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This author's e-mail address has changed to: rn500@usa.net
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From: Linda Phillips <rn500@ozline.net>
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 1998 15:24:08 -0500
Subject: NEW: "Revelations I: I Saw A Pale Horse"

Title: Revelations I: I Saw A Pale Horse
Author: Linda Phillips (rn500@ozline.net)
Rating: PG-13
Classification: S / A
Keyword: MSR
Summary: Can love survive the end of the world?
Completed on: 12/29/98
Archiving: Gossamer - yes. All others please let me know.
Disclaimer: The X-Files and its characters are the property of  Chris
Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Television. I just like to torture
'em a little more.
 ___________________________________

Much to his amusement, I dedicate this to my hubby, who believes
in me even when I don't.
 ___________________________________



 He wadded and rolled  the blanket for the third time, then
stuffed the lumpy mass beneath his head again. Sleep wouldn't
come easy tonight, he could tell. He turned on his back and, with a
sigh, laced his long fingers together across his abdomen, elbows
meeting the hard floor along with the rest of his body.  Some nights
he dropped like a rock, exhausted to his soul, and slept the sleep of
the dead. Other times, like tonight, he lay awake for hours staring at
whatever ceiling he happened to be under that evening.

 Occasionally there was no ceiling, just the vast black sky
above him. When the stars were out he would watch them, endlessly
fascinated by the fact that they were the same stars he had looked
out on as a child. The same ones he had wished on and the same
ones that had fueled a thousand fantasies of exploring strange new
worlds like Captain Kirk.

 His eyes remained open as he readied his reel of memories
for the night. It began, as it usually did, with her face, pale and soft.
In his movie she was smiling that real, from-the-heart smile that he
rarely saw and loved so much. Her teeth gleamed against red lips,
and he could see the little crinkles in the corners of her eyes.

 Five months. Five long months.

 He reached into his pocket and brought out the tattered
wallet, flat and empty except for the pictures and his driver's
license. In the beginning he had looked at it every day, but soon
realized he was going to be gone longer than he'd hoped. So he
began to force himself to wait, taking it out only every other day,
then every few days. Now he saved it as one would a fine wine or a
piece of Swiss chocolate, delaying his gratification until he could
hardly stand it. Then he would slip the clear plastic windows from
his wallet as he did now, and savor the image - remembering how
the curve of her neck felt beneath his fingers , how her hair would
lay across the pillow like a crimson sunset, so soft.

 Five months.

 He questioned everyone he met whom he thought might
have had a chance meeting with her, or had heard of her or been in
the same area where he'd known her last to be. Three times he'd
been successful in getting some information, fragmented at best, but
enough to know that she was still alive. The last time had been
several weeks ago when he'd met up with a woman - a medic - who
had actually seen her, could put a face with the name.

 "Scully?" the woman had repeated, squinting with the
labor of remembering. "*Dr.* Scully? Red hair?"

 Yes - yes! he had said, his heart accelerating.

 The woman told him that she had met Scully in a camp
outside of Tuscon. She looked well, she said - thin and tired, but
well.

 Thin. Tired. The common denominators among all those
he knew now.

 Her name came from his mouth wrapped in a quiet breath,
just loud enough for his own ears. He didn't want to wake anyone
who'd been lucky enough to get to sleep. He wiped a bit of dirt from
the plastic cover with his thumb and brought the photo up close to
his face. The shimmer of a kerosene lamp gave barely enough light
to make out the outline of her face, but he didn't really need it
anyway. He knew every nuance of color and every curve of it by
heart. It brought a hint of a smile to his lips, which was all anyone
could ask for these days. Carefully, he returned it to the safety of his
wallet and shirt pocket.

 Closing his eyes, he called up a favorite memory.
Surprisingly, it wasn't of the first time they had made love. That
night had been a blur of heat and passion and liquor and
desperation - the night they had learned that the time was drawing
near. No, it was the following night that he so often thought of.
By then, they were thinking more clearly - both of them had begun
to come to grips with the future and what it held. He'd been back in
his apartment, alone, wondering if what had happened the night
before was right or wrong or if it would even make any difference in
the long run. There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a
jangle of keys. Already, he was wary, and he grabbed his gun as he
quickly strode through the silent darkness.

