll reach the river tomorrow, and then there will be more. I'm not so certain that we'll even reach tomorrow. It's all the same, in the end. Our dinner consists of a little more of the jerky, a can of peas, a can of peaches, and two solid helpings of the rice. The rice is clumpy, sticky like rice in a sushi restaurant, but when you don't have a fork or even a spoon it's easier to eat that way. The food tastes good, much better than anything at the Compound ever did. There's something exhilarating about being outside after dark. The nights that I stayed with Mulder in the town we remained hidden beneath the library. Tonight there is nothing above us but sky, and it doesn't seem to matter that the clouded air blocks the stars from our view. We are outside, we are together, we are alive. At this moment, nothing else is significant. Now I am feeling brave enough to talk about the future. "Let me see it," I demand, and Mulder reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and removes a thin silver wand. It is no bigger than an unfolded paper clip, with a little knob at the end. It is for this that he has traded almost everything he has managed to collect. It is because of this that we have made this journey. I take the tiny silver bit in my hand and hold it. It weighs next to nothing, yet it represents everything. "It seems so small," I tell him. "Are you sure that it works?" Mulder shrugs, but I know that his casual demeanor is just an act. "We won't know until we try it." That much is true. We have traded nearly everything on a promise. A promise that this small piece of metal has the power to unlock the bracelet that holds me prisoner. After our sixth or seventh clandestine meeting Mulder ran across a man who told him that he knew how to obtain such a device, a device that could end our torment. Rumor had it that a device such as this could, if used precisely, unlock the metal wristband at the exact moment that its timer ran out. To attempt to unlock the bracelet at any other time would have the usual effect, causing an explosion that would decimate not only the wearer but anyone else in the near vicinity. But at the moment that the counter reached zero, so the story went, it could be unlocked with this device in the heartbeat before the bracelet responded to its internal program and detonated. It seemed like a myth, an old wives' tale. There was no way that it could be true, but the man who spoke to Mulder claimed to have seen it work, and that was enough for him. And it became enough for me. He spent the next weeks searching for enough bounty to acquire the device, weeks that I spent wandering out to the Yard in search of a visitor who only rarely appeared. Until finally he had gathered enough for a trade. Until finally, we agreed to risk everything on this single hope, this solitary dream. Holding it in my hand I feel my bravery ebb away under the rising tide of my fear. I'm glad now that we have left the Compound so far behind. We did it to be safe, in case a deactivated bracelet sends out a signal that might allow Them to track us. I'm glad now that we are so far away because part of me would easily run right back, rather than face an almost certain death. I can't hold the little device any longer and I hand it back to Mulder, who takes it without a word and tucks it safely away. Oh let the music play a little longer, And sweetheart clasp me closer to your breast. Life is strong, and death; but love is stronger -- And sweeter, sweeter rest. Oh, sweet is rest when love is watching over, And twilight comes with dreams that reassure; Weaving out of the silences that hover Hopes which must endure. - William Stanley Braithwaite When we finish eating, Mulder takes the cans and goes to bury them, to block their scent from reaching any hungry animals. I clean out the rice pan with a little water, and use still more to wash my hands and my face. There aren't any towels, so I use a tee shirt as a substitute. Afterwards, I pull the blankets from the packs, arranging them on the ground near the fire. I lay the rifle beside them, close enough to be reached if the need should arise. I can hear Mulder, in the near distance, digging shallow holes. As I wait for him, I loosen my hair from its braid. I run my fingers through its length and wish I had a comb. The noise of digging stops and is replaced by the sound of the pack being unzipped and then the splash of water. I don't turn around to look. I merely sit, surrounded by darkness, listening to the noise Mulder makes as he cleans himself up. I sense him almost before I hear him, approaching with the faintest of steps. I feel his breath on my neck as he kneels behind me, and I gaze into the fire before me, watching its flickering flames. "Touch me, Mulder," I whisper, and he doesn't hesitate. I feel his hands on my shoulders. They glide along my collarbone and down my back until they encircle my body. His hands are large, and strong, and his fingers nearly touch as they span my waist. I tilt my head back until it is resting on his shoulder, and quietly I command him. "More," I say. His hands slide away from their grasp of my waist and creep up beneath the cotton-should-be-flannel shirt, beneath the tee shirt and the tank top that I wear. His hands are warm against my skin as they drift slowly upwards until they cup my breasts. I moan, just a little, and he begins to knead me, ever so gently. "More," I demand, and he responds by grasping