From: Alexa James Date: Fri, 23 Oct 1998 20:29:27 GMT Subject: Title: The River Jordan (1/4) Title: The River Jordan (1/4) Author: Alexa James (alexaj@earthlink.net) Rating: R. There are some cursewords including the "f" word and adult situations relating to sex and violence. Classification: S, Major Mulder angst. So much Mulder angst you need a shovel to get through it. Angst lovers, get yer angst here! And some Scully angst, too Spoilers: The Movie Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST or MSR - I'll leave it up to your interpretation of the ending. Summary: A return trip to Antarctica forces Mulder into a horrific decision in order to save Scully's life. Can Mulder ever learn to live with what he's done? Can Scully? Archive: Anywhere, just let me know! Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner ... oh, heck, everyone in this story is the property of Ten Thirteen Productions, Chris Carter (hi, Chris...) and Twentieth Century Fox. They're not mine and I'm not making any money off em (but I'm working on it). If anyone at 1013 thinks this story is good enough to sue me over, you should probably just hire me instead.... Author's Note: A special thanks to Heidi and Angie, who badgered me into writing this when I swore I never would. Thanks, guys. I had a blast! ____________________________________________________________ THE RIVER JORDAN, PART I by Alexa James Special Agent Dana Scully stood silently at the edge of the ice crater, contemplating the bottom with a look that said she'd rather be anywhere but where she was. "Well, it's deep," she finally concluded. Fox Mulder waited beside her, wishing he could do more to relieve his partner's obvious distress. "I'm not sure what you expected to find. The site's been completely sanitized." Scully shrugged her shoulders impatiently, though Mulder wasn't sure if it was directed at him, herself or the situation in general. "I was just hoping for something more . . ." "Conclusive?" Scully shrugged again. "Like a big sign that says, ET phone home'?" "Mulder, we still have no evidence that the ship we saw was extraterrestrial." "Yeah, you're right, Scully. I'm sure it was just the regularly scheduled American Airlines Antarctica Express," he answered with his customary deadpan expression. They stood there in silence. There was no point in going through it all again. There was nothing new to say. Scully pulled her thick red Gortex parka closer around her neck and frowned once more into the crater. After a last, long look, she turned reluctantly away. "Let's go, Mulder." He lifted his gloved hand and brushed his fingers gently across her cheek. "I'm sorry, Scully. I know you were hoping for more." She smiled a little, though he couldn't see it beneath the insulated hood that covered most of her face. "It's okay, Mulder. I guess before you can find something, you have to know what it is you're looking for." He shrugged noncommittally. He was all too accustomed to dead ends. They both were. He just wasn't accustomed to seeing it matter so much to her. Together, they turned and walked back to the waiting snow cat. Unsure of the stability of the ice beneath them, the agents had left the vehicle behind a ridge some distance from the edge of the crater. As they made slow but steady progress, Mulder frowned up at the darkening sky. He was no authority on the weather, but back home those clouds meant snow. He'd feel better when they were safely back at the base. They continued in silence and Mulder let his thoughts wander to the events of the past week. He'd been surprised when Scully had come to him with a tentative request to return to Antarctica. Accustomed to his partner's skepticism and denial, he'd assumed she'd file away the experiences she'd had here in the same deep dark place where she kept the memories of her abduction. In spite of her testimony to the review board, he certainly didn't expect her to admit she had enough doubts about what she'd witnessed to go to the considerable trouble of returning to the scene. There hadn't been much time for investigation the last time they were here. Mulder's only concern then had been to get a weakened and hypothermic Scully to a medical facility before he lost her again. It wasn't the first time he'd sacrificed the chance for answers in order to save her. He hoped it would be the last. So it was with considerable reluctance that he agreed to return with her to the glacier. He'd had enough experience with the shadowy men behind the Project to know there wouldn't be much left to investigate after all this time. But he couldn't let her go alone and he had to admit he was more than a little intrigued at Scully's sudden passion regarding the X-Files. And that was why he was once again trudging across the desolate ice field, cursing the cold and the past and the men who had drawn both of them inexorably into their circle of lies. His thoughts were interrupted by a disturbingly familiar sound. A slow groaning rose from the ground below his feet and he stopped in his tracks, listening intently. "Mulder, what is it?" He held up his hand to silence her, heart pounding in his ears. It couldn't happen again. Even Mulder wasn't paranoid enough to believe that disaster would strike twice in the same place. But he'd known the surface was unstable when he made the decision to park the heavy snow cat far from the crater's edge. And he'd known the risk they had taken in setting out relatively unequipped and vulnerable across the ice. "Scully," he whispered, fearful that the sound of his voice might fracture the unstable surface. "I think we're standing on a sinkhole." Scully tried to cover her rising panic. She stood frozen in place, afraid, like Mulder, to move or talk lest the ice collapse beneath them. "We've got to keep moving," Mulder said finally, breaking the tense silence. "If we stand here much longer, we'll freeze to death anyway." He pointed up at the gathering clouds. "And we have to beat that storm back to base or we'll have bigger problems than sinkholes." To ease their hike, they had divested themselves of as much weight as possible before leaving the cat. Slogging through snowdrifts was difficult enough without being weighed down by extraneous equipment. Now they removed the few remaining expendable items they had with them, making themselves lighter so as to put as little pressure as possible on the fragile crust beneath their feet. "I guess I can look forward to another lecture from Skinner about my expense account," Mulder said wryly as he added his heavy military-grade binoculars to the small pile of discards on the snow. "Mulder, I hardly think one pair of binoculars is going to make a difference at this point." "But they were really good binoculars, Scully," he insisted. Scully shot him a bemused look, but it was wasted under her mask. Slowly, carefully, they continued their trek across the ice. The snow cat which had once seemed so close now felt miles away. And in his head, Mulder repeated his all-too-familiar litany. Please, please don't let anything happen to Scully. It was too much to hope that they'd make it, he'd think to himself later. Unlike the fictional heroes in the comic books he kept stashed in his desk, real-life situations usually turned out for the worse. Luck didn't hold. Prayers weren't answered. At least not for the people he knew. It all happened in an instant. The sharp crack that rent the air with its fury, a muffled cry from the woman at his side and then an empty space where she'd been a split second before. He dropped to his knees in the snow, panicked. "Scully? Scully, can you hear me?" "I'm down here, Mulder." Relief at hearing her voice left him unable to speak for a few moments. Thank you, thank you. Scully was all right. Well, alive at least. