Title : Past Melting Author : Shawne E-Mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com Category: VA Spoilers : "One Son"; references to "Sixth Extinction" that shouldn't matter, since I haven't even seen the episode myself. Keywords : MSR Summary : "And that was all she needed to do what she had to do. To forget the past, to forget the feelings. To ignore the past, to ignore the feelings. It was simple -- after a while, it became a matter of habit." Archive : Spookys, Gossamer, Ephemeral, yes. And it'd be really nice to be told about the other places this fic ends up in. Disclaimers : I'm not claiming responsibility for *this* baby. ;) Author's Notes : First of all, for the people to whom this fic is dedicated. Happy Belated, Dasha, and Happy Birthday, Shari! I haven't been on Scullyfic long, but you guys are great list-moms, great writers, and great virtual cookie bakers. :) And there is no one I should thank more at this point than Dreamshaper. She encouraged me to write this, to re-write it, to make it better; she went through it more times than any sane person should have to... and she held my hand (or more accurately, she *forced* my hand) in the posting of this story to the list in general. She made me work for what you'll see here, and everything that's good as a result of that, must all be attributed to her. All other mistakes are my very own. Further notes at the end, if you can stand more of my sleep-deprived rambling. ====================================================== In sunlight the trees were crystal and glitter, as if they'd sprouted from a fairy tale. Now, in the moonlight, the branches were painted a luminescent blue. Laurel Springs would have been the most beautiful place she'd ever seen, if not for all the dead people. Too many dead people, she thought. There were always too many. And as always, she was here to clean up after. To hide the truth, to paint the lies on as thick as they would go, to make the ugliness dissolve, and hopefully, disappear. These people died for a reason today. They died to serve a purpose, a larger purpose in the greater scheme of things. Their insignificant lives had become immeasurably greater, but only through the loss of them. Only through Death would their lives ever mean anything. There would be no more experiments in Laurel Springs. The population of this small town had been closer to horror than they would ever know, than they could ever suspect... but for the moment, they all believed that illness had ravaged their community, and if it had no name yet, they were certain it would soon. And so the true horror was hidden from them. Their sacrifice, though largely unbeknownst to them, had already been made. She pulled her coat tighter around her, and waited for the call she knew would eventually come. Her job here was finished; she had collected the information, the test results she needed, and now she was waiting for her next assignment. It often annoyed her to have to stay still, to remain idle for any longer than necessary, because doing nothing meant thinking, and thinking often meant guilt, and guilt didn't fit into the life she had chosen for herself. There was no room for thinking, or sympathy, or feeling anything other than the most shallow and immediate of emotions. As always, she was working towards a goal, and she had no room to maneuver, no place to fit anything else in. Method, and efficiency, were all that mattered right now. She hated sitting as she was, doing nothing. Thinking everything. The quiet, dead beauty around her didn't help. She remembered a place like this, years ago, when she had allowed herself what she had no patience for these days. The memories came, slowly as they were wont to do, reluctant and rusty from years of burial and disuse. There was a tree, very much like the one she was waiting under, whispering in the wind, spreading its branches far and wide. There was the lilting song of birds, and there was laughter, soft, happy. Smiles, promises, celebrating, touching, caring. And perhaps best yet, there was him, and the feeling of never being able to love anyone more than she did him. She watched the dream-like images warily, distancing herself from them, feeling only the occasional pang of regret, which she had learnt to ignore, to suppress, so many years ago. It was his birthday, she recalled with startling clarity, and they had driven far out of the city together... into the countryside, for a picnic. He had been wearing blue, and she remembered murmuring dreamily into his mouth, in between slow deep kisses, "You match the sky." And she shuddered, involuntarily, as his response floated through the years, melting into her ear. "You match me." She had almost cried at that, and he had gently held her, understanding and feeling the love she knew was something that only happened once in a lifetime. Then he was kissing her, her hand tangled itself in his brown hair, and they moved together in a rhythm she would never forget. Love of a lifetime. The four words turned themselves over in her mind, and they meant too little now. She didn't want to go back to a time when she believed in that, to a time when she believed in him, and herself, and believed that their lives would be held together by a love neither of them could deny. A love that could never be rivalled by anything else. After all, what good had that done? Her love had not been strong enough to keep her by his side. She couldn't even remember why she had managed to leave him so easily, to end it all without a word of explanation, to ask for the divorce he never expected. When it came to the choice she'd been asked to make, she had known right away which path to take. She would leave him, and she would leave him without telling him why. They had offered her what she couldn't refuse, a chance at living beyond the darkness which would inevitably come. And she had taken it. Their love must have been a farce, after all. She had left, done the work she had promised to do, and he had gone on without her. Gone on well, in fact. So well she wondered if all her memories were false, a product of the tests and