The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Download Other stories by Partous, Madeleine ***************************************************************************** This author's email address has changed to: partous@parkpub.com ***************************************************************************** THE HOLLOW MAN (1/5) *** NC-17 *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net WARNING: Some readers may find this story disturbing. While comments are welcome pro and con, as always, please don't flame me for the contents. Summary: Mulder faces his nemesis -- and it's not what he expected. Okay to archive. Mild 4th-season spoilers. Category: Angst, MSR ***** Rating: NC-17 for disturbing imagery, violence and explicit sex. Not appropriate for younger readers. ***** ************************************************************ DISCLAIMER: Fox & Chris Carter own the concepts and the characters. The estate of T.S. Eliot owns the poem. Used without permission and with no nefarious intent. The rest of this foolishness is my own. ************************************************************ DEDICATION: For Pat We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men. -- T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men Part I: As Wind in Dry Grass Fox Mulder stirred and choked down a groan. Christ. It was as dark as a tomb in here. Wherever that was. What the hell had happened to him anyway? The last thing Mulder remembered was that he'd dropped Scully off at her place and watched her compact body sway towards the front door of her building. He'd watched her like this on countless nights and it still gave him a quiet thrill, one that ran through him like low voltage to his groin. It was the one indulgence he allowed himself where she was concerned. The only time he permitted his thoughts about her to roam south. In those few moments, he let himself envisage her under him, over him, writhing, her breasts dewed with sweat, her hair wild as she whipped her head from side to side. Just a few seconds. It was all he could afford. And every time she'd stop for a brief moment at her door and look back with what he could swear was an ironic smile as she fluttered a few fingers at him. As if she knew. As if she could read his mind. God knows he wouldn't have put it past her. But he always just smiled and waited until she'd unlocked the door before he drove off, feeling like a teenager on a first date that had always been a first date that would always be a first date. He wondered sometimes what went through her mind when she kept the car and he was the one who looked back at her from his door. This time was a bad time because he was still thinking about her when he unlocked his apartment door and he never did that except when... Mulder suspected it was time to spend an evening in a bar again. And that was the last thing he remembered before the world greyed and blackened. Now he was lying in the dark and he was grateful for the dark because quite frankly he'd never had a worst headache in his life. It was unbelievable. Most darkness was never this complete. He closed his eyes; it made no difference, no difference at all. Except it made his head feel marginally better. Mulder listened. No sound. No sound at all. Wait. Except -- something that sounded like a rustle in the distance. His eyes snapped open and he winced. Very faint. But was it getting louder? A wave of nausea washed through him. He suddenly realized he was straining to hear, which only intensified the pounding in his skull. He felt bile rise and retched drily, moaning as he rolled over on his side to clutch his knees. Great. He'd gone fetal already and he'd only been conscious for minutes. Mulder smiled weakly. What a hero he was. What a fucking he-man. He opened his eyes again. There was nothing to see and he let them close of their own volition. But the noise was definitely getting louder. Mulder sat up as gingerly as he could. That did it. Spasms tore through him as he leaned over desperately to let nature take its course. The harsh sound of vomiting echoed off walls he couldn't see; combined with the smell, it only made him throw up harder. Jesus. Sweet Jesus. Finally he gasped, disgusted, breathless, and wiped his mouth before rolling away as far as he could from the mess he'd made. He bumped into a wall, a cold, damp wall, and stayed there, his face pressed against it. It was cool and strangely soothing against his hot face. Now he knew that something had to be seriously wrong with him because his natural squeamishness would never allow him to do this normally, but his lips parted against the coolness. He tasted granite on his tongue. Clean, moist slate, its ridges and bumps familiar to him, although he wasn't sure why. Cockroaches, Mulder, a part of his mind screamed. Spiders. Bat guano. For the time being, he didn't give a fuck. He rubbed his lips against the wall and moaned. Incredibly, it made him feel a lot better. His fingers ran along the wall and he pressed his length against it, caressing it. Jesus, Mulder. Get a grip. But his mind refused to think and he felt his thighs move helplessly against it, the cool wetness of it, as his groin grew tight. He lay his cheek against the wall and forced his body to