 It was her.

 He pulled her abruptly inside and closed the door again.
They stood facing each other, a few feet apart, for a long hushed
moment.

 "Mulder..." she finally said.

 Her voice told him what he needed to know.

 She reached out to him and he took her in his arms. He
could feel her warm breath through his shirt, the tight coil of her
muscles as she wrapped her arms around him.

 "I love you," she had said, the words courageous and full of
hope.

 His hands framed her face and turned it up to him. He
kissed her gently, and for a moment she was still. As his lips
touched hers again she made a small sound, a moaning sigh into
his mouth.

 "I've always loved you," he had whispered back into her.
"Always."

 When they made love that night it was slow and deliberate.
Their bodies draped across each other, committing to memory every
curve, every sensation, defying the outside world to intrude. He
remembered the sound of her breathing as he had caressed her, how
she smelled that night, the feel of her fingers on his skin...

 It was so long ago. A lifetime. His entire existence had
changed since then, as had hers. As had most everyone's.
Outwardly, the two of them  had spent the next several months
continuing their normal routine, all the while planning, working
with the others, making midnight trips to clandestine meetings.
And every night they stayed together, at his apartment or at hers, no
longer bothering to make a secret of it. After all, They obviously
knew by then what the two of them meant to each other.

 How many miles apart were they now? he wondered. That
was the hardest part - not knowing. Not knowing where, how - or
even if. Was she worried about him? Did she know he was okay? So
many things he wanted to tell her - maybe she already knew by
now. He wished she'd been here the day he'd set eyes on Alex
Krycek. He still didn't quite believe that one himself.

 They were in New Mexico then, he recalled. He and
Higgins and McLaughlin, and some others who had since moved
on. Webster was still alive then, and he couldn't help but smile at
the memory of her. She could always make him laugh, always had a
story to tell about her crazy family. She had made those first few
weeks a lot easier for everyone with her warmth and easy humor.
She would tease him, call him "Oxford" - "go ask Oxford, he's the
brains of the outfit," she'd say with a smirk. One day, as they
stopped for a break enroute to a new location, she had asked him,
"So, Oxford, why aren't you married? Couldn't find anybody to keep
up with your dizzying intellect?" He found himself telling her  about
Scully, about the X-Files, about their history together. She had
touched his hand when his eyes misted over, smiled at him. "You're
a lucky man, Oxford. You'll see her again, you have to believe you
will."

 That was the same day he had seen Krycek, if he
remembered right.

 They had just arrived at a new safe house, and as he was
setting his gear down he thought he heard a familiar, and
unwelcome, voice. He followed it to the next room and stood in the
doorway, not wanting to believe what his eyes were revealing to
him. The man's back was to him, but he knew who it was even
before the empty sleeve was exposed.

 He'd lunged at Krycek, the years of hatred launching him
like a missile. The one-armed man turned just in time to see
Mulder's forearm come up against his throat. Mulder slammed him
against the crumbling plaster wall, his breath hissing into Krycek's
face. A dozen epithets raced through his mind, but only one word
would come.

 "You!"

 The short, dark man with Krycek grabbed his gun and
trained it on Mulder. Krycek held up his hand to the man, who
glanced  at them both warily and remained ready to defend Mulder's
nemesis. Krycek's expression was cold as icy steel. He stared into
Mulder's eyes with the look of a man who had nothing left to lose,
and made no move to defend himself. They remained that way for a
long moment, the silence roaring in Mulder's ears as those around
them looked on. Finally, Krycek spoke.

 "I'm on your side, Mulder," he said without emotion.
"Might as well get use to it."

 "Bullshit!" Mulder spat, his arm tightening against
Krycek's throat until the other man winced and choked. "You're
with Them! You always have been!"