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?" he called down to her when he'd stopped shaking. "I'm okay, Mulder. I'm in some sort of cave, I think." Mulder lay flat on his stomach and peered into the narrow chasm through which Scully had fallen. He stretched his arm as far as it would go into the opening. "Can you reach my hand?" A pause and then her voice again, brittle and distant. "I....I don't think so, Mulder. I'm too far down." "Hang on, Scully, I'm gonna get you out of there." He tried to sound reassuring. He *would* get her out of there, he promised himself. But how? They'd stripped off most of their gear before they'd even left the cat and what they had wouldn't help much anyway. They hadn't expected to need climbing equipment, so they didn't have ropes or harnesses. Whatever plan he came up with would have to involve a whole lot of improvising. "How far down are you, Scully?" His mind raced while she estimated the distance. "It looks like about ten feet," she said finally. Ten feet. It might work. Quickly he stripped off his outer layer of clothes, thinking about the last time he'd done the same thing to save her in the same place. If we get out of this, I will never set foot in Antarctica again, he promised himself grimly. When he'd divested himself of his windpants and parka, he tied them tightly together and dangled the makeshift rope down into the opening. "Can you reach this?" His answer came via a reassuring tug on the other end of the rope. "Mulder, just exactly how are you planning to pull me up? You've got no leverage." She was right, of course. He squinted up at the snow cat parked on the ridge. Plenty of leverage there, but the heavy cat would break through the crust and collapse the walls of the cave. He would have to do it with muscle and grim determination. "Just hang on, Scully. And don't let go no matter what." Mulder dug his heels into the snow and prayed that the clothing manufacturer's product testing had included tensile strength while pulling people out of ice caves. He felt Scully's weight at the other end and hauled the makeshift lifeline up a few feet and then a few more. He felt a surge of triumph when he saw the coppery glint of her hair emerge from the top of the chasm. The plan was working. Then the thin fabric began to tear and Mulder lunged desperately for the edge to catch her before the improvised rope could break. He had time to notice a flash of red and feel the brief touch of her hand on his before he lost his footing and began the dizzying descent into the icy depths below. Mulder lay motionless on the ice packed floor of the cavern as he gloomily contemplated his surroundings. There wasn't much to see. It was cold. It was dark. And as far as he could tell, there was no way out. His plan had succeeded only in worsening their situation, stranding both himself and Scully below the surface. *Scully*. That singular thought was enough to rouse him back to full consciousness. He sat up quickly, ignoring the rush of blood to his head, and looked around frantically for his partner. She lay a few feet from him, face down and unmoving. God, no, not again. He crawled the few feet to her side and turned her gently over, removing his gloves and her hood and feeling efficiently for a pulse. His desperation eased a bit when he felt the thin but steady rhythm beneath his trembling fingers. She moaned a little at his touch and he smiled crookedly down at her as her eyelids fluttered open. "Mulder?" Her voice was faint and he leaned closer to hear her clearly. "I think we need another plan." He laughed aloud, relieved beyond measure to hear her speak. "Are you hurt?" he asked her, irrationally hoping for a negative response in spite of the considerable evidence to the contrary. She shifted a little, trying to sit up. After a brief struggle, she collapsed back onto the ice floor of the cavern. "My leg," she managed. "I think it's broken." "I've got to get you out of here," he said, reaching for the cell phone in his pocket and praying it was undamaged. He activated the phone and both of the agents smiled as the reassuring hum of the dial tone filled the silence of the cave. "Good thing I can't live without my cell phone," Mulder teased her as he dialed the number of the military base where they'd started out. The phone rang once, twice, three times before he heard the voice of the military operator on the other end. "This is Special Agent Fox Mulder requesting emergency evacuation from . . . " Damn, what were the coordinates? "What's your situation, Agent Mulder?" "Agent Scully and I are trapped in a cavern beneath the surface," he explained quickly. "I'm okay, but she's injured. I don't have our exact location, but we're near the destination listed on the report I filed with Ops." "That's no problem. If you filed a report, I can locate the coordinates," the operator assured him. "How soon can you get here?" Mulder asked anxiously. After a pause, the operator came back on the line. "There's a storm moving in on your location. All aircraft are grounded. Estimating . . . three hours before the system passes." Mulder squinted up at the thin slit of sky above their heads. "It's still clear. Can't you send the chopper out now?" "Negative, Agent Mulder. We're under white-out conditions here. Three hours is the best we can do. In the meantime, administer emergency medical treatment and try to stay warm. Do you want me to put a med tech on the line?" "Not necessary. Agent Scully's a doctor." Mulder waited until the base had established their location and then disconnected the call, storing the phone carefully back in the inside pocket of his parka. He turned back to Scully and briefly outlined the situation to her. "Can you make it for a couple hours?" he asked, concerned. She grimaced. "I don't have much choice, do I?" He hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "Scully, I - " "Mulder, not everything that happens to me is your fault," she chided him gently. "I'm the one who insisted on coming here, remember?" He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. "Don't worry about it," she said lightly. "When we get back to Washington, you can buy me another keychain." He grimaced a little but for once let the barb pass unchallenged. "Can you sit up?" She put her hands gingerly out behind her and began to push herself up, stopping midway and shutting her eyes tightly. "Scully, what's wrong? What is it?" She lay back on the ice and put her hands over her forehead. "I didn't want to say anything before, but I think we may have bigger problems than I thought. I think I may have a secondary concussion," she conceded reluctantly. He frowned for a moment, searching his memory for facts relating to the seriousness of concussions, then brightened. "Ty Detmer played the last half of the '96 Philadelphia-Dallas game with a concussion," he said hopefully. She smiled a thin smile. "I said a secondary concussion, Mulder. I must've hit my head the first time I fell and then again when you tried to pull me up." "And that means . . . " Neither of them bothered to finish the thought. The look in her eyes said it all. Suddenly three hours seemed about two hours and fifty nine minutes too long. "What can I do?" Automatically, Dr. Scully took over. "Keep the patient warm - " She paused and raised her eyebrow skeptically at the futility of that directive before continuing. "And keep her conscious. Prolonged unconsciousness leads to coma which can be fatal." She swallowed hard on the last word. "So I've got to keep you awake for three hours," Mulder replied, his eyes twinkling. "That's not such a tall order - you wouldn't be the first woman to lose sleep over me." "Just don't tell me any more football stories and you're halfway there, Mulder." Doing his best not to jar her injured leg, Mulder helped Scully to a sitting position against the wall of the cave. He found the tattered remains of the makeshift rope nearby and used them to fashion a crude pillow to insulate her from the ice at her back. Under Scully's direction, Mulder gathered several chunks of ice and improvised a platform. He had nothing with which to construct a splint, but he elevated her leg as well as possible and tried not to show his growing anxiety at her condition. Even in the frigid air of the cavern, beads of sweat were forming on Scully's face and her eyes held a hollow, glassy look. She was obviously in pain, but stubborn as she was, he knew she'd never admit it to him. He settled back against the wall next to her and pulled her gently into the crook of his arm. If she was startled by the unexpected intimacy, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she seemed to relax into his nearness and he was grateful to see the lines of pain on her face ease a little at his touch. He struggled for a topic of conversation that would please her, that wouldn't bring up the painful past or the uncertain future, and was struck by an odd thought. All the cross country plane trips, long days on surveillance, late nights in the basement office writing reports - and yet Mulder couldn't think of a single conversation they'd ever had that didn't revolve around the shadowy world of conspiracies and abductions that had become their common purpose. He was caught off guard at his sudden surge of regret that he hadn't used those opportunities to understand her better. He wondered if she felt the same way. She moaned a little, distracting him from his recriminations. There was no point in asking her if it hurt. He knew it did - on several levels. "So, Scully," he ventured. "I guess I'm the entertainment at this party. Or maybe you'd rather talk," he prompted hopefully. "I don't think so, Mulder. It doesn't get much better than my senior prom story," she said dryly. "Your what?" "Never mind." He looked hopefully down at her for an explanation but clearly she wasn't planning to offer one. "And I'm not going to sing, either," she added defensively. "Things are looking better already." She laughed softly. "I warned you about that, Mulder, but as usual you wouldn't listen." "Well, after five years of working together, I'm sure you've noticed taking advice isn't one of my strengths," he pointed out. "You must've had a hard time at the academy," Scully observed. He smiled cynically. "Yeah. Being Boy Wonder wasn't what it's cracked up to be. Still isn't, actually," he added with a wry smile. "But I was lucky. I found people