TANGIBLE 3: FALL
by Blueswirl and Meredith


Meredith's Note:   We finally finished it!   Hooray!  Thanks to everyone who 
has written us over the last several months to stalk, cajole, beg, and 
threaten. :-)   We love hearing from you, and believe it or not you helped us 
finish this installment faster than we would have without your wonderful 
e-mail.  Personally, I'd like to thank Blue for once again being a brilliant 
and patient writing partner and friend, the best possible combination! 
Special thanks go to Scullysfan, whose entertaining and most unique version 
of "stalking" kept us laughing and motivated on a weekly basis. ;-)  I don't 
know what we would have done without her!

Blueswirl's Note:   There's not too much for me to add that Meredith didn't 
say already -- I'm gonna take the easy way out and just add "Ditto" -- 
especially to the part about Stalker Scullysfan!  :)  This has been a 
tremendous amount of fun, and the support we've received from everyone who 
read the first two parts and asked for more just made the process that much 
more worthwhile.  :)  As for Meredith, she's a phenomenal writer and a 
terrific collaborator -- I still consider myself the lucky one in this 
partnership!

From both of us:  You may want to read "Tangible" and "Tangible 2:  Summer" 
before plunging into this sequel.  You can find both stories on Blueswirl's 
website, http://blueswirlscrashpad.simplenet.com and "Tangible 2" on Meredith's site at www.geocities.com/MeredithFic/  




Title:   TANGIBLE 3:  FALL

Author:  Meredith [meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com] & Blueswirl [blueswirl@aol.com]

Classification:   T,R,A, Alternate Universe
Rating:   NC-17
Keyword:   Mulder/Scully
Spoilers:   pre-6th Season

Summary:  The third installment of a five-part post-colonization serial.

Distribution:  Do not archive at Gossamer.  Anywhere else, please ask one of 
the authors for permission first -- and please keep our names attached!

Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead:  the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully 
belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. and we're using them for 
this story without permission.  So sue us.

Feedback:   If the mood hits -- we'd love it at Meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com and 
Blueswirl@aol.com.




TANGIBLE 3:  FALL
by Meredith & Blueswirl 
6/24/99




They stare at me, encircle me, their young faces twisted in shock.  Horror.

Betrayal.

A few are blonde, a few brunette.  I remember one being chubby, at least two 
reed-thin and sickly.  The rest... were so normal.  So average.  Now they all 
are swollen, bloated.  Unwashed and used.  They surround me, look down upon 
me. 

Accusing.

The metal snaps over my left wrist in a familiar gesture of ownership.  I try 
to speak, but am unable to control my treacherous mouth.  The drugs course 
through my veins, obliterating the carefully hidden stores of self I'd 
ferreted away for future dreams.  Dreams, dreams, dreams of being, perhaps of 
dying, of escaping at any cost the white and cold metal.

Carriers.

I struggle to remember a name, just one name.  To purse my numb lips into 
syllables meant to get their attention, to ensnare one innocent, sweet girl 
into recognizing me as a fellow slave, a compatriot in the endless, 
repetitive testing.  The draining of all we are, all we ever were.  To show 
Them she recognizes me, sees me for the barren subject I am.  To release me 
as worthless.

I never knew their names. 

Sleeping.  Eating.  Sitting.  Standing.  Eliminating.  Crying.  

Sharing tombs.  Cells.  Chairs.  Needles.  Lab tables.  Pain.  Agony.   
Fates.  Destiny. 

I never knew any of their names.

When my throat finally obeys the order to scream, it is too late.  I am 
already awake.




"Shhh. Scully.  It's all right.  You're here with me.  You're safe, you're 
safe."  Mulder croons in my ear, cradling my sweating form under the stack of 
blankets. 

I want to believe him.  More than anything in the world.

It is the middle of the night, and I am unable to see anything at all.  There 
are no stars or moon; clouds hide all possible light.  I jerk away from his 
careful hold and get up to shakily pace a few feet from him.  I cannot remain 
lying down at the moment; the nightmare's grasp is still too tight.

Suddenly the chill night air hits me, turning my sweat to ice.  I stand for 
long moments, breathing deeply until I am myself again.

"Scully?"  He whispers, afraid. 

Not now.  I can't talk about it now.

"I'm OK."  My voice shakes only slightly.  "I ... I had a dream... that I was 
back at the Compound.  It's over.  I'm OK."   

I'm OK.

"Then come back to bed, Scully.  It's cold and you need to rest."

I squelch the urge to remind him I'm not likely to get sicker from exposure 
to temperature extremes, but then I realize I'm shivering and uncomfortable.  
So I crawl back into our makeshift bed and fold myself into him for warmth.

He's right.  We've only just gotten past another very difficult obstacle in 
our path toward the mountains, a chasm that we normally would have been able 
to cross with only a little extra physical exertion.  But since I've been 
sick, the toll on my body has been extreme.

And we've lost precious days because of my weakness. 

The days grow shorter, the nights turn colder.  Time is on our heels.  And 
this mysterious sickness is getting more difficult to ignore.

My best guess is that I've contracted a mutated version of the Fever, a 
strain not as virulent or indiscriminate in its killing pattern.  Based on 
what Mulder has told me, and taking careful, objective stock of my symptoms, 
this is the only conclusion I can draw.  Why my fever is not high, and why I 
haven't broken out in the tell-tale blistering are mysteries.  But if these 
discrepancies end up saving my life, I will gladly forego the scientific 
curiosity.

Over the past few days, I have willed myself to get better.  I have cajoled 
and bargained with my uncooperative body.  I have grown angry with myself for 
letting Mulder down.  For being a burden on our future.

All I get for my trouble is more retching, more fatigue. 

Although he has never spoken of it, I can see the panic illuminating Mulder's 
eyes when I am at my worst.  So far, he has never once voiced our greatest 
fear. 

// You'll be OK, Scully.  It's just a bug, Scully.  You're going to be fine.  
We're making good time.  Just rest, Scully. // 

How sad he would be if he knew how much I've learned from his silent 
omissions.

"Try to get some sleep.  I'll be riding your ass to make an extra mile 
tomorrow," he teases, his voice late-night gravel against my skin.

"Is that a promise?" I whisper.

"If you want it to be."

I won't hold us up any longer.  My determination to regain control will win 
out.  I must believe this.

I can do this.  I'm OK. 

I have to be.




When I wake again the sun has risen, casting a murky light that doesn't do 
much to brighten the overcast sky.  The weather is shifting as it grows later 
in the year, and it casts an uneasy pall over our journey.  

The changing of the seasons is as visible as any clock, the seconds ticking 
away, spurring us ever onward.  Our goal has always been to make it to the 
New Cities before the winter hits, but with each passing day it seems less 
and less likely that we will succeed.  It's been harder going than we 
expected, and my illness has further complicated things.  But we don't talk 
about altering our plan.  We just keep moving forward.

Our supplies have diminished to the point where packing takes little or no 
time.  We eat the remaining apples, dried now, for breakfast, and then gather 
our things and head out, following the map.  I notice that Mulder's pace is 
slower than usual, and I know that he's trying to compensate for my lack of 
sleep.  Resentment fills me and I quicken my steps until I pass him, setting 
a new rhythm.

"This isn't a race, Scully," he chides me, but I ignore him and focus on 
walking.  I'm feeling better this morning despite my lack of rest.  Though my 
limbs are still achy, my stomach isn't cramping, and I don't feel quite as 
feverish.  I dare to hope that perhaps the worst has passed.

"What?" I ask, forcing a teasing tone.  "You afraid to keep up with me?"

He brings a smile to his face, but his words are serious.  "I just don't want 
you to push yourself too hard."

"I'm fine," I tell him, and prove it by smiling back.

We walk in silence for most of the morning, following a remarkably smooth 
stretch of road.  It's a forest road, and I like that.  It's less ominous to 
be surrounded by the beauty of nature, empty of wildlife though it may be, 
than to make our way through another empty, ghost-filled town.  

