From carrie.stetz@mosby.com Tue Apr 01 14:46:37 1997 Subject: NEW: Heaven in Hell's Despair (1/1) by Meredith From: carrie.stetz@mosby.com -------- Title: Heaven in Hell's Despair Author: Meredith Summary: Mulder and Scully must deal with the strange twist of circumstance and separation. Category: S,MSR,A Rating: PG-13 Spoilers: None Disclaimer: Everything in this story is based on and has evolved from the creations of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Thanks go to M.C. Akimoto for unwavering precision and encouragement, without which I would flounder. Feedback: Insecurity looms on the horizon. I would be enormously grateful for any sort of feedback. XXXXX "Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care; But for another gives its ease, And builds a heaven in hell's despair." -- William Blake (1757-1827) XXXXX It didn't surprise Scully to realize she was still a nomad. As a child, she'd been an involuntary pilgrim -- continually forced to pick up and move, to cut ties and sever tenuous friendships. She grew wary of comfort, distrustful of what was stable in the world. As an adult, she learned to relish being a traveler, enjoying the excitement of a career that sent her to large cities, small towns, and a universe of mind-expanding experience. She relished her control even in the midst of chaos and the unexplained, eventually turning wariness and distrust into what could almost pass for joy. But those days were gone. That life was gone. Yet still she roamed. At least four times a month she traveled to consult, advise, and regulate the concepts, rules, and procedures of death. How odd, then, that she still loved the journey, her last link to the existence stolen from her. When she traveled she felt almost alive; when she was home she was simply dead. The memories of her most vital days never left her. In those all-too-brief years she had quickly caught her partner's fevered desire to search for the truth; that search also developed into a search for herself, a search for completeness. For the first time in her life she had understood the thrill of the chase, the tease of the barking hounds, the seduction of the quest. That is, until the prey was finally cornered and turned the hunters into the hunted. XXXXX They had stumbled on her quite by accident. Blind luck, really, Scully thought. The long-lost Samantha had been in Baltimore all this time -- a mere taunting hop, skip and a jump from the answer to Mulder's prayers. She'd been leading a picture-perfect life: a geneticist. Married. Two children. Happy in her ignorance until the terrifying reality of her past reared up and struck her in the face. Sickening. How angry she was to learn she had a brother, another mother, a dead father in addition to a live one. To learn her uncle, although not a relative in the true definition, had been the reason her entire life was a lie. She had loved him, despite her dislike of his incessant smoking. But the heartless manipulation of her life drove her to the outermost limits of hatred. So in revenge, she talked. About her government-funded project, her research, the fathomless secrets of life's building blocks that had been entrusted to her laboratory. She knew her information was damaging, but to what extent she could have never dreamed. Sometimes only a pawn can end the game. But in her blind fury she didn't care that as her carefully fabricated life collapsed, as the powerful hidden organization disintegrated, the weight and speed of its fall toppled countless other lives, innocent and guilty. XXXXX And so the man responsible for fabricating the lies and distorting history raged at those who had caught him off guard and exposed his position. He tossed what was left of the Consortium aside like an empty pack of Morleys. He didn't need them to exact vengeance; there had always been other ways. Lust for revenge had become his religion. What remaining power he had was waning, but his rage had become personal. He struck his first blow with glee. The X-Files were shut down, the data buried permanently in the bowels of the Pentagon, the agents reassigned and separated. It was his last legitimate act. But somehow they coped. They stayed connected. Distance was a small obstacle in a six-year partnership that had defied every rule. The second blow was worse than murder -- more destructive than the wanton waste of life. One day Mulder disappeared, leaving no trace. No warning. No explanation. But there *was* a reason. XXXXX He let Scully suffer for several weeks before he made his offer. He knew the thrill of the chase, the intoxicating scent of fear. The smell of cigarette smoke polluted the air of her apartment that night. He was sitting in her kitchen, using a cereal bowl for an ashtray. In blind fury she pulled her gun. "Tell me where he is, you fucking bastard." "No need for the gun, Agent Scully. That's exactly why I'm here." She never moved. "Start talking." And he talked. His argument was convincing, his proof beyond question. Mulder was alive. He would stay alive if Scully played along. It would be the cigarette-smoking man's terms, or the game would end. He laid his demands on the table for examination, feeding on her torment. Why bother killing when torture was so much more satisfying? "How nice it would be for you, Agent Scully," he ended their long conversation, "to forget all the recent troubles. Get married, buy a house, own a dog -- have childr... oh, how insensitive of me to forget. Such a sad thing, isn't it?" His meaning was bitterly clear. And what a fucking *surprise* that she met Andrew the next