who believed I had something to contribute. They helped me along or I'd probably have wound up rooming with Frohike and writing the advice column for The Lone Gunmen.'" "Right about now that doesn't sound so bad," Scully remarked, waving her hand weakly around the cave. He smiled again. "Believe me, Scully, this is better. You've never tasted Frohike's cooking. Every day, the man commits unnatural acts with macaroni and cheese." "It must have been nice to have people believe in you," Scully mused, apparently still thinking about Mulder's academy days. "Unlike now?" He regretted the words as soon as he said them, hating the weakness and self-pity they implied at a time when she needed him to be strong. He struggled for a way to ease the conversation away from himself and the minefield that was his past. "Tell me about med school," he said a little desperately. She smiled, settled more firmly into his embrace and began to talk. Mulder closed his eyes and let her voice wash over him, stopping her only occasionally to interject an encouraging response or a leading question. She was so easy to talk to, he thought, surprised. Why hadn't he noticed that before? Under any other circumstances, being snowbound with Scully in his arms would be an extremely appealing prospect. But this wasn't the rustic mountain cabin of his imagination. He was uncomfortably aware that both their lives depended on the storm moving off as quickly as possible. There was no need to articulate his fears. Even as he struggled to keep her distracted, he noticed Scully's eyes turning periodically to the small patch of clouds over their heads. As they talked and laughed, the sky turned a darker shade of gray and then finally a soft pink as the snow began to fall and the refracted light colored the air. Mulder tried not to notice Scully's voice getting weaker, the pauses between responses longer as the minutes slipped by. He looked down after a particularly long silence to find her eyes closed and her head resting against his chest. "Scully, don't fade on me," he urged, shaking her gently. Her eyes fluttered briefly open in response. "So cold," she whispered, her lips chapped and bleeding from exposure. "I know." He arranged her clothes more tightly around her and took her gloved hands in his, massaging them briskly. "Just hang on. My mother used to tell me to think warm thoughts." She managed a thin smile before closing her eyes again. Mulder looked at his watch. A little under two hours to go. He extracted his cell phone and dialed the base again, but the storm had cut off communications and he knew there was no point in calling anyway. The chopper would get here as soon as it could. Scully lifted her hand weakly and tugged at his sleeve. "Don't let me fall asleep, Mulder. I'm . . . counting . . . on you." She trailed off listlessly and slumped against the wall. He shook her harder this time, afraid of jolting her injuries but more afraid to let her sleep. There was only the thin sound of her breathing. He disengaged himself as gently as possible from her embrace in order to remove another layer of his outer wear with which to cover her. Despite his best efforts, he brushed against her broken leg as he slipped out of his parka. Her eyes flew open and he could see the tears standing in them as she came awake in response to the pain he'd inadvertently caused her. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said in low, anguished tones. So sorry. " S'okay," she mumbled. "You've got to try to stay awake, Scully," he urged her, but she had slipped away again. Mulder felt the pulse in her neck, his fingers slick with the sweat that coated her skin. It was steady but barely detectable. He cast his eyes desperately around the barren cave for inspiration. There had to be a way to keep her active, keep her mind working until help arrived. Think, Mulder, think. What keeps people awake? Basic needs, survival, biological imperatives. Hunger. Fear. Pain. She was already hungry and scared. Pain. Scully's wide-eyed gasp of pain when he'd brushed against her leg. For a moment, she'd been alert, completely conscious. Pain. The natural impulse of the body to defend itself against pain. As soon as he thought it, he recoiled. He wouldn't. More than that, he couldn't. To save Scully's life? Are you sure? She did it for you. And you thanked her for it. * Thank you for taking care of me, Scully.* He pushed away the images, fought to find a better answer, but it was Scully's voice that echoed in his ears. *"Prolonged unconsciousness leads to coma which can be fatal."* He was running out of time. Mulder had never been in combat, but he'd heard stories of the things men did to survive. Gruesome, horrific acts that would be inconceivable in the bright light of everyday life suddenly became acceptable in the face of certain death. And he'd seen the haunted look in the eyes of those who'd spun their moral compasses in order to live another day, and their tight-lipped silence when pressed to justify their actions. Could he peel another layer of humanity from his battered conscience, tear out another piece of his already ragged soul? But a better question was, could he let Scully die because he was afraid of his dark side? And even before the question was fully formed, Fox Mulder had his answer. "For you, Scully," he whispered into the stillness of the cavern. For you, I can bear it. (End of Part I) ____________________________________________________________ THE RIVER JORDAN, PART 2 by Alexa James Once the decision had been taken, he forced himself to think objectively. Too much pain and she'd simply pass out. Too little and she wouldn't feel it. His own finger throbbed from the memory of a recent experience with someone who knew where the line was and had danced along its edges with surefooted ease. His eyes fell on the small first aid kit that had fallen out of his pocket. Above all, do no harm. The physician's oath. Sound advice for anyone. Well, he'd told Scully how bad he was at taking advice. Only a minute or two had passed since he'd come to his decision, but Scully had lost consciousness and lay limply against the wall. Wasting precious seconds, he bent over her and brushed his lips lightly against hers. Their first kiss. He knew she couldn't hear him, but he needed to say it anyway. He wasn't sure he'd get another chance. "I love you, Scully," he whispered brokenly. Then he let the mask of grim determination fall over his face as he bent to his work. He tried the most obvious first, shifting her leg a few inches against the break. Scully's thin scream sent chills through him as her eyes flew open in pain and surprise. She tossed her head wildly, her gaze unfocused and disoriented in response to the unexpected assault on her senses. Thankful for small favors, Mulder forced the bile back into his throat. He wasn't sure he could bear to look her in the eyes just now. In fact, he wasn't sure he could ever look her in the eyes again. The brief moment of alertness quickly faded and he pushed the leg several more inches out of alignment. This time her eyelids only fluttered and she moaned and sunk further into sleep. Too much. Oh, God, he couldn't do this. Didn't know the first thing about inflicting pain other than the routine lecture on surviving capture he'd sat through at Quantico and a couple of low budget S&M flicks he'd rented when the video store was out of his favorites. Keep it simple, then. And before he could talk himself out of it, he'd pulled back his hand and brought it hard across her cheek. Scully's head snapped to the side and he stared anxiously down at her. She opened her eyes and stirred. "Mulder," she mumbled, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. "Mulder, help me." "Stay with me, Scully," he said more sharply then he intended, his nerves frayed to the breaking point. For a grateful minute, Mulder thought the slap had done the trick. But soon she began to droop again. This time he aimed for her other cheek, trying to ignore the bruise that was forming from the first blow. "Stop," she whispered brokenly. "It . . . hurts." "I know," he whispered under his breath. "I know." He was afraid he'd exacerbate her concussion if he hit her again, so he fumbled in his pockets for inspiration and came up with a book of matches and a penknife. He laid them out carefully next to the first aid kit. Methodically, he bared the foot of her good leg and picked up the matches. The sole of the foot was incredibly sensitive, or so he'd been told. And more importantly, the scars wouldn't how. The scars. Oh, God, Scully, you'll carry the reminders of my actions with you long after I'm gone. This isn't how I want you to remember me. He struck the first match and held the flame against the soft white skin of her arch. The acrid stench of singed flesh filled the cramped space. He choked back his nausea and fought to keep his hand steady. Scully screamed again, wide awake, and jerked her foot away from the flame. "Scream, Scully, scream," he urged in a low, thick voice. Screaming meant life, struggle meant survival in the most literal