Title: Partaker of Sufferings Author: lyn89 E-Mail: Feedback: Yes please! It'll encourage me to write more...or not.
Archive: Sure, just let me know.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Let's skip this broken record.
Rating: PG13 (violence, maybe)
Category: T/A Spoilers: There is a very small reference to Scully's cancer, very small (blink and you'll miss it), the theme is similar to a few X-Files but not really spoilers.
Keywords: MulderTorture, MulderAngst, ScullyAngst, Mulder/Scully Friendship Author's Note: This is my first fic so be gentle. I had submitted three small pieces of this story, one of which I completely revised, over a year ago to Ephemeral. So if you recognize it that's why. Fortunately, this is completed and not a WIP.
Additional Notes: The timeframe is set in early season five, after Scully is diagnosed with cancer. (it just best suites the attitudes and feelings of the characters expressed in the story) The passages described are taken from the King James Version of The Bible, specifically from 1 Peter and Revelations. Some of the passages are in either Greek or Latin. I wrote this to entertain, not offend. Any similarities to real life person or persons are purely coincidental. Summary: A near-death experience causes Mulder to question his faith in everything.
-x-
Partaker of Sufferings
-x-
"The time is near"
Cold. So very cold. His body continued to shake, desperate for warmth. Any comfort would be welcome, but he received none.
He bit on the beige handkerchief that was rung around his mouth. The fragments inside his mouth had stiffened from his saliva. Just another thing to bring discomfort.
His body shook yet again, still from cold but also from fear. He'd been reduced to an animal. No ability to function or fight back, just cower and hope that someone would save him.
Scully.
Would she save him? It wasn't a matter of 'if' but 'when.' That was the important question. When would she save him? Would he still be alive?
A bolt turned and the steel door slid open. He flinched from the stream of light, piercing his eyes. Yet another uncomfortable predicament.
A thin figure appeared and approached his victim. His face so close his breath was beginning to warm the captive's cheek. Still he moved closer. So close.
The battered man moaned and pushed away from his captor but was caught by the figure's hand that pressed against the back of his neck.
"Don't be afraid." Soft. His voice was delicate and he spoke as if to a young child. Still he tried to jerk away but was caught by two other shadows.
Accomplices? But there had been no evidence to support that in the previous assaults. Assaults...that was assuming his victims were still alive and well.
"Do not fear child but rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ's sufferings-"
He groaned as the two men, judging by their strength, lifted him up and carried him from the dark metal room that had become his prison.
They began walking through a hall with walls of metal, similar to the room he had been in. A factory? It would seem logical, a large place for no one to hear him...scream.
He kept his eyes lowered to shield himself from the intense light brought on from the industrial-sized lights.
Finally they met the end of the hallway.
A bent metal door with several dents and holes, most likely caused by previous victims, met his eyes.
The thin man proceeded to unlock the door and lead them in. As soon as they all were inside, he locked the door and pulled a string that clicked on a simple ceiling light.
The captive froze at the giant wooden cross that lay at the center of the room, it's core rooted firmly into the thick cement floor.
"-when his glory shall be revealed-"
He desperately tried to plant his feet into the ground, but he was weak and the two lackeys were so strong. Too strong. They pushed him against the cross and held him down as the leader continued to speak.
"-ye may be glad also with exceeding joy."
As he concluded the passage the leader lifted a wooden mallet and three heavy nails.
His eyes grew wide with fear and he bucked and kicked like a wild animal trying to free himself from imminent pain and suffering that would soon occur.
The leader gently placed his long thin fingers on the man's gagged mouth and spoke. "Do not fear Fox, for you are to be healed on this day."
He placed the nail in the center of his left palm and struck.
Fox's face shot up and he screamed beneath the rags that bound and covered his mouth. Thick mounts of tears swelled in his eyes nearly breaking through the barrier.
The leader proceeded with his right hand, forcing his tears to flow. Fox continued to scream and banged his head against the wood trying to break free. He looked down as the two bouncers moved away from his arms and grasped his legs and pushing his feet to the base of the cross.
He glanced at his right hand, then his left. Although not a religious man, Fox knew what was next. There was nothing he could do. At the admittance of defeat he squeezed his eyes shut, still moist from the tears, and braced himself for the pain.
It came quicker than he thought.
With each nail in its proper place the men stood back and marveled as if he were a work of art.
From the leader's eyes Fox could see tears trailing down his face. He placed his right hand on the injured man's cheek and smiled.
"Now you too will be saved."
-x-
//There is a beginning and there is an end, but must it come now? What is it to not exist; what does it mean? To 'be' and then no longer not. I've been here before, but now it's different. How?//
//You are.//
//What?//
//You 'are.' You are not 'not.'//
//Am I? I am what?//
//You 'are.' Open your eyes...Mulder.//
//But-//
//Mulder.//
//Wait-//
//Mulder. Please wake up.//
//Scully?//
"Mulder? Mulder?" Her voice was soft, and he imagined her face before he saw it.
His vision slowly returned. Fuzzy then less fuzzy until she was more than just an aura of hazy light but-
"Scully?"
He slowly curled his fingers against the thin white sheet. A testament that he was still alive.
//He placed the nail in the center of his left palm and struck.//
Mulder gasped at the memory, or was it a dream? Glancing down at his hands he saw the evidence that this memory was real. Streams of medical gauze were wrapped tightly around his hands, clumped together and stained with his blood. He brought his right hand close to his face, examining the damage that had been done.
"They, uh-" He placed his hand down and focused his attention on her. "-patched them up but they, uh, the wounds reopened. Your feet too." He glanced at the lumps at the end of the bed.
"Where am I?"