I find myself thinking about Matthew and how he has fared.  I wonder if his 
fever ever broke, as mine seems to have.  I can't allow myself to imagine 
that such a small child has succumbed to such a horrible fate, even though I 
know deep in my heart that it's probably true.   

Mulder stops beside me and shifts the pack he carries to pull the crumpled 
map from the pocket of his jeans.  I wait as he peruses it, and as he studies 
it I study his face.  His tan is beginning to fade, and I already miss the 
honeyed glow it brought to his skin.  His brow is knitted in concentration, 
worry lines creasing his forehead.  I don't bother to ask what he's thinking. 
 I know he'll confide in me before he makes any decision.  He always does.

I take off my own pack and pull one of the water bottles from inside.  
Despite the cloudy, gray sky and the cool temperature, I have still worked up 
a sweat.  I unscrew the top and take a long sip, and as I hand it over to 
him, my patience is rewarded.

"Take a look at this, Scully."  

I trade him the water bottle for the map and glance at the section he 
indicates with a pointed finger.   

"We've got two choices," he says.  "We can stay on this road and hope that it 
still runs through to the highway.  Or we can cut through this section of 
woods."  He waves a hand over his left shoulder towards the dense undergrowth 
that looms in that direction.  "There should be a trail somewhere in there, 
if the map is correct.  It could save us a lot of time, if it exists -- we 
could meet the highway much further along."

I examine the map and see the triangulation of road that he's describing.  It 
appears to me that the short cut is by far the better choice.

"There's no contest," I declare.  "The trail's the best option.  At the rate 
we're going, we'd gain half a day at least."

"Yes," he slowly agrees.

"Why do I sense a 'but' coming?"  I ask.

He takes another sip of water and then hands the bottle back, retrieving the 
map.  "Assuming we can even find the trail -- that the entrance isn't blocked 
or overgrown -- we've got no guarantee of its condition.  If we get in there 
and find that it's eroded, it would really set us back."

Although his words are perfectly clear, I detect a second meaning hidden 
beneath them.  It's not the condition of the trail that he's afraid of.  I 
know as well as he does that taking the trail will most certainly be rougher 
than staying on the road.  I know that what he fears is that I'm not well 
enough to negotiate it.  

I screw the cap back onto the bottle and stuff it back into my pack.  
"Mulder, we've got to take the trail.  It makes the most sense."  My tone is 
calm and even.  I'm not about to get in an argument with him.  "Besides," I 
add, "as you pointed out, there's no guarantee that the road continues 
through either.  Bombs were dropped everywhere.  That crater we tried to 
cross a couple days ago was a perfect example -- it was right in the middle 
of a major road.  The best option is to take the shortest route."

He looks at the map for a long moment and then raises his eyes to mine.  I 
see doubt lurking in their hazel depths, but also a fair amount of 
determination.  I'm certain that he can read a similar mixture of uncertainty 
and stubbornness in my own.  

"Okay," he concedes.  "We take the trail.  If we can find it, that is."

As it turns out, the trail is surprisingly easy to locate.  It branches off 
the road we're on from behind a grove of trees, spiraling off into the 
distance on a gradually increasing incline.  It's narrow going, forcing us to 
walk single file, Mulder taking the lead.  He's the one who holds the rifle, 
but we are both alert, listening intently for any sound, watching for any 
motion that might signal danger.  

The woods are eerily silent save the sound of our footsteps tamping down 
fallen leaves and branches.  Though we've been on the road for weeks, I still 
can't get over the endless quiet.  In the time since They arrived, a hush has 
fallen over the world, stealing away all of the everyday noises I once took 
for granted.  The lack of noise is oddly peaceful and yet unsettling to me.  
I haven't had the same opportunity to become accustomed to the new silence 
that Mulder has had.  He traversed hundreds of miles alone while he searched 
for me, accompanied by nothing save the beating of his own heart.

The years he spent in solitude I spent surrounded by hundreds of others, 
trapped in a space filled with an entirely different kind of silence.  
Excessive conversation was forbidden in the Compound, yet although few words 
were ever spoken aloud, the building thrummed with a thousand hidden 
whispers.  Murmured conversations between fellow prisoners hung heavy and 
ominous, particularly during the long, long nights, but they were nothing in 
comparison to the screams.

They have no respect for our pain, or our suffering.  To Them, we are nothing 
more than a nuisance, a blight on this planet that They have so ruthlessly 
adopted as Their own.  Even those of us that provide Them with the blood that 
They so desperately need are seen as nothing more than vessels, carriers of a 
necessary substance.  This is why They think nothing of our agony, why They 
think nothing of our death.   

I wonder what They think of our screams.

I used to fall asleep with my arms cradling my head in a vain attempt to 
block out the shouts of anguish and the cries of pain.  We were all on 
different cycles, which meant that the tests, the draining, went on at all 
hours.  It was never really quiet in the Compound.  There was only the 
illusion of silence, the lull between the screams.

A stabbing pain pierces the back of my eyelids and announces the arrival of 
yet another headache.  Before I can stop it, a low groan slips past my lips.  

"Scully?"  Mulder stops in his tracks and turns to face me, concern in his 
gaze.  "You okay?"

I nod, but even that small motion makes me wince.  "Just a little headache."

"Let's take a break," he declares.  "It's time for lunch anyway."

I don't have the strength to argue.  Stopping seems like too good an idea.  
We sit down in the middle of the trail and open our packs, examining the 
meager rations before deciding simply to share the contents of one of the few 
remaining cans.  It turns out to be beans, the kind that taste much better in 
warm stew than they do in cold, messy handfuls, but neither of us complains.

As we sit and eat, the gray sky above us grows darker, and I watch concern 
slowly creep across Mulder's face.  "Weather's turning," he points out 
needlessly.  I can see as well as he that storm clouds are gathering.

"How much farther to the highway?"

He shrugs, and wipes his hands on the tail of his shirt as he takes out the 
map again.  "Can't really be sure," he answers after a moment.  "Maybe 
another couple hours."

I glance around, surreptitiously rubbing my temples in a vain attempt to 
alleviate the throbbing pain in my head.  It hurts so badly I would kill for 
a single aspirin.  The trees are thick on all sides, but not so thick that 
they'll provide much protection if the rain really starts to come down.  The 
dirt trail is bound to become slick with mud all too quickly, which won't be 
pleasant as we're still headed uphill.  

It's at times like this that I'm seized by an irrational frustration, a 
petulant anger that makes me waste crucial mental energy on childish wishes.  

I wish I had a house, a warm, safe, dry house with a solid roof and a real 
door that locks.

I wish I had a car, even one without gas, with a comfortable back seat that 
could double as a bed.

I wish I had a tent.

I wish I had a raincoat.  

I wish I had a goddamn umbrella.

The thought of negotiating this trail with umbrella in hand like a manic Mary 
Poppins unleashes an unexpected laugh that bubbles past my lips.  

"What's so funny?"  Mulder asks, staring at me quizzically.  

"Nothing," I grin ruefully.  "Just realizing that we forgot our umbrellas."

That brings a smile to his face.  "We don't need no stinkin' umbrellas," he 
scoffs.  "Besides, I doubt it's going to rain too hard."

I glance up at the dark clouds looming overhead.  "Judging by the looks of 
that sky, I think you're wrong."  I run my fingers through my tangled hair 
and sigh.  "Either way, we'd better get a move on."

Mulder nods and grabs his pack.  "Ready when you are."

I finish the last of the water in the bottle that I'm holding and slip it 
back into the pack.  As I rise to my feet the headache tightens its grip on 
my skull, and my breath hitches in another agonized gasp as I fight to keep 
my balance.  Mulder reaches out a hand to steady me, but says nothing.  I 
love him for his valiant silence, knowing how hard it is for him to refrain 
from saying the words I don't want to hear.

I lean in towards him, thanking him with the briefest of kisses.  "Let's go," 
I tell him, and then we are once again on our way.



END PART 1/4


TANGIBLE 3:  FALL   [2/4]
by Meredith & Blueswirl 



All disclaimers etc. can be found in Part 1.  
This is just story.