my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, squeezing them tight as he continues to hold me close. I squirm restlessly, my head tipping further back, and it is then that his teeth close upon my earlobe. His bites are tentative at first, and then harder, until the firelight spins before my eyes and I have to slam them shut. "More," I murmur, and I am begging now. Begging for the same thing that he wants, that he needs. I can tell by the way he holds me, the way he caresses me. And so I plead. "More..... please. More." His lips suckle my earlobe, then his mouth moves south to trace the line of my jaw until his teeth find my neck. He nibbles me, hungrily, as his hands continue to work their magic on my chest. I arch my back, shoving my breasts deeper into his grasp, giving him further access to the pale skin of my neck, my hands sliding up over his knees to clench the firmness of his thighs. He groans then, low and deep, and it forces a whimper from me. "More.... more.... more." I can't think of any other words, but he seems to understand me nonetheless. He keeps his mouth busy as his hands move away from my tender breasts. They slip outside and pull the shirt off of my shoulders and down my arms. Slowly, so slowly, his fingers grasp the bottom of my tee shirt and tank top and pull them upwards, the fabric sliding over my torso. I raise my arms instinctively and allow him to pull it over my head until I am free. It is only then that his mouth leaves me and for a moment, I am alone. I open my eyes to see him kneeling before me, gazing at me like a man possessed. I possess you, I think, and the very thought makes me quiver with desire and anticipation. His eyes are hungry, his body shakes. He stretches a hand towards me and I see how his fingers tremble as he reaches for a lock of hair that has fallen between my exposed breasts. He catches it gently, smoothing it up and over my shoulder until it tumbles down my back, his eyes never leaving mine. If tonight is to be our last night together, let it be forever. I reach for the hand that he has left to rest on my shoulder. Grasping him by the wrist I bring his palm to my mouth, running my lips over the callused skin of his hand. I suckle his flesh, keeping my eyes locked with his. Naked to the waist, I rise to my knees and lean in towards him. Using his arm as leverage I pull him towards me until we are inches apart, until I can feel his labored breath against my face. I slide my mouth across his palm until I reach the heel of his hand and then I touch his lips with my own. Mulder responds then, deeply, passionately, wildly. His kisses are more penetrating they were, before. I have the sensation that he is trying to swallow me whole, that it is more than lips and teeth and tongues that collide in the space between us, as he draws me ever inward to his soul. I still remember how it felt to cross the Yard, another aimless walk on another endless day, and suddenly see him standing there on the other side of the fence. I thought at first it was a dream, my nighttime fantasies made real by the broad light of day. And then when my gaze truly focused and I saw the brightness in his eyes and the joy in his face, I thought I would faint, simply collapse in a heap amongst the rest of the lonely wanderers. I remember how my body shook as I made my way to the fence, how I stood there and stared at him on the other side of the barrier, thinking that somehow all of my dreams had at last come true. He was real. Tangible. At last. This is how Mulder looks at me now, when I pull away from him and break our fierce kiss. He looks like a man who has been given life's greatest gift, and perhaps he has. Against all odds, we have managed to find each other. And whether it is for tonight or forever it is still the greatest of miracles. Overcome by these thoughts I lean into him, burying my face in the softness of his neck. There is little about Mulder that is soft or gentle these days, so unlike the lover that I knew when we worked together back in D.C. But this space between his neck and shoulder remains a sanctuary for me, a place where I feel safe, and nurtured, and whole. He cradles me there for as long as he is able, running his hands through my hair until they emerge at the small of my back. He holds me to him, tightly, as though he is afraid to ever let me go. When he pulls away it is to kiss my lips, my chin, my neck, running his mouth over my skin until he reaches my breasts. He nuzzles me there, tenderly, and murmurs under his breath. His words are lost to me as I cradle his head, stroking his hair, holding him close. His mouth engulfs my nipples, first one, than the other, and I whimper his name, subservient to the love I feel in his touch. Before I am aware of what is happening I find myself straddling him and realize that I have pushed him to the ground, atop the blankets that I laid so carefully down by the fire. Its crackling reddish-gold glow illuminates the planes of his face, the lines that have been etched in his skin. I lean forward and kiss every delicious inch from his forehead to his chin. I lave my tongue over the stubble that crosses his cheeks, I suckle at the delicate hollows beneath his eyes. I will never have enough of his taste, his touch, his smell. I can never take enough to quench the need inside me, never enough to make me feel as though I have sampled all that he has to offer. Mulder's hands come up to grasp