"Georgetown University Hospital." She leaned closer and gently placed the tips of her fingers on his bandaged hands. Her fingernails gently picked and prodded the outermost layer of the gauze. Still Scully; still the concerned doctor.
"How long have I been here?"
As if in a daze, she finally jolted back away from his injuries. "Huh? Oh, well you were missing for seventeen days." He nodded slowly, allowing the dates and numbers to sink into his head. "And you've been unconscious for three."
"Three?"
"Yes." Her reply had almost been one of pure silence, out of a need to preserve her strength and hide her fear. "When we found you-" She began, focusing her attention on his hands. "-we, we thought you were dead."
His reaction was slack; it was too soon for emotion to overtake him. He allowed the psychologist-part of him to take in and analyze what had just happened.
Given all that had occurred he should have been in hysterics or asking questions such as where his captors were and what else had they done to him.
But he was at peace. With himself and all of his surroundings. Amazing.
Still he worried about her. Scully. Her voice, as she spoke to him, was rough and raspy. She had been crying or screaming, or perhaps even both. Over him, it was all for him.
He gave a genuine smile meant for her, not him. "Well I'm alright now."
-x-
2 days later
-x-
"How are you feeling?"
Mulder turned to face the small petite carrying an overnight gym bag into his apartment. Nearly sliding into the doorframe.
"Much better if you'd let me carry that." He reached for the bag nearly getting it from her death grip.
"No." And she dropped it onto the hardwood floor. "You need to rest. I'm still debating over whether you should even be on your feet." They both looked down at his tennis shoes.
"Yeah, well...hey, I'm feeling up for some pizza. You want some?"
"Hmm...I don't know. I feel there's something bad about three week old pizza."
He moved to the freezer and pulled out the box. "C'mon Scully it's a frozen pizza. What do you take me for?" His smile was all too charming, all too Mulderesque.
"Sure."
She watched him move back into the kitchen with an ensemble of clanging of certain metal utensils. //For God's sake Mulder what are you making Anthrax?// Her gaze moved around his room, significantly cleaner than usual. She had of course played housekeeper while he was gone. Gone.
But he wasn't gone anymore; he was here. She grounded herself against the couch. He was home and everything would be fine now. Her smile faded as her gaze lowered to the hardwood floor.
The bloody hardwood floor.
The realization was paired with the large crash in the kitchen of what had to be pots and pans.
"Mulder?!"
She walked slowly into the kitchen, preparing herself for anything. A mere slip or maybe something that was overlooked in the hospital.
Needless to say she was not prepared for what she saw.
Her partner stood dumbfounded, his attention fixed on his hands. Blood had collected on the white tiled floor. It flowed from his patched palms and down his arms. There it continued to seep down to his thin elbows and poured like ripples onto the cold tiles.
Her mouth refused to close at the sight that lay before her. The blood was thick, dark, and all over Mulder. How could there be so much?
Mulder looked up at her momentarily, his eyes were a mixture of bewilderment and worry. He tilted his head slightly and positioned his hands so that she could see the point of injury. She quickly moved to grab him, but his body jerked. It wasn't a statement of independence or a sign that he did not desire to be touched, but something else.
"Mulder?!"
He collapsed onto his knees and his body began to shake. "Ugh!" His body weak, he fell onto her as she struggled to grasp and calm him. With each attempt to hold him, he threw out another rapid shake and groaned. What was it? A seizure as a result of his injuries?
She gently took his cheek and tried to get him to look at her. His eyes, his face, would they show signs of what was happening to him? "Muld-"
His right hand shot out and grasped her throat. Wrapping tighter and tighter.
Her gasps were both habitual and of fright. She mouthed his name as a mantra and prayed that he would release her. Desperation had not yet entered her mind, for the hopeful result of this scene didn't appear to be her death. His hand had grasped her throat, although forcefully, as a means to give instruction. To correct her apparent mistake.
Which had been what? Never in her life had she felt submissive to her partner, but what was she feeling now? She wouldn't harm him, not now, not again. Still she feared his strength and his mental state. He had been through so much and now this.
He was holding her. It lasted only for moments but it felt like years. He was trying to communicate with her. He had a message that he trusted her to have.
His eyes told as much, they had changed. No longer the deep and insightful mixture of green and gold to form that once illustrious hue that had served as the window to his beautiful and sadly twisted soul. No. They had become darkened. It was as if blood had somehow fallen into his eyes and stained them to a wretched crimson.
"Kruphate apo prosopou tou kathemenou epi tou Thronou kai apo tes orges tou arviou, oti elthen e emera e megale tes orges auton, kai tis dunatai stathenai?"
He jerked once again, loosened his grip and fell into her lap.
Scully stood frozen, replaying in her head all that had just happened. The language was familiar, old, but familiar. Had her previous assumption been wrong? What was she expected to gain from this? No, his words had purpose; if they were even his own words. But why now? Why was he speaking like this and what was the cause? The injuries? No...it was impossible.
He slowly lifted his head and pulled away from her. His eyes were normal. But once they were both able to look at each other, Mulder yet again did something Scully was not prepared for.
With his hands still bloody he placed them on her check, gently stroking her face. Then he began rubbing his long stained fingers through her red hair.
"Oh my God-"
"Mulder..."
"Oh my God!"
"Mulder!"
"Red! It's red!"
Red collided with red. Both from different sources, yet they flowed together and became one. It became undistinguishable where the blood began and her hair ended.
His fingers ran through and he clumped her hair pulling it closer to his face. His eyes were widened in fascination. Blood clotted in her hair and began to dry on her face as he continued to cling to the red strands.
She was speechless. Dr. Dana Katherine Scully of the FBI, a pathologist, a woman who held science above all could not utter a single syllable. His blood was on her face, it was streaming through her hair.