stop moving. You're a psychologist, dammit. Deal with this. Deal with what? What the hell was it? Mulder breathed and felt the heat of his breath against his lips. And gradually he realized what the sound which had been getting progressively louder actually sounded like. A summer breeze ruffling grass. A hot wind in dry grass. His body was reacting to the dryness and seeking moisture where it could. Dryness which felt a lot like desiccation. Like death. "Charming, Agent Mulder." He yelped and sat up, his body thankfully allowing him to take the action without forcing another bout of retching on him. This was no time for self-indulgent vomiting. He cringed and covered his eyes as light exploded around him. Fuck. His head pounded ruthlessly, sending shudders through his body. He couldn't see. He couldn't see at all. All there was was the sharpness of the light. The voice continued calmly. "So you're lying here, Agent Mulder, inches away from a pool of your own vomit, your pants bulging from humping a wall." He could feel a hot flush creep up his neck to claim his face. "Who..." "Shut up." The voice was terse and Mulder didn't recognize it. He heard a faint rustling sound, like ancient paper rubbed between ageless fingers. "What's become of you, Mulder. Hmm? What have you become?" He said nothing. The embarrassment was almost more than he could bear. Embarrassed by whom? For what? His jaw tightened defiantly despite the fingers of pain it sent through his head. "You were a man once, Mulder." "I'm still a man..." "I said shut up!" Actual stars broke over his field of vision, such as it was, as a boot or a shoe connected with his chin. He rolled into a defensive position through instinct alone; his head screamed with pain. The metallic taste of his own blood filled his mouth and he felt the ragged edges of his tongue where he'd bit down when the blow came. He retched again and spit, feeling drool and blood slide down his chin. "Lovely, Agent Mulder. You're a sight for sore eyes." His tongue felt thick and unwieldy. "Who are you?" A laugh. Mulder still saw only blinding light. A figure hovered just outside his vision, its darkness palpable. "Your worst enemy, Mulder. Who else?" He couldn't recognize the voice. Except... There was something familiar about it. "We are the hollow men, Mulder," the figure intoned ironically from the shadows. "You've been searching for the ones who pull the strings. Who pulls the strings of those who pull the strings, Mulder?" He leaned back on his elbows and squinted towards the perimeter of the light as footsteps echoed around him. His jaw ached and he ignored it. At least his stomach was finally still. "We are the stuffed men, Mulder," the other continued. "When we whisper together, our dried voices are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass." He tensed. The words were familiar to him. "Or rat's feet over broken glass..." he whispered. "Exactly." Something in the voice radiated approval. Mulder was horrified that a thing in him hungered for and quickened to this approval. Scully. He suddenly wished Scully was here with him, even if it meant that she would share in his danger. He could use her rationality right about now. When Mulder spoke, it was Scully's voice he heard. "You're spouting gibberish. What is it you want?" The other laughed again. "My, my, Mulder. Is that Agent Scully I hear?" Christ. Who was this man who seemed to know him so well? "Think about it, Mulder. I'll give you some time to think about it. Your worst enemy. You're facing him at last." The light winked out as if it had never been and he knew he was alone. CONTINUED IN PART 2 THE HOLLOW MAN (2/5) *** NC-17 *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net WARNING: Some readers may find this story disturbing. While comments are welcome pro and con, as always, please don't flame me for the contents. ***** Rating: NC-17 for disturbing imagery, violence and explicit sex. Not appropriate for younger readers. ***** DISCLAIMER AND OTHER INFO IN PART 1 Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death's dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind's singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star. Let me be no nearer In death's dream kingdom Le me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer -- Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom. -- T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men Part II: Such Deliberate Disguises Mulder slowly realized he must have dozed. The acrid smell of vomit had disappeared; someone must have cleaned it up while he was out. That or he'd slept long enough for it to dry up innocuously. Darkness filled his world. He stretched and shivered. It was cold now. His head still hurt but the pain had diminished considerably. Still, there was something wrong with his jaw. He struggled to remember. A kick. Someone had kicked him in the chin. His tongue felt otherworldly, thick, as though it had been stuffed into his mouth like a gag. He rolled it against the roof of his mouth tentatively and winced. Tender. But the thing that was really wrong had to do with his jaw. It hung badly somehow. Dislocated. Maybe even broken? He touched it gently. Pain shot through his cheeks into his head. Yep. There was