my shoulders but I pay him no mind, my own hands eagerly pulling at the shirt that he wears, tugging at the buttons, yanking them from their holes. That task accomplished my attention wanders to his tee shirt. I pull it up and over his head, mussing the brown locks of his hair, causing them to fall across his forehead in disarray. Now we are skin to skin and I drape myself across his chest, savoring his warmth, his strength. His arms are twined around my waist as I shiver in his grasp, the cool night air accosting my back. My hands slip down below, fumbling for the buttons to the faded jeans he wears. I slide them down around his waist, tugging his underwear along for the ride, until he is bare beneath me, his clothes bundled around his knees. Mulder shifts his body easily, fluidly, kicking the pants off of his body so that now, as I lay atop him, I feel the fullness of his nakedness. I feel his erection, warm and pulsing against my groin; I run my hands across the scratchy softness of the hair on his legs. I nuzzle my head again into that space against his neck, fully and totally content. It might be enough for me but it certainly isn't for Mulder. His own hands are busy now, tugging at the jeans that he gave me, hauling them over my ass with speed, not tenderness. Suddenly I too am naked as the day I was born. He grabs the uppermost blanket in one strong hand and pulls it so that it covers us both, the other two forming the slightest of cushions against the hard ground below. We roll together, our bodies pressed as close as we dare allow them, our lips joined as our tongues fight within the caverns of our mouths. There is nothing I would not give to have this joy go on, and on, and on. Mulder grasps my shoulders and pushes and I turn as he bids me to, until I find myself beneath him, my thighs spread on either side of his legs, his penis rock hard and solid against me. I am trapped beneath his heavy weight, and I writhe with the anticipation of what I know will come next. He surprises me, however; he slips two fingers inside me instead of his erection. Two fingers that probe me hard and fast, making me squirm, making me squeal. I toss my head back in ecstasy and he nibbles at my neck, my chin, his fingers moving double time in response to my response. I wiggle my ass to press myself against his hand, seeking more of him, always more of him. It has always been this way between us, since the very first time, but things are more intense now that so much has changed. It is almost as though our conscious knowledge of how perilous life has become, how scattered its joys, has infiltrated everything including our manner of making love. Sex between us has taken on a certain desperation, as we are all too aware how rare these liberties have become. He works me until I am beyond myself, until I am panting and gasping and moaning incoherently. I can hardly see his face. He is a mere silhouette above me, illuminated by the flickering light of the fire. But it is enough; the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him have already pushed me over the edge. Above me, the blank, starless sky looms as I feel my back arch, my body tense, and then I am free, floating beyond myself, anchored only by him. I know that the night has just begun when Mulder flips me onto my stomach, his lips finding the nape of my neck as his hands slide beneath me to cup my breasts once more. I am still gasping for air, but my ass rises of its own accord to press against his groin. I hear him groan, once, twice, and with the third passionate sigh he sinks into me. His body is hard and tense as he drives into me. Slowly at first, and then faster, and faster. Arousal shoots through me like water down a drain as I raise myself onto my elbows and knees to abet his penetration. His hands clutch at my breasts, his fingers toy with my nipples, his mouth rests wet and heavy on my back, his lips tangle in my hair. We ride like this until I am swept away once more, until we tumble to lay side by side, quivering in each others' arms. I am dimly aware that Mulder is holding back, and for some reason this upsets me. I want us to share everything, absolutely everything, and I don't want him to compromise himself on my behalf. Not now. Not tonight. This may be why I struggle out of his grasp and make my way along the length of his torso, my hands creating a path for my lips as I slide inexorably down. My hands reach his hips and I clutch them tightly in my grasp as I move my head into position and take him in my mouth. Mulder moans as I engulf him, sliding him all the way in and then back again and again. I allow my teeth to trace him lightly from root to tip, relishing the way that his body shakes beneath my trembling hands. I suck at him, drawing him into me, every fiber of my being focused on pleasuring him. He doesn't allow me to achieve the goal that I have set for myself. Just when I feel his body readying to take that final plunge, he pulls away, contorting his body and my own, twisting us so that I wind up beneath him once more. He sheaths himself in me again, thrusting hard, and deep, and long. I murmur my approval, unable to do anything else, and our eyes meet once more as he captures my lips in a fierce breathless kiss. We rock there, together, far past the point of bliss, and it is then that we hear the noise. It is the hollow sound of falling wood that reaches our ears and we freeze, suddenly motionless, locked