Date: April 1997
Title: Heaven in Hell's Despair
Author: Meredith
Summary: Mulder and Scully must deal with the strange twist of
circumstance and separation.
Category: S,MSR,A
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Everything in this story is based on and has evolved
from the creations of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No
copyright infringement is intended.
Thanks go to MCA for unwavering precision and
encouragement, without which I would flounder.
Feedback: Insecurity looms on the horizon. I would be enormously
grateful for any sort of feedback. Please send to meredith40@juno.com or meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com.
XXXXX
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."
-- William Blake (1757-1827)
XXXXX
It didn't surprise Scully to realize she was still a nomad.
As a child, she'd been an involuntary pilgrim -- continually
forced to pick up and move, to cut ties and sever tenuous
friendships. She grew wary of comfort, distrustful of what was
stable in the world.
As an adult, she learned to relish being a traveler, enjoying the
excitement of a career that sent her to large cities, small
towns, and a universe of mind-expanding experience. She relished
her control even in the midst of chaos and the unexplained,
eventually turning wariness and distrust into what could almost
pass for joy.
But those days were gone. That life was gone.
Yet still she roamed. At least four times a month she traveled to
consult, advise, and regulate the concepts, rules, and procedures
of death. How odd, then, that she still loved the journey, her
last link to the existence stolen from her. When she traveled she
felt almost alive; when she was home she was simply dead.
The memories of her most vital days never left her. In those
all-too-brief years she had quickly caught her partner's fevered
desire to search for the truth; that search also developed into a
search for herself, a search for completeness. For the first time
in her life she had understood the thrill of the chase, the tease
of the barking hounds, the seduction of the quest.
That is, until the prey was finally cornered and turned the
hunters into the hunted.
XXXXX
They had stumbled on her quite by accident. Blind luck, really,
Scully thought. The long-lost Samantha had been in Baltimore all
this time -- a mere taunting hop, skip and a jump from the answer
to Mulder's prayers. She'd been leading a picture-perfect life: a
geneticist. Married. Two children. Happy in her ignorance until
the terrifying reality of her past reared up and struck her in
the face.
Sickening.
How angry she was to learn she had a brother, another mother, a
dead father in addition to a live one. To learn her uncle,
although not a relative in the true definition, had been the
reason her entire life was a lie. She had loved him, despite her
dislike of his incessant smoking. But the heartless manipulation
of her life drove her to the outermost limits of hatred.
So in revenge, she talked. About her government-funded project,
her research, the fathomless secrets of life's building blocks
that had been entrusted to her laboratory. She knew her
information was damaging, but to what extent she could have never
dreamed. Sometimes only a pawn can end the game.
But in her blind fury she didn't care that as her carefully
fabricated life collapsed, as the powerful hidden organization
disintegrated, the weight and speed of its fall toppled countless
other lives, innocent and guilty.
XXXXX
And so the man responsible for fabricating the lies and
distorting history raged at those who had caught him off guard
and exposed his position. He tossed what was left of the
Consortium aside like an empty pack of Morleys. He didn't need
them to exact vengeance; there had always been other ways.
Lust for revenge had become his religion. What remaining power he
had was waning, but his rage had become personal.
He struck his first blow with glee. The X-Files were shut down,
the data buried permanently in the bowels of the Pentagon, the
agents reassigned and separated. It was his last legitimate act.
But somehow they coped. They stayed connected. Distance was a
small obstacle in a six-year partnership that had defied every
rule.
The second blow was worse than murder -- more destructive than
the wanton waste of life. One day Mulder disappeared, leaving no
trace.
No warning. No explanation. But there *was* a reason.
XXXXX
He let Scully suffer for several weeks before he made his offer.
He knew the thrill of the chase, the intoxicating scent of fear.
The smell of cigarette smoke polluted the air of her apartment
that night. He was sitting in her kitchen, using a cereal bowl
for an ashtray. In blind fury she pulled her gun.
"Tell me where he is, you fucking bastard."
"No need for the gun, Agent Scully. That's exactly why I'm here."
She never moved. "Start talking."
And he talked. His argument was convincing, his proof beyond
question. Mulder was alive. He would stay alive if Scully played
along. It would be the cigarette-smoking man's terms, or the game
would end. He laid his demands on the table for examination,
feeding on her torment. Why bother killing when torture was so
much more satisfying?
"How nice it would be for you, Agent Scully," he ended their long
conversation, "to forget all the recent troubles. Get married,
buy a house, own a dog -- have childr... oh, how insensitive of
me to forget. Such a sad thing, isn't it?"
His meaning was bitterly clear. And what a fucking *surprise*
that she met Andrew the next day.
XXXXX
It was a small civil ceremony eight months later. For a hapless
pawn, Andrew was a nice enough man. Handsome, outgoing, almost
intelligent. She wondered what had prompted his punishment in
this life, but never asked. Scully was sure he had no idea of the
game he was involved in.