The trail grows steeper and steeper, tighter
and more narrow.  Dangling branches catch in my
hair with seemingly vicious deliberance, as though the
trees themselves want to hold me back.  We fight
to keep moving fast, hoping against hope that we can
somehow beat the rain.  Our efforts are in vain,
however, and soon I feel the first big wet drops
against my scalp.

It's the first rain we've had since we've been on 
our journey, and quite possibly the first rain that 
has fallen in months.  The shower becomes a downpour 
unbelievably quickly, as though the sky itself is 
making up for lost time.  We have no protection 
whatsoever from the sudden, relentless rain, nothing 
except the clothes on our backs, which are almost 
immediately drenched.  

The sky instantly darkens to the point where it 
seems like night, reducing Mulder to nothing more 
than a shadowy, hunched form creeping along in front
of me.  The dirt under our feet turns into mud that 
oozes beneath our shoes, a sticky quagmire garnished 
with fallen branches and hidden rocks.  Each step is 
laced with hidden potential dangers, and I force 
myself to ignore the itchy, heavy weight of my rain-
soaked clothing and concentrate on putting one 
foot safely in front of the other.  My head pounds, 
but I push the pain aside.

As if the rain itself weren't bad enough, a wind rises from out of nowhere 
and begins to blow the sleeting water sideways.  The rain splashes against 
the rocks and trees, stinging my hands and cheeks.  My eyelids lower 
instinctively, forcing me to squint as I make my way along.

At one point Mulder glances over his shoulder to check on my progress.  Sweat 
mixes with the rainwater trickling down my cheeks and I don't have the energy 
for words, so I flip him a quick wave of reassurance.  As he waves back, his 
foot slips on a pile of loose rock and he stumbles, sliding back down the 
steep trail towards me.  

"Shit!"  

"Mulder!"

Instinctively I thrust my hands forward and press them against his back, 
keeping him upright, even as my own feet skid on the uneven ground.  
Together, we shudder to an awkward stop, my body bracing his.  I feel the 
muscles in his body tense as he regains his balance.  His eyes catch mine for 
a brief moment and there is gratitude beside the grim fear in his gaze.

I don't want to admit it, not even to myself, but I'm scared.  There is a 
dark malevolence to this sudden storm that is inexplicably frightening.  I 
feel fragile and exposed on this twisted, narrow path. 

"Scully!"  Mulder's voice is loud, but it's still hard to hear him over the 
raging storm.  "We've got to get off the trail!"

"Okay!" I shout back, blocking the wind from my face with one half-raised 
arm.   "Which way?"

He twists his head from side to side and I mimic the motion, each of us 
searching for some kind of shelter, anything that might offer us even 
temporary protection.  It's almost too dark to see.  I'm about to drop my 
pack and dig through it for the flashlight when Mulder grabs me by the arm 
and yanks me off the path.

"Duck, Scully!"

A harsh crack echoes through the woods like the report of a gun, and I drop 
to the ground beside him.   

"What is it?"  I scream, covering my face with my hands.  

"Tree branch!   Stay down!"

Another loud crack rings through the forest, and then the branch is blown off 
, violently torn away from the trunk by the harsh wind.  It hurtles over our 
heads and slams into another tree on the opposite side of the trail, 
shattering into pieces.  

Just a branch, I tell myself, my body shaking beside Mulder's.  Just a 
branch.  No big deal.

Just a branch that rocketed across the trail with ferocious velocity.  Just a 
branch that could have killed either one of us with the force of its impact.  

An innate sense of self-preservation sweeps through me and all I want to do 
is hide.  I feel Mulder's arm around my shoulder, pulling me up, and I 
struggle to my feet.

"Come on!" he yells, taking my hand.  There is comfort in his touch and I 
link my fingers with his as we run blindly forward.  Off of the trail the 
ground slopes down sharply and before too long we are sliding downwards, 
half-sitting as we fight for traction.   

Panic surges through me, and for an instant my thoughts are filled with 
memories of my father.  He was the one who taught me about the wild beauty of 
Nature, how She is both unpredictable and unforgiving.  This freak storm is 
emblematic of both, and I am overcome with a sudden fear that it is this bout 
of bad weather that will destroy us both.

I clasp Mulder's hand even tighter, stumbling alongside him through the 
pelting rain.  My head throbs and my breath comes in hitching gasps, and it 
is then that my stomach seizes in a cramp.

No, I plead.  Not now, dammit.  Not now.

There is no time to stop, no time to indulge in a bout of nausea.  Every 
fiber of my being is focused on a single goal:  escaping the storm.  
Everything else will have to wait until we are safe.

"Keep moving, Scully!"  Mulder shouts, making me realize that I've slowed 
down.  I force myself to move through the muck, my eyes scanning the woods 
for any sign of shelter.

My renewed vigilance pays off when I spot a patch of darkness off to our 
left.  It could be nothing, just another shadow amongst hundreds of shadows, 
but there's a depth to it that makes me think I've actually found what we are 
seeking.

"Mulder!"  I cry, raising my hand to point the way.  "Over there, to the 
left!"

His head swivels to follow my outstretched fingers and he nods emphatically.  
"Let's go!"

We race across the rain-soaked ground, churning the mud beneath our shoes, 
headed for my hastily spotted oasis.   As difficult as the trail was to 
negotiate, running through the woods is even harder.  The ground doesn't even 
feel solid beneath my feet, piles of muddy leaves shifting under my weight 
with every step, revealing surprising hollows that threaten to trip me.  
Several times we come close to smacking into the trunks of trees, our balance 
nearly gone as we stumble through the artificial darkness.  As we continue 
our fumbling approach the shadows grow larger, and my heart leaps with the 
hope that we have found the protection we seek.

By the time we reach the grouping of rocks the rain is blinding, whipping 
around our heads like a water-filled tornado.  The wind is icy, biting at my 
skin with a ferocity that I would not have believed possible just a few short 
hours ago, causing the temperature to plummet even further.  Finally we reach 
our destination and skid to a hasty stop.

The space cannot truthfully be called a cave.  It could be more accurately 
described as a crevice of rocks, a small, cramped alcove that provides the 
most minimal protection against the raging storm outside.  And yet it is 
still shelter, a shelter that at this point I am more than grateful for.

Mulder and I squeeze ourselves inside.  There's barely enough room for the 
two of us.  Pressed side by side, we use up most of the available space.  We 
are both hunched over, him more so than me, given his height.  I shrink back 
against the far wall, making as much room for him as I possibly can.   
Sitting down, it's a little better, less cramped, but it's still far from 
comfortable. 

The moment that we are ensconced within the tiny space, he turns his head to 
me.  "Open your pack," he demands, and I see that he's doing the same with 
his.  

I bring my shaking hands to the zipper and pull it down.  I find the 
flashlight and flip it on, laying it on the ground beside me.  Mulder turns 
his on as well, bringing a decent amount of light to our little cave.

The supplies inside my pack are wet, but not terribly so.  The canvas and 
nylon pack has done a decent job of protecting its contents.  I take out the 
meager stash of supplies and put it aside.  The few clothes in my pack are 
damp and cold, but not truly wet, and the blanket beneath is almost dry.

Mulder's pack, being heavier, has fared somewhat better;  he carried our 
other two blankets inside, and the second of them looks as though it has 
escaped the downpour completely intact.  He holds it out towards me, his gaze 
intent.  "Take off that wet stuff," he orders, "and wrap yourself in this."

I open my mouth to protest, but the look on his face stills the words in my 
throat.  I bring my hands up to the buttons on my outer shirt and fumble them 
open, yanking the soaked fabric off my arms.  The tee shirt and tank top 
follow, and then my upper body is bare.  I take the offered blanket and drape 
it over my shoulders.  It is made of wool, and it scratches my tender skin, 
but I take immediate comfort in its dry warmth.  

"Everything," he murmurs.  "Take it all off."  

There is nothing erotic in his demand.  His eyes convey nothing but concern.  
I acquiesce without question, kicking off my shoes, and hold tight to the 
blanket with one hand as I tug off my drenched jeans and socks with the 
other.  Moments later I am naked, and I clasp the blanket close around my 
damp, shivering body.