definitely something wrong with it. Scully. Tears sprang to his eyes and he blinked them away angrily. Scully was a doctor. If Scully was here, she'd cradle his head or something. Wouldn't she? Murmur sweet words in his ear and tie up his jaw before shooting the fucking son of a bitch. Wouldn't she? She'd kill the guy who'd done this to him. Christ. He shook his head once before remembering vividly that it wasn't a good idea. What are you, Mulder? Man or Mouse? Manormousemanormousemanor... He was still a man. A man who felt like a manor in death's dream kingdom. Enough. Where were the words coming from anyway? What in God's name was wrong with him? The rustling sound. Jesus. The rustling sound was still around him. Dry. Dry and hungry somehow. He felt himself curl up in a ball despite himself. No. Make it stop. Scully? A laugh from the shadows. A thin hollow laugh like snatches of memory on the wind. You're alone, Mulder. No. You've always been alone. No... What do you see? Who...? Shut up and listen. For once in your life, listen to me. No. What do you see? He pressed his hands against his ears. "I'm not listening." Listen. No. You've been searching your whole life, Mulder. For what? For me? I don't know. You know. No. Is it your sister you seek, Mulder? Samantha... Who is she? Do you even remember who she was? Yesss... No. How can you remember? Samantha... Just a name, Mulder. Just a name and an eight-year-old face. You never really knew her. Samantha... You saw her, didn't you? She hadn't changed a bit. You and Jeremiah Smith. Who was she, Mulder? Was that your sister? No... She couldn't speak. She didn't know your name. She knew who I was. How do you know? I could tell. I could feel her. You felt what you wanted to feel. No. You're chasing rainbows, Mulder. Scully? Leave her out of this. You've hurt her enough. "Scully?" Yes. You've taken everything she was. No. No no no. Face it, Mulder. You've ripped everything from her and left her with nothing but the ghost of what you might have been. Scully... Who are you, Mulder? I... You say "I"? Have you earned that right? I don't know. Who are you? I don't know. Mulder fell back against the floor as his jaw opened helplessly and he screamed. His scream echoed against walls he couldn't see. "I don't know!" CONTINUED IN PART 3 THE HOLLOW MAN (3/5) *** NC-17 *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net WARNING: Some readers may find this story disturbing. All comments welcome pro and con, as always, but please don't flame me for the contents. ***** Rating: NC-17 for disturbing imagery, violence and explicit sex. Not appropriate for younger readers. ***** DISCLAIMER AND OTHER INFO IN PART 1 This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man's hand Under the twinkle of a fading star. Is it like this In death's other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone. -- T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men Part III: Here the Stone Images are Raised When he awoke this time he had no idea who he was. The only thing he knew was that he was lying on his stomach on a rack of some kind and his wrists and ankles were tight and drawn. He opened his eyes. A vague memory of pain whispered through his mind. His jaw. He rotated it slowly against the wood which spiked his nostrils with its sap-swollen pine-fresh crispness. It felt fine. Light played against his closed eyelids. He knew it was unbearable light, the same light he'd seen more than once. Much more than once. Samantha the light the floating the window the brightness the nightgown the voices the shadows the light the light the light... The epileptic the light the van the cap the fear the ear the bleeding the light the light the light... Scully the light the table the bloating the tubes the pipes the wires the light the light the light... Puerto Rico the light the man the machines the terror the ticking the static the light the light the light... How many times had he seen this light? He thought and it occurred to him he couldn't count the times. His memories, it seemed, were intact. Who he was in light of these memories was the real question. He could remember his childhood, his sister, his parents, his lonely years in high school. He remembered Oxford and Phoebe and Scully and Skinner and the uneasy rotation of informants with makeshift names. He just couldn't remember himself in the midst of it all. "So." He tensed against the bindings that held him. That voice. He remembered that voice. But whose voice was it? "This is the dead land. Do you remember?" He could feel knots in his shoulders, the tightening of muscles in his butt. Christ. He suddenly realized that he was naked. Naked and spread in an X against wood at an angle his back to who knew what with his ankles and wrists bound securely at four corners. The rough knots of the wood dug into his face. Suddenly, searing pain lashed across his back, licking his buttocks. He gasped. "I said, do you remember?" He nodded frantically. The flesh of his back thudded dully. Another lash. He arched off the rack inadvertently. "Yes!" "What do you remember?" The voice was calm, almost clinical. Scully... It was a man's voice. "I remember..." Another lash. Tears stung his eyelids as the pain snaked up towards his