sense. He wrenched her foot back and pinned it firmly between his thighs. Then he lit another match and held it to the same spot. He ran basketball plays in his head in a feeble attempt to distract himself from her struggles to free herself as the match burned down against her flesh. He lit another one and Scully stared at it and then up him in sudden recognition. "Mulder, God, Mulder, please stop." She was sobbing now, wide awake and desperate. The precious match fell from Mulder's fingers onto the ground between them and burned itself out, forgotten, as he stroked her face. "I've got to keep you awake, Scully," came his strangled explanation. "Please, please understand. I don't know what else to do." For a moment she was completely lucid, her face registering her horrified understanding of the situation. In those brief seconds before her world turned again to a blur of pain and confusion, he tried desperately to communicate the reasons, the sacrifice. There were no words adequate to describe what his actions were costing him, but he prayed she could see it in his eyes. Her lips moved but she made no sound. She motioned him nearer to her. Tears streaming down his face, he complied. When he was close enough, she reached up and clumsily pulled him to her. He let out a strangled cry at the unexpected and undeserved tenderness as she gently ruffled his hair and cradled him against her body. He could feel the hot wet salt of her tears soaking into his skin and running down his face until they mixed with his own. And he felt the burden of survival distribute itself equally between them and they cried each other's tears for what she had to let him do. They sat there for awhile, as she stroked his head in silent signal of her continuing consciousness. He allowed himself to relax against her, gathering his senses back about him, alert to any change in her rhythm as her fingers threaded their cadence through the stiff strands of his hair. The tension between them precluded speaking but it didn't matter. There was nothing to say anyway. She knew he was waiting for her caress to falter. He knew that when it did he'd be forced to hurt her again. But when at last her fingers stilled, he lifted himself from her with a new strength her consent had given him. There were only two matches left and he let them both burn long after they scorched his own fingers, punishing himself for his choices, now and before. He welcomed the pain of the flame against his chapped skin. Mulder had never been a religious man, but the atonement he felt in searinghis o wn flesh along with Scully's was surprisingly healing. In an odd way he was sorry when the match burnt out and the cavern grew dim again. She was awake for the time being and they resumed their wordless comforting of one another. The interval of respite before she began to fade was shorter this time and Mulder steeled himself to continue. He looked at his watch and then up at the sky. The small patch of light that determined their future was still stormy, the snow still fell through the small opening and dusted the area around them with soft flakes. But those flakes were falling less densely than before and he hoped it was more than wishful thinking that the sky seemed a little clearer with each passing minute. Scully was strong, but she couldn't go on indefinitely. Eventually her body would give up fighting against her injuries, the cold and the indignity of his clumsy attempts at revival and would simply pass out regardless of Mulder's efforts. But until then he had a few more cards up his sleeve. He'd fight for Scully's life with every tool at his disposal before he allowed her last memories to be those of pain and terror suffered at his hands. He'd been putting it off, ignoring the glint of metal on the floor beside him. Finally, he picked up the penknife and weighed it in his hand. He couldn't do it without giving her a choice, however meaningless that choice was. Couldn't cut into the soft skin of her body without her consent. He raked the sharp edge of the knife hard against the burned sole of her foot and her eyes opened again, more slowly than before. The cold had dulled her reactions and her sense of pain. The effects of the burns were already fading as her body's natural defenses went to work, forcing him to vary his techniques to keep her alert. He waited anxiously while she oriented herself and gritted his teeth as her eyes moved down to take in the knife he held in his hand. She met his grim stare with her own. She managed an entirely unconvincing smile of bravado. "So it's come to this," she mumbled dispiritedly. He sat beside her and took her hand mutely into his own. Stripping off the glove, he turned her palm up and stroked it slowly and deliberately with the tips of his fingers, trying with tenderness to make up for the brutality to come. Weak from pain and fear, she leaned drunkenly toward him and rested her forehead against his, taking strength, giving it. He could see the struggle on her face as her courage and trust in him warred against her primal fear at the thought of a blade cutting into her body. Oddly, her last instruction, born solely of a woman's vanity, touched him as even her tears had not. "Don't leave a scar." There was nothing he could say. Whatever Fox Mulder was, he was no coward. As he plunged the knife deep into the soft flesh of her palm, he didn't flinch from her stare. Instead he attempted to give her the gentleness and love with his eyes that he couldn't give with his hands. He couldn't share her pain but he could know it and not deny it. He could take the moment and live with it. As she would have to. He had spilled her blood and nothing could be the same. Whatever they were to each other was marked by the passage of this moment and he would not turn away. She was extraordinary, this small woman with a lion's heart. She matched his courage, letting him do what he had to do without complaint or resistance. She screamed but did not move her hand away as the metal sunk into it. Only when he'd finally dropped the knife to the ground did she reach for him. They clenched their hands together and he felt the warmth of her blood on his skin as the steam rose from the jagged wound. They sat silently, hands entwined, transfixed by the sight of Scully's blood dripping in a steady stream onto the snow beneath them. It glistened black and oddly beautiful in the dim light of the cave. He'd been cut before and he knew the pain was transient, a fluid, silvery sensation that disappeared rapidly as the body compensated for the invasion of a foreign object into its center. What was keeping her alert was the sheer insanity of the act, the body's righteous indignation at being injured and her fear of it happening again. But even that wouldn't last long; her body's ultimate defense would be to shut down. Reluctantly, he reached for the first aid kit and drew out the small bottle of alcohol. The peroxide would serve the dual purpose of cleansing the wound and prolonging the pain as it burned into her flesh. She let out an involuntary gasp at the sight of the bottle. He sighed. Scully was a physician. Even in her present condition, she knew all too well the effects of pure alcohol on tissue. "Screw your courage to the sticking place, Scully," Mutter muttered as he loosened the cap. The allusion wasn't lost on her. She looked down at her trembling, bloodstained hands and back up at him with half-crazed eyes. He did it quickly because there was no other way. Despite her best efforts, she tried to pull away as he poured a thin stream of alcohol into her wound, but he held her tightly and worked the searing liquid deep into her hand. "Oh, God," she gasped. "I can't. Please, Mulder, I . . . can't." She was breathing in broken strangled gasps as the peroxide burned into her skin, but she was awake and alert and Mulder focused gratefully on that. It was working. She would live. