From: Trustno1mk@aol.com
Date: Sun, 21 Nov 1999 18:08:15 EST
Subject: Thoughts on an Angel's Wings 1/1 by Flourish
Source: direct

"Thoughts on an Angel's Wings" 1/1
By Flourish

Disclaimer : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other
tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his
copyrighted property, the property of 1013 Productions, and the property
of Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. The author believes
that the use of copyrighted characters in the forum known as "Fan
Fiction" is protected under the "Fair Use" statutes of US Copyright law.
No infringement of any copyright is intended.

Characters created by the author remain her property.

Ratings: PG, V

Keywords: Minor, implied  Mulder/ScullyUST

Feedback: There is no such thing as an unwelcomed piece of feedback. 
Trustno1mk@AOL.com

Author's Notes: This may become part of a series. I dunno. The only thing is, 
you may not understand it as it is now, which is why I want to write a 
preface and possibly an epilogue. I think that it will be much better when/if 
I do; till then, fare thee well!

*

quote-summary:"The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land; you 
may almost hear the beating of his wings."
-John Bright

*

The Angel of Death is tall, and dark, and handsome in an eerie way. Even the 
cliches of our world reflect the death wish. Death carries no sickle, but 
rather a book; he is dressed in black, but his wings are purely white. He is 
the alpha and the omega, the grand contradiction, the white and the red and 
the black. He is all of these; and if you consider that "thou came from dust, 
and to dust thou shalt return", he is the angel of birth. He wears a 
reversible cape, like some of the sickeningly all - use vests and jackets do. 
Life is merely a mess of complications; why make it any more simple with 
things that perform more than one function?

But the Angel of Death is not simple. He is the Angel of Greed and Anger and 
Love and Sorrow and Joy and Terror; namely, he is the Ruler of All, whether 
we choose to accept it or not. Life, birth, and death are all echoed in his 
face; and if you asked me to describe it, I could not. Imagine a truth that 
can also be a lie. _That_ is the essence of the Angel.

And he is here.

I mean, here, in this vast city full of agony. Here, where the people have 
been mowed down like your neighbor's uncut grass, and in such a way that the 
people of the Star Chamber would have cringed, were they not a few hundred 
years outdated. Here, where it all began, and where it will soon all end. 

The capitol of our nation, the capitol of the world, some patriots might say. 
The capitol of the Americas. Washington D.C.

I can see the people lying, dying, falling where they stand as they enter the 
last stages of the infection. They whimper softly to themselves, and I walk 
down Pennsylvania avenue. I keep my eyes focused on the White House. I cannot 
think about the corpses I step over so carefully, trying not to ruin my 
expensive shoes and Armani suit. I must detach myself from any feeling I 
might have for their pain. I cannot try to help. If I do, I will never learn 
the truth. And the truth is all that matters; I cannot save these people's 
lives, and I cannot stop Colonization from happening exactly like this in a 
hundred other states. I cannot bring back the dead. I cannot stop the 
omnipotent Angel of Death; it would be foolhardy to attempt such a thing. I'm 
not Hercules; Hell, I'm not even male. 

And now I am out of the morgue of the city streets, gone from the mausoleum 
where they will lay till they rot; I am stepping through the unlocked gates 
to the White House, and carefully finding my way across the grass. This is an 
oasis of serenity. I see lights on in the rooms, and in the nighttime, I see 
silhouettes of people moving around inside. These lights are not dead - 
lights, not UFO lights, not the kind of lights that burn in remembrance all 
over. These are the lights of hope, like lighting a candle to the Virgin 
Mary. They are the lights of the future.

The grass is cold and frighteningly real around my ankles, unmowed by the 
janitors and caretakers who died on Judgement Day. It reminds me that this is 
the same plant I romped in as a child; the same one I was so glad I didn't 
have to take care of. It reminds me that this is not a nightmare. You can't 
remember things in dreams. I know. I've had my fair share of them, and it's 
impossible.  And the stars shine down on me, walking over the field where 
there are no shadows. The moon is the same - full, and bright, and almost 
orange. There's a ring around it. It shines just like before. You would never 
know that this wasn't like it always had been, if not for the dying in the 
streets.

Now I push open the door, knowing that it would be unlocked; there is no need 
to worry about looters. Twenty SWAT members were saved, or that's what the 
Cancerman told me. I walk in, keeping my sidearm, and flash my badge to the 
guard leader. I know that there are five more men hidden away behind doors 
and corners, but I don't dwell on it. I do dwell on the fact that the man who 
they said would be there isn't. But he appears, popping out from some hidden 
doorway, looking too much like the White Rabbit from _Alice in Wonderland_ 
than anyone has any right to look. I stifle the giggle that threatens to 
bubble up out of me. Where did that come from? I never laugh. Ever. But I 
did, at such a time. "I'm late! I'm late! For a very important date!"

"Are all the pieces in place?" he asks me, using the code that we had agreed 
upon. "Sometimes, a pawn must be sacrificed to save the Royalty." A new twist 
on an old saying. Appropriate, yet awfully inappropriate, too. I am in the 
middle of violating the "Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity" slogan. I have been 
since the Revelation came, to use a code that was never really used. I know 
now exactly how I was strung along, how Mulder was strung along. How everyone 
was used like pawns, yet in the end, instrumental.