neck. The crack of the whip was the only sound in the air. "You remember what?" "Them..." He fought to control the panting. "Yes, yes." The voice was annoyed, oddly fatigued. Another lash. This time he cried out between clenched teeth. "But what about you? Do you remember you?" He bit his lip until he tasted the reassuring copper of his blood. "Me..." It was a gasp. "Who are you?" A lash. His body jumped and he was horrified to feel himself harden against the intricate texture of the wood. "I don't know!" It was a desperate cry. "Fox Mulder. Repeat after me: I am Fox Mulder." A lash. He cried out. "Fox Mulder! I am Fox Mulder!" The name meant nothing to him but he clung to it as his body writhed against the wood. Sweet Jesus. Whoever I am. Release me from the horror of what I've become. Another lash. The pain the pain was welcome the pain was what he deserved to hurt to hurt he had earned the hurt he must pay and pay for what he'd done for what he'd been for what he'd become.... And then stillness. Stillness and a solid kind of silence. He felt his body quiver against the rack. "More..." As if from a distance, he heard his own voice moan the word, his lips pressed against the pine. Silence. "You think you've earned this, don't you?" He nodded almost imperceptibly as he followed the pulse of his blood through his back. "Why?" "I don't know." "Why?" "I..." "Why, Mulder?" "Because..." "Why?" He felt his throat tighten to resist the agony that rose from his belly, from his very core. The words seemed to explode through his teeth. "Because it's my fault." "What is, Mulder? Why are you to blame?" "I... I..." The rest flowed without words. Samantha I shoulda saved you I coulda saved you I... Phoebe you should've loved me you could've loved me I... Dad I couldn't love you I might've saved you I... Mom I could've saved you I always loved you I... Scully I'll always love you I couldn't save you I... Stop. Stop. Stop. He felt his face rub against the splinters in the wood. "You think it's all your fault. Don't you." He said nothing, but he could feel breath rattling in his throat. "Listen to me, Mulder. Here the stone images are raised, here they receive the supplication of a dead man's hand. Do you understand?" "I..." "Shhh. Listen." The voice was almost gentle. "You've raised the images of what you think you've wrought. You've carved them in stone. And now you worship them like a half-dead thing." He moaned. "You've let an imaginary past suck you dry, Mulder. Do you understand?" He rubbed his lips against a knot he felt in the wood. "It's a dream, Mulder. All of it. You're paying an imaginary debt. Samantha lived or died with or without you. Phoebe's life collided with you. Your father died despite you. Your mother survived without you. Scully is what she is, and if she loves you, it's because of you. Do you understand?" He felt himself trembling. He remembered the clean, moist slate of the wall against his lips. And a whisper as darkness fell: "Lips that would kiss, Mulder, form prayers to broken stone..." CONTINUED IN PART 4 THE HOLLOW MAN (4/5) *** NC-17 *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net WARNING: Some readers may find this story disturbing. All comments welcome pro and con, as usual, but please don't flame me for the contents. ***** Rating: NC-17 for disturbing imagery, violence and explicit sex. Not appropriate for younger readers. ***** DISCLAIMER AND OTHER INFO IN PART 1 The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death's twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men. -- T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men Part IV: The Hope of Empty Men It slowly dawned on him that he'd been conscious for some time. This time he realized it because despite the darkness a faint light whose source he couldn't see cast enough illumination to cause a play of shadows on the wall. The shadows shivered in a dance of black on black. He lay on his side; judging by how cold he was, he was still naked. The leached light made his body glisten palely in the dark. It alarmed him because in this light his body looked bloated and bleached like a drowned man's. But he was alive still. Wasn't he? He was alive. I... I am... And then without warning the light changed and the world seemed to careen. He gasped and grasped the floor as it tilted against him. What...? What could he still hold on to that was solid at last? When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on a beach. A cold northern beach, a grey river beach against a sliver of silver that sparked in the sun. The breeze off the water smelled like late summer, scented sweet with cooling earth and dry yellow grass. He rolled and looked at what he was: a naked body on a beach. Goosebumps rode his thighs. And then he saw her. Phoebe. She stood with the river as backdrop, naked and lean like the last time he'd seen her in England. Her hair was short like the last time he'd seen her, but her eyes were filled with the passion he'd known. "Fox..." Mulder breathed through his mouth. Nothing hurt but the lust he still felt for her. But she'd hurt him. She'd used him. She'd played him like a piano to soothe the chords she couldn't reach. "No." His voice was a whimper. "Not you. Not now." "Why not, Fox? Why not