I huddle in the corner of this makeshift shelter and watch as Mulder follows 
suit, shedding his wet clothes and draping the other semi-dry blanket around 
his slim, muscular frame.  The atmosphere is strangely intimate, and yet I 
barely register this fact, focused only on my desire to chase the cold 
dampness from my body.

My hair is a sodden, tangled mass, causing rivulets of dirty water to drip 
down my face.  I don't want to waste our third blanket, as we will surely 
need it later, so I grab a shirt and use it to wring the excess water from my 
hair.  

When we are both undressed and cloaked in brightly patterned wool, he scoots 
up close alongside me, draping one arm across my shoulders to pull me tightly 
against him.  

"Better?" he asks, and I nod.

"Better," I reply.  My stomach is still cramping, but not badly, and I think 
I'll be able to control the nausea for now.  "Thank god we're out of the 
rain."

"Yeah," he murmurs, and I lean my head against his shoulder.  "Lucky for us."

We sit there, together, our bodies slowly generating enough heat to warm the 
tiny space.  For a while words are unnecessary, both of us simply glad that 
we have found this fragile calm within the storm.




As warmth slowly returns to our damp bodies, my muscles begin to relax. I 
wasn't aware of how tight I'd become, hunched and shivering in this enclosed 
space, trying to dispel stomach cramps with sheer willpower.  But my body has 
completely settled, almost in tandem with the intensity of the storm.  The 
fury outside has lessened in the past half-hour; however, the rain is still 
coming down steadily, pulverizing and churning the leaf-covered ground into a 
muddy river flowing outside our dry cave.

We are stuck here for a while, it seems.

I turn to my partner, grasping his blanket's frayed edge and tugging it 
lightly off his shoulder.

"We should share," I whisper with a tiny smile. "It's warmer that way."

I've startled him a bit -- his eyes have that half-lidded, liquid shimmer 
that tells me he was drifting into a sleepy haze.  But in seconds they 
brighten and squint with mischief.  "Can't keep your hands off me, can you?"

"Don't flatter yourself.  You happen to be the only man in my cave at the 
moment," I laugh. 

"Well then, I'm happy to oblige."

He grins and pulls his arm off my shoulder, opening his blanket like a cloak 
for me to slip under.  We press our still slightly damp bodies together as 
Mulder leans back against the rough rock of our shelter, his blanket below 
and behind us, mine in front like a tent flap.  Outside the faint light is 
quickly dissipating, the only sounds the thrum of the deluge outside and the 
sound of his heart under my ear. 

I relax, casually thrilling in the presence of being unclothed, warm, and 
secure.  How long has it been since we've been naked together?  The river, on 
that bright summer morning weeks ago?  With the chill of autumn in the air 
and my sickness, we've barely shed our clothes for any longer than the time 
it takes to sponge bath.  I've missed the feel of him against me, the weight 
and heat of his skin.

I press my nose into his collarbone, inhaling a mixture of musk, leaves, and 
rain under the bitter cloud of wet wool.  In a world without Dry Idea or 
Right Guard, I've become more familiar with the smells of humanity.  At the 
Compound there were prisoners whose smells were noxious, mildly pungent, or 
strangely inoffensive.  Our guards, however, had no smell at all.  That's 
when I discovered I would rather be enveloped in a cloud of unwashed human 
odor than be in the same room with an unearthly creature who smelled like 
nothing, like the absence of life.

Like a wild animal, I think I could pick out Mulder from a crowd even if 
blindfolded.  I've learned his smell, his underlying fragrance.  Perhaps it's 
pheromones, perhaps another unknown biological reaction -- but it attracts 
me.  I wonder sometimes if, because of the destruction of the civilized 
world, humanity may end up de-evolving over the generations -- relying more 
on our basic senses to protect us in our fragile state.  Like primitive man, 
primitive woman.

Mulder is smelling me, too.  His nose is buried in the tangle of my wet hair, 
his lips murmuring against the tip of my ear. 

A sudden shock of arousal electrifies my body with frightening intensity.

It's been far, far too long.

His right hand comes up to stroke my arm, gently.  He's undemanding, his 
caresses comforting and without ulterior motive.  When I sit up sharply and 
take his lips under mine, I feel him quake beside me in surprise.

"I'm fine, Mulder," I whisper into his open mouth.  "Don't worry."  Our own 
private joke.  When we kiss again, it is with the fervency of lovers apart 
for too long.

His lips meet mine in a bruising tangle of tongues and teeth.  I climb into 
his lap, carefully wrapping my legs around his waist, my pelvis rubbing 
against the flat plane of his stomach.  It feels wonderful, this intimacy, 
this primitive yet divine connection of our physical forms. 

Long ago I realized the beauty of eroticism lies in the combination of souls 
as well as bodies.  We've loved each other chastely before, and if necessary 
we could hold to those limits for the rest of our lives.  But this... this 
exquisite sensuality would be mourned like a lost lover every single day.

Thank god for this freedom, our chance to be together.  If we live only 
another day, it will have been worth every risk and sacrifice, no matter how 
great.

Mulder's fingertips glide gently over my breasts as we kiss deeply, leaving a 
goosebump trail of enlivened flesh.  He is reverent and careful in his 
ministrations, and I find myself taking control, showing him physically that 
I am all right.  I will convince him with my body that there is nothing to 
fear, while proving to myself that this mysterious illness is on the wane.  I 
am getting stronger, we are together.  Nothing can stop us.

I am no longer cold; the heat radiating from his body is intoxicating. 
Reaching between us, I grasp his already-hard penis in my hand, rubbing the 
velvety soft skin and absorbing his warmth into my palm.  He moans softly, 
burying his face in my neck.  My name is whispered into my skin, where the 
sound is absorbed straight into my bloodstream, ratcheting up my desire 
another notch.  His lips carry the pledge of love on those two simple 
syllables.

Rising up a little to accommodate him, I slide back into his lap, Mulder's 
penis buried deep inside me in one long, smooth motion.  Inside I am liquid 
fire, molten around him.  I raise and lower, setting a languid rhythm in this 
confined space.  My partner is without words, seemingly without comprehension 
of anything beyond our bodies' connection.

I am loathe to break our continued kissing, even when our rhythm makes it 
difficult.  To taste him is to drink of life, of everything I once had lost.  
I can never get enough -- my thirst for him and for life is boundless.

We move together in perfect tandem for a blissful eternity, his arms wrapped 
lovingly around my back and ass, supporting us both as we hurtle further 
toward the edge.  The blankets have slipped to the ground, yet I feel 
impossibly hot, combustible.  When he reaches between our joined bodies to 
stroke my sensitive clit, I burst into flame.

"Mulder, Mulder..." I murmur nonsensically until I feel him shudder and groan 
under me, joining the inferno. 

We sit in a tangled knot, panting, until he breaks the spell.

"OW!  Holy shit... ow!"

"What?  What's wrong?"

"There's a huge rock poking me in the ass," he whines, jerking uncomfortably 
to the left and accidentally spilling me out of his lap.  I can't help but 
laugh aloud.

"Here -- scoot over.  I think we're going to be here for the night, so we 
might as well get comfortable." I spread my blanket out on the ground, 
forming a makeshift bed.  Mulder arranges our packs and the other blankets as 
best as he can, trying to ensure a little comfort.  As we curl up together in 
the rapidly waning light of nightfall, we trade nearly shy, sated, almost 
silly smiles in the half-dark.

I love this man more than life itself.



END PART 2/4


TANGIBLE 3:  FALL   [3/4]
by Meredith & Blueswirl 



All disclaimers etc. can be found in Part 1.  This is just story.




Laying on the sloping, rocky ground of our shelter, I can't help but remember 
the softness of my queen-sized bed back in Washington.  That was a lifetime 
ago, but memories sometimes lurch to the surface at the most inopportune 
times.  I'm tempted to mutter a complaint about our uncomfortable sleeping 
arrangements, but when I think of the alternative scenario, I keep my mouth 
shut.  It's still pouring outside.

"Will you be okay skipping dinner?"  Mulder whispers in the dark.

