Date: Sun, 14 Jun 1998

A Lifetime Renewed
by Rebecca Rusnak

DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em.

SUMMARY: One year after his escape, can Mulder take the biggest step of
all?

****

The flower vendor at the Metro station has one of those spray-bottle fans,
the kind that mist you with cool water while blowing. He is not wilting as
badly as his flowers are, but it is a close call.

August heat like this makes me willing to swear that whoever drained the
swamp Washington was built on, didn't do it right.

I buy a red rose from the vendor and walk back to my car, turn on the
air-conditioning full blast and close my eyes. The sweat dries on my
forehead, my upper lip, my thighs. When I am cool enough, I pull back out
into traffic.

A year. He probably doesn't know it himself, and I may be doing him a grave
injustice to bring it to his attention, but I cannot help myself. He has
come so far in a year's time, since that day he murdered his captors and
dragged himself out of hell. I simply cannot let this day go unremembered.

Yesterday I kissed him. Nothing passionate. More like a teenager's clumsy
first attempt at a kiss. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the
couch; I was sitting behind him with my legs drawn up. We'd been silent for
some time. He turned slightly, looking up at me, and impulsively I leaned
down and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Instinctively he pulled back, but I was gratified to see no fear in his
eyes. He blinked myopically at me, at a loss for words. And I, the epitomy
of suave, I grabbed the remote control and turned on the TV.

That was all. But I kissed him and he was not afraid, and for that my soul
rejoices. A year ago I would never have thought this possible.

A year ago I walked into his hospital room, pushing my way through a crowd
of television reporters, ignoring their shouted questions. After the noise
of the lobby, the silence of his room was deafening. I could not stifle a
cry when I first saw him. His arms were restrained at his sides, his hands
bandaged and splinted. His beautiful face was scarred and bruised, his
mouth slack, his eyes half-open, dull and glassy with drugs and pain. I
burst into tears and had to turn my back on him in order to regain my
composure.

When I was able, I went to him, knelt by his side. I was afraid to touch
him; there did not seem to be a place on him that was not marked by a
memento of suffering of one kind or another. I called his name softly, over
and over, until finally my voice penetrated the haze of sedatives and
painkillers. He struggled to open his eyes and focus them on me. I put on
my best, brightest smile and blinked back more tears.

He saw me then, I think. I saw recognition flare in his eyes before dimming
and going out entirely as he finally succumbed to unconsciousness. I laid
my head on the bed and sobbed then.

Now, as I park the car in front of his building, I think how I believed that
day that the worst was yet to come, that the bad part was far from over.
But I also believed then that things could only get better, now that he was
back.

I didn't know it then, but both those beliefs were right.

****

The bitch may have been fucked up, but she got one thing right, at least.
Wearing clothes in August is just ridiculous. If it wasn't for Scully
coming over, I'd be naked right now. I sleep in the nude now, always
falling asleep on my back, often with my hands at my sides, tethered by
invisible restraints. I roll over at some point in the night, though, so it
doesn't bother me to sleep like that. I take it as some crude sort of
symbolism; that She may still have some hold over me, but that I will
eventually break it.

Either that or I just don't like sleeping on my back.

Not that it matters, since I don't sleep much anymore, anyway. When I was a
guest of the bitch from hell, sleeping was all I did. It was my refuge, my
one escape from her attentions, from my despair, my hate, my fear. The fact
that my sleep was riddled with nightmares seemed a fair trade-off for a few
hours freedom from pain.

Now, of course, I don't need that escape, and I stay awake late into the
night, watching bad TV, writing the magazine articles that are my livelihood
now.

I hear Scully's footsteps coming down the hall, and I mute the volume on the
TV, but don't turn it off. Sooner or later we run out of words, and resort
to watching the boob tube. I don't mind. To me, those are the best times,
sitting beside Scully, content to be in the presence of another human being,
knowing that I am safe from harm, that I have nothing to fear.

She knocks, lets herself in. She has cut her hair again, and it hangs just
below her chin now, curling in toward the nape of her neck. In her hand she
holds a red rose.

"What's this?" I ask. But my heart is beginning to thump nastily in my
chest. I think I know. I'm not entirely stupid.

She smiles hesitantly. "For you," she says.

I keep my hands stubbornly at my sides. "Why?" I hate the note of
suspicion that colors my voice.

Her smile dies. "Be--because."

"Commemorating something?" I ask snottily. Her eyes widen, and I just have
to jab deeper, don't you know? "A special anniversary, perhaps?" I can't
shut up, my mouth runs on. "You should have brought three flowers. I
killed her two thugs, too, you know."