She was bathing in her partner's blood.
Hands shaking he held her only centimeters away from his eyes. "Red..." Finally he collapsed and allowed the darkness to take over him.
Red. Mulder was red-green colorblind. Was...but he saw her hair. His blood. What did it mean?
-x-
"I'm not sure what to make of it, to be honest."
Mulder looked down at his hands. Aside from two quarter-sized holes, they appeared normal.
"His scars appear to be healing wonderfully." Continued the physician. "In fact, he's ahead of schedule. I don't see how he could have accumulated that much blood loss. There's no indication that he's lost any."
Scully continued to glare at him, her arms crossed tightly around her chest, waiting for him to say something promising.
"His wounds show no sign of reopening or tearing. Are-are you sure it was his blood?"
Her eyes widened with rage. As if he had the audacity to ask! As if he had assumed she was mentally unsound, and unfit as a doctor herself to determine whose blood it had been.
"I'm well aware of whose blood it was, it was Agent Mulder's." He turned to the man sitting on examination table. He seemed fine.
"He looks alright to me. Doctor Scully, I appreciate your concern but we've run every test we can think of. There was no internal hemorrhaging, no exterior damage, I think this is a case of an error in judgment."
Error in judgment. An error, made on her part. A miscalculation of what she saw and what really happened. An error in judgment.
"Well" She breathed heavily, gathering her thoughts. "If that's all that this was then I suppose there's nothing left to be done here."
-x-
The drive back to his apartment had been awkward. Neither wished to say anything, neither desired to ask the other what was going on. Mulder had shown no indication that he was aware of the events that had transpired the night before, and Scully made no gesture to show that she had remembered what had happened.
She stopped at his apartment complex.
"You sure you don't wanna come up?"
"Nah, I can't. I've um, got some work I need to do. If you need anything, you call okay."
"Oh yes Doctor Scully!"
There was a library a block from here.
She watched him enter the building. Once she felt confident that he would be all right by himself for a while she drove herself to the nearest library. She had to know.
-x-
Mulder walked over to the mail drop-off boxes. Apparently nearly three weeks of absence meant a lot of overdue bills and a few Ms. November articles that had yet to be read.
As he turned the key and retrieved his mail he looked back into the stream of his mind. He had seen red. Red. Such a beautiful color. It was painful to realize that he had missed it his entire life, but not now. Still, his pleading ignorance to Scully in response to the situation was, in his mind, a better avenue to follow.
He was humiliated with himself over how he had reacted. But how could he explain this to her, how could she possibly understand? Red. It was like being deprived of food his entire life. Knowing it was there, always wanting it but never being able to receive it. And now that he had, what else could he have done but taken it and marveled at it? Savoring every moment. He was seeing everything for the first time. Sure he had seen people and places before but it was never fully accurate. Like looking out into the fog, knowing there was 'something' out there, but that 'something' had always remained undefined.
Now everything was crisp and fresh. It was new, he felt new...and revitalized. What had changed in him? What allowed his senses to become whole again? It had to be-no! Could it? A miracle?
His thoughts swam rapidly though his mind, refusing to remain contained and complacent. Yet they roamed and searched for the answers. Scully. He would have to explain himself, if he could figure it all out that is. His mind was jumbled and assorted into fragments. Much like a crappy movie shown at a grind house, his memories had been reedited with some even being removed for no apparent reason except to confuse and torture his psyche.
But Scully was his rock, his credibility as a human. He could not deny her his memories and thoughts about what had occurred earlier. What he remembered of if anyway. His reaction had frightened her, of course it had. Any normal person would be dismayed at his reaction.
Still, there was something else that had disturbed her. But what?
-x-
//Kruphate apo// Greek, 'hide from.' Hide from what? Unfortunately that was the only part of Mulder's lovely little speech Scully was able to commit to memory.
It would have to do.
-x-
He grabbed his mail and proceeded towards the stairs. An elderly woman bumped into him sending her bag of assorted fruits across the marble floor.
"Oh ma'am! Oh, I'm so sorry!"
He scrambled to and fro to claim her escaped citrus. He was on the last orange when it happened.
"Oh son, you've hurt yourself." He looked down at the blood drenched orange. Blood oranges, surely this was not what the old woman had in mind.
"Oh-"
-x-
"-my God!"
The passage streamed across the screen. It was Greek all right, from the New Testament; Revelations to be exact. She read it in its entirety. But Revelations had always frightened her as a young child.
//Hide from the face of the one seated on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of their wrath has come, and who is able to stand?//
-x-
"Dear you're hurt! Here, let me help you." Her twisted and deformed hands approached him and gently grabbed his hand. The orange plummeted to the marble surface and it rolled leaving only a bloody trail behind.
The joints of each finger were swollen and appeared to almost bulge from the surface of the skin itself. Her fingers had twisted outwards, making the simplest tasks a chore.
As she held his hand, he watched as the swelling subsided and her skin shrunk back to its original size. Her fingers turned and twisted back to their rightful place.
"My God! My hands! He's-he's healed my hands!" The old woman screamed and lifted her hands for anyone present to see. Mulder stepped back away from the woman who was now brought to tears by what had happened.
"No it wasn't-"
She grabbed him and pulled against his sweater to attract more attention.
"He did it! He healed me! My hands! My hands!"
He shook his head and breathed a soft 'no' then charged up the stairs, forgetting his bills and his beloved 'Hustler.'
Locking the deadbolt of his door, he breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled his hands to his face, seeing blood but no opening, no apparent injury.
"What's happening to me?"