together in a timeless embrace. His body stiffens, his muscles clenched beneath my palms as we listen, prepared for the most dire of events. M-e-o-w. It's a tiny cry, from a tiny animal. I feel the tremors in his body as Mulder relaxes, his tension giving way to giddy relief at the sound. "Cat," he groans, and I laugh. "Cat," I echo, and we share a smile as a second 'meow' ricochets through the darkness. We finish what we have begun, both of our bodies now begging for release. Sweat drips over us and my eyes flutter as I strain to see his expression in the firelight. Mulder howls as he climaxes and I quickly follow suit, wrapping my legs around his thighs as I drain him of his essence. When it is over we lay together, our bodies still joined beneath the blanket, arms encircling one another tightly, unwilling to admit that we have reached the end. I rest my head against his chest, listen to his shallow breaths as he struggles for air. I will never let him go. Mulder finally pulls away, but only so that he can tuck himself more firmly against me, so that we are nuzzled together as closely as two human beings ever can. It is there, snug in his embrace, that I finally allow my arm to move, bringing it up far enough to read the numbers on the metal band. 07:38:17. It is late, and I am tired, so tired. But with only eight hours to go I am unwilling to succumb to sleep, and instead I cuddle against him. It's cold, despite the heat of his body and the warmth of the fire, and for a moment I debate about reaching for one of the shirts we abandoned. In the end, I'm too reluctant to sacrifice the feeling of his skin pressed against my own, and I accept the occasional shiver that courses through my body as the price I must pay. Mulder shifts against me, kisses my temple, and mutters something too softly for me to distinguish the words. "What?" I mumble, hoping that he has heard the question. "You amaze me." The words are still quiet but this time I am able to absorb them as the compliment they are. I've never been the best about accepting praise, and verbal feedback from Mulder has always been rare. Perhaps that is why I encourage him to elaborate, though I know it's not the gracious thing to do. "Why?" I ask. "Why do you say that?" Only silence follows, a silence that lasts so long that I begin to wonder if he has fallen asleep. Finally he speaks, but it sounds as though the words have been dragged from deep within. "You make me believe I can do anything." This is more than I could have asked for; from him, it is almost too much. Personal words have never been our strong suit. We communicate much more through shared glances, through little gestures and bigger actions. I don't know how to respond. The burning ache in my chest makes it difficult to speak. Instead, I raise my hand to caress his cheek, lying so close to mine. I run my hand along his jaw over and over, until I dare trust my voice. "I would have come for you," is what I ultimately say. "If I could have, I would have come for you." "Oh, Scully." His voice smooths over me like velvet. "I know that. I never doubted that." He shifts again, his arms pulling me closer as the fire begins to flicker and wane. Sleep continues to beckon and so I force myself to think about the future in order to stay awake. Mulder has told me the stories that he has heard about the north, about the new communities that have arisen, and I try to imagine living there. Try to imagine the two of us, together without the constant threat of death hanging above our heads. Try to imagine the two of us enjoying our freedom, building a life. The thoughts that fill my head are happy ones, perhaps too happy. They aren't enough to keep me awake, however. My eyelids feel heavy and as they start to close, I call to him. "Mulder?" His hands gently stroke my hair. His voice, when he answers, is rich and deep. "You should get some sleep," he says. "Don't want to," I reply, but the yawn that escapes my lips spoils the effect. "You're tired, Scully." "So are you," I point out, and his silence tells me that I've won this round. Protectiveness is an important facet of Mulder's nature, and I have come to understand that. Sometimes I even embrace it. There were times in our retreat beneath the library when I would allow myself the luxury of falling asleep in his arms, knowing that Mulder would watch over me and the clock on my bracelet. I trust him completely. Mulder has always been better at taking care of me than of himself. And I know how much he likes watching me sleep. But tonight is not his responsibility. And I don't want to waste any of the time that I know for certain still remains to us. "Talk to me," I whisper. "Tell me again about the places up north." "You know all this already," he sighs, but it is a sigh of resignation. "I don't care," I say. "Tell me again." And so he does. Holding me close under the blanket, his lips against my ear, he tells me everything he knows about the new cities. About how people have gathered there and found a way to begin again, without all of the technology that up until recently we took for granted. Then we talk about how long it will take to get there, and the routes that we should follow. We talk about the things that we will need to survive the journey, and what we will have to do to get them. "What happens if we get sick?" I wonder, thoughts of the fever suddenly crossing my mind. "Well," he deadpans, "that's why I brought you along, Doc. You didn't think there was any other reason, did you?" I poke him in the stomach and he laughs and kisses my cheek. This is how we pass the night, as the fire burns down and the darkness overhead is slowly bleached away. Neither of us ever really succumbs to sleep, though more than once I have to fight to keep myself from dozing off. It isn't until the fire has gone out, leaving only a few red embers behind, and the sky above is the pale brown of dawn that I dare to glance again at my wrist. 