 "Very convincing, wasn't I?" he managed to whisper.

 "You helped them take Scully - you killed my father!"

 "Yes!" Krycek's face showed the first sign of passion as he
pushed back against Mulder's arm. "I've seen thousands die, Mulder
- most of them didn't deserve to! But your father was not one of
them."

 "You lying son of a bitch!"

 "Mulder, could anyone have convinced you to sit on the
information your father was about to give you? What would you
have done with it besides run through the halls, pointing out this
one and that one, screaming for a justice that was impossible?"
Krycek's voice was low, hard with conviction. "I had to do it, and I
would do it again. We weren't ready - nowhere near ready - and
your father knew it. But he didn't care. He knew a resistance was
forming, and he knew his time was almost up. Before he went he
wanted to spill his guts to you - to try and justify himself, his role in
everything - even though it would've meant the end of us!"

 Mulder felt his stomach heave, and his breath came in hot
bursts as he tried not to listen, tried to close his mind to words that
couldn't be true. He backed away slowly, eyes on Krycek's, and
noticed with dissociated thought the reddened stripe across the other
man's neck. Krycek watched him move away, an indefinable look
on his face.

 "You're lying," Mulder had whispered.

 The other man said nothing, just stared at him with vacant
eyes.

 Krycek had remained at the house for the next several
weeks. Mulder stayed silent, watching and waiting. Krycek seemed
tireless, rarely sleeping, planning and working day and night. The
others seemed to show a cautious respect for him, the kind due a
man who had seen it all.  But they didn't know the him as Mulder
did.

 So he waited. For a mistake, a slip - anything that would
show Krycek for the man he truly was.

 But none came.

 Finally, as the silent tension between them mounted,
Krycek found him sitting outside one evening. Mulder heard his
approach, sensed who it was, but didn't turn to face him. He closed
his eyes, breathed deeply. The scent of heat and dust and everything
far from home filled his nostrils.

 "You gonna kill me now, Krycek? I'm tired - I won't run.
Just do it and get it over with."

 "I'm not here to kill you, Mulder."

 Mulder turned and looked at him. "Then why *are* you
here?"

 "I'm here for the same reasons you are."

 "I doubt that," he said with disgust, and turned away again.
The sky was clear and black that night with a million stars visible,
masking a million more that weren't. Krycek came forward slowly
and sat on the old bench next to him. Mulder's skin crawled and he
wanted to run, he wanted to kill him right there with his bare
hands, he wanted to let him live and take away all that he cared
about. If there *was* anything.

 "I don't expect to be your friend, Mulder."

 "Fuck you, Krycek," Mulder snorted.

 Krycek nodded slowly and looked up.  "We've got a long
fight ahead of us."

 Mulder turned and faced him, shaking his head in
disbelief. "Why the *hell* do you think I'd ever trust you?"

 "I don't. You're not that stupid." Krycek sighed, the most
human sound Mulder had ever heard from him. "I can't change the
fact that I've been in this fight for a long time. I can't change the
fact that I've had to do things I never wanted to - never would have
thought possible at one point in my life. But the innocence is over,
Mulder - it has been for a long time for me. I did what I had to do."
Krycek looked at him, and their eyes met for the first time in weeks.
"I had a father once, Mulder," he said flatly. "A mother. Because of
me, because of this -" he motioned toward the house, "they're dead.
I watched it happen." Krycek stood up and began to walk away,
then hesitated a moment. He turned back, his remaining hand
shoved deep in his pocket.

 "I'll be gone tomorrow. Good luck, Mulder." Then he
walked away, and Mulder had not seen him again.

 That was over three months ago. He had no idea how many
thousands of miles he had traveled since.

 And now, he was here, in another house, another city,
trying to keep his focus on the work ahead instead of grieving over
a past he may never know again. When he was busy, working,
sweaty and hot with fear the most alive thing in him, it was easy to
forget. But at night...