-x-
//I once was lost, but now I'm found. Literally. I was captured and tortured, then left for dead. But Scully saved me. Could she save me now from this predicament? What was going on?//
-x-
He waited for hours inside his small apartment. Attracting any unwanted attention after the scene in the lobby was not his idea of a good time. Hopefully no one would believe the elderly women. As awful as it sounded he hoped everyone would think she was crazy or suffering from dementia. Unfortunately the odds of that weren't good, particularly since they weren't the only ones who had been in the lobby.
Still, waiting around worrying wouldn't solve anything. He had to know.
Fox Mulder grabbed his keys and rushed out of the apartment complex and into his car. It was going to be a long drive to D.C.
-x-
Mikeal Jacob Abrams. 46 years old. Youngest of seven children, all boys. Father was a minister at the local Episcopalian church, mother was a second grade English teacher. No evidence of child abuse or any other form of physical or mental mistreatment.
Why had he attacked him? Why had he attacked the others? There was no evidence that any previous victims had escaped, but there was blood. So much blood to prove that he had done substantial harm to his victims. How was he found? How was he saved without being noticed?
Fox Mulder should have known the answers. Of course, that was to be expected of him. To know the answers to everything. He had even developed a profile on Mr. Abrams, but why had he captured him? How did he even know he was tracking him?
Still he had an opinion on the captor, but it had changed slightly. Slightly. A personal experience often alters the mind's perception.
Which one was real?
Should he conclude that his parents' heavy emphasis on religion and just a poor social life had made Mr. Abrams the man that he is today? Or should he consider all that had happened and what was happening to him.
//Now you too will be saved.//
He shuddered. Saved? Had he been damned before?
It was true he had no passion for religion. At times he criticized the hypocrisy of if, which often disturbed his partner. It wasn't that he didn't feel there wasn't a presence out there, he just couldn't define it, or fully understand it. When one cannot understand or comprehend what something is, it makes it difficult to find comfort in following it.
This was true of religion for him.
The truth was his light. In an essence the truth could be seen as his religion. After all, the truth is just as confusing and undefined as other religions. So why did he put his faith in the truth?
The question shocked him. He had never asked himself why. What was the difference?
//What is stopping you?//
"Ugh!"
He dropped the case file watching the loose papers scatter to the floor along with an ensemble of droplets of what had to be his blood. And he stared. Not daring to touch the files, to admit that he was losing it, that he was overreacting, that he was not himself.
-x-
"Now, now Mrs. Abels please calm down."
"My hands, he healed them."
Scully walked into the lobby with not so much as a clue as to what her next move should be. Should she share her experience and research with Mulder? He didn't seem to remember and keeping it a secret was a bad but somewhat reasonable move.
Either way she needed to check on him and his...state of mind. Not that it was in question, but still-
"I tell you he healed them! Look! Look at them!"
She walked forward to see an elderly woman pushing her hands to the landlord's face. Insisting that something had happened to them.
They had been healed?
As she neared the visibly distraught women, she examined her hands from a distance. They were fine. Firm and balanced. Not altogether unlikely, but still not very common for a woman of her age.
The elder women turned to Scully with her hands loosely balled up into fists. She looked at the agent with bloodshot eyes and began to beg for her assistance. To prove to her that the previous event that had occurred was real and her age was not to blame for her outburst.
"Please, you must believe me, he healed them!"
"Ma'am?"
"My hands! He healed them!"
Scully gently took hold of the woman's hand and began to observe them, unsure of what to look for.
"Who?"
"That man, a police officer I think-"
"A police officer?"
"Your partner."
Both women turned to the landlord who had remained. Though he was shorter than Scully and significantly larger, he was a man who enjoyed power and control. Ironic that one of his tenants was none other than Fox William Mulder. She still wondered how he was able to maintain the apartment without violating any, if not all, the regulations in the contract.
"Your partner and Mrs. Abels were here earlier today and apparently something happened. I'm not sure what."
"And you've been here all this morning-"
"No one will believe me. My hands."
Scully nodded and led the woman to a chair near the mailboxes.
"Now why don't you tell me exactly what happened."
"I came in this morning with some groceries. But they were too hard for me to handle and I dropped them."
Scully raised an eyebrow.
Mrs. Abels sighed, she was used to explaining her condition.
"I have rheumatoid arthritis-"
Scully looked down at her hands. Arthritis? But her hands were fine, unless...no, it was impossible!
"-it's difficult for me to do certain things. Grasping objects can be somewhat of a challenge for me. Well, anyway, I had dropped my groceries and this nice young man reached down and helped me. But as he was grabbing an orange I noticed his hands were bleeding. His hands. I thought he had hurt himself and I tried to help him."
She reclined back, replaying all that had happened.
"Me an old woman, trying to help him. Well, I suppose I was no help at all really. He helped me. I took his hands and he held mine...and...at that moment they were healed."
Scully slowly nodded turning to the landlord.
"He did bleed quite a bit over the floor." He pointed to the brown marble slab near the staircase. It was clean with no trace of blood. "Of course I cleaned it up."
"Of course." She sighed under her breath. "Ma'am I assure you I will discuss-"
"It's true. And there are so many others who need his help. So many others..." She spoke softly and walked past her up the stairs.
Nothing more could be said or done. Scully wouldn't consider the woman a liar but that didn't necessary mean what she saw was what really happened. Still the landlord had mentioned Mulder bleeding. His injuries must have reopened again, but they were healing so well. Spontaneous healing and bloodletting. What was going on?
-x-
"Fox!"
He turned to the voice in disbelief. "Samantha?"
The small girl ran into his arms. Just like in his dream years ago, she remained the ever-youthful sister and he the adult brother. Such dreams lacking logic usually lead to something bad.
Their embrace could have lasted for an eternity, but the younger sibling broke away.
"Let's go." Her voice was soft, almost inaudible next to the waves brought on from the currents of the sea. The small pale fingers wrapped around his and she lead them to the beach.