"Sure," I lie.  I am acutely aware of how ravenous I am.  But the hunger will 
pass.  Besides, we need to stretch our painfully low rations as it is. And, 
if I admit the truth to myself, I want to savor this period of no nausea. I 
snuggle closer to him and try to will myself to fall asleep.

It doesn't work.

I fidget for a moment, trying to stretch my legs while staying as close to 
Mulder as possible.  Our spontaneous lovemaking has woken up every nerve in 
my body, stimulating my brain as much as my heart.  I sigh aloud, almost 
without realizing it.

"Can't sleep?" he asks softly.

"No..." I sigh again. "But insomnia almost feels good -- healthy, even." 

He is silent for a moment before speaking. "You're going to be fine.  Every 
day you look stronger.  You don't have anything to be worried about."  His 
tone is simple, straightforward:  the voice of a believer who is profoundly 
aware of the truths he speaks. 

I remember that voice from long ago -- in the radiology lab at Holy Cross 
Memorial Hospital.

//I refuse to accept that...//  

How right he was, even then, with flowers in his hand and determination in 
his somber eyes; when every bit of information pointed to my inevitable death 
from cancer.  After all these years, it's hard not to believe in that voice.

Yet I want to change the subject. "Tell me again about the Northern 
Territories, Mulder."

"You're worse than a kid, Scully," he laughs. "How many times have I told you 
everything I know?"

"Not enough.  Not yet.  Not until I see it for myself."

"All right," he mutters in an exaggerated manner. "The colony is centered in 
a high valley in the mountains, where the weather is decent enough to support 
crops and human survival.  Not many have survived the trip and made it there, 
but those who have had the will and determination -- important qualities that 
will help keep our civilization alive.  But the best aspect is that They 
aren't there.  They don't like the colder climate, the higher elevations.  
Life will be challenging and primitive, and we'll have to work hard.  But 
it's a beginning, Scully -- a beginning of a new life of freedom for the 
human race.  It's a way to survive and fight back." 

By this point his voice has grown soft as he lets himself ponder the 
possibilities.  This Mulder is a harder, more protective and suspicious 
Mulder than the one I first fell in love with.  To hear him speak positively 
about living in peace with other men and women is rare, and is one of the 
reasons I keep asking for the description like a favorite bedtime story.  I 
need to hear it for myself, to keep the dream alive -- but I also need him to 
believe it.  For if he believes, then I can believe.

It's always been as simple, and as complicated, as that.

"Who told you?  What kind of people?"

I feel him shrug under the blanket. "Traders, other travelers.  Thieves.  My 
social circle before I found you again."

"And you believe them?" The doubting statement comes to my lips before I can 
stop myself.

"It was better that I heard it from different types.  Gives credence to 
something that would otherwise be considered a fairytale, a myth."

I wait for more in silence, hoping he'll embellish.  When I don't reply, he 
gets the hint.

"The first time I heard anything about the Northern Territories, it was from 
someone I knew... before.  Before the Invasion.  It was at the first Compound 
I searched.  I was waiting outside the gates, before dawn, with a dozen other 
men and women.  I was concentrating so hard on the doors, begging some 
unknown power to open them and let you out so I could steal you away.  I 
didn't know, then, about the bracelets..."

I quickly reach up and caress his stubbled jaw, reassuring him that I am 
here, safe because of him.  He takes a shaky breath and continues.

"I was trapped then, trapped in my own misery.  I didn't even notice that I 
was standing next to Adam Schneider, who was gripping the chain link even 
harder than I was."

The name triggers a faint memory, tickling the back of my consciousness like 
an annoying feather.  Of course...

"*Agent* Adam Schneider," I whisper in astonishment. "From the Sci-Crimes 
Lab."

"Yeah.  His wife was inside, and he was waiting for her to emerge with a 
24-hour pass.  While we waited, he told me everything -- how she'd been taken 
from their home, how his children died from the Fever, how he'd found Cynthia 
after almost two years of looking.  He had given up and gone north with his 
few remaining relatives the year before -- and two of them actually made it 
to the Colony.  But when he heard about the Compounds, he left again to find 
her and bring her back. 

"He'd only been there three days before he left to head back to the Midwest.  
All on foot, Scully.  Thousands of miles, alone and on foot.  And he once he 
found her -- which was another miracle -- there was nothing he could do to 
save her." 

Mulder's voice has grown weary and bitter.  There is nothing I can say to 
banish the helplessness, so instead I stroke his chest lovingly.  Pain and 
anguish is a way of life now, and Mulder is learning not to absorb the weight 
and misery of others in a way that he never did when he was a federal 
officer. 

I have learned much from what he doesn't tell me, filling in the blanks in 
between the few memories he has shared.  His sole quests -- to stay alive and 
to find me -- were fragile goals that could be easily shattered by sympathy 
and charity.  It tears me apart to imagine what he witnessed and experienced, 
and as much as I sometimes need to understand the pain lurking behind his 
eyes, I never press.

I understand the need to bury the past, yet have come to realize the equally 
important need to unburden.  In that way we have come full circle, the two of 
us.

"So he'd seen it, he'd been there -- even for a short time."

"Yeah.  I didn't believe him at first, thinking his memory was enhanced by 
the fact that life in the Colony for him had become unattainable.  But I 
picked up tips, talked discreetly.  Traded goods for information.  And by the 
time I found you at the fourth Compound, I knew we had to try to get to the 
Territories.  All I needed was a way to release you."

"And you got that, too," I reply warmly.

He sighs, temporarily lightened. "Yes."

I roll on my back and stare up to where I know the cave's low roof to be, 
even though I can no longer see it.  It is dark and silent except for the 
rain falling outside, and no light penetrates our shelter.  We are in total 
blackness, an inky void that hides us from the outside world.  Tonight, it 
seems, the darkness serves to disconnect us from the past, making it slightly 
easier to discuss it.  I decide to brave the small breach in Mulder's private 
world, the one he guards as fiercely as I used to guard mine.

"I... I never asked you this before, Mulder... but how did you find out I 
wasn't at the other Compounds?  We were forbidden to use our names, and not 
everyone went into the yard or was allowed a 24-hour pass."

To my surprise, he chuckles. "Scully, you forget how easy you are to 
describe.  All I had to do was ask a good smattering of men and women allowed 
outside if they'd seen a small red-headed woman with a will of iron and a 
personal magnetism that was hard to miss.  That, and a few bribes, helped the 
process of elimination."

His comment catches me by total surprise. "That can't have been how you found 
me."

"It's true," he says gently. "At the fourth compound I approached a young 
girl at the fence and described you exactly like that.  She knew immediately 
who you were.  She'd never spoken to you before, but had seen you eating 
and... elsewhere in the Compound."  His voice grows softer, even more 
affectionate.  "She told me there was a red-headed woman that she watched 
when she felt overwhelmed and defeated.  That this woman, even with her eyes 
to the ground, radiated strength and purpose.  She said watching her -- 
watching you -- gave her courage to face her captivity with a shred of 
dignity.  That's when I knew I'd finally found you."

His words bring sudden tears to my eyes, and I let them flow freely down my 
cheeks.  I try to bite back a sob, but I simply can't.  I cry for the first 
time in forever, shaken to the core by his tale.  It can't have been true -- 
I was beaten down in the Compound, stripped of all the self-worth I had.  How 
anyone could have looked at me and seen anything but a fellow prisoner is 
beyond my comprehension.  Pathetic hitching tears wrack my body, and Mulder 
pulls me impossibly closer to whisper comforts in my ear.  I hold on to him 
tightly, confusion shattering me utterly.

"It can't be true, Mulder... what they did to me in there... They robbed me 
of everything.  Before you found me, I had lost myself... I didn't know who I 
was anymore, and I didn't care... they destroyed Dana Scully..."

"No.  No they didn't, Scully.  Or else you wouldn't be here in my arms, right 
now -- as strong as I've ever seen you.  All they did was force you into 
hiding, to escape within yourself until you found a way to survive.  Don't 
you see?  No one can destroy you, no one." His words are uttered vehemently, 
with furious conviction.  I begin to calm, but still cling to him as the 
tears lessen.