 He imagined her hands, small and strong, touching his
face, stroking his hair, running streaks of fire down his arms. He
should stop this, he knew. He was going too far. But he couldn't
shake it - her - tonight. Not tonight.

 The memory of the last time they had made love sat like a
delicately tender spot in his mind - an area that you know will hurt
to touch but you're drawn to do it anyway. It steals in quietly,
beneath his conscious mind, until he is suddenly aware and it is too
late. They didn't know it would be the last time, although they knew
it would be soon. Those last few weeks, they had rarely been out of
each other's sight for fear that it would all come crashing down
while they were apart. Constantly reaching out to touch the other, to
make contact with the only thing they knew was immutable. They
had barely made it into his apartment that night - their apartment,
by that time, as Scully spent little time at hers once they had found
the bug - before clothes were being pulled away by frantic hands. He
later wished that it would have been different, and it would have, if
they had known. He would have told her he loved her at least a
million times, would have held her closer, would have watched her
as she peaked and cried out against him. But as it happened he'd
come with a fierce recklessness, thinking only of that moment, as
she whispered his name to the stars.

 It was strange, how he knew when he'd heard the knock on
the door. Instantly, he knew. There had been other late night
visitors, other whispered messages in his dark doorway, but his
blood ran cold this night as the familiar tap-tap... tap-tap-tap awoke
him. He woke Scully, and together they opened the door. Skinner
stood there in the hallway, his face taut, a grim look in his eyes.

 "It's time," he had said. "I'll wait downstairs." And he
turned on his heel and left.

 The door was barely closed when Scully leaned into him,
her arms wrapping like a vise around his neck.

 "Mulder..." she said before her voice broke. Her body
trembled in his embrace, and he held her tightly to him to stop his
own tremors. They stayed that way for what seemed a long time,
wanting this one moment to hold back the future.

 "I'm scared," she finally whispered.

 "So am I."

 With that he loosened his hold, and hers, and they looked
at each other.

 "I'm coming with you," she said.

 "Scully..."

 "No! I'm coming with you! They need me there too... I can
fight... there'll be wounded, sick..." She stopped and squeezed her
eyes tight. He put his hands on her arms with a grip more firm than
he had intended.

 "You know they need you here, Scully..."

 Her eyes flew open. "*You*  need me!"

 He shook her. "Stop! Don't make this harder than it is!"

 She dissolved into tears as his fingers left red imprints in
her skin. "How could it be harder?" she moaned. He crushed her to
him, buried his nose in her hair.

 "Please, baby..." he begged as his own tears threatened.
"Please." After a moment he felt her take a deep breath and hold it,
let it out slowly. She pulled back from him.

 "I'm okay... I'm okay..." She pressed her palms against her
closed eyelids, squared her shoulders. When she opened her eyes
again, he could have cried at the determination in them. She looked
at him. "Let's get dressed," was all she said.

 They pulled on their clothes in silence, and grabbed the
backpacks in the closet that had been packed for weeks. As he shut
the door behind him, he allowed himself to look back one more
time.

 "Goodbye," he whispered.

 Scully kept her reddened eyes lowered as they got into
Skinner's car. He drove in silence out of the city, through dark
countryside, until they came to an old farmhouse. Another car
waited there. As they pulled up, Scully tightened her grip on
Mulder's hand and finally looked up. The eyes of her former A.D.
watched her in the rear view mirror.

 "It's been an honor to work with you, sir," she said quietly.

 "Doubly so for me, Agent Scully."

 Mulder got out of the car and walked around to Scully's
side, where she sat staring straight ahead. In the quiet night, the
door latch clicking open echoed across the yard. He reached his
hand in and she took it, climbed out. Together they walked toward
the house, ducking into a shadowy corner for a last moment
together. She put her hands on his face, stroking, memorizing. He
tried to smile, but it only made him feel more miserable.

 "You better come back to me, Godammit," she said, trying
to sound commanding as the words came out in a whimper.

 "I'll never leave you, Scully." Never.