The bitter smell of salt from the sea reminded him of his younger days. When the weather was right and the sea would allow he and his sister a moment of peace and enjoyment.
Trudging with each step trough the mounds of sand he remembered something his mother had once told him as a child.
//The sea is different here.//
How so mommy?
//The sea is strong and unforgiving. It shows no mercy and allows for no exceptions upon who it claims.//
I don't understand mommy.
She continued to gaze out the window, lost in her own thoughts.
//Just be careful with your sister, Fox.//
Just be careful with your sister, Fox. Just be careful. Your sister. Fox.
"Fox?"
He snapped back, putting his focus back on her. A dream within a dream. Strange.
His sister's head whipped quickly to the left. Her eyes widened and she proceeded to take several steps backwards...into the sea.
He turned and saw him. The cigarette-smoking man.
"You! You bastard what are you doing here?!"
But just like every other dream, he was paralyzed. All he could do was speak. Use worthless words to try and protect those he loved.
And Samantha in fear, and realizing that her brother was not helping her, continued to step into the sea. In her own mind it was safety, but in reality it was death.
Finally taking control of his fear he fell onto his hands and knees, the cold gritty sand collected on his bare skin. His fingers probed and dug desperately through the sand to find something to give him strength and save his sister.
"Samantha no! Come back! Samantha!"
But she continued until she was gone. Gone into the sea, away from all this.
Both his eyes and mouth widened and he screamed. Once again he had failed to save her. Once a gain he was in hell reliving, his sins again and again.
His fingers stopped at the touch of a rock smoothed by the tides of the sea.
Without thought or hesitation he grabbed the stone and hurled it at the man. The one who was to blame for his suffering.
Rock met flesh and flesh met rock, but his action had not met his anticipated reaction.
It hit and the man's body split and tore apart and flew into hundreds of thousands of pieces. Then they flew and swarmed around him.
Swarmed?
No! His destroyed flesh were wasps that flew around Mulder. There were so many his view was blackened and the sound of the waves was muted by the angry buzz of the wasps.
He screamed unable to move. His arms and legs twisted and turned beneath the sand, but they were stuck and refused to aid in assisting his body.
And they came and surrounded his entire body.
-x-
"Noooooooooooooooo!"
His body jolted up from the desk. The dream was no more and he was a part of reality now.
She stood with her hand jerked away, like a child who had just touched something hot on the stove. Her posture was straight and her breath was held inside, not daring to make a sound.
It was so quiet a heartbeat could be heard.
"Scully." His angel, his protector had saved him from his hellish demise. Well, in his mind anyway. "I, uh, I must've fallen asleep. I was just-"
She grabbed the file from his desk and examined it. "Mulder, why are you looking at this? The local PD can handle this."
He sighed reclining back in his chair.
"You're under enough stress as it is with all that's going on."
There was an awkward silence. She didn't mention his elderly neighbor, he stifled the urge to tell her about his dream, both were hiding from each other.
As she sat the folder back onto his desk, both began to wonder.
What did it all mean? A healed woman, a hidden message, and a stigmatic partner. Stigmatic? Since when was his oddity being affiliated with religion? It was obvious but both refused to accept it.
"Mulder, go home and get some rest."
His response was not the best. It wasn't anything. He stared into her eyes but if there was anything there Scully had missed it.
"Mulder!"
"Ugh!"
The air in the room remained awkward but it was not longer silent.
"Scully I'm fine."
"Mulder just go home okay. Skinner was expecting me ten minutes ago."
"Okay great let's go."
"Mulder-" She put her hand on his chest and stopped his movements. God it felt wonderful, not just her specifically touching him but just the general human contact. His cold flesh welcomed the warmth.
//Get over yourself Mulder she just touched you.//
But it was always more than a touch. It was confirmation a thousand words pushed into one gesture. Friendship.
She wouldn't leave him, no matter what.
"-me not you Mulder. He's expecting you to be at home in bed resting."
Message received.
//I suppose we don't have to be together ALL of the time.//
-x-
His fingers tapped onto the hard desk. He was so predictable, orderly, and structured.
Tap.
Pure irony that she would work with a man who was the antithesis of order, and yet work under a man whose law was lead by it.
Tap.
Entropy some would call it. The tendency for nature to favor chaos or the unknown.
Tap.
In other words nature preferred the company of Mulder.
"Agent?"
The taps stopped.
"Sir-"
"How is Agent Mulder? What is his condition? I heard he was back at work, against medical advice."
He clenched his right hand, waiting for what would hopefully be the right answer.
"Agent Mulder is in satisfactory condition-"
It wasn't.
"I appreciate your loyalty towards Agent Mulder; however, it appears that his condition is anything but satisfactory."
In the end she never could hid anything from him.
-x-
Home.
A place of security.
Home.
Maybe not, but it gave him comfort.
"So what the hell am I doin' here?" he mumbled.
His feet ignored his voice and continued up the velvet red path. Red. It was that color again.
His hands grazed the ridges and corners of the pews with every step. They were beautiful, deep cherry, or something to that effect.
He recalls his partner mentioning her frequent visitation of such places. Not only for religious purposes, but for her respect and admiration in the arts.
Who would've thought that Scully would have an appreciation for anything other than science. Perhaps that was too bold of an assumption, she was more than his partner, she was a human with feelings and desires. Both of which he constantly assumed were obsolete, that she was not a woman of compassion but of science.
Once again he assumed wrong.
His feelings, though still his own, were greater than he had once remembered. Even the grooves of the wood brought emotions to him.
Why?
Why so emotional all the sudden? Had his kidnapping and torture really have effected him so much? The standard psychiatric tests required by the bureau upon returning to work from a high stress situation had come back satisfactory.
