Sent: Friday, April 24, 1998

In A Lifetime
by Rebecca Rusnak <mailto:rrusnak@avana.net>

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter. The situations in
this story stem from a darkly disturbing universe created by Jen Collins.

NOTES: This is an authorized sequel to Jen Collins "Life" series. I highly
recommend reading the stories that come before this. They are short, but
not for the faint of heart. After reading this series, I simply could not
bear to think of Mulder's fate, of what his life must be like, so I begged
Jen for the chance to write a sequel, something more hopeful. Jen has
graciously allowed me to write this follow-up, and I am deeply thankful to
her for that. Thanks, Jen.

****

"Unless the sound has faded from your soul,
Unless it disappears..."
--Clannad, "In A Lifetime"

****

Christmas

It's a scene right out of a movie. A children's choir sings "Silent Night"
with high-pitched tremolos. Proud parents and grandparents sit in the pews
in front of me. The Advent candles are lit, and their flames flicker
brightly.

It's a beautiful scene, all right, straight out of a fucking movie. I sit
in a back pew, my lips twisted with scorn, my hands clenched in a fist in my
lap.

I have not been inside a church in over a year. The remission of my cancer
seemed the perfect opportunity to return, but the absence of my partner made
it sacrilege. I could not celebrate my return to life while a part of *him*
died every day for me.

Mulder.

I have not seen him for a month; our last words to each other were shouted
in a mixture of heated anger and boiling passion. We have not coupled;
sometimes I think things would have been different if we had.

My Christmas gift to him lays forgotten on the pew beside me, a single white
rose, stripped of its thorns. A reminder that he is still alive, despite
his best efforts, and that not all the beauty in this world brings pain
with it.

I slide forward, onto my knees, leaning into the back of the pew in front of
me. The carpeted kneeler presses into my legs, and I close my eyes, try to
focus my thoughts, try to discover just where I went wrong.

It was national news: kidnapped FBI agent escapes, tells lurid tale of
torture and imprisonment. For a time, at the hospital, I had to fight my
way through a crowd composed of doctors and media personnel alike.
Eventually the public interest died, but I kept coming.

When he was coherent, free of the drugs, he was astonished just to learn I
was alive, free of my cancer. When he wasn't, he raved and called my name,
weeping desperate tears of rage and despair.

In the very beginning, wrapped in a cloak of drugs and pain, he clung to me,
sometimes crying, sometimes content just to let me hold him. I was proud
that he needed me. But I also hated myself then, for being alive, for being
the cause behind the broken man I held in my arms for hours at a time.

And then he came to hate me, too. Finally emerging from his drug-induced
lethargy, he looked me over and realized that *I* was the one responsible
for his captivity. Then there was no trace of the man I had known in his
eyes when he screamed at me. It was not Mulder whose crippled hands
shattered his water glass, who cut his fingers on the gleaming shards in his
haste to pick up the fragments. It was not the man I had loved who tried to
slash me with the glass, then his own throat.

He refused to talk about it at all. Yet I saw him sometimes, before he
drove me away, when he did not know I was looking. I saw how common,
everyday objects caused him to tremble uncontrollably. I watched him bury
his face in his hands and cringe from a woman's voice down the hall. Once I
caught him tracing the scars on his arm lightly, almost with reverence.

One meeting with Skinner was all it took to convince the AD that Mulder was
no longer fit to be in law enforcement. Stripped of his badge and gun, he
left the FBI forever. Since then he has stayed aloof and alone, sometimes
consorting with the Gunmen, usually not. I would be lying to myself if I
said I know what he does with his days.

His nights, however, are a different story. Even in the midst of his
darkest hate, his blackest anger, he called me. He would say little, only
listen as I talked of anything and everything and waited for the moment his
breathing would calm and he would gruffly say good night, then hang up. And
I would lay the phone down, turn out the light, and cry myself to sleep.