me? If not me, who?" She stepped towards him gingerly in the sand, her hips swaying, her dark nipples hard and sharp like an obsession. He stared at the dark triangle where he'd lost himself all those years ago. "I..." She laughed. "I, I, I... Who is this 'I' you keep talking about, Fox?" She was standing over him. He wondered why he couldn't move. He felt himself strain towards her. Oh God. God, no. His body was betraying him. His body was the worst enemy of all. She smiled and lowered herself inexorably over him, her eyes locked with his. "God..." He groaned and arched against her as her palms fluttered down to rest against his chest. "Phoebe...." Pleasure ran like quicksilver through his veins. His head lolled back as he watched her ride him, her own head flailing, guttural moans escaping her lips against the backdrop of the pale blue sky. She was granting him simple pleasure as she'd rarely done when they'd been together. Back then she'd demanded a price. The price, more often than not, had been his dignity, his own sense of self. When he'd acquiesced, she'd let him know this joy. He looked up at her. She was lost in her own world. As lost as she'd always been. Every once in a while back then, their worlds would collide. When that happened, she'd given him what he'd needed. Only then. "No." He pushed against her with his hands. "No. Get off me." He felt himself slip free of her as she fell back against the sand. "Fox..." She was breathing heavily and her tone was ominous. "You don't scare me anymore." "Fox." "I don't need you anymore." She sat with her hands against the sand, her face tight with contempt. "Oh. Oh, you don't need me anymore. Who do you have now, Agent Mulder? Who helps you make it through the night?" He felt anger seethe behind his eyes. "You trashed my nights. You made me sleepless. That's the extent of your legacy and I live with it to this day." "You wanted to be punished." He stopped and stared at her. Her hair glistened in the soft sunlight; her breasts trembled against her chest. He saw the anger drawn tight along her face; he saw her disappointment, her insatiable need for... what? He nodded. "Maybe I did. Back then, maybe I did." He looked at her as she looked at him. "Not now, Phoebe." "So what do you want?" Her voice was soft. He shook his head. "I don't know." She looked down and pointed. "You want me, Fox. That says you do. You can't escape it." He knew his erection was still reaching towards her. "That only says there's something I want. That doesn't mean it's you." Her mouth twisted. "You haven't changed. You still want punishment. And that's the one thing I can give you." "You're wrong." As he said it, he knew it was true. Incredibly, he felt his chest swell with something that felt like like freedom. "I've been punished enough." It was true. And as the words left his lips, the woman he'd called Phoebe winked out. Once again, again and again, he was alone. THE HOLLOW MAN (5/5) *** NC-17 *** NOTE: You may recognize the last line of T.S Eliot's poem from "Pusher." DD used it in the episode to great effect when he described Modell's motivations in that he reversed it ironically to suit his purpose. (Well, either he did or the writer, but either way, it worked. And after all, DD *is* an English major.) Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. -- T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men Part 5: Not With a Whimper But a Bang Mulder was alone. He was starting to get used to it. The beach had faded away at some point and he found that he was lying in his apartment on his couch, his well-worn lint- spotted leather couch. Dust motes dotted the air as they danced around his muted halogen lights. He was naked still. Naked. Still naked. Why? He spent most of his days and nights with his clothes on. Why nude? Why now? "Because it's high time you were naked, Mulder." He inhaled sharply and turned. Scully. She stood in the archway, her pink-tipped breasts nodding at him. Didn't anyone wear clothes anymore? He lay and stared at the fullness of her breasts as they shaded the soft mildness of her belly and the ruddy v of the juncture of her thighs. God. From a distance, she looked 10 feet tall. He breathed in the perfection of her scale. Her legs were perfect in relation to her perfect middle in relation to her perfect chest in relation to the face he knew, the face he knew so well, framed as it was by iron-red hair which hung in a cascade along her face. She was naked, naked as a dream come true. He was dry. So dry. His lips parted and he felt his tongue jut out, thirsty for her, thirsty for the folds between her thighs, thirsty for the liquid he could already taste, the moisture he knew would quench his thirst at last. He was as parched as the dead land, the cactus land. "Scully..." He lay on his side on his couch and longed for her, his arms reaching out. She looked at him. There was nothing but tenderness on her face, nothing but a fathomless understanding. She whispered. "What is it you want, Mulder?" He breathed, his eyes almost closing. "You." He reached for her. "Why?" Her voice came to him like a whisper in the wind. "You are the only one I trust." He'd said it before. This time he knew it was true. He watched her approach slowly between the