Maybe it was something else. The old woman-
"Can I help you son?"
His hand was tightly grasping the pew, nails digging into the curves and depressions in the wood.
"Huh?"
"You seem lost, my child."
My child. He spoke like the man before.
"No." He began to step backwards away from the priest, nearly tripping on the rug.
"My son there is nothing to fear here. This is the house of the Lord, a house of peace, and all is forgiven in the eyes of the Lord."
The elder man took hold of Mulder's hand and gently led him to an empty pew.
"Now tell me child, what is troubling you?"
A thousand words came rushing to the surface like raging waters, but there was no voice. He sat in silence preferring to become a prisoner to his thoughts and observed with his eyes the man that sat next to him.
He sat calmly, his hands crossed over one another lying gently on the dark and smooth cloth. Judging by his demeanor he was a gentle and silent soul preferring the words of others as opposed to his own.
But he was after all a man.
If he would have it his own way, he would lie in the shadows working with scripts as opposed to souls. To observe and record knowledge was something higher to him than taking note of the sins of others.
Though he was a man, he was a being of charity. His mind may hid his sins and pleasures but his body unveiled his daily deeds and habits. He was a tall man, but sunken in. Like a withered fruit long past its prime, he hunched over just slightly in order to accommodate to gravities desire. For his sacrifice to be a man needing no necessities, his body retaliated in every way possible. His hair had been eaten away along with the light of youth, the only thing his body did not devour were dull shadows.
//As is all of mankind.//
//What?//
//What is seen is but the shadow of a man, what is man is what remains hidden.//
//Then what is man?//
//Many things. Don't be so distraught over images. It's what is not seen that is the most dangerous. He is harmless.//
//He? The priest. He may be, but are you?//
//Yes. It is fortunate that you are becoming more observant and aware of your surroundings.//
//I suppose that is your doing. Whoever...whatever you are.//
//Do you know me?//
//I remember you from before.//
//Before? Before what?//
//When I was taken...//
//When you were lost...yes, I was there.//
"Son? Are you alright?"
The darkness receding into the darkness of his mind and the surrounding began to enclose him, forcing him to react to them.
"Father." He whispered.
"My son you seem lost."
Mulder looked down at his hands clothed in white gauze. Hands, among other things, that had witnessed such brutality.
"Maybe I am..."
"Son?"
He stood up abruptly and began walked away from the priest. "Forgive me for taking your time." His stride picked up until he exited the church into the chaos of midday Arlington traffic.
Funny, despite the sun it actually seemed brighter in the church.
-x-
"So what is your opinion on Agent Mulder's mental stability based on what you've just described to me?"
A simple question that would not welcome an explanation of a similar caliber.
"It's difficult to explain, sir."
"Do you believe that he is mentally unsound and that his judgement and actions may be impaired due to this?"
"I believe..." //What do I believe? And I if I do, then in what or in who?// "...Agent Mulder is working hard at understanding what has happened to him in his own way, just as I am doing."
"But you have yet to explain why he acted the way he did upon being released from the hospital and the validity of his neighbor's account of his actions in his apartment complex."
How could she answer? What could she possibly say? To compromise any scientific reason would be the compromise herself. She was herself, not her partner, she could not explain what had happened.
Not yet at least.
-x-
"Fox are you coming?"
His mind alerted him to the voice and he shot up from what should have been his couch which was now his bed from his youth. Navy blue splashed with 'NY Yankees' emblems covered his sheets.
Feet connected with the antiquated beige carpet and for a moment he thought he was home.
"Fox!" A small girl burst into his room donned in blue overalls with a grey shirt and a 'Mets' cap to tame her thick and frizzy hair. "You promised!"
He looked around and noticed a bat and glove tilted along the frame of his door. Baseball, he and his sister were going to play today.
So they rode together to the park, in the body of a boy but his mind fully aware of the man that he was. His life however always seemed to be the contrary. A man but with the selfish desires of a child, never stopping to observe others. In the end he only saw himself.
"Fox!"
Forcing himself out of the deepest caverns of his mind, he readied his bat for the perfect hit to complement his sisters admirable swing. "Ready!"
It was almost a perfect hit. The ball flew into the wooden bat and both were one for a split second. It wrapped around the bat and expanded to it full capacity and burst.
And they came.
Hundreds of thousands of bees nestled within the ball swarmed towards the children, their existence solely to inflict pain upon the two. The dark cloud descended and swallowed the children, their screamed overpowered by the buzzing, and their airways choked by the venomous stingers.
"No!" Screams met with coughs as he sought desperately to capture a breath of air. The coughing continued until a small stinger escaped from his mouth and landed in his hand.
It lay soaked in drops of blood sprinkled on his hand. He looked around, he was home supposedly safe in his apartment.
But it had only been a dream.
-x-
"What are you thinking?"
"There's someone I'd like to talk to about Agent Mulder's injuries."
"An expert?"
"In a way."
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn't want her personal opinion and background to harm her partner or the case involving his disappearance but the chance that it could help him was too strong a temptation.
"He's a renown expert in religious studies. Reverend Handel a member of the Communion of Raphael Church. He's one of the most successful scholars in his field. His most prominent research has been describing both the scientific and religious reasons for the occurrence of stigmata in modern times."
"Stigmata?"
Here it comes.
"Yes, sir. Though I don't feel that Agent Mulder suffers from this...disorder, but I believe Father Handel may be able to assist in understand Agent Mulder's unique case."
"That's it?"
Though an intimidating and overbearing man to some, Walter Skinner was at heart a compassionate man. His stature and position at the Bureau demanded that he lead and instruct others, yet he despised confrontation and would give all his power and be able to show an ounce of sincerity.