I am through crying, though. I cannot summon prayer, so I stand up and walk
towards the exit, holding the rose in front of me. It would be easy to lay
it at the foot of the statue of the Virgin Mary, slink from the church in
disgrace.

But it has been months, and the time has come to stand up to him, to make
him see. I will succeed. I do not think beyond that; I cannot.

****

I stare at the bottles before me, trying to decide. Scotch or Jack Daniels?
Both have their advantages, their drawbacks. JD is good for blotting out
memories, but Scotch doesn't give me such a horrible hangover the next
morning.
Fuck it. I reach for the bottle of Jack Daniels.

Outside the group of carolers that has been irritating me all evening
suddenly bursts into raucous laughter. One woman's silvery laugh carries
above the rest, and just like that, my hand begins shaking wildly. Instead
of grabbing the bottle, it knocks against the glass, like a moth beating
uselessly against a light. Furious at myself, at my weakness, at that bitch
outside, I sweep both bottles off the table, relishing the sound of breaking
glass as they hit the floor.

The fumes from the liquor are incredibly strong, and I gag, then retch. The
laughter from below, *her* laughter, fills my ears, and it's all I can do
not to lose the contents of my stomach until I reach the bathroom. I slam
the door behind me, but the laughter reaches me anyway, swirls around me as
I vomit and sob into the toilet in equal measures.

My hand still shakes as I flush the toilet, and I crawl from the bathroom,
vile-tasting drool mingling with my tears to wet my face. I am still
crawling when I hear the knock at my door. Hastily I wipe my face with my
sleeve and stand up. My traitorous cock partially stands too; but compared
to a year ago, it's a feeble gesture, one I am oh-so-slowly unlearning.

It's Scully, of course. She knocks again, and softly calls my name. I know
she will stand out there all night if she has to, so I resignedly move
forward and open the door.

"Merry Christmas," she says. In her gloved hand she holds a white rose.
Her hair is long these days, and it curls softly about her shoulders. She
is smiling.

I make no move to let her in. I reach for the flower, intending to take it
and shut the door on her, but she snatches it away at the last moment. "I
want to come in."

"Too bad," I say, and begin closing the door.

She moves fast, though, and has an arm through the opening before I can get
it closed all the way. I could slam the door shut anyway, force her to back
off, but I wait, hoping she will leave of her own accord.

"I want to start over," Scully says. "Will you let me?"

I was unprepared for this. Guiltily I glance back into my apartment,
wondering if she can smell the alcohol from in the hall. Then I sigh and
let her in.

She sniffs once, then walks over to the window and opens it. Cold December
air streams into the room, yet she takes off her coat and gloves, and lays
them on the couch. She holds out the rose inquiringly.

I shrug. "Just put it on the desk." She does so, removing all my pens and
pencils from the ceramic jar they sit in, and puts the flower in there. The
jar is too small for it, and the rose droops alarmingly, but she doesn't
seem to notice.

She sits on the couch, smooths her skirt out, and I see her hands are
shaking, too. "How are you, Mulder?" she asks.

We're back to this. "I'm fine," I say, icily polite. "You?"

For a moment her eyes narrow at my tone, then she collects herself. Her
head lowers, her gaze drops. The muscles of her back and arms tense, and
she looks up at me. "I miss you," she says simply.

I expected anger, remorse, guilt, false cheer. Her simple plea takes me off
guard, and for the first time in months I make a reply that is not
rehearsed. "I miss you, too."

Triumph blazes briefly in her eyes before she masks it, but I've seen it,
and it's too late. I open my mouth to blast her, to tear that smug
satisfaction from her, but she beats me to it. "Then will you sit with me?"

For the third time tonight I am disarmed. She is maddeningly calm and
possessed, and my brain frantically tries to make associations, to turn her
into the enemy, into *her*, but I cannot do it. She is just who she is.
She is Scully.

****

He sits stiffly beside me, his face a wooden mask, his eyes blank. We have
not been this close in months, and I dig my fingernails into my palms to
suppress the many emotions surging through me right now. He is so angry
always, so full of hate and rage that I must be very careful in what I say,
in what I do. I have not even expected to get this far, but now that I
have, I must move forward.