Scully's jaw drops. I have not been so ugly to her in a long time. I turn
away, heave a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just--today's not a good day
for me."

"The flower is for you, Mulder." Her voice has regained its strength.

I don't look at her. "Thank you."

She hesitates. "Do you...do you want to...?"

"Talk about it?" I finish. I roll my eyes. "May as well. It's what we'll
end up doing anyway, or did you have something else planned for today? A
picnic, maybe?"

I glance up at her shocked gasp. Her eyes narrow. She tosses the rose to
the floor, where it lands with a soft plop. "Goddamn you, Fox Mulder," she
says softly.

I raise an eyebrow. "Goddamn me? Little late for that, wouldn't you say?
I've been hellbound for over a year now, Scully."

"Shut up!" she cries, her face twisting. She's always hated it when I
casually refer to my captivity. She prefers it when I'm somber and
introspective.

"Do you think you're the only one who's been suffering all this time,
Mulder? Do you?" Her cheeks flush with anger and she takes a step forward.
Her fists ball at her sides.

"No," I snap, "but where were you when I was screaming my head off in her
dungeon? Where were you when I was getting raped every night? Where were
you when I spent weeks in a coma after getting my head caved in by a
baseball bat?"

Her shoulders slump. "That's not fair, Mulder."

I snort. "Yeah. Life isn't fair."

****

I simply can't believe this. My earlier happiness seems light-years away.

As much as I want to, I cannot be angry with him. It will only worsen
things, anyway, if I were to yell back at him, make accusations of my own.
But more than that, I could not live with myself if I were to advance on
him, shouting and gesticulating, if I were to bring back that fear in his
eyes, make him cringe before me.

And I could do it, too. He is not as recovered as he would have me believe.

But I am not a monster, I am not *her*, no matter how much he tries to hate
me again. So I stand still, maintaining my calm breathing, my neutral
expression.

After a while, Mulder turns away. "Shit."

Still I say nothing. I wait for him to regain his self-control, an exercise
that is terribly difficult for him. He paces, throws me dark looks, mutters
to himself. Finally he walks forward, grabs the rose off the floor and
stalks back to his desk. He dumps his pens and pencils from the jar on the
desktop and unceremoniously thrusts the rose into the mug. He turns and
leans on the desk, crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Happy now?"
His eyes are still dark; we are not out of the woods yet.

"Are you?" I counter. It's not a threat.

"You know the answer to that," Mulder retorts.

I am still. We gaze at each other from across the room. I make a small
gesture with one hand. "May I come in?"

He nods curtly. I walk forward and sit on the couch. A patch of sunlight
falls through the window onto my legs. It's almost uncomfortably warm but
I don't move.

Mulder remains standing, arms crossed defensively.

I wage an internal debate. Left to himself, he could calm down and join me,
or he could work himself up into a greater rage and order me out. If I
intervene, I will almost certainly provoke him, but I may also bring about
some closure, too.

I make a decision, hold my breath. "You never did tell me about how you got
out."

****

She's got some nerve. For a moment I don't think I heard her right, but
then I realize that no, she said it, all right.

I look at her incredulously. "You want to hear how I escaped?"

"If you want to tell me. I thought, today being..." Her voice breaks. She
clears her throat. "You said you were having a bad day. Maybe it would
help if you talked about it."

"All right. I killed them. End of story." My palms are suddenly slick with
sweat, and my pulse has speeded up.

"How?" she asks.

My stomach is churning. "Go read the police report, *Agent* Scully," I
snap.

She only gazes at me calmly, although I can see her rapid heartbeat
fluttering at the base of her neck. She's as scared as I am, I realize
suddenly.

"An exacto knife," I say abruptly.

Scully blinks. "What?"

"An exacto knife," I repeat in exasperation. If she won't listen, won't pay
attention, there is no way I can get through this. "Are you listening?"
She nods.

"She left it. She was too eager to fuck me, and she forgot about it. I
found it after she left." I uncross my arms, hold up my hands, point to the
network of scars around my wrists. They are layered there, bracelets of
white scar tissue; barely visible are the marks from the straight cuts I
made to facilitate my escape.

"I cut myself, used the blood to make it easier to slip out of the manacles.
Broke my hands doing it." I am beginning to shake, and I quickly cross my
arms again, hiding the offending limbs. I don't know how much longer I will
be able to go on.

"I unscrewed the bolts on the plate that kept me chained to the floor." I
freeze up, suddenly unable to speak another word. There is no way I can
ever describe my utter terror and desolation in those moments, when I truly
believed She would find me in the midst of my attempt, find me and torture
me to death. I can never tell Scully how I contemplated suicide in those
moments, how I silently begged her forgiveness for being so weak.