 Suddenly her eyes opened wide as she remembered
something. "Oh - wait..." she said, and reached behind her neck.
Her hands came back holding the gold cross pendant. He closed his
eyes to hold back the tide as she fastened it around his neck. He
opened his mouth to say her name once more, hoping she would
hear the million and one things that he needed her to know. But all
that would come was a broken whisper.

 "Sshhh," she had said, putting a finger to his lips. "I
know."

 He kissed her one more time, gently. Then he had turned
away and run to the car, afraid to look back.

 "Mulder..." A whisper, a nudge against his leg.

 "Mulder!" Louder. It was Becker.

 "Huh? Uhhh... what?"

 "Get up. We gotta move."

 Instantly awake, he sat up. He stuffed the rolled up blanket
into his pack and jumped to his feet.

 "What's going on?" he asked in a hushed voice.

 "Got a message," Becker said as he packed up some gear.
"They know we're here." Mulder looked around him as quiet
activity overtook the room. He grabbed some loose supplies, stuffed
them in a bag and slung it up on his back.

 "Let's go, let's go!" Cooper called out. Mulder climbed into
the back of the van with Higgins and Becker as Cooper jumped in
front to drive, Wills in the passenger seat. McLaughlin, Compton,
and Keeler were the last in, and the van tore off as Keeler shut the
door behind her.

 They all leaned back and tried to collect themselves as the
van bumped and curved over the pocked roads.

 "Shit!" Keeler said, letting out a deep breath. "God, I
*hate*  it when we have to do that in the middle of the night. It
feels like one of those bad dreams when you realize you took off out
of your house with no clothes on."

 Becker let loose a wolf whistle and Keeler punched him in
the arm. "You wish, asshole!" she said with a laugh.

 "Short stay this time," Higgins said.

 "Yeah, but at least we blew up that fuckin' nest in the north
sector while we were here!" Keeler said with a whoop, and high
fived Becker.

 "Whoo-eee!" Becker smacked her palm hard. "Fuckin' A!"

 Mulder leaned forward and saw Wills unfolding a map
across his lap, tiny flashlight beam illuminating their course.
"Where to now, boss?" he asked.

 "South," was all Wills would say.

 Mulder nodded and leaned back. He should be use to that
by now, he thought. Wills operated on a need-to-know only basis,
and he could understand that very well. If any of them were taken,
the less they could reveal, the better.

 They bumped along in silence for a while, and he leaned
back and closed his eyes. He almost didn't hear it.

 Almost.

 The pop of the bullet through the glass was followed by
about five seconds of stunned silence as they tried to figure out what
had happened. Then Cooper cried out "Jesus!". The van swerved,
and as it did Wills's lifeless body leaned to the left, the bloody head
coming to rest on Cooper's shoulder.

 "Oh, God!"

 "Shit! Where'd it come from? Where'd it come from?"

 "Gimme a gun!"

 Cooper pushed Wills' body off of him and put his foot to
the floor. The van shook and rattled as they all readied their
weapons.

 Pop.

 Cooper fell forward against the steering wheel. In what
seemed to Mulder like a film slightly out of frame, the van veered
off the road and slowly toppled onto it's side into a ditch. All around
him there were voices, loud and angry and scared, a melting of
sound from which he couldn't make out a discernible thing. He
tumbled on top of Compton, and Higgins onto her. It was almost
comical, if he wasn't about to shit his pants.

 The side door, which was now above them, slid open.
Becker grabbed Higgins up and shoved him out the door. "Move it,
move it!" he cried. Mulder pushed himself off of Compton and
yanked her up to her feet. She climbed out with a cry as Higgins
pulled up on her obviously dislocated shoulder. Mulder followed,
then Becker, Keeler and McLaughlin. Gunshot rang out and they all
ducked for cover under the bright full moon.

 Mulder dove into some brush and waited. He peered out
through the foliage but saw nothing. Shots rang out again, but he
couldn't see where they were coming from. Where the hell were
They? Suddenly, about ten yards to his right, he saw Compton pull
up and run toward a cluster of trees.