She was beyond caring.
A package was delivered to her the night of the wedding. A small
silver and white box, deceptively topped with an innocent white
bow. A gift, in a way. The contents of which suggested that the
black-lunged bastard had lived up to his end of the bargain.
Suggested. But did not provide indisputable, living, breathing
proof.
Still, she had divorce papers drawn up by her lawyer a week
later. She kept them secreted in a nondescript envelope that she
carried with her at all times. She clung to the small power she
held by having them in her possession, caressing the pages nearly
every day, memorizing every word like a love letter. When she
traveled, they lay on the pillow next to her at night, reminding
her of life. When she was at home, they stayed hidden away, an
ever-present reminder of death. And always she waited for the day
she could sign them.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
XXXXX
Dallas.
She should have been afraid, really, at finding a man in her
hotel room, sitting calmly at the small table, bathed in the
shadows of a low light. Close-cropped hair, dark clothes,
world-weary. Eyes simultaneously piercing and overflowing with
misery.
In her mind she ran to him, brushed the anguish from his eyes,
buried herself in his embrace.
In reality, she simply stared.
"Scully." Her name -- complex, simple. Choked.
"What... what are you doing here, Mulder?" One question, a dozen
questions. Stuttered.
"You don't love him. Say you don't love him." A whisper, more
fierce and desperate than any words she'd ever heard him utter.
Her restraint slipped, then shattered as her face betrayed 14
months of misery. "No... god, no..."
And then she was in his arms, his face in her hair, against her
neck, her ear, hands clutching her waist as he finally voiced his
whispered, perpetual prayer.
XXXXX
It just simply happened, despite their knowledge of the
consequences. The literal life and death consequences of their
misbehaving.
They hadn't meant for it to happen.
She reminded herself that that's what junkies also say.
But within the denial lies the need, accusing, demanding to be
acknowledged. Myriad circumstances and agonies had conspired to
consummate the inevitable. She couldn't name them all, didn't
want to, didn't care. She had finally come to understand the
meaning of fate.
And so it began. Seattle. Chicago. Newark. Not every trip, not
every city, not in any pattern.
Every hotel key turned for the first time with trembling fingers,
desperate hands. Would he be sitting on the chair, on the bed,
standing, patiently waiting? Or would the room be empty and
sterile, simply four walls to sleep within, to contain the
sleeper who continually dreamed of the next room?
She never asked how he found her. Never asked why Omaha and not
Orlando. Never asked where he came from when he came to her.
Never asked why he wouldn't come back to this world to accept the
terms of the bargain she made.
In exchange for her marriage, he would be released but forever
forbidden contact with her. And the smoking man had kept his
word: Mulder was given the freedom of life -- but instead he had
chosen to remain "dead."
Once he answered her unspoken question. "If I return, I give up
looking for him. I'm found. I'll forfeit all contact with you. As
long as I'm lost, we can belong to each other."
And so their silent ritual began. Each meeting, before the first
word was spoken, before the first touch was ever dared, he would
remove her wedding band and place it in the perennial void of a
hotel dresser drawer. For whatever their time together, she
belonged to him alone as he had always belonged to her.
The pain of their encounters rose and peaked in a blinding agony
that knew no bounds, no extreme, save for the gentle brush of
ecstasy at what masqueraded as the peak.
The fragile, fleeting touch of ecstasy that would be lost in a
day's time, but would ferociously fight for a chance to reassert
itself again and again in the unknown future.
It was the pain of addiction. Of necessity.
And for far too long, it was what kept them alive.
XXXXX
Salt Lake City.
They lay on the bed, intertwined as completely as a Celtic knot
-- without beginning, without end.
"Scully, I'm close. Very close."
She stopped her languid caresses through his short hair. "You've
found him?" She could barely breathe.
"Almost."
She knew the end was near, and was terrified of the outcome.
XXXXX
Three weeks later, she found two e-mail messages from an
anonymous address waiting patiently in her inbox. The first was
an article taken from a Minneapolis newspaper.
BODY FOUND IN COUNTY PARK
"The remains of a elderly man were found yesterday by a group of
boy scouts hiking in the Minnetonka Wilderness County Park.
Officials have not been able to identify the man, who had been
shot in the head at close range....."
The second was a mere sentence.
"Wield the pen."
She stared at the monitor until the screen-saving galaxy had
traveled several light years. She wasn't surprised to feel the
wet tracks of tears on her face, although the sensation was
strangely foreign... it had been so long.
With shaky hands she deleted the messages, removed the precious
papers from her briefcase, smoothed the pages lovingly, and
dialed her lawyer's number.
END
XXXXX
This one was a challenge. Was it worth it the effort?
meredith40@juno.com or meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com
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