experiments she knew about, but which she could never really know if she had been subjected to. They said she was safe. But they had told Marita that as well. And Marita's life, she knew, had been entirely fabricated. She shifted her weight uneasily, and her left hand slipped into her jacket pocket, fingers closing around her cell phone. The call had not yet come, and she was becoming restless. There was no reason to stay here any longer than she had to, but she couldn't leave either, not until her progress had been confirmed, her loyalty found to be unquestionable. It was taking Them a much longer time than usual to contact her. Feelings were the easiest things to ignore, she suddenly thought, as the moon above disappeared behind a purple cloud. It still amazed her, how she could watch him as she did everyday, and hardly feel anything like remorse, or sadness for what had happened almost a decade ago. How she could talk to him as if nothing had gone wrong, as if she hadn't left him so suddenly, as if she wasn't part of a plan that he was working against, a plan that he was integral to. For some reason, he still trusted her. She knew that she had hurt him beyond measure, and she knew that he now recognised her for who she worked for, and had marked her as a traitor. And yet, he had said nothing, after she told him she loved him, after he recovered -- he had only quietly picked up the pieces and moved on. Maybe because he still believed that they had once shared something too real to be doubted. Maybe because he really had loved her, once. She pushed the thought away, knowing it to be largely untrue. If he had loved her as much as she thought he had, he would not have found someone new. He would not have given his life to another woman, a beautiful woman with a courage no one could destroy, with an integrity that would eventually prove to be his downfall, as well as her own. It didn't bother her, though, that he loved someone else now. How could it, when she had been the one to leave? And how would this matter, in the larger scheme of things, that she once believed that they had been in love? If he refused to co-operate, he would be exterminated, and so would his partner. And their love, their relationship, built so carefully with paper and glass, would disintegrate with them. She, on the other hand, would live. That much had been guaranteed. And that was all she needed to do what she had to do. To forget the past, to forget the feelings. To ignore the past, to ignore the feelings. It was simple -- after a while, it became a matter of habit. Living in the present, working for a future, spurning the history of a life too easily manufactured to be trusted. The too-many-to-count dead bodies became commonplace, the relentless instructions were simply efficiently followed. There was no room for anything else, in a world that would soon lose the light she had once believed to be omnipotent. That light would soon be swallowed, lost in a darkness from another realm. And she intended to be safe from it, to keep herself whole, unfeeling, uncaring, until then. Finally, her phone called loudly to her, and she brought it obediently to her ear. "92403?" was the rough question thrown immediately at her, and she automatically replied, "38265". There was a brief silence, as they confirmed the identity check, and a voice she recognised all too well burst rudely into her ear. "Return to base." There was a detached click, a disconnection, and the echo of the deep voice trailed away into the silence. She looked up, just as she had done earlier this evening, and saw the moon again. Laurel Springs would have been the most beautiful place she'd ever seen. If not for the dead people, and if not for the fact that these things just didn't matter anymore. ***** She was tired, after a long drive back to Washington, and she wrestled clumsily with the door to her apartment. This was the worst part of the work, when her body protested and demanded rest, and refused to do as They told her mind to do. Fortunately, she was spared tonight, and had been given a reprieve. Tonight, she would busy herself with sleep. She would rest, forget, and tomorrow, it could all begin again. The door swung open at last, and she stepped through it, instinctively checking for signs of intrusion into what she still hoped was her one private domain. She remembered one night so many months ago, when she had touched the doorknob, and immediately felt that something inside was different. She had felt him, even before she knew he was there, and the surprise she had displayed before him was genuine - but it was more a surprise brought about by the connection she still felt to him, rather than actually finding him in her living room. She had kept in contact with him, intermittently, not because she particularly wanted to, but because They had told her to. Her relations with him had had to be maintained, for she was, at the time, the one link They had to him. When she had been reassigned to him, and later to the X-files, she'd kept believing that was the very reason she'd kept in touch. Not that there was any residual love for him, only that she was a link They could not afford to break. He had been looking for evidence that night, evidence that she had lied to him, that she had loyalties other than to him, to the X- Files. That night, he had been too distracted with thoughts of smoke and rejection and paranoia, and she had managed to lie without him realising it. Now he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she had loyalties other than him, that she was working for someone he despised. Maybe he knew her reasons, because he had looked entirely inside her in his brief moment of clarity. Maybe he knew them better than she did. Hopefully, he had seen what she kept hidden from the rest of the world. The fact that, deep down, she still believed in his work. She was forced to discount it, and ignore it, and hide it and ruin it, but she still believed in it. So she hadn't lied, not really. Not by choice. And that night, his eyes had blurred, their intensity faded, the drive and energy they always spoke of