"I have my own thoughts on his condition, but I'd like to have a second opinion."
-x-
It was just a dream.
He stared down at the small, black stinger. With one motion he swiped it in frustration with his hand and it flew away from his sight.
Pulling up the manila folder from the coffee table, he began to immerse himself in understanding the life of a madman.
Mikeal Jacob Abrams. His attacker, his abductor.
//Why?//
He dropped the folder in anguish, oblivious to the newly scattered papers.
//Why me?//
Fists clenched tighter, nails digging into his damaged palms. His breaths drew out and began heavier as his palms began to soak. Blood pushed through the small cracks that separated each finger and spilled onto the table.
He allowed his fingers to roll around in the tiny droplets that had landed on the wood.
//More red...so...beautiful.//
Only seconds later his hands were drenched in his own blood; however, no wounds accompanied the pools of blood.
//What am I doing!?//
He ran to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands, desperately attempting to remove the blood.
Blood, but no wounds. //How can I clean up something that shouldn't even be here?//
He grabbed his keys and left the apartment. Sitting in the shadows musing over his forgotten past and troubling future would solve nothing.
-x-
"And from henceforth let no man trouble me: for I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus. Brethren, the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit. Amen"
The blur of grayed people rose to his words and spoke. "Amen." Like a fog they clouded the room, they were one. A unit of misconception and confusion.
"Yes my children, yes! It is I who have led you into the light. You are all born anew, you who were filthy are now clean."
The leader lowered his hands onto the wooden podium. He gazed at those who sat before him. Wearing their gray sweat shirts and pants, they sat complacent their right fingertips pressed against the left. They waited ever so patiently. Waiting for a sign, his sign; their leader's sign.
-x-
"Reverend Handel?"
A thick man with even thicker black rimmed glasses turned to face her. "Yes?" He leaned back in his chair, the hard wood cracking and splintering against the force of the man's body.
"I'm Dana Scully, we spoke on the phone."
"Oh yes, yes. I remember now." His small hands extended towards a chair in front of the desk. "Please, sit. Now you came to ask about my expertise in history and beliefs of stigmata, correct?"
"Yes, sir." His body pushed forward and he left his chair to the neat and ordered shelves of books behind him. His fingers ran along the fine binding leading his mind toward the desired book.
"Tell me," he grasped the book and returned to his chair "what do you know about the matter?"
"Uh, only what I learned in Catholic school."
"Oh, Catholic school." His voice encouraged her to continue and he leaned back further into the chair.
She watched him for a moment and then saw his chair. Surely it could not stand much more force, eventually it would shatter. Of course, this notion brought her mind to a memory of a lesson of the seven deadly sins that was taught to her at an early age. Her head tilted at a desperate attempt to give an answer that would appease the reverend.
"I know that one of the most popular individuals who was recorded as the first was St. Francis." He waited, surely she knew more. "But, I know there's no concrete evidence to support that."
"A Catholic girl with the heart of a skeptic." He chuckled and began to finger through the small leather bound book.
Her eyes wondered away from him. Infuriated wasn't the right word, but she was upset and a little intimidated. She hadn't come to be laughed at, nor had she come with the assumption that her knowledge of the subject was necessary. Perhaps she was just overreacting.
She reclined in her chair waiting.
"Tell me Ms. Scully, why is it that you feel that way about the phenomena?"
"Well, generally speaking I believe that it has to do with interpretation."
"Interpretation?"
"Yes." Good, she could explain her thoughts and perhaps even gain the upper hand. "I know that some who claim to have the affliction suffer from injuries to their palms, while others their wrists."
"And this knowledge disturbs you?"
"It just doesn't seem credible." There, it had been said.
"Hmm. I'm not a man who doesn't mind hearing what's on the other side of the fence, so don't think I don't mind your opinion. That being said I hope you don't mind hearing mine."
His eyes glanced at hers, daring her to argue otherwise. In respect of the setting and the individual she did not. After all, she had come to seek advice. Although this wasn't exactly what she had in mind.
"Faith is seen differently to many people. In the end you have to look at yourself and interpret what you see and determine what it is you believe. It helps us. Now I feel that, generally speaking of course," he smiled thinking of her speech and using her words. She didn't find it quite as humorous. "We all react to different things in a different manner. Faith affects all of us in different ways. So why not this? Now that doesn't mean, I'm going to believe every case of stigmata I hear but I certainly won't turn my head and ignore it."
He paused. He was through with his intimidation and was finally ready to educate. It wasn't necessary but he always preferred to ask others so that he could determine their character. It gave him an advantage, it gave him an understanding, but mostly it gave him power.
"Miss Scully are you aware of the Holy Wounds?"
"I believe they are the wounds which are associated with the crucifixion of Christ."
"You would be correct. And those wounds, which you referred to earlier are interpreted different by different people. In some cases of stigmata it is only the hands or the wrists. While in others they seem to exhibit all signs including the pierced chest."
"But how is such a thing possible. How can someone be fine one minute and bleeding the next?"
"Well there are lots of theories. Internal bleeding, cuts-"
"That doesn't explain the wounds spontaneous occurrence and recovery characterized with stigmata."
"Indeed it doesn't." His smile emerged and stretched from ear to ear. "But I have to ask, why are you so interested in this subject matter?"
Scully shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fighting for an answer. Why indeed.
-x-
The darkness began to emerge and slowly cover the sky. It was late, yet he continued to drive around town aimlessly. //Maybe this is how I've always been. Coasting through my quest never knowing where to go. Too damn proud to ever stop and ask for help.//
He pulled to the curb and parked his car. His legs moved him, or maybe it was his heart. No, that was too emotional for his taste. Maybe it was fate, but then again he was never a fan of Shakespeare. Let the Fates damn Macbeth and all the others, but let his own ignorance and pride destroy him.