  Two shots, and with a slow twisting movement she turned
toward him and fell without a sound.

 He bit down on his lip and tried to clear his head. 'Think,
Mulder, think!' He craned his neck in every direction, but there was
no clue to Their hiding places - the shots seemed to have come from
every direction. A minute ticked away in eternity, and then eternity
came looking for them.

 Gunshots from his right - no, behind him! Left -
everywhere! Like a hailstorm on a tin roof they rained down -
nowhere to run - stay - think, think!

 And then he felt the sting, and the burn, and the warm rain
fell from his chest, covering her hair with a red stain of its own.
The cross swam in tiny streams as he looked up, and her face
covered the stars and called him home.

 _______________________________


 Mike Johnson was pissed, and he got more pissed with
every step he took on this stinking, dusty road. His clothes stuck to
him like glue in the heat, just like they had since he'd gotten to this
hellhole three weeks ago. He wanted to *fight*, Godammit! That's
why he came here! But, no - for three weeks he'd been given every
stupid, sweaty grunt job in the book. Now they had him doing clean
up after a fight that *he* should've been in!

 "Johnson - come on, will ya?" Sanders yelled to him from
fifty yards up ahead. "I don't wanna be out here all day, alright?"

 "Ah, fuck you, ya little brown noser," Johnson replied
under his breath. He picked up his pace a bit, a half-assed attempt to
catch up with the crew up the road. He wasn't exactly looking
forward to picking up body parts and hauling them back to camp.
The group that had come through here yesterday had gotten blown
to bits by an ambush - but he smiled as he thought of what had been
in store for Them after they finished fighting like a bunch of
pussies, hiding in Their little treehouses and shit like the wusses
they were. Yeah, They got what was coming to Them, alright, he
thought, the memory of the ride past Their piled up carcasses fresh
in his mind.

 The group ahead had fanned out and was already searching
the tall grass and scrub off the road. As Johnson approached, one of
them called for a bag, and he watched as three of them loaded up a
body and carried it to the truck.

 Shit, he thought, shaking his head.

 What he wanted was a cigarette. He had a secret stash in
his pocket - five cigarettes, which cost him two days rations, but by
God it was worth it! He headed out into the brush and found a tree
to duck behind, pulled out a cigarette and lit up with a flourish. He
took a long drag and closed his eyes. If he really tried, he could
almost pretend it was Before - when he could go to any corner gas
station and buy a pack of these, sit and light up wherever he wanted
to. He snorted as he blew out the smoke. Now you were doing good
to find a gas station, much less a pack of smokes.

 He inhaled again and leaned his head back against the tree.
"Oh, fuck," he sighed aloud. He was about to close his eyes again
when something caught his attention. He squinted and leaned
forward.

 "Oh, fuck!"

 He stubbed out his cigarette and put the half smoked butt
back in his pocket. Slowly he made his way toward the body. It was
a man, he saw. Dark hair, dark shirt - dark everything. Except the
skin. White, white skin, with dried rivers of red.

 "Well," Johnson said to himself, "at least he's in one
piece." He turned to call out for a bag when he heard something. He
looked back at the guy, waited. Nah, he thought. Just my
imagination. He almost pissed himself when the guy moved.

 "Oh, shit!" He turned and ran to the group, screaming -"I
got a live one! Help me - come on!"

 _________________________________________


 A bed. At least, it felt like a bed. And a pillow. But it
couldn't be.

 And he slept.

 A light - bright, too bright! What is it?

 He felt his eyelids move. They were so heavy. He tried,
tried to open them. But he couldn't. All he saw were his dreams.
Her face. Blue eyes. Red hair. A real smile. Tears in her eyes.

 "Am I dead?" he thought.

 A hand on his forehead, stroking his hair.

 "No, Mulder, no... you're not dead..." And his dream cried,
and lay her head against his neck, and he felt the warm tears and
tasted them on her lips...

 ...and decided maybe there was a heaven, after all.


 _____________________________________


End

Comments to Linda at     rn500@ozline.net