Perhaps, I think disconnectedly, he is talking about us both.

He lets me ride the wave of grief for several minutes, stroking my hair and 
wiping the drying tears off my face in silence.  I am haunted once again by 
the images of my captivity, which have grown more surreal with distance and 
time.  The young girls, forced to give birth to alien fetuses, us barren 
women experimented on like so many worthless rats.

Out of the blue, I am grasped by the cold hand of fear.

"Mulder." Somehow I keep my voice from shaking. "What if... what if They've 
made me sick?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if, when the bracelet was disabled, something inside me was triggered?  
A latent virus, or infection.  What if, as part of those experiments, they 
somehow planted a safeguard inside me, a way to ensure I wouldn't survive an 
escape..."

"Hold on, Scully," Mulder interrupts briskly.  "That idea doesn't make sense. 
 The bracelet was a nearly foolproof way to keep you under control. There was 
no need to develop anything beyond that mechanism."

"But Mulder, all those tests... I have no idea what they've done to me, no 
idea what they're capable of, not really.  Hours a day, Mulder.  For hours 
every day I was subjected to humiliating, inhumane procedures. Gynecological, 
psychological, neurological...how can I be sure They haven't caused this 
illness?" 

I sit up, moving away from Mulder in the confined space.  I feel myself 
slipping into remote objectivity, the sense that I am talking about someone 
other than myself.  If Mulder notices my dramatic change in mood, he doesn't 
say anything.

"Honestly, Scully?  You're right.  You can't be sure.  But logically, there's 
no reason they would go to such extreme measures.  It simply doesn't make 
sense.  And everything we've seen, everything we've learned about Them has 
proved the fact that They don't do anything without purpose.  They designed 
the bracelets to kill anyone who did not obey their orders.  There is no 
punishment past death, Scully."

I nod slowly, and I think he senses my reluctant acquiescence even though he 
cannot see the movement.

"And besides, there are much more likely causes for you getting sick.  Other 
than me, Matthew and his parents were the only humans you've been in contact 
with after leaving the Compound.  Germs, Scully.  You're like a 17th century 
native being accosted by conquering Europeans.  They may not mean harm, but 
they carry strains of sickness that you've never been exposed to before.  I 
don't have to tell you how much the world has disintegrated since They took 
you."  His voice is gentle, yet not condescending. 

On some level, I know he's right.  But the fear will remain as long as my 
memories refuse to fade.

I reply softly. "That makes sense. I just wish... sometimes I just wish I 
knew what they had done to me, what they were trying to achieve.  Part of me 
understands I'm better off not knowing, but the rest... the rest of me wants 
to know what to expect -- wants to know what the repercussions will be."

"There won't be any, Scully.  Don't you see?  There won't be any as long as 
you let the past go.  We have a future.  If we can get there, we leave this 
misery behind for a new life." 

The innocence of his words, the profound simplicity of his beliefs, bring 
tears to my eyes once again.  But this time they are tears of relief and 
gratitude.  I blink them back and lie down next to my soulmate, whispering 
into his chest. "As long as we're together, then.  That's all that matters."

He nods, his chin brushing the top of my head as he tucks my body safely into 
his. 

Now I can sleep.




From uneasy dreams, I jerk awake, terrified.

I cannot move.

My legs are pinned together beneath a heavy weight, and my arms are trapped 
at my sides in a vice-like grip.

I cannot breathe.

A hand covers my mouth.

The faint light of early morning is visible just outside, but it is still 
dark within the cave.

I cannot see.

Panic surges through me, and instinctively I struggle.  My helpless movements 
cease when I feel warm breath against my ear.  

"Don't move."  A harsh, urgent whisper.  "No noise."

Mulder.

Some of my panic ebbs at the sound of his voice, and I shake off the last 
vestiges of sleep.  I realize it is Mulder who is gripping me so tightly, his 
legs twined around mine, his arms wrapped around my torso.  Our naked bodies 
are spooned together, but there is nothing romantic about the fierce way he 
clutches me.  I can feel the fear seeping from his body into mine.  I don't 
understand it, but I know enough to respect it.

I move my head a fraction of an inch, rubbing against his shoulder just 
enough to show him that I have heard his desperate message.  The signal 
received, he slides his hand away from my mouth, bringing it down to rest 
protectively against my collarbone.   

I draw in a deep, silent breath.  And I listen.

At first, all I hear is silence.  No howling wind, no pounding rain.  The 
storm, it seems, has passed.

Then, beyond the quiet, I hear something else.  A low, distant whir.  A 
droning, constant hum.  

I know these sounds.

Dear God.

I know them all too well.

Oh Jesus.

The knowledge hits me like a blow and I stiffen in Mulder's arms.  Though I 
didn't think it was possible, he holds me even tighter, and I feel his lips 
press lightly against the nape of my neck.

The noises grow louder, and closer, and then there is no doubt.  It is a 
Craft, one of Theirs, and it is coming this way.

No.  Please, no.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away the sounds.  I bite my lip, 
trying to hold back my screams.  

It seems we lie there together for an eternity.  The sounds grow closer.  
Closer.  And closer still.   The humming becomes louder and louder.  From 
behind my tightly closed eyes I can see it approaching.  I've seen them 
enough times before that the terrifying image has been burned into my retinas.

The Crafts are long, sleek, gently rounded.  From above I imagine they must 
appear almost oval in shape, narrowing to curved points at either end.  
Unlike an airplane, there are no wings or landing gear visible to the naked 
eye.  There are no windows, nothing to mar the frightening smoothness of its 
silver, vaguely metallic surface.  

To the best of my recollections, I have never been inside a Craft.

I don't want to end up inside one now.

How did They find us?  How?   

My heart is thumping in my chest, so loudly.  Too loudly.  Irrationally I 
think that it will be my heart that gives us away.  My heart, fueled by the 
blood that They want so badly, that will lead Them right to us.

Frantically I wonder whether we unwittingly set off some kind of alarm, 
activated some kind of trap, during our rain-soaked race through the woods.  
Or perhaps this Craft is part of a random patrol, searching for escaped 
prisoners like me.  That thought sends my mind careening in an even darker 
direction and I wonder if my deactivated bracelet did indeed send out a 
signal, somehow pointing Them our way.

Not possible, I think.   We left the bracelet behind so long ago.  If that 
were Their only method of tracking us, They would have found us before now.  

It's then that I remember the chip implanted in my neck.    

No.  Please.  No.  

Without warning my stomach seizes in a vicious cramp.   I clench my teeth to 
hold back the cry of pain, but a telltale hiss of breath still escapes.  A 
second cramp follows almost immediately and I shift uncomfortably against 
Mulder in a vain attempt to alleviate the discomfort.  The slight motion 
doesn't help, and the next cramp is even more severe.  

Not now not now please no not now --

I shift again, helpless, my body wracked with nausea and terror.  I can't 
stay still, I have to move, I have to sit up, I'm going to be sick --

Not now not now please no not now --

I'm not sure whether it's my silent begging or the soft touch of Mulder's 
fingers against my forearm moving in a gentle caress that does the trick, but 
the fourth cramp is less intense.  The pain still remains, but at least it's 
a little easier to breathe.  

I am shaking now within the confines of Mulder's arms.  This is my fault, I 
think, as despair washes over me.  We have come so far and risked so much and 
yet it will end here, like this, because of me.  

No.  Please.  No.

My voice echoes inside my head, silent pleas that I want to scream aloud.

No.  Please.  No.  

It feels as though the walls of our cave are shaking.   I'm too afraid to 
look.

No.

Please.

The humming noise is impossibly loud, now, and yet the rational part of my 
mind tells me that there's no way that the Craft is right outside the entry 
to our hiding place.  It's too big, and the way in is too narrow.  Still, 
it's close enough, and hovering.  They must know that we are here.  They must.

Terror grips me, and time slips away, Mulder's sweaty body pressed firmly 
against mine.  I have no idea how long we have been lying here together, how 
long we have been waiting for the inevitable.  