The doors pulled open and a cool breeze flew through him.
"Oh it is you again? Welcome back my son."
Son? Just where was he? He looked from the rich carpet, to the oak pews, and finally to the large crucifix behind the podium. His heart refused to beat and his lungs refused to capture oxygen.
He remained staring at the crucifix; in his mind the horror of his captivity began to replay.
//"Do not fear child but rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ's sufferings-"//
"No." If it was even audible it was only a broken whisper. The desire to collapse and scream was overpowering, but he couldn't.
"My son, are you alright? You are so pale." The elder man's hand gently rested on Mulder's should in an attempt to comfort him.
The mass beneath his shriveled hand shook violently for a moment then stopped abruptly. Laughter, a seizure, or something else?
His eyes turned to the priest. They had changed into something foreign. Not eyes, but orbs that reflected a pain unspeakable to man. The pools of blood that encompassed the orbs had nearly swallowed the small pupils. From a distance his eyes revealed the horrors and agonizing defeat of souls that had long been lost and forgotten.
"Abbas ego adeo vos per a nuntius."
The elder man stood stunned in the middle of the isle. His gray eyes watched as the man walked up to the podium. His body would no longer listen, his mind was held prisoner as he waited for the man.
//"Father I come to you with a message."//
There were several others present within the church. Service was only minutes from starting. It was a large congregation, and Fox Mulder was going to have an equally large audience.
-x-
Although he was an intimidating man, Reverend Handel was not without his perks. He had allowed her to borrow his book pertaining to religious histories, practices, and beliefs.
She reclined comfortably on her couch reading of the oddity known as stigmata.
//In pertaining to its origins, stigmata, is often associated with the Catholic Church. In its recorded history the affliction, if it can so be named, was often seen in women.//
There were more accounts of those afflicted than she had assumed. But the rational and serious side of her was at bay combating these facts with the notion that neither modern medicine or science was commonplace at the time.
//St. Francis was afflicted in early fall of 1226. It is recorded that he experienced an unexplainable phenomenon which brought about his wounds. It is unfortunate that he passed away less than a month after his wounds first appeared.//
It had only been a month. But what of the others? Could they have succumbed to the same thing? An infection, or perhaps something more. If it had been any other person she would have continued to read, but the thoughts came to her, and she was afraid. Mulder.
How was he doing?
-x-
His hands slammed against the podium, startling all of those into a state of shocked silence. Palms resting at each side of the Holy Bible, he looked at those who looked at him.
A small boy sitting up front with dark hair caught his attention. There was no need to stall, his message had to be heard.
"Quod ego animadverto..."
-x-
"This is Fox Mulder-" The monotonous voice on the machine droned on, past Scully's patience.
"Damn it."
//I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to do it.// She let out a heavy sigh. "No, he's fine. And if he's resting then I might wake him." //But what if he's not? I won't do it...damn him.//
-x-
"...quisnam est validus subsisto?"
His breathing was heavy. He was done with his speech, and everyone stared. The priest slowly moved up to meet the man. Mulder's words had held the elder man in place, yet his silence gave his limbs permission to move.
Mulder noticed the man come up to him, but only saw the children sitting in front of him.
As if he had hit a wall the old man stopped halfway down the aisle.
Mulder lifted his hands to see the blood flow.
"Flumen verum infractus per damno subjectio."
The rivers of truth have broken through the damning lies.
-x-
He had received the call at 6:06 that morning. 'Skinner wants to see us. He said it's urgent.' Of course he was not one to ignore his partner completely, but all he had really heard was 'What have you done and why am I being dragged into it?'
What had he done?
-x-
"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, have a seat please."
"Sir." She began as they both sat down. "May I ask what is wrong?"
In all truth there was never a good answer to that question. 'Yes' meant they had screwed up and 'no' meant they were being given an assignment which would undoubtedly force them to ask that same question once their case was over, which would result in a 'yes' or 'no'. It was a ridiculous cycle.
Yes, that's what her life was. Coming full circle is necessary but how many times must one endure the monotony of it?
"I take it neither of you have heard?"
That was a new answer. Still it couldn't be good.
"Heard what, sir?" She waited, for either her partner or him to address it. Neither did.
"It was a miracle."
Scully jumped at the voice, and Mulder just slowly turned. The thin elderly priest sat with his hands in his lap sitting at the couch closest to the back exit. Next to him was the large-
"Reverend Handel."
"Miss Scully a pleasure. Of course I had no idea you were an agent."
Mulder looked at both men then at Scully.
"Agent Mulder, I approached Father Joseph when I heard this morning of a startling account of an incident that had occurred last night. I decided to call Reverend Handel based on his expertise."
"What incident?"
She felt herself sinking into her chair at her partner's words. Did he really have to ask? It was obvious to her what had most likely happened.
"Your incident, Mulder." His voice was firm, judging the younger man's character. At first he had assumed his agent was attempting to orchestrate a mind game in order to alleviate any finger pointing, but that wasn't the case.
Agent Mulder simply had no recollection of last night's events.
"Agent Mulder," The larger man slowly rubbed off of the leather couch, causing Mulder's eyes to twitch at the sound of flesh rubbing against cow hide, and walked over towards him.
"As said before I am Reverend Handel and I am somewhat of an expert in dealing with cases such as yours."
"Mine?"
//I don't like him.//
//And you have reason not to.//
//You again.//
//Yes.//
//You're the cause of all this.//
//Am I? How do you know I'm not the solution?//
"Yes."
His head shot up to see the round face leering down at him. Like a pound of dough with two black beads shoved in for eyes, he was the embodiment all that Father Joseph was not.
"I