We sit in a silence broken only by the sounds of carolers outside. I passed
them as I parked in front of the building. They're singing "Joy to the
World" now. My mind races for something to say. I know Mulder will only
sit beside me for so long before jumping to his feet, spitting curses at
me.

He speaks suddenly, and I start. "I wish they'd shut the fuck up," he says
bitterly.

I cannot say I agree, for I don't, and the last thing I want to do is to
feed that massive rage that constantly smolders beneath his skin now. For
lack of anything better to do, I reach out and grab the TV remote control.
I snap it on with a flick of my wrist. The canned laughter of a sitcom
fills the room, but at least it has drowned out the carolers.

Mulder turns his head, looks at me briefly. I smile tightly, but he has
already looked away. Since the beginning, he has found this
difficult--looking me in the eye.

"Why are you here?" he asks. I am amazed. This is the most he has said to
me in weeks.

"Because I wanted to be with you," I say, hoping I haven't gone too far.

Apparently I have. "Bullshit," Mulder snaps. But he does not get up and I
take hope from that.

"Because I wanted to start over." I hold my breath, waiting. I stare at
the mindless program on the TV, hearing the inane dialogue, but listening
for Mulder.

"Scully..." He stops, and I am horrified to discover there are tears in my
eyes. I cannot turn to him and let him see the evidence of my despair, yet
I cannot keep from moving my head, from looking on him.

He is staring over the TV, into a place only he can see. "It's too late for
that," he finally says. He tries to look at me, but only manages to glance
up as far as my shoulders.

"I don't believe that," I say. My voice is remarkably calm, betraying none
of my turmoil, and I blink back the tears, reassured that he does not know
how close I have just come to losing it.

"Then fuck you," Mulder mutters, but there is no depth to the words. They
are not the virulent curses he's flung at me in the past.

I swallow hard. "If you want."

Startled, he succeeds in looking at me this time. For a moment his eyes are
unguarded, and I can see utter astonishment there, before it is overtaken by
anger. "Oh, come on, Scully, is that the best you can do? Surely you've
had more practice than that. Where's your come-hither look? Your sexy
pout?" He laughs bitterly, a sound full of self-hatred. "Where are your
long fingernails and sharp objects? Where are your chains and whips? You
know how I am now. I expected more from you, Scully."

His voice is tight with barely controlled fury, and his hands are clenched
into fists. I do not dare look down, but I know he has an erection now, and
that his shame and anger over it are goading him on. "Shall I strip for
you? Or do you want to do it yourself? Are you going to ask me questions
or do you want me gagged? Am I allowed to touch you or do I get to be tied
up? Can I choose how you hurt me?" His voice turns mocking. "Come on,
Scully. Hurry up and decide before I come all over myself. You know how
much I hate to do that."

His words, his matter-of-factness sickens me. This is the first time he has
ever alluded to what happened to him during his captivity. My eyes close
involuntarily as a wave of horror and revulsion sweeps over me. I say
nothing, and the silence stretches out between us. I finally speak,
although I do not open my eyes. "No wonder you hate me."

Mulder's angry breathing cuts off in mid-exhale, and I cringe inwardly. It
occurs to me that I should be afraid of him; I read the reports on how he
escaped, how he killed his captors.

"I don't hate you, Scully." The emotion has bled from his voice, and it is
neutral again, revealing nothing.

I open my eyes and look up at him. "Yes, you do." Those damning tears are
back. "And I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. If I could have
suffered all that for you--"

Mulder cuts me off with an angry movement of his hand. "Oh, don't! Don't
even start with that shit."

"Do you think that I would have accepted this cure if I had known?" I ask
softly. "Do you think I wanted to live so badly that I would willingly
sacrifice you?" A single tear runs down my cheek. "Do you think I don't
hate myself when I think of you, of the price you paid for my life?"