day. XXXXX It was a small civil ceremony eight months later. For a hapless pawn, Andrew was a nice enough man. Handsome, outgoing, almost intelligent. She wondered what had prompted his punishment in this life, but never asked. Scully was sure he had no idea of the game he was involved in. She was beyond caring. A package was delivered to her the night of the wedding. A small silver and white box, deceptively topped with an innocent white bow. A gift, in a way. The contents of which suggested that the black-lunged bastard had lived up to his end of the bargain. Suggested. But did not provide indisputable, living, breathing proof. Still, she had divorce papers drawn up by her lawyer a week later. She kept them secreted in a nondescript envelope that she carried with her at all times. She clung to the small power she held by having them in her possession, caressing the pages nearly every day, memorizing every word like a love letter. When she traveled, they lay on the pillow next to her at night, reminding her of life. When she was at home, they stayed hidden away, an ever-present reminder of death. And always she waited for the day she could sign them. And waited. And waited. And waited. XXXXX Dallas. She should have been afraid, really, at finding a man in her hotel room, sitting calmly at the small table, bathed in the shadows of a low light. Close-cropped hair, dark clothes, world-weary. Eyes simultaneously piercing and overflowing with misery. In her mind she ran to him, brushed the anguish from his eyes, buried herself in his embrace. In reality, she simply stared. "Scully." Her name -- complex, simple. Choked. "What... what are you doing here, Mulder?" One question, a dozen questions. Stuttered. "You don't love him. Say you don't love him." A whisper, more fierce and desperate than any words she'd ever heard him utter. Her restraint slipped, then shattered as her face betrayed 14 months of misery. "No... god, no..." And then she was in his arms, his face in her hair, against her neck, her ear, hands clutching her waist as he finally voiced his whispered, perpetual prayer. XXXXX It just simply happened, despite their knowledge of the consequences. The literal life and death consequences of their misbehaving. They hadn't meant for it to happen. She reminded herself that that's what junkies also say. But within the denial lies the need, accusing, demanding to be acknowledged. Myriad circumstances and agonies had conspired to consummate the inevitable. She couldn't name them all, didn't want to, didn't care. She had finally come to understand the meaning of fate. And so it began. Seattle. Chicago. Newark. Not every trip, not every city, not in any pattern. Every hotel key turned for the first time with trembling fingers, desperate hands. Would he be sitting on the chair, on the bed, standing, patiently waiting? Or would the room be empty and sterile, simply four walls to sleep within, to contain the sleeper who continually dreamed of the next room? She never asked how he found her. Never asked why Omaha and not Orlando. Never asked where he came from when he came to her. Never asked why he wouldn't come back to this world to accept the terms of the bargain she made. In exchange for her marriage, he would be released but forever forbidden contact with her. And the smoking man had kept his word: Mulder was given the freedom of life -- but instead he had chosen to remain "dead." Once he answered her unspoken question. "If I return, I give up looking for him. I'm found. I'll forfeit all contact with you. As long as I'm lost, we can belong to each other." And so their silent ritual began. Each meeting, before the first word was spoken, before the first touch was ever dared, he would remove her wedding band and place it in the perennial void of a hotel dresser drawer. For whatever their time together, she belonged to him alone as he had always belonged to her. The pain of their encounters rose and peaked in a blinding agony that knew no bounds, no extreme, save for the gentle brush of ecstasy at what masqueraded as the peak. The fragile, fleeting touch of ecstasy that would be lost in a day's time, but would ferociously fight for a chance to reassert itself again and again in the unknown future. It was the pain of addiction. Of necessity. And for far too long, it was what kept them alive. XXXXX Salt Lake City. They lay on the bed, intertwined as completely as a Celtic knot -- without beginning, without end. "Scully, I'm close. Very close." She stopped her languid caresses through his short hair. "You've found him?" She could barely breathe. "Almost." She knew the end was near, and was terrified of the outcome. XXXXX Three weeks later, she found two e-mail messages from an anonymous address waiting patiently in her inbox. The first was an article taken from a Minneapolis newspaper. BODY FOUND IN COUNTY PARK "The remains of a elderly man were found yesterday by a group of boy scouts hiking in the Minnetonka Wilderness County Park. Officials have not been able to identify the man, who had been shot in the head at close range....." The second was a mere sentence. "Wield the pen." She stared at the monitor until the screen-saving galaxy had traveled several light years. She wasn't surprised to feel the wet tracks of tears on her face, although the sensation was strangely foreign... it had been so long. With shaky hands she deleted the messages, removed the precious papers from her briefcase, smoothed the pages lovingly, and dialed her lawyer's number. END XXXXX This one was a challenge. Was it worth it the effort? carrie.stetz@mosby.com