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the Titian strands of her hair as he fought for composure. "Not too much longer," he reassured her. "Just stay with me, Scully." But mentally he was calculating his next move. The bottle of peroxide was small and wouldn't hold out forever. If the chopper didn't get here soon, he would have to get really creative really fast. And he didn't think he could bear to cut her again. More practically, he didn't think her weakened body could take the loss of more blood. He continued holding her tightly, pulling back occasionally to make sure she was still awake and stonily pouring a few precious drops of alcohol into her wound each time she began to fade. As he emptied the last of the peroxide and held her through the pain, he forced himself to contemplate his next effort. He tried to affect confidence, but he'd never been good at hiding anything from her. She looked down at the empty container in his hand, understanding the implications of it just as he did. "The chopper's not here yet," she whispered unsteadily. It was a question and he ached to give her the answer she wanted. But all he had - all he'd ever had - to offer her was the truth. "No." The word stretched between them and hung heavy with their combined fears. He took her hand in his and stroked it gently, his gaze riveted to her fourth finger. It would hurt but she wouldn't pass out. He knew that much from experience, just as he knew several other things. That the pain would linger for days, that the smallest movement would cause agony. And that sleep would be impossible. She followed his gaze and tried without success to conceal her horror. Not for the first time, Mulder wished the unspoken communication between them wasn't quite so strong. It would be better for her not to know. "Oh, Mulder, no," she pleaded. He shrugged helplessly. "A last resort, Scully," he promised. "Maybe it won't come to that." Please, God, let it not come to that. His assurances were hollow ones and they both knew it. He was too far over the line to stop now. They sat together in silence, Mulder methodically caressing the jagged wound in her palm with his thumb, feeling the hot slick blood cool almost immediately as it reached her icy skin. He could feel her wince each time he crossed the cut. She pressed her body into his and he felt each small shudder run through her and into his body like a current as he milked the injury for every bit of pain he could wrench from it. He was delaying the inevitable, but surely help would arrive soon. It had been nearly three and a half hours since he'd called the base, but it felt more like a lifetime - Scully's lifetime. Scully struggled desperately to stay awake, even spending precious strength by clenching her hand and digging her own fingers into the wound to keep herself conscious. She gave everything she had and Mulder felt his heart break as he watched her steady progression from determination to panic and finally to defeat as she began to slip away again. Setting his jaw, he gripped her tightly and pressed his lips against her hair before reaching for her hand. "No, Mulder, no." Her voice was jagged and raw. "Oh, God, Scully, forgive me." He bent her finger back and she screamed. Suddenly, she wrenched her hand out of his grip. He fought to retrieve it, but she pushed him away. "Mulder, no." "Scully, I . . . " "No, stop. Listen." He began to cry in earnest then as the staccato sound of the chopper blade rent the air above like an avenging angel sent to claim his due. It must've taken the last of her strength to stop him. That she heard anything at all in her condition stood as testimony to her extraordinary will to survive. Oh, God, oh, God, thank you, Mulder thought to himself and realized with a start that he'd said the words aloud. But Scully hadn't heard him. She was too busy with her own prayers. Inside the chopper, Mulder sat near Scully and pretended not to notice the suspicious glances of the med techs as they examined his partner. They tried to ask him about her injuries, but his voice was weakened from the strain and the cold and he couldn't make his answers heard over the deafening drone of the engine. Not that he was complaining. In fact, he couldn't recall ever hearing a sweeter sound than that of the rescue helicopter as it hovered over their heads. Mulder still didn't believe in miracles, but the appearance of the chopper at that exact moment was as close to divine intervention as he'd ever experienced. Weak from relief as much as from her injuries, Scully had lapsed into complete unconsciousness as the harness was lowered into the chasm. The rescue team had pulled them up together, Mulder holding Scully tightly in his arms and muttering formless words of contrition into her frozen hair. When they reached the surface, he had surrendered Scully's limp body gratefully to the medics and stumbled a few feet away as they loaded her onto a stretcher. Unhurt and therefore relatively ignored by the crew as they labored over Scully, Mulder dropped to his knees in the snow and gave in gratefully to the nausea he'd fought back during the preceding hours. His stomach was empty and he dry heaved convulsively until his throat was as raw as his lips and hands. Blood trickled from his mouth and onto the ground. The sight of it on the white snow brought back the vivid memory of Scully's blood on the floor of the cave and he succumbed to another bout of retching before he got himself back under control. When he could punish his body no further, he rose unsteadily and climbed aboard the helicopter, cursing this god forsaken stretch of ice for almost taking their lives twice over. He didn't care if every answer to every question he'd ever asked lay buried beneath the frozen ground; he'd never set foot on this glacier again. Despite Mulder's obvious desire to be left alone, the techs insisted on examining him. The results weren't news. His hands were frostbitten, his voice nearly gone. He was cold, tired and hungry, but essentially unhurt. He sat in a daze as they wrapped his hands in gauze and his body in a thick woolen blanket. It was only when one of the technicians tried to wash the blood off his hands that he resisted. He needed the physical evidence, needed a reminder to himself that what he'd done to Scully couldn't be so easily washed from his conscience. *Not everything that happens to me is your fault, Mulder.* He looked over at her, startled. It was as though she'd spoken, so clear was her voice in his head. Even now, she was protecting him. Nice try, Scully, but there's no rationalizing myself out of this one. The sky had cleared and the ride back to base was an obscenely short one. If not for the storm, rescue would have been only minutes away. The pilot had radioed ahead and a small clump of official looking personnel were on hand to greet the chopper as it touched down on the landing pad. One of the medics helped Mulder disembark before turning back to take care of Scully. As Mulder watched them unload her, he felt a tentative tap on his shoulder. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder turned to see a military policeman standing behind him. He nodded indifferently in acknowledgment and shifted his attention back to the small knot of medical personnel clustered around Scully. The young sergeant cleared his throat nervously, confidence in his own authority shaken by the curious combination of detachment and intensity of Mulder's body language. "I realize you've just been through quite an ordeal, Agent Mulder, but I have a few questions I need to ask you . . . if you're feeling up to it." Mulder closed his eyes and took a slow breath. Well, let it be done, then. There is nothing you can do to me worse than what I'm doing to myself "Your partner's injuries . . . well, let's just say they weren't exactly what our team expected to find when they pulled you up." Before the MP could continue, Mulder held up his hand wearily. "I'm not in the mood to dance, Sergeant, so I'll save you the trouble," he rasped, swallowing painfully as the air rushed past his chapped throat. "I'm responsible for Agent Scully's condition." The MP hesitated and Mulder looked meaningfully at him. "Entirely responsible," he added sharply. "That is what you wanted to know, isn't it?" The MP nodded uncertainly, looking incongruously like the guilty party in the odd exchange. He swallowed hard before continuing and managed, barely, to infuse his next statement with the requisite ring of formality. "In that case, Agent Mulder, I'm afraid I've got to place you under arrest. Pending your satisfactory release from our medical facility, you'll be transferred to civilian authorities where these charges can be fully investigated. At this time, I must inform you that you have the right to remain silent..." Mulder listened with half an ear as the MP read him his rights. When he'd finished, the young sergeant hesitated again before holding out his hand. "I'll have to ask you to turn in your weapon and your badge." Mulder reached mechanically into his parka and surrendered the requested items as the stretcher bearing Scully's prone body passed by him. He reached out his hand and caught one of the medics by the shoulder. "Is she going to live?" he asked softly. The tech looked over at the doctor for confirmation before nodding riefly. Somewhere beneath the dense mantle of weariness and guilt that had wrapped itself around his heart, Fox Mulder found a smile. He barely noticed when they slipped the handcuffs on. He was too busy watching the ambulance drive Scully away. (End of Part 2) ____________________________________________________________ THE RIVER JORDAN, PART 3 by Alexa James She was cold. So cold. She cried out for warmth and somewhere beyond her field of vision a dark shape reached down and covered her. She sank gratefully back into sleep, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders and mumbling soft thanks to whomever had put it there. The blanket turned damp and fluid, cocooning her in its slick, stringy fibers. Frightened and disoriented, she struggled to reweave the delicate threads of the fabric. In spite of her efforts, she could feel it falling away in her hands. She felt something sticky on her palm and she lifted it to the pulsing light that surrounded her. She screamed then, a long thin scream she didn't recognize as her own. The sound brought the dark shape running to her side again. Confused, she held up her hand, covered in blood. The room went dark as she felt someone take her palm and caress it over and over again. She could not see who comforted her, but she heard the words in her mind. *I love you, Scully.