"Mulder." She's risen from the couch, and now she stands before me. I
don't remember her getting there. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me."

I manage a croak, swallow hard against the lump that has lodged in my
throat. "I thought....I thought I was going to die, Scully. I was so sure
she would walk in, catch me trying to escape, and it wouldn't just be a
baseball bat she'd have this time." My chest hitches as I draw in a
strangled breath. "I thought I'd never see you again."

Scully smiles. "But you did it, Mulder. You made it, and here you are."
Wordlessly, I allow her to take my arm, guide me over to the couch.

"Here I am," I echo faintly.

****

He sits beside me, but his eyes are unfocused, seeing something not here,
not in this room. When he was telling me of his escape, the detachment in
his eyes frightened me, and I'm glad he stopped. I'm not ready to hear this
yet; he's not ready to tell it.

He shudders convulsively, once, and I brace myself for an outburst, but he
remains quiet. His eyes begin to clear, however, and I breathe more easily.

The silence envelops us. This is us at our most familiar, just sitting,
shoulders barely touching, eyes forward, saying nothing, saying everything.

Mulder breaks the silence. "I saved that rose you brought me at Christmas.
Did you know that?"

I am surprised. Given his mental state then, I would have expected him to
shred it, flush it down the toilet, toss it out the window. "Why?" I ask.

He shrugs half-heartedly. "I don't know." He looks at me. "I couldn't
believe you'd come. I couldn't believe I'd *let* you come. Or that I'd let
you stay. And especially that I'd let you hold me." He looks away again,
off into space. "Once you'd left, it all seemed like a warped dream or
something. So I told myself if the flower was still there in the morning,
then it was all real."

"And it was there," I say.

"Yeah." Mulder looks down, gazing fiercely at a spot on the floor between
his feet. "I nearly lost it when I woke up the next morning and it was
still there. It hurt too much to look at it, so I threw it away."

I look at him quizzically, and although he doesn't look up, I see him
grimace. "I know. But later, I wanted to look at it again. It seemed
important that I look at it. And I realized that it would die soon, and
then I wouldn't have it anymore. So I put it in the refrigerator, to
preserve it."

"Mulder." I lean forward. My heart begins to pound, but I do not let
myself think of what I am about to do.

He looks up at me, unsuspecting.

I kiss him, then, square on the lips. A split-second's touch, an
infinitesimal moment when all things are possible, then I'm sitting up
again.

****

She kisses me, and I cannot help the dread that uncurls in my stomach. I
stare at her with wide eyes, uncomprehending. "Why?" I ask shakily.

"Because," she says simply. "Because I wanted to."

My heart does an ugly sideways jolt in my chest, a physically painful move.
"Scully...."

"And because you are a beautiful man, Fox Mulder. And on this one day above
all others, you need to hear it."

Oh god, oh no... "I don't want your pity," I growl.

Scully shakes her head. A smile curves her lips. "Not pity," she says.

My eyes are on her lips, soft and pink, not full and red, not dripping with
my own blood. Reluctantly, I drag my gaze to her eyes. "I'm not
beautiful," I say.

"Yes, you are," she responds. One hand drifts upward, and my eyes track it,
but I do not move away from her. Her fingertips caress my cheek, trace the
scars there. "You are beautiful."

My breath catches in my throat. I don't know whether I should be afraid of
her or not. "Scully, I'm not...I mean, I can't...." Shame causes me to
twist away.

"I don't want to sleep with you, Mulder," she says. That faint smile is
back.

I relax slightly. "Then, what?"

Her smile widens. "Here you are, Mulder."

Her eyes are a bright blue, the blue of hot August skies. I suddenly long
to step outside, stand under the bowl of that sky. "Here I am," I say.

She takes my hands, pulls me to my feet. "You made it," she says.

Suddenly I understand. I can stand under that sky. I've always been able
to. I feel my face break into a smile. "I made it," I say.

****

END

Notes: Whew! It's been one heck of a ride, but it's over now. Everybody
out of the bus, as my mom used to say. I originally wrote In A Lifetime to
satisfy my own need for closure after Jen Collins' Life series. Those of
you who have written me know that I intended that story to be stand-alone.
But to my surprise, I found three more stories waiting in the wings, and I
spent a long weekend writing them, crying over my own words, hoping that
you, the readers, would enjoy them as much as I did. Many thanks to
everyone who has read these stories and written to say as much.

As always, I am interested in hearing from you. Write me at:
rrusnak@avana.net

****************

"I have walked the paths of desire
Gathering flowers and carrying fire."
--October Project, "Paths of Desire"