muted. He had almost lost faith, and she still remembered how sad he looked, how broken, when he told her that the only way those he loved would survive was if he gave up. She knew, even then, and more so now, that he wasn't thinking of her. He was thinking of his partner, and she didn't blame him for that. But she had wanted to comfort him, to remind him that she had survived, even if their love hadn't. And she had reached forward, and kissed him, just a little, and they matched. Like they did so many hazy years ago. The memory melted away again, and she sighed. He had found nothing here, or so he had thought, and she was glad that he had not been as thorough as he usually was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, she was sure, he had never really believed she might be working with people who were working against him. No matter what his partner tried to tell him, no matter what circumstantial evidence he had that proved her alliance with his enemies. He hadn't wanted to believe it, but now he had to. He had to, because he had looked inside her, and he had seen why she had made the choice she did. She couldn't remember why herself. But now he knew. But at the time, he hadn't found the system, the one she was supposed to monitor every time she was instructed to return to base. Moving into her room, she shrugged out of her jacket, allowing it to fall into a silken heap on the ground. She picked up the remote control on her bed, as she always did, and turned the TV on. There was no regular programming here, though. Her set was wired to receive transmissions from carefully-hidden bugs located throughout his world, and she typically spent at least an hour a day watching his live his life. She had seen what had happened, in the past few weeks, and she had watched it with some kind of uncharacteristic peace. There was usually no peace inside her, just a forced emptiness, and watching him as he gained some kind of happiness... it made her feel better than she ever imagined. Even though it also made her feel worse than she had ever dreamed possible. Still, she had kept his secret, was keeping his secret, and would continue to keep it for as long as she dared. For now, she was the only one privy to these transmissions, and for the sake of a past she usually scorned, she would be disobedient. Just this once. They were not in his office, or in his partner's, so she flipped quickly through the channels. Her apartment was empty, as was her car, and his. Finally, the screen filled with an image of his bedroom, shaded lightly with night, and she sank down on her bed. Neither of them knew she was watching, that she often did watch, that she enjoyed it. It was voyeuristic, perhaps, but she felt it was something she was entitled to do. After all, she was keeping it a secret for them. He was lying on his bed, arms wrapped tightly around his partner's sleeping form, never wanting to let her go. Her smooth, naked back was against him, her head tucked under his chin, and they were breathing quietly, in unison. She watched them, her fingers tightening around the remote control, and she felt the heart she usually managed to ignore constrict painfully, for just a second. He used to hold her this way too. He would make love to her, slowly, reverently, and then he would kiss her for hours, whispering the secrets of his world to her, increasing the intimacy just that much more. Then he would fit himself around her, pulling her back against his stomach, and cradle them both to sleep. Such a long time ago. And she remembered the tears coming one night, the night she was going to leave him, and she remembered how he wiped them away. "What's wrong?" he had asked, so sweetly, and she had remained silent. Shaking her head when he'd probed, and unable to tell him the simplest of truths. She was leaving, not because she had stopped loving him, but because she could never stop. That was the truth she had hidden for so long, she realised. She had tried, pretended, to forget what drove her to leave him, even though she loved him. Still. But watching him now, face buried happily in his sleeping partner's hair, arm possessively clinging to her waist... she knew she had left because she could not stay. She had told him that much, in essence, and he had had no reason to doubt it. And she had been unable to stay because she had been approached by Them, and They had asked her to destroy him, and she had side-stepped the issue, she could only side-step the issue, by agreeing to work for them. And so she had lost him, because she couldn't keep him safe. He would survive the holocaust no matter what, she had been told, in some form or other, and she would not. The prospect of working for them, if only to guarantee herself a life in the aftermath, became increasingly attractive. Because she knew he would be there too, that he would live through it, and that maybe, just maybe, if she lived through it too, they could be together again. But that would never happen. She knew that now. There was no way it could happen, because he would always be with the woman he was holding now. If this woman died, he would die with her. He would not be with the woman he'd held ten years ago, much in the same loving way. If *that* woman died, he would still live. She kept watching them, and almost began to hate again. Feelings were extraneous, she knew that... but once recognised, feelings were also difficult to suppress. It had only been in the last few weeks that he had finally reached out to his partner, and she had reached right back for him. Usually, Agent Scully was wary, afraid, overwhelmed by practicalities and fears and anxieties. But something must have changed, because they were together now, in a way they had never been, in a way they would always be now, whatever happened. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost imagine that the couple onscreen wasn't them, but him and her, the way they once had been. The way they could never be again. "Hungry?" The word jumped out at her from the TV set, and she realised that he was getting up, disentangling himself from the sheets. He was wearing a pair of track pants, and her heart almost stopped beating when she recognised them from a long long time ago. From when she used to wash his clothes for him, iron them and put them in the closet. From when they still shared a life. "Mmmm... Mulder, what?" his partner mumbled sleepily as his warmth dissipated from around her body, and she reached out one hand for him, like a lost little girl, beckoning him back to bed. She noticed that it was only in sleep that Agent Scully lost some of her defenses. "Some food, Scully," he insisted, and tucked the blanket around her again. "You sleep, I'll whip something up for the both of us." And she suddenly remembered how she used to cook for him, even though his culinary skills were no worse than hers, simply better-kept secrets. Quickly, she pressed the 'forward' button on the remote control, following his lanky form as it moved through his apartment, and finally ended up in the kitchen. There was a distinct feminine touch to it now, she realised. Agent Scully had left her mark, even in the short space of a few weeks. That kitchen used to belong to her. He moved around it quickly and easily, finding what he needed even in the dark. She knew, without having to guess, what he would make now -- she used to prepare the same thing for him all the time, especially after sex. She recalled, with hardly any difficulty, how quickly he had come to associate onion omelettes with post-coital bliss... the sweet smile on his face as he begged her for one, and how he would take the plate with a childish delight... but never eat any of it himself. He would feed it to her, bite by delicious bite, and would only eat if she insisted he did. Had he told Agent Scully any of this? He might well have. As he cracked eggs into a bowl, she watched, like she used to do so many years ago, and for the first time in a long long time, she ached for him. She wanted him to hold her, and to care for her, and to love her like she remembered. Like she had hoped he would again, someday. And like she knew he never would. "Mulder..." His sleep-tousled partner shuffled onscreen, yawning. "Omelettes?" Agent Scully was lucky. Did she know how lucky she was? "Hey, you." He turned from the counter, a welcoming grin on his face, and her stomach twisted. He used to smile at her in just that way, a smile that meant he would always be ready to listen to her, to talk to her, or just to hold her. A smile that said he was happy she was awake, happy she was alive. Happy she was his. And now it was directed at someone else. She didn't want to watch, knew she would never be able to stand watching him feed his partner, bite by excruciating bite. But somehow, she couldn't stop. Her eyes lingered on the screen, refusing to let go... not even to preserve her own sanity. She watched them, feeling a shiver chase itself down her spine as they kissed. "Not omelettes, Scully," he answered as they broke apart, gathering her quickly back into his arms and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She looked up at him questioningly. "How does French toast sound to you?" "French toast?" Agent Scully pulled back from him, returning his smile with a rare one of her own. "It sounds perfect." It did. Unfortunately, it really did. How could she have allowed herself to fall into this trap of remembering... after so many years? What made her think he would still crave the taste of an omelette, would still equate that food--that *time*-- with her, and with love? Years. Years had melted past, in seconds, and she had spent them hiding from herself, from what she'd forced herself to do. Tonight, all her self-deception had fallen to pieces. And she didn't have the strength to pull the myriad pieces back together into a collective whole. It would all start again tomorrow. More dead people, more ugliness to hide in the beautiful sleepy towns. More lies, more emptiness, more nothing, as she worked towards an end she no longer had any need for. Her eyes pulled themselves back to the screen, and she watched, lost, as they kissed and laughed and cooked together. As they were happier in one night than she could ever be in the rest of her life. Reaching over, she switched the TV off with a trembling hand, and sat alone in the dark. She couldn't bear to watch. She could barely even see. Because she had suddenly remembered how to cry. ====================================================== The challenge was for a story incorporating all of the following elements: 1. "Melting" must either be the title or the story or the word must appear as part of the title. 2. The story must mention a birthday celebration. 3. Mulder and/or Scully preparing the author's favorite food with the recipe included in the author's notes at the end. 4. Spooning! and 5. The great first paragraph written by Jill Selby. Tell me if I succeeded . And while I'm still awake, I apologise for any problems that might arise from the POV in which I chose to write this story. I reiterate that I have not watched "Sixth Extinction", and while I tried to fit this with that particular episode, I had to keep it obscure, for obvious reasons. And if Diana Fowley chooses to be unco-operative, and dies in "Amor Fati", I am calling upon my creative license as a fanfic author. Also, in light of some of the... discussions I've read about Fowley recently, I must emphasise that I am as much a shipper as I ever was. From what I've seen so far, Fowley is extraneous, and should die... but only because of the way CC & 1013 have portrayed her. Personally, I'd like to see her in a more three-dimensional light, and I hope this went some way in doing that. Are you still reading in the hope of getting a recipe out of me? Um, OK. I don't cook at all, though I eat... but I've heard that French toast involves dipping bread in batter (which supposedly has eggs, sugar, cinnamon, and assorted other things in it). Oh yes... then you fry it, I think. It should turn out vaguely edible. Dreamshaper, this one was for you. :) Thanks again. And thanks, everyone, for reading this far. Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ Before you buy.