* She felt a tugging at her feet and looked down. Emily was in all her dreams lately. This time she was holding a knife. *It's okay, mommy.* She watched mutely as Emily giggled and tossed the knife to the dark shape. The blade embedded itself in the heart of the figure with an exaggerated cartoon sound effect. Emily clapped her hands with a delighted squeal. The figure's hand reached down and pulled the knife free before turning its attention back to where she lay. The last thing she heard as the knife arced toward her was Emily's laughter. "Dana? Wake up! Dana!" Scully thrashed her arms around frantically, struggling to beat off the dark figure as it pushed her down into the snow. She could feel it enveloping her, holding her down, and she strained to break free of its stringy grip. Then the shape had a face and a voice. The snow became the crisp white linens on her bed and the hold of the dark thing dissolved itself into the IV tubes swinging wildly above her as she tossed back and forth restlessly. The nurse was looking at her, concerned and a little exasperated. Scully sighed. This was the third time tonight that she'd had the nightmare. Nurse Daly was being quite patient about the situation, but the strain of running down the long hallway in response to Scully's cries was starting to show in her usually tireless step. Scully tried for a guilty smile, but her face was stiff from the frostbite. "I'm sorry," she croaked, her throat still raw. "I should be used to it by now, I guess." "What it the same dream again, Dana?" Scully nodded. The nurse busied herself for a few minutes adjusting the bed and securing the IV Scully had knocked loose in her struggles. When she was done, she sat gingerly on the side of the bed and took Scully's bandaged hand firmly in her own. "There's a man I think you should talk to. He helps people work things like this out." "You mean a psychiatrist," Scully said flatly. The nurse sighed. "Well, yes, I do." Scully closed her eyes and let out a ragged, frustrated breath. Nurse Daly was only doing her job. She had no way of knowing that Scully didn't want to understand the dream. Despite her desire to rid herself of the frightening images, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something in it that she wasn't ready to know. Nurse Daly could see she'd lost the battle and she rose from Scully's bedside with a brisk straightening of her skirt and a reflexive smoothing of the blanket. "Well, then, shall we try it again?" Scully nodded mutely and the nurse left the room, flicking off the light on her way out the door and leaving her alone again to dream her dreams of darkness. And to wonder why in the hell Mulder hadn't come to see her. As usual, Mulder had his own ideas of where he ought to be and as usual, they were very different from Scully's. He struggled without success to fit his lanky shape into the unnaturally short prison bed. After the first few tries at sleep, he'd given up the idea entirely and contented himself with brief catnaps propped up against the cold cement block wall. But while Scully's sleep was filled with dreams of dark shapes, Mulder didn't need to close his eyes to see the darkness that had pervaded his world ever since they had fallen through the ice. In a transparent and ineffectual attempt to lure him from his cell, Skinner had kept him updated on Scully's condition. The last report, several hours ago, was that Scully was conscious and much stronger. And that she couldn't remember. He knew this was bad news for him. He wasn't so mired in self-flagellation that he couldn't see the situation he was in for what it was. Scully's memory loss meant he was in here for the foreseeable future. He knew he was supposed to be upset, but the truth was, he was glad. He didn't want her to remember. A gentle voice deep inside of him whispered that she would understand. And it tried to remind him that Scully hadn't gone off on an orgy of self-pity when she'd been forced to shoot him. But she wouldn't understand everything, a more insistent voice jeered. There are some things beyond the forgiveness of even Dana Scully's heart. And that was why he was sitting in the federal holding facility instead of at Scully's bedside. She was better. Her throat had healed and the red spider web of broken blood vessels and bruises that had networked her face was fading almost by the hour. Skinner attempted to arrange his face into a semblance of professional detachment as he crossed the room to perch gingerly on the edge of her bed. "How're you feeling?" She was sitting up and she fingered her blanket self-consciously before answering with a weary smile. "To tell the truth, sir, I'm getting a little tired of being quick frozen." "I spoke with your doctor. If you feel up to it, you can go home today." He hesitated a moment before continuing. "Agent Scully, there are some . . . questions regarding the events that occurred in Antarctica that need to be cleared up." "Actually, sir, I was hoping you could clear up some questions for me." Skinner's face tightened. So she still didn't remember. Damn. The doctor had warned him that recovery from concussive memory loss was erratic. She might remember everything today, tomorrow . . . or never. She lifted her bandaged hand briefly. "For a start, how did I get this?" "What's the last thing you remember?" Skinner parried, playing for time. She frowned as she considered his question. "Well, as you know, sir, Agent Mulder and I were in Antarctica following up on an X-File. We'd been examining an ice formation for trace evidence when the surface became unstable. I remember Mulder saying something about a pair of binoculars . . ." She trailed off uncertainly. "Anything else?" She shook her head. "Just fragments, really. I remember cold and dark. I remember Mulder with me and . . . " Here she hesitated, her forehead creasing in confusion. Skinner held his breath, waiting for her to finish. ". . . Mulder and I were . . . somewhere alone . . . at least I thought we were alone, but - " "But what?" "But there must have been someone else," she said with quiet certainty. "How so?" She lifted her bandaged hand again. "Someone must've done this," she added simply. Skinner chose his words carefully. "The Navy medics who rescued you reported that you and Agent Mulder fell through the ice crust into a sinkhole. Mulder called for help on his cell phone but apparently your rescue was delayed by several hours due to a storm system. You were airlifted to the nearest naval base until your condition stabilized and then on to D.C. All of which explains the concussion and broken leg - " " - and the frostbite," Scully finished for him. "But it doesn't explain the rest, does it?" "No, I'm afraid it doesn't." Suddenly, Scully appeared to grow tired of the verbal sparring. "Sir, where is Agent Mulder? Surely he's in a better position to answer these questions than I am." There was no good way to tell her, so he didn't try to soften his words. "Agent Mulder is in a federal holding facility pending assault and battery charges." Her eyes widened in surprise. "Assault and battery? On whom?" Skinner didn't answer, but he couldn't stop his eyes from dropping down to where her bandaged hand rested delicately on the blanket. Scully followed his gaze, caught the implication, and then looked back at him disbelievingly. "Agent Mulder isn't responsible for my injuries," she whispered, so low he had to strain to hear her. "He says he is." "But . . . but why? Why would Mulder do this to me? To anybody?" Skinner shrugged uneasily. "In the statement he gave to the authorities when they brought him in, he claims he did it to keep you awake until help arrived. Says you told him you'd die if you lost consciousness for any length of time." Seeing her distress, Skinner added softly, "Agent Scully, I think it's safe to assume that Mulder's actions were those of last resort. In spite of the charges against him, I see no reason to believe he acted out of malicious intent." She nodded slowly, disbelievingly. Then she frowned again as a new thought struck her. "If he told the authorities all this, why is he still in custody?" "I'm not sure I know the answer to that, Scully," Skinner answered, rubbing his temple wearily. "I pulled every string I knew to arrange bail, but he refused. And without your testimony, there's no one to clear him of the charges." "Sir, you've got to get him out of there." Skinner allowed himself a brief, relieved smile. The doctors had confirmed that Mulder's actions had likely saved Scully's life. Unfortunately, Mulder's refusal to defend himself and his insistence on remaining incarcerated were the actions of a guilty man. But whatever Mulder's reasons for wanting to remain