slit of his lids. The shadow and the light mated against the ivory of her skin. In her, the two were reconciled at last. He lay helpless as she bent over him gently, without demand, without expectation, until her lips brushed his. Her full ripe lips. His eyes closed as he clasped them between his. He sucked on them softly, his tongue probing gently, and her mouth opened willingly against his. Then his arms were around her. He pulled her down to him, his eyes still closed. He felt the warmth of her, the wetness of her, against him. "Mulder," she whispered against him. "Is this what you want?" "Yesssss..." And he rolled her beneath him as his erect sex pushed up against her, and he gasped as she opened to him without prerequisite. He sank down within her, slid down inside her, feeling her welcome him in. One thrust. She murmured soft words against his cheek as he claimed her. "Everything that I am, Mulder..." "I am..." he breathed. Another thrust. "Everything that I need..." "I am." Another thrust. "Everything that I seek..." "I am." And then for a time he simply pounded against her, her sweat mingling with his. She was small, so small beneath him, but so tight and so humid. He was afraid he might break her, so he held himself up and gazed at her face as she rocked underneath him, her hands on his shoulders, her legs wrapped around him, her eyes half closed, her lips parted in pleasure. She spoke. "You are what you need." He pushed up against her. "Yessss." "You are what you seek." "Yes." "You are." "Oh, God. Yes." And then he came. His climax ripped through him and he felt her shudder with him, her legs tight around him, her face open with the filling. He came and came and came. The spasms seemed endless as he ground down against her. Her mouth was wide open and he lost himself in it. It ended at last and he lay down against her, his tongue against hers. He could feel her arms around his neck. "Scully..." She sighed. "Who are you?" "Fox Mulder. I am Fox Mulder." As he said it, he knew it was true. Her lips were wet against his cheek. "Yes," was all she said. He slept. A bright pinpoint of light shone over Mulder as he opened his eyes. He'd seen the light before. His eyes roamed for a moment. Sterile white walls. A button near his cheek. A sharp, acrid antiseptic smell against his nostrils. Hospital. It was a setting he knew well. This time, though, he didn't know why he was here. He knew she would be there. Scully. He looked left and there she was. Smiling at him. Her hand was on his arm. "Hi." He barely recognized his voice. "Hi." "I..." He licked dry lips and closed his eyes. "Yes?" Her voice was a whisper. "I... had the strength of your beliefs." He didn't quite know what made him say that, but he opened his eyes in time to see her smile. She reached out and brushed fingers across his face. This time it was his question. "What happened?" All he could see was the blue of her eyes. "You had a blood clot on the brain." "A...?" It certainly helped explain the headache. The rest was a bit of a blur. Her hand tightened around his arm. "Probably a result of an old injury. That's what happens when you let yourself get pushed around." He could read the worry he'd etched in her face. "You collapsed in your apartment. You didn't even have time to shut your door. Fortunately, a neighbour found you and called 911." "Wow. Did William Shatner come?" He was being half-hearted, but she smiled anyway. "No. But it was touch and go there for awhile." He gazed at her. "Just as well. His dramatic delivery would've probably done me in." What had he put her through, yet again? Scully looked away. "You went into respiratory arrest during the surgery. That was the scariest part." He kept looking at her. "And then what?" She cleared her throat. "They had to dislocate your jaw to stick a tube down your throat. You're a stubborn bastard, Mulder. Your teeth were clenched shut." He didn't know what to think, except that all of it rang a faint bell. "Was I in a coma, Scully?" She refused to look at him. "Scully?" "Yes." Just like you were. He didn't say it out loud. Like you were that time when I waited for you and everyone said you were never coming back. "Yes." He stared at her. "Yes what?" She met his gaze evenly. "Like the time you waited for me and everyone said I was never coming back." His breath caught in his throat. "You heard me." She kept looking at him. Then she shrugged. "If not me, then who?" Suddenly he remembered her body under his. Suddenly he remembered all of it. His eyes closed. Jesus. He felt her hand against his face. This time, it rested there. "To each his near-death experience, Mulder." "You know." His eyes opened. Scully smiled. "How do you feel?" He laughed abruptly. The sound was strange to his ears. "Great. I feel great, Scully." She leaned a little closer and touched his lips with a fingertip. "Oddly enough, so do I, Mulder. So do I." END The Gossamer Project Author - Title - Date - Spoilers - Crossovers - X-Files - Adventures - Stories - Vignettes Download Other stories by Partous, Madeleine /Please let us know if the site is not working properly. Set story display preferences . Do not archive stories elsewhere without permission from the author(s). See the Gossamer policies for more information. /