All of my senses are working overtime, and so when the humming noise 
gradually begins to fade, at first I think it's my mind playing tricks on me, 
adrenaline sending false signals to my brain.  But as more moments pass, I 
realize I'm not imagining it.  The humming is fading.  The Craft is moving 
away.

Thank you thank you thank you --

Finally the sounds are all but gone, and silence reigns again inside our 
cave.  Soon the only thing that I can hear is the muffled sound of Mulder's 
raspy breathing against my ear.  We wait, motionless, for a little while 
more, unwilling to reveal ourselves even now.  We wait until I can't stand it 
any longer, and I squirm in Mulder's grasp.

"It's gone," I whisper.  The two words seem to echo loudly inside the small 
space.  

"Yes," he murmurs in response.  "Let's go."

He releases me, and I feel strangely vulnerable as his hands slip away from 
my body and our sweaty limbs untangle.  The sun has risen outside, and enough 
light slips in to illuminate our hiding place to enable us to find our 
clothes without the flashlights.  We dress and pack in a hasty, tense 
silence.  I know Mulder is as afraid as I am that They are still out there, 
lurking.  

When we've gathered all our things Mulder grabs his pack and tentatively 
eases his way outside, the rifle at the ready.  I know all too well that the 
rifle is no match for Them, but I understand that it makes him feel better to 
hold its solidity in his shaking hands.  He looks around cautiously, and then 
indicates with a nod of his head that the coast appears to be clear, so I 
gather my pack and follow, gratefully stretching my cramped limbs. 

It feels odd to stand outside.  It's chilly, and everything is covered in 
misty dew.  In the clear light of early morning, the damage the storm has 
wrought is glaringly apparent.  The trees that we ran through have been 
ravaged, and branches lie strewn across the ground.  I glance up toward the 
path that we had been following, only to find that it appears to be 
completely obscured by the debris.     

It is completely quiet.  There is no sign of Them.  

We stand there together, silently, awed by the enormity of the destruction.  
Mulder shoulders his pack and I follow suit, adjusting the straps to fit more 
comfortably against my sore shoulders.  He turns to me and takes me in his 
arms in a strong hug that surprises me with its intensity.  My stomach churns 
again and I pull away.  Right now, I don't want to be touched.  

I meet his eyes and I see concern in their depths.  I shrug it off, but I 
don't have the strength to offer him a smile.   

"What now?"  I keep my voice deliberately low.

"No going back," he mutters, waving his hand in the direction of the ruined 
trail.  "Looks like the best way is down."

I nod in agreement, and wait for him to lead the way.  He stares at me for 
another long, searching moment, and then begins the tricky process of 
maneuvering down the steep incline.  The ground is slippery and covered with 
fallen debris, and it's hard to walk without sliding every few feet.  I copy 
his movements, stepping where he steps, doing my best to make as little noise 
as possible.  There's no telling whether or not They are still out there 
somewhere, watching and listening.  

It's arduous work, but we finally reach the bottom of the hill.   There's a 
trail here, of sorts, though it is largely overgrown.  We follow it anyway.  
We don't have much of a choice.



END PART 3/4

TANGIBLE 3:  FALL   [4/4]
by Meredith & Blueswirl 



All disclaimers etc. can be found in Part 1.  This is just story.




We walk for the better part of an hour in almost complete silence, speaking 
to each other only when necessary about the conditions of the path.  Neither 
one of us is willing to attract any unwanted attention, though by this point 
it seems apparent that the Craft is long gone.  We've walked long enough and 
far enough that the hunger I'd been ignoring finally sweeps over me with a 
vengeance, leaving me light-headed and dizzy, and I realize just how long 
it's been since we've eaten anything.

"Mulder."  I reach out and grab him by the arm.  "Let's stop for a minute.  
Eat something."

He casts his eyes around and motions towards a slight clearing up ahead.  
"Over there," he replies.  "There's a little more space."

I follow him over to the designated area and sink to the ground, relieved to 
be off of my feet.  I slide the pack off my shoulders and begin to rummage 
through it, coming up with a bruised apple and a single can.  "That's it for 
me," I tell him, feeling slightly uneasy.  "What have you got?"

"Don't worry," he says.  "There's some more in my pack."  He pulls out the 
can opener and takes the can from me, prying off its lid.  String beans.  My 
stomach lurches at the thought but I ignore its protests.  Food is food.  

We make quick work of our snack-sized meal, washing it down with half a 
bottle of water.  Though my stomach feels uneasy, the cramps don't return, 
and I decide that I'll probably be able to keep down the food.  

I push my pack behind me and lay down on it, using it as a pillow as I 
stretch my legs out in front of me.  It feels good to be resting for a 
moment, the sun warming my face, and the silence surrounding us seems more 
peaceful than ominous.  Beside me, Mulder pulls out the worn map and studies 
it, tracing the faint lines with one finger.  

"Do you know where we are?"  I ask.

He shrugs.   "Not really.  We haven't passed anything that could be 
considered a marker.   According to the sun, though, we're basically headed 
north, so that's good."

It seems luxurious to be speaking aloud, to be having a real conversation.  
"So this path's taking us in the right direction?"

"Seems to be," he replies.  He folds the map back up and tucks it away.  "As 
long as we stay headed towards the northwest, we can't get too far off 
course."

"Good."  Drowsiness starts to overtake me.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, and I smile to reassure him.   

"Fine," I murmur.  "Better now."  My eyes flutter shut and I let them, 
anxious to get the most out of this short break.  

I'm close to dropping off when a sudden noise startles me, a jarring crash 
from deep within the woods.  My eyes fly open and I sit bolt upright, my 
breath coming fast.  Mulder's been caught off guard too -- I can read the 
fear in his face.  We sit stock still for a moment, but the noise is not 
repeated.

"It's nothing," Mulder finally says.  "Probably a small animal out there 
somewhere, running into a fallen branch."

"Yeah," I answer warily.  There's no way to be sure.  

"It's okay, Scully."  He places a hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle 
squeeze.  "They're gone.  I'm sure that Craft was no more than a random 
patrol, out scouting.  They didn't see us, or any sign of us, and now They're 
gone."

His words are calm, even confident.  I desperately want to believe him, to 
feel as certain as he does that the danger has passed, but I'm too much on 
edge.

"That doesn't make sense, Mulder," I reply.  "Why would They be patrolling 
way out here?  We're not anywhere near an old city or a town.  Why would They 
think that there'd be anyone out here?"

He frowns, his forehead creasing into familiar worry lines.  "What are you 
saying?  That They were out here deliberately?  Looking for us?"

"Maybe."  I feel a twinge in my stomach and I reach for the water bottle, 
hoping that the clear liquid will keep the nausea away.  "It makes just as 
much sense as a random patrol."

He shakes his head.  "No it doesn't.  They have no idea that we're out here, 
and you're not wearing that bracelet anymore.  So there's no way they tracked 
us here."

Cautiously, I raise my eyes to his, my fingers moving to touch the back of my 
neck.  "What about the chip?"

He doesn't answer right away, and my anxiety ratchets up another notch.  
"No," he ultimately says.  "This is the first Craft we've run into on this 
journey.  If They had some way of tracking you through the chip, They would 
have come after us before now.  There would have been no reason to wait all 
this time."

I don't answer.  There's nothing I can say to refute the logic of his words, 
but it doesn't make me feel any less uneasy.  Mulder hasn't spent as much 
time around Them as I have.  And the one thing I learned about Them while I 
was trapped in the Compound is that They do things for reasons that we can 
never understand. 

"C'mon, Scully," Mulder says, rising to his feet.  "Let's see if we can get 
out of these woods before nightfall."

We gather our things and head out with Mulder again taking the lead.   The 
food and the brief rest have me feeling slightly better, but I'm cautious 
with my movements, unwilling to do anything to further upset my stomach.  My 
mind spins with thoughts of Them, and despite my best intentions I suddenly 
flash back to life in the Compound.  How helpless I felt, trapped in a prison 
of Their making.  How vulnerable I felt, alone in that artificially sterile 
environment.  How violated I felt, subjected to the endless draining and the 
painful tests.  

The tests...

A cramp shoots through my abdomen.

The tests...