behind bars, Skinner now had better ones for setting him free. "If you're willing to substantiate Mulder's story, I can have him released by this afternoon." Skinner was already reaching for his cell phone. Scully frowned. "Sir . . . " The A.D. stopped and looked sharply at her. "What is it, Agent Scully?" "It's going to be . . . difficult for me to corroborate facts that I don't actually *remember*." Skinner put the phone down and looked intently at her for a long moment before speaking. "Agent Scully, I admire your sense of integrity. I always have. And I fully understand that your recollection of events is still . . . incomplete . . . " He stopped and cleared his throat before choosing his words precisely. "But we can all be grateful that the details you remember are . . . adequate . . . to cast sufficient doubt on Agent Mulder's guilt and motive to the extent that the authorities have no option but to drop the charges." "Are you asking me to lie to those authorities, Assistant Director Skinner?" "As an employee of the Justice Department, it would be illegal and inadvisable for me to counsel you to obstruct justice in this case or any other, Agent Scully," he answered gravely. "Of course, sir," she said, matching his somber tone. And then with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, she added, "Then it's lucky for Agent Mulder that my memory is returning." Mulder didn't look up as Skinner entered the cell. The A.D. took the opportunity to appraise the condition of the young man who sat morosely against the concrete wall. What he saw worried him. Mulder was a shadow of the powerful and driven man whose passion and insubordination had alternately earned him the respect and aggravation of his boss. Unshaven and hollow-cheeked, he wore a washed-out prison uniform one size too large for his lanky and currently underfed frame. His hair was unwashed and matted, his arms rested limply on his thighs. The overall effect was that of a windblown and abandoned scarecrow. His physical appearance was distressing, but Skinner had seen him look worse. It was Mulder's eyes that had aroused Skinner's concern. In them he saw the look of a man who'd given up and it scared the hell out of him. "Agent Mulder, you're free to go." Mulder barely stirred at the news. "I told you I didn't want your help." "It's not a question of my help. The charges against you are being dropped, so unless you've got another felony you'd like to confess to, there's no further reason to hold you." "Give me a minute and I'll come up with something." Skinner sighed. He was used to Mulder as Crusader and Mulder as Insubordinate. It was Mulder as Martyr he was running out of patience with. "Agent Mulder, if you want to wear a hair shirt, that's your business. But as of now, you're going to have to continue this little exercise in self-deprivation elsewhere. You've worn out your welcome here." "Thanks for the etiquette lesson." Skinner rubbed his chin in frustration. Like the scarecrow he resembled, Mulder was demonstrating all the reasoning power of someone with a head full of straw. "Dammit, Mulder, I figured you for a lot of things but never for a coward and certainly never for a fool. It's a good thing Agent Scully is still rational enough to understand you don't belong in a prison cell." Skinner's choice of words had the intended effect. Mulder's head snapped up and his eyes blazed into life. "She remembers," he said tightly. "No, but you didn't hear it from me. The point is she's sensible enough to afford you the benefit of the doubt." Skinner crossed impatiently to the door of the cell. Reaching for the handle, he stopped and turned back to Mulder. "Maybe it's time you extended her the same courtesy." (End of part 3) _____________________________________________________ THE RIVER JORDAN PART 4 by Alexa James The dark shape was back, but now it had a face. She shrank back in spite of the familiarity, or perhaps because of it. Shivering, speechless, she drew herself up into the corner of the couch and recoiled from its touch, even as she knew she needed the suffocating blackness in order to live. The figure bent toward her and she fought to avoid its reach. She felt something heavy and cold in her lap and looked down to see the glint of metal as it rested on her abdomen. Slowly, mechanically, she yielded up the knife. One person, split into two. Cowering against the slick vinyl of the couch, moving toward the blade as it sliced into her body. In the dim light of the nearby aquarium, she caught a glimpse of the figure's face as it cut her. It was crying. Scully sat up in bed, frantically rubbing her eyes to rid them of the lingering images of her dream. Mulder looking down at her, holding a knife. Mulder crying. But this time the stark visions that had tormented her in sleep did not disappear when she opened her eyes. My God, they weren't dreams. They were memories. Mulder, what did you do to me? She reminded herself that she had been in Mulder's position once, had made a split second decision to wound the man who trusted her above all others in order to save him from greater harm. This situation was no different, she told herself firmly. But she knew it was. For both of them. She'd been preparing to leave the hospital when Skinner showed up with the news that Mulder had been released. She'd half-hoped she'd find him waiting outside her door when she'd arrived home, but she knew better. She knew Mulder. Damn you, Mulder, she thought angrily. I didn't stop needing you when they pulled me out of the ice. She rose stiffly from the bed and hobbled into the bathroom. She flicked on the light more out of habit than any real need to see and squinted against the sudden brightness. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she leaned over to examine the faded marks on her face. *Superficial frostbite lesions due to prolonged exposure to extreme temperatures, bruises appear to be to result of a blow to the face with a blunt object, most likely a hand -* Startled, she realized she'd been examining her own body as she did the ones she autopsied, using the physical signs of trauma to tell a story the victim couldn't tell. She inhaled sharply, struck by the sheer obviousness of it, amazed that she hadn't considered it sooner. She couldn't remember what had happened to her in the cave. It was possible she never would. But maybe she didn't need to. The body tells a story. Death is a recorded event. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. She wasn't dead, of course, but she was no more capable of telling her own story than the corpses she examined. And like them, her body had its own story to tell. Doubly frustrated at her slow progress now that she had a plan, she made her way into the living room and retrieved the pocket recorder she kept in her purse, along with a blank microcassette. The only full length mirror was in the bathroom. Oblivious to the goose bumps that appeared on her skin, she quickly stripped off her clothing and abandoned it in a pile on the chilly tile floor. Where to begin? Where do you always begin, Dr. Scully? She slid the record button into place with a snap and began to speak. "Subject is female, Caucasian, age 34, weighing 120 pounds . . ." By the time she finished, the early morning sun was reaching through her window and bathing her wounded body in the gentle pink of the sunrise. She was exhausted, but she had her story. For the first time since she'd awakened in the hospital, Scully slept and the dark shape did not come. Mulder walked down the garishly lit hallway until he found the number the clerk had given him. He entered the room, closing the battered wooden door firmly behind him, and took a seat on the plastic chair that served as the only furniture in the room. The cramped spartan cubicle smelled of at least two generations of sin and loneliness. It held the intimacy and desperation of a confessional without any of the trappings of piety that couched sin in pretty words and sacrament. He had in fact considered baring his guilty secrets to Scully's God. It seemed appropriate - who better to measure the gravity of his sins, he'd figured, than the God who had the well-being of Dana Scully's soul in his keeping. But Scully's God was too close to Scully's heart to hear these sins. So he had gone in search of a more familiar confessor. He had lost his soul on the ice and it was fitting that he should seek redemption among others who had lost their souls in other caves with other acts equally unforgivable. He heard a soft click and looked up impassively as the woman entered and smiled seductively at him through the glass. She was dressed in predictable black lace - a Victoria's Secret knock-off with high heels and garters, cheap red hair dye and clashing lipstick. Mulder grimaced. He'd asked for a redhead but now he wasn't sure he'd made the right decision. He didn't want to think of Scully like this. She slowly kneeled down in front of him, giving him a good view of the pale roundness of her thighs as she spread them slightly in routine invitation. He heard her voice echo tinnily through the cheap speaker, artificially throaty and slightly bored. "What's your pleasure, handsome?" Mulder took out his wallet and pushed a twenty-dollar bill through the narrow slot into her hands. "I just want to talk." She smiled a tired smile that suggested she'd heard that line before and it was always a lie. Then, seeing that he was serious, she tucked the twenty into her garter and sat gingerly on the floor in front of the window, tucking her legs underneath her body and extracting a cigarette from her cleavage. "Twenty buys you half an hour." Across town, Dana Scully made her way slowly up the cracked stone stairs and into the cathedral, the soft thumps of her crutches reverberating gently off the arched ceiling like a pulsing heartbeat. She maneuvered herself awkwardly into the confessional and took her seat. Her cast, too large for the vestibule, propped open the door a few inches and Scully hoped no one was waiting outside to overhear. Not that she had the faintest idea of what she was planning to say. She heard the soft rustle of the priest in the booth next to her and wondered again why she had come. