From: "Linda H." Date: Sat, 05 Sep 1998 23:49:39 GMT Subject: NEW: "Casualties of War" by Linda Howell Title: Casualties of War Author: Linda Howell Disclaimer: They're not mine. See CC, Fox, etc. They own `em. I make no money doing this-as you probably know. No harm is intended. I take care of stuff I borrow. Spoilers: Up to "The End" Rating: G Classification: SA, lotsa A Feedback: welcome as always at bookdal@bellsouth.net Author's notes: This is the sequel to my story "Checks and Mates." I don't think you have to read that story to understand this one. Just know Mulder left to defeat his enemies. My thanks go out to all those who sent me feedback on that one-this was written because y'all seemed to want to know what happened next. I hope you enjoy it-I loved writing it! Again, thank you. Summary: Scully must deal with the aftermath of Mulder's actions. Told from Scully's POV. Casualties of War By L. Howell Often, when unwelcome visions haunt my sleep and the cool morning air embraces me with ease, I stand out on this balcony, solitary in my grief. My eyes close and I can feel them drift off into the not-so-distant past where I recreate his face from a fading memory. I am so afraid that I'll lose that last token of him: the ability to see his smile in the sun. Three years ago, on a night not unlike this last one, I went to him seeking solace and understanding. I knew he could give me those things I would not allow myself: peace and comfort, hope and courage. Perhaps it was just a need to be near him, to feel fragile in a friend's arms, or maybe it was a recognition of his importance to me, but whatever it was, I was drawn to his presence. I took from him selfishly, I know that now. In my desperation, I neglected the obvious signs of his discontent-they screamed at me from the center of his soul, from the multi-hued color of his eyes. Yet I turned away. I shut down the link between us and greedily bathed in the abundance of my ignorant bliss. I stole a series of little moments, and now they're not so small when compared to the enormity of my guilt. That night stands alone in my mind like a highlighted passage in a well worn book. I see each moment play upon the next, and no matter how many times I dream, I cannot change the inevitability of his departure. For days, weeks, months, and yes, even years afterwards, I searched for him. Clues and empty promises guided me to places I never knew existed and places I wished I'd never seen. In the waning hours of countless nights, I cried myself to sleep-my hands clutched in prayer, begging for his return or my oblivion. Then, earlier tonight, I got the call. A strange voice invited me to dance another tango and I couldn't resist. By then, my hope flickered weakly in the breeze. It was still burning, but not as bright as it once did. I drove to the dark rendevous expecting nothing more than what I had before: hope. But out of the shadows I saw a familiar face. My enemy, my friend. His black hair shone ominously underneath the lights of a neighborhood building and only the breath of a name hissed pass my lips. "Krycek." I was stunned, but my shock intensified when I noticed the limp body he carried in his arms. Moments slowed to sensation as I ran to him. The doctor in me calmed the woman who ached to scream at the injustice of it all. I paid little heed to Krycek. In reality, I wanted to draw my gun and shoot the bastard, but I reigned in that impulse...temporarily. "Put him down." I ordered the stiff figure. I refused to look directly at him. What was the point? Krycek was a dead man. Medical experience kicked in and as I checked his vitals, I noted the numerous contusions that painted his skin. I felt for the thready pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was alive. Knowing that treatment was an immediate necessity, I reached into my coat and pulled out the cell phone. Just when the operator picked up, that bastard grabbed the phone out of my hand and threw it away from us. I stood up, stared into his eyes, and silently pleaded with him to give me a reason to kill him. Even now, in the silence of my balcony, I can hear the dull, metallic voice of the operator asking if anyone was there. His voice punctured the tension. "They'll find him if we take him to the hospital. And when they find him, they'll finish what they've already started." "You mean what *you* started, don't you?" My words bit into the cold night air. I let the bile rise up in my veins, and it flooded my thoughts. Three years of anger spilled out of me and headed for him. "How dare you stand here in front of me and act concerned for this man! You're the genesis for so many of his pains that it sickens me to think about what role you've played in this game. Why Krycek?" At this point, Mulder was groaning in pain. I turned towards him. His body bucked in an arrhythmic pattern; it seemed as if it was straining against imaginary restraints. Krycek leaned down to him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. I cringed at the gesture. Who was he to touch anything? Mulder's unintelligible murmurs slowly started to filter through my mind. "Scully? Scully? Where are you?" The agony contained in those five words broke my heart. How many times did he ask that question? How many times has silence answered him? Krycek remained mute. Somewhere from the depths of my soul, familiarity returned, and I whispered, "Shh. Mulder, it's me." But he didn't hear me. He didn't see me. His battered torso stretched in labored breaths, and he wasted precious air with the sound of my name. My arms circled his waist, pulling him onto my lap like a beloved child. I laid my cheek against his head, and god help me, but I swear I could smell death in his hair. For a few moments, Krycek didn't exist, but he changed that wish when he told me, "I promised him I'd give his body to you." "What happened?" I asked through gritted teeth. "War, Agent Scully. That's what happened. There's thousands of other Mulders out there who've suffered the same end. Whether it be fate or circumstance, your partner chose to fight, and it seems his side lost." "And what," I wondered, "side are you on, Krycek?" He shrugged his shoulders and said, "The one that wins." Without thought, my hand reached behind me. I levered my gun at his face. My fingers twitched at the trigger, but the moaning man in my arms kept me from pulling it. "I owe you for keeping your promise to Mulder, but if you're not at least a mile away from me in the next five minutes, I will kill you. Go before I change my mind." His hands, which he had raised when I aimed the gun at him, fell back to his sides. His cold eyes moved from me to Mulder several times before he began to walk away. Thinking he was gone, I scooped the phone up and punched in the number. The sound of a human voice on the other end surprised me. Then it hit me. I dialed Mulder's old number. All at once, the night crashed around me. He was dying. Even if I called the ambulance, they wouldn't get there in time to do little more than watch him die. Like I was being forced to do. His body was feverous, his injuries too numerous to account for, and his mind was somewhere else-a place where my name meant something good and pure. I rested my tear stained face against his one more time. That long ago night revisited me, bringing with it hazy memories of his cheek against mine, his lips on my skin. Out of the shadows, Krycek's voice called for me. I listened to him with a small degree of surprise. I didn't think he'd stay. "You know, Scully, every war has its casualties. It's the nature of the beast. But be prepared----it's now your move and your enemies play for keeps. This [he pointed at Mulder] is proof of that." And he was gone, I hope never to return. I saw the irony of it all then. Judas was in the dark putting the finishing touches on his modern day pieta. How poetic of us. Time passed quickly after Krycek's disappearance. I remember so many times when I've had to drag his large frame to a bed-whether it was mine, his, or an anonymous hotel bed that smelled of bleach and sweat. Tonight as no different. I think a part of me hopes that he knows I was there at the end. God I pray it so. ......Mulder died a few hours ago. The sun was just beginning to rise as he breathed his last `Scully.' I was lying down beside him with my arms around his waist-a replica of our last night together when we were both alive, in body and mind. That's why I'm out here on this balcony--this make-believe precipice. I want to dance away from death, if just for a moment. I take little comfort from being able to say goodbye. I would trade his return for his life-I mean that. I would rather go on pretending he'd come back some day. Hope, it seems, dies when confronted with fact. Someone should call his mother. Someone should call Skinner. Someone, not me. Today is reserved for Scully, and her alone. Not Dana or Agent Scully or anyone else living in my world weary soul. Just Scully. Scully without Mulder. The question remains: Who is she without him? Krycek was right. Every war does have its casualties. The End Author's notes: Good? Bad? Horrible? Continue or cease?