These are all words he has heard before, time and again. Maybe it's the
holiday. Maybe it's the liquor. Maybe it's the rose. For whatever reason,
this time he listens. "Scully."

"I wake up every morning, utterly grateful to be alive, Mulder. And then I
remember *why* I'm alive, and I feel sick to my stomach. I have to force
myself out of bed. I stay up late at night so I don't lay awake for hours,
wishing I could take it back, that I could change it all."

Another tear joins the first. "I can't change the past, Mulder, but I can
do something now. Let me in, Mulder. Let me help you," I plead.

"Who says I need help?" he retorts. "I'm fine."

I ignore him. "Let me help you." <Let me help myself, so I don't end up
eating my gun one morning when the guilt is too much to bear.> I reach for
him, lay a gentle hand on his arm. "Please."

He has not let me touch him since the day he realized I was to blame.
Before that he could not bear to be touched without flinching, yet now he
does not move.

****

Her hand is light on my arm. She makes no move to wipe the tears from her
cheeks, and something deep within me stirs at the sight. "Don't," I say.

"Don't what?" she asks. Her voice trembles, betraying her.

I jerk my arm from her. "Don't do this!"

"I have to," she responds. "I--"

"Stop it!" I am horrifyingly close to begging her, I realize. I swallow
hard and wrap myself in the familiar confines of anger. "Get out. Leave me
alone. There's nothing you can do."

"No," she says.

The simple negation infuriates me. "Get out!" I scream. My fists clench
and I lean in, hoping to intimidate her.

Scully does not shrink back or flinch from me. She always has been stronger
than I. "No."

I cannot hit her, no matter how much I long to. I merely sit, shaking with
rage, unable to move or speak. If she tries to touch me again I will
kill her.

"Why won't you accept my help? Is it so hard to put aside your hate?" she
asks. She shows no fear of me, and a part of me is still detached enough to
marvel at this.

"Yes!" I shout it at her.

"Why?" Damn her! She is compassionate, refusing to get angry with me.

That thing within me twists again, painfully, and I close my eyes against
it, shutting out the sight of her. "Because..." The word is dragged from my
lips.

She waits. "Mulder, talk to me. Why is it so hard for you to let go of
your hate?" Her voice is a thin shadow, lacking its usual surety.

"Because..." My throat constricts, but the words are forced out. I cannot
look at her. "Because if I stop hating you then I have to start hating
myself."

"God..." Scully sighs.

"Are you happy?" I fling the words at her, open my eyes in time to see her
recoil from my venom. "Is that what you wanted to hear? You wanted to help
me, Scully. So help me. Get out of here and don't ever come back." My
voice breaks near the end. I don't mean it.

She knows. She's always known me better than I do. "You don't have to hate
anyone, Mulder. That's not the way to heal. You have to get past it."

I am incredulous. "Get past it? She made me into a monster, Scully!"

She bites back before I can finish. "And you're letting her do it, Mulder!
Every time you rebuff my offer of help, every time you curse my name, every
time you do something in anger, you're only letting her win." She pauses,
and when she speaks she is calmer. "You know what, Mulder? I don't think
you're finished escaping from her yet. Part of you is still in that cell,
still in that room with her."

On any other night those words would have earned her a stinging slap, but
tonight they paralyze me. She is right. But there is nothing that can be
done. A part of me will *always* be cringing before that beautiful bitch who
fucked me good, in many more ways than one.

Scully takes my hand and I am powerless to stop her. "Leave it behind,
Mulder. Leave that room. Leave it for good. You don't have to stay there,
you don't have to hurt anymore."

An uncontrollable wave of desperate longing washes over me. I remember
gazing at the window outside my cell, at the small patch of sky I could just
barely see. A beacon of freedom, it was so tantalizingly close, yet so far
away.

I look into Scully's eyes, and I see that same patch of blue. It is there,
right in front of me. Her arms reach for me, offering the hope that true
freedom is possible within my lifetime. I begin to tremble, and blindly I
reach for her. I reach for freedom.

END

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