00:41:33. "Mulder?" I turn my head to look at him and see that he, too, has read the numbers on the bracelet. "We should get up," he says, and reluctantly I nod. We dress in silence as the sun creeps up over the horizon. We take turns washing up, using most of another water bottle in the process. I finish first and neatly fold the blankets, trying to keep my mind off of the inevitable. Mulder asks if I am hungry and though I am, sort of, I can't stomach the thought of food. "Maybe later," I tell him, and notice that he too has decided to abstain. Before too long we've got everything packed up and tucked away and then there's nothing else to do. We amble aimlessly around the destroyed house and its neighbors looking for any lost treasures, but find nothing. And then we can't ignore it any further. Together, we sit down on the ground not far from the remains of our fire, cross-legged, close enough so that our knees are touching. Mulder reaches for my right wrist and takes it in both of his hands. 00:09:42. The bracelet is too tight to slide around on my wrist; They measure you for them and as a result it is a nearly exact fit. Mulder twists my arm a little so that he can more closely examine the tiny circular indentation that mars its surface. He takes out the little device and examines that too, inspecting its design and the way that it should work. "You know," I say, "I can do this myself." As soon as I have said the words aloud they seem right to me, as though they represent the only possibility. "You shouldn't be here. You don't have to be." I don't want him to be with me, I realize. Not for this. Not when there is so little chance of the device living up to its promise. "No way," he declares, lifting his head to meet my eyes. I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. "It's too difficult for you to do this with your left hand. There's no way that you can be precise enough." I'm tempted to yank my hand from his grasp, to run as far away from him as my legs will carry me, but I don't. Instead, I gaze back at him and wish that time would stop. 00:04:27. All we can do now is wait. 00:02:54. We stare at each other in the deadly silence and then Mulder leans in towards me to capture my lips in a kiss. The kiss is soft, lingering, gentle. I refuse to think of it as a farewell. 00:01:39. He holds my right arm in his left hand, the thin silver bit poised between two fingers and the thumb of his other. The hand that holds mine is trembling, just a little, but the hand that holds the device is rock steady. 00:00:18. Now or never, I think, my eyes flickering from the orange numbers to his face and back again. 00:00:10. "I love you, Scully," he says, and a lump forms in my throat. "I love you too." 00:00:05. I find that I can't watch. I don't want to see what he's doing, or when he does it. I keep my eyes trained on his face, on the intense concentration written there. His eyes are focused on my wrist, the edge of his bottom lip is clenched between his teeth. I want to pray, but I can't find the words. Suddenly Mulder's hand moves, lightning fast, and instinctively my eyes slam shut. I hear a sound, the faintest of clicks, and then nothing. Nothing but Mulder's startled gasp. My eyes snap open and I see that the metal band has popped open, and now lies splayed in a curved semi-circle trapped between my wrist and Mulder's palm. We jerk apart simultaneously, springing to our feet and backing away as the bracelet falls to the ground. Seconds pass as we foolishly watch it, too stunned to run away despite the fact that it could still detonate, even now. And yet, nothing happens. Nothing at all. It is a soft, choking gasp that brings me to my senses and I raise my head to see that Mulder is crying. I can't remember having seen Mulder cry before, at least not like this. The tears stream silently down his cheeks; his eyes are squeezed shut, his hands dangle loosely, helplessly at his side. "Mulder," I whisper, and he raises his head, opening his eyes to look me straight on, his mouth curving upward slightly as he continues to weep. I fall into his arms and he holds me close and I don't think I've ever felt better in my life. We stand there, oblivious, merely holding one another, the horrendous metal bracelet lying forgotten in the dirt beneath our feet. It is over, I think, and suddenly I too want to cry. I don't know how much time passes before we release each other. Mulder unabashedly raises a hand to his eyes and swipes away the moist liquid that remains. Then he smiles, the sweetest of smiles, and takes my hand. Together, we move towards the knapsacks we have packed and shoulder them. Together, we turn our backs on the band of metal that was my prison and walk away. Whatever the future may bring, it is the present that matters. END Thanks for reading. Feedback *greatly* appreciated at Blueswirl@aol.com. = The Blueswirl Stories = Revolving Satellites Platonic Tangible Chiaroscuro