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." The words were comforting in their familiarity, but not entirely accurate. It was Mulder's sins that had brought her here. It seemed Mulder had become so close to her heart that his sins had somehow become her own. "Do you wish to confess?" the priest prompted and Scully realized she'd been sitting in silence for quite a while. "I'm not sure." The voice on the other side of the panel came back, gentle and encouraging. "If there is a weight on your soul, God can help you put it down." She thought of Mulder, alone and frightened somewhere beyond her reach. Mulder in a prison cell, punishing his body and his spirit for what his hands had done. Mulder, blinded and incoherent in the face of his own shame, unable to wash the blood - her blood - from his hands. Her need was for another, more intimate sacrament. "There is someone who can help me, Father," Scully said quietly. "But I don't think it's God." In the courtyard of the church was a small fountain dedicated to St.Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. She smiled. If the last five years had taught her anything, it was a healthy appreciation for the worth of lost causes. But this particular one wasn't lost yet. This one she still had the power to save. She rummaged through her purse until she found the cassette tape. Crossing herself, she dropped the tape into the fountain, hoping the seminary student responsible for cleaning it would understand. She watched as the tape sank to the bottom and rested there, swaying hypnotically with the gentle current of the water. The tiny air bubbles that had formed on the shiny metallic casing delicately reflected the midmorning sun. The tiny points of light reminded Scully unaccountably of teardrops, frozen on a field of snow. The smoke added another layer of grime to the window as she took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled slowly before speaking. "So you did what you had to do," she said practically, waving her cigarette in the air to indicate her surroundings. "Look around. No one here gets out alive." She'd listened patiently, smoking and nodding sympathetically as he poured out his story. Along the way, a small pile of crushed cigarette butts had accumulated on the floor beside her and two more crisp twenty-dollar bills had passed through the slot and into her garter. She was almost out of cigarettes. He was almost out of twenties. And he obviously still hadn't said what he'd come to say. They sat quietly for a few minutes, Mulder tight with unresolved tension. On the other side of the glass, she waited placidly, nursing her cigarette. The silence suited her fine. She got paid the same whether he talked or not. "I was holding her," he began again and the unnatural timbre of his voice sent chills down her spine. "There was blood everywhere. I was . . . hurting her. She was scared and she trusted me . . . " His voice broke and he tried again. "I was holding her and it was after I cut her. I could smell the blood on her body and I could feel her pressing against me and she was . . . I was . . . " In an agonized, feral motion, he rose and knocked over the chair with a vicious kick that sent it clattering across the floor until it came to rest against the wall. He stood there for a long minute, clenching his fists and struggling for control. She said nothing, helpless before his rage and blind pain. All at once, her woman's heart longed to soothe his agony; her woman's body longed to wrap itself around his lanky frame and hold him until his tears were spent. But she knew that the need wasn't mutual. It was the woman on the ice whose arms he ached to feel around him, her forgiveness alone that could redeem his ravaged conscience. She could offer none of those things, she thought bitterly as she watched him standing desolately in the small, squalid cubicle, hands hanging limply at his side, fists clenched in muted rage. He had chosen her precisely because she could not reach him. He looked up at her, pleading, tears standing unshed in his tormented eyes as he labored both to speak and to remain silent. When the words finally came, she had to strain to hear them over the crackle of the speaker. "I wanted her." She looked back at him in confusion, not sure she understood. Frustrated, he strode to the glass and pounded on it with his fist. "Don't you see?" he cried in a broken voice. "She was bleeding. She was dying, for God's sake. She was frightened and in pain from wounds I inflicted and I - fucking - wanted - her!" The last words were barely distinguishable as he sank to his knees before her, sweating and panicked like a wounded animal in a trap attempting to free himself by chewing out his own soul. The perspiration and tears left angry streaks down the glass panel as he convulsed with horrible, wracking sobs. She reeled back before the sheer power of his grief. She'd seen men in every kind of pain - desperate, lonely, humiliated men at end of their tethers. But she'd never seen a man hurt like this one. And she hoped to die without ever seeing it again. She began to cry then, too, and wiped her eyes angrily. There was nothing she could offer him and she felt an unexpected wave of resentment from deep inside her own heart. Damn him for choosing her, for stirring feelings she thought this place had trained her to bury beyond reach. And damn him for using her, knowing he could walk away and leave her to wonder and never know what became of him. Deeply moved by his pain, constrained by physics and circumstance, she sat mutely and pressed her small hand to the glass. She ran her fingers up and down over the spot where his hair was crushed wetly against the surface, willing him to stop and needing him to continue all at once. He looked up at her through bleary, sleep-deprived eyes and smeared glass. For a moment, all he could see was the indistinct outline of her woman's body and her red hair as her fingers fluttered ineffectually across the window. "Oh, God, Scully," he whispered brokenly. "How can you ever trust me again?" But the forgiveness he saw in the red-haired woman's eyes was meaningless. She was the wrong woman and they both knew it. He rose to his feet and left the room without another word, pausing only to empty his wallet into the narrow slot between them. It was a crude thank you, but she understood. It was the only thing he had to give her. She wept as she watched him go, making no effort to stop him or to check the flow of her tears. She cried them for him and for herself, for necessary choices and misspent hours and this woman he'd called Scully who might never know there was a man who'd purchased her survival with the weight of his own soul. He was halfway down the hall of his apartment building before she saw her. The white of her cast gleamed like a moonbeam in the dusty shadows that clumped near his door. She reached for her crutches when she saw him and he wordlessly helped to steady her before reaching for his keys. She followed him inside and still neither spoke as he settled her onto the couch. He busied himself for a few minutes making irrelevant tasks appear urgent. He shuffled through his mail, checked his answering machine, fed his fish. When he ran out of reasons not to, he turned to face her. "You remember." It wasn't a question. He could see it in her eyes. She shrugged. He took a breath and started to explain, but stopped when he saw her face. His own eyes filled with grateful tears as she stretched her hand toward him. All at once he understood. She didn't need to remember. She didn't need to know to forgive. He came to her then, sinking wordlessly to the floor at her feet and lowering his head in quiet surrender. Waiting. Accepting. By the soft glow of the aquarium, she lifted her hands and rested them gently on his head. They remained, unmoving, two figures intertwined, as Scully granted absolution to the dark shape before her. Fox Mulder had finally come home. (End of part 4)