I clutch my stomach with one hand, willing the spasm to subside as I continue 
to walk.    

The women unable to be Babymakers, taken singly and in groups to lie on metal 
tables deep within the labyrinth, forced to endure Their endless experiments.

The tests...

It comes to me suddenly, in a moment of horrifyingly vivid clarity.  

They need our AB blood in order to survive on this planet, and will always 
continue to need it.  Unless They found another way.  Unless They managed to 
create some sort of hybrid, offspring that would still be alien, yet possess 
inherited AB blood that would allow it to survive.  

AB blood inherited from its mother.  

The cold terror that overwhelms me is like nothing I've ever known.

Not my abduction.

Not my imprisonment.

Not the tests.

Not the fear for Mulder's life.

Nothing.

I swallow harshly, putting a fist to my mouth to stifle the sudden urge to 
scream and scream, scream until I descend into the comforting oblivion of 
madness.

No. It can't be. I can't think about this now. No.

No.

NO.

A noise, soft yet urgent, registers at the corner of my waking nightmare.

"...Scully?"

How long has he been calling me?  Mulder has stopped walking, turning to find 
me 20 yards behind.  Frozen, I imagine.  I am frozen.

"Scully?"

He asks a question with my name, the cadence laden with an invisible query.   
Am I all right?

Am I all right?

Oh, Mulder.  I'll never be right again.

I think I'm nodding; my face feels blank, empty.  The words have to be forced 
unwillingly out.

"I'm... fine, just..." I swallow, but the lump of horror won't go down. 
"...just tired."

It isn't possible.  It can't be possible, not now.  I can't think about this 
now.  I've got to catch up to Mulder and keep walking, walking, walking... 
walking until we find the Settlements and are safe, and then I can think.  
Then I'll think about this.  Then, and only then.

One step, and I've broken out of the ice.  I take another, and they become 
easier.  Another and another, and I'm at Mulder's side again.

"Let's go," I say.  I know I say it because I hear the words and he hasn't 
opened his mouth.  Let's go, let's go, let's go until we are far, far from 
here, as far from this point as we can get.

He's looking at me quizzically, but there's nothing for me to say.  Not now. 
I move past him quickly, following the trail as my lifeline.




The trees are beautiful this time of year.

I know we are in the heart of Autumn by the chill in the air and the quaking 
of the golden aspen.  The woods here smell fresh and earthy, a scent 
distinctly cleaner than the filthy air near the Compound.  The pollution 
caused by Their damage to our atmosphere seems to settle close to the ground, 
collecting in the lower elevations and around population centers.  Here, away 
from the remnants of civilization, the air is more like what I remember from 
years and years ago.  Sweet, clean, cool.

I've silently named and categorized all the trees we've seen, at least the 
ones I know.  I can't remember any of their Latin names.

We walk and walk.

I keep my eyes on the ground.

I wonder if I can still recite all the alpha amino acids backwards.  A med 
school party trick, almost easier after a few drinks.  Valine, tyrosine, 
tryptophan, threonine....


//the cold was so cold, aching cold, frozen in green ice, frozen AWAKE//


...serine, proline, phenylalanine, methionine....


//the tube was gagging, draining life, providing life, incubating a monster, 
so COLD//


Keep walking.  Keep walking.  One foot in front of the other.  Follow Mulder, 
watch his flannel-shirted back.  Concentrate on his steps.


//it swirled and convulsed, could feel every millimeter it grew//


...lysine, leucine, isoleucine, histidine.....


//want to die, want to purge, want to move, want to cry, want to SCREAM//


...glycine, glutamine, glutamic acid.... glutamic acid...


Dammit, I have to concentrate.

I can't think like this.  I don't need these memories.  I've got to walk, got 
to think about something else.  Got to stop thinking.

We have been quiet for hours, silence and the occasional sound of wildlife 
going about their normal business our only company.  I know Mulder is 
disturbed by my distance; the air is thick between us.

But it's for the best.  It's for the best that he not know.  Recently I've 
not had the opportunity to protect him as much as he's protected me, but I 
will not let anything harm him, as God as my witness.  Nothing.

I take a deep breath, shaky with resolve.  Glutamic acid.... cysteine.  
Aspartic acid, asparagine, arginine, alanine. The names pulse in my head in 
time with my footsteps.

Now, perhaps, the chemical elements.




It's finally too dark to see much further.  It looks as if the woods begin to 
break farther ahead, so we decide to camp within the cover of its safety.  
Just in case.

I hear Mulder talk about hunting tomorrow, in the area where the forest 
gradually turns back into field.  He thinks the chances of finding game are 
better there.  We should meet the highway soon after the clearing.  I nod and 
begin to set up camp, taking quick stock of our supplies.

We have a fair amount of water.  We are running quite low on food.  Our 
clothes are dirty and beginning to wear.  I vaguely wonder if we'll be warm 
enough to continue to travel without heavy coats.

Mulder has coaxed a tiny fire within a circle of gathered rocks, and he 
beckons me to it with a gentle wave of his hand. "Want to pick the can?" he 
says softly.  I point listlessly to a dented, unlabeled choice, and when he 
opens it I can't even feel joy that it's Chef Boy-Ar-DeeBeef Ravioli.

"We have a winner!" he grins happily, pouring the gloppy contents into our 
pot, which has been warming over the fire.  The consistency and color make my 
stomach churn as hunger battles with the rest of my body's wishes.

After it's heated enough but not too hot to eat with our fingers, Mulder 
scoots close to me so we can share the meal.  For show, I try to force down a 
bite or two before scooting backwards, away.

"You've got to," he says evenly, noting my hesitancy.

"It'll just come back up again.  You eat it."

He shakes his head no, and I see the dark resolve hiding behind his eyes.  I 
suddenly panic that he knows -- somehow he knows -- but I know I'm wrong. "I 
don't care.  You eat your half, or I'll throw it away."

"Mulder. Don't be unreasonable," I protest.

"I'm not the one being unreasonable.  Eat.  You haven't had nearly enough 
food lately, even considering our limited rations.  If it comes up later, I'm 
sorry --  but maybe you'll have absorbed some nutrients before it happens."

I can't help but snort. "From canned ravioli?"

He doesn't reply, just thrusts the rest of the dinner at me.

I know why I don't want to eat, and it's not the nausea.  But because I have 
no way to escape his glare, I choke down the food, cursing the potential 
recipient of its weak nutritive value.

We clean up quickly and lay down for the night. I am exhausted, bone-weary.  
I barely notice his body next to mine until he pulls me close under the 
blanket.  I know I am stiff and unyielding in his embrace, but I have shut 
down.  I can't think, don't want to think, can't feel, don't want to feel.

He strokes my hair, my arm, whispers softly in my ear. "Don't worry, Scully.  
We haven't seen any sign of the Crafts.  This morning was a fluke."   He 
waits for my reply, and I nod in the dark to appease him.  After a beat, he 
speaks again, the words my undoing. "I love you, Scully."

As he falls quickly to sleep, my tears escape, held in check too long.

I cry for Mulder, I cry for me.  I cry for Emily.  But with the cleansing, I 
feel clear, purposeful.

I know what must be done.

Once, a lifetime ago, I had an alien fetus growing in my womb in a cold, icy 
prison.  A vaccine killed the fetus and saved my life.   *Mulder* saved my 
life.  I have never forgotten that miracle, nor the determination and love 
behind it.

It is laughable, incomprehensible, that I would be faced with an even more 
hideous violation.

A hybrid.

We are in the wilderness, undergoing a primitive journey that we will be 
lucky to survive.  We have no science, no vaccine, no miracle at our 
disposal.  This... this *thing,* this entity inside me, is a threat to our 
safety and our lives.

I, too, have the intense love and determination that fueled Mulder's trip to 
Antarctica those many years ago.  Nothing stopped him then, and nothing will 
stop me now.

If my worst nightmares are true, I will do whatever it takes.

I will destroy this entity before it has a chance to destroy us.




END TANGIBLE 3: FALL.

To be continued, obviously. ;-)   Feedback loved and definitely encouraged:

Blueswirl@aol.com
Meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com