Like pawns can be so often. But pawns can be knighted, and that was what they 
were offering. Knighthood. Become our lady - knight, our warrior queen. And I 
have taken the deal.

The man leads me down, down, down deep below the White House to levels I 
never knew existed. Where the Shadow Government hid their most valuable 
pieces, next to the Pentagon's cache; where I would uncover what was most 
dear to me. And now, we turn through the dark corridors. There is a smell of 
death here. This corridor must have been scrubbed, and scrubbed, but the 
stains never completely washed out. The Angel is following me. 

And the man, the one who I have called the Musician for the past two weeks, 
unlocks the door that was always locked before. Secrets hide behind locked 
doors, and bodies; but so do treasures, and the most precious of people. I 
still do not know what I will find. But sometimes, you must take a gamble to 
win big; this is one of those times. I touch the metal, cold and hard and 
strong, ready to push the door open. "Wait," he tells me, "Say these words 
when you enter. Volot ut credo." He half - smiles at me, a quirky little 
endearing grin, but my face is stone. Someone has a sense of humor, for I 
want to believe is the password, translated from the Latin. But it was never 
me who wanted to -!

Now, I am having second thoughts. Should I go back? Should I decide that the 
others out there are more important? I still have a choice. As long as I 
don't see what's on the other side, I can still back out and return to sun 
and street and death, but what existence will that be? A life of sorrow, 
taking what I can find and trying desparately to help those dying. Thinking 
of the man who could change it all. No. I will go on.

I push the door open, listening to its creak, closing my eyes as I step in. 
"Volot ut credo," I say nervously, and hear a grunt from my right. "Pass," a 
man's voice tells me, and eyes still squeezed shut, I take another step 
forward. I feel a card key press into my hand, and I fumble for the reader. 
Swipe it through. My eyelids flutter open, and I am faced with another door, 
one that is Important. I just know. 

My hand mechanically reaches out to the doorknob. Running through my mind is 
pictures of the dead, the sick, the dying. The plague's symptoms run through 
my mind. I turn the knob, and it swings open silently on well - oiled hinges. 
The men behind me have melted away into the darkness before I have even 
gotten to see their faces. Just as well.

And on the other side of the door is the Angel. It is Mulder, standing and 
pointing his duty Sig at my sternum. His hair is perfectly in place for once, 
and he wears the suit that defined him for so long. "You made the wrong 
choice, Scully," he says, in that monotone voice of his, and raises the gun a 
little higher, at my breastbone. "You should have gone back while you could." 
the gun goes higher, pointing to my neck. "You should have helped those who 
needed it, instead of risking it all for me." the gun points to the bridge of 
my nose, and I am paralyzed. He is not touching me, not using any force; but 
the gun convinces me that he is... different. 

"Mulder, you aren't you. Not anymore. I had a choice, and I chose the Truth, 
not flailing my arms and shouting that it isn't fair. This is the only way I 
can continue my fight." I gain confidence, taking a step forward as he steps 
back. "I thought better of you. You would do the same thing in my position." 
And Mulder is gone. Just like that, with no noise or movement. He's just... 
not there.

But in his place, there is a wisp of cigarette smoke.

I move forward, silent tears running down my face, tenatively shuffling 
farther into the low-lit room. Ahead of me I see tables full of computers, 
shelves full of computer parts. Counters. A fully equipped mad scientist's 
lab. There is a door, at the back, a small and plain and unpretentious door. 
No signs. I walk around the lab part of things, wondering what this was. I 
see some test tubes full of vaguely purple - black, thick liquid, more of 
translucent and watery green. 

And then, absorbed in a computer display, I see Mulder. He stands, surprised 
at my coming, obviously, and then runs to me. My hand reaches to the butt of 
my gun at it's waist holster, but he's not armed, as far as I can tell. In 
the few moments of transition, when Mulder is moving and I am standing stock 
- still, I process the sounds and smells and tastes of this place. Beeping 
computers and bubbling acids. The hum of electricity, and maybe, just maybe, 
a bee's hive. The smell of formaldehyde and cleaner and recently turned - off 
Bunsen burners, or maybe that was just a feeling. New smells, all around. A 
bitter taste in my mouth. Then, and only then, do I notice the sign tacked to 
the wall, ten old - style computer printouts all still stuck together, 
annoying little edges and all. "Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six 
impossible things before breakfast!" It is credited in rather smaller font to 
Lewis Carroll.

I am in his arms. He is real. They got him out of the hospital before the 
Judgement Day hit. They did. They were true to their word, and now I must 
work for Them.

But it's strange - it doesn't seem as much like a burden as before. 

"They made me test you with the holograph, Scully," Mulder is saying to me as 
I think about this, "I would never have if They hadn't said I must. But 
you're OK! And we have work to do..." His voice takes on a wondering tone, as 
if he cannot imagine the magnitude of the importance of our work. "We have a 
third person working here. Scully..." he pauses, waiting for breath to come. 
"...They gave me back my sister."

He hugs me, and I hug back. Here, we are separated from the Angel of Death. 
He is only an illusion, here in the musty air below the White House. I kiss 
Mulder. It isn't taboo, down here. Secrets are made to be kept in basements, 
and if this should be a secret, it can stay down here.

As I lose myself in the kiss, the final thoughts of the Outside disappear, at 
least for now...

But outside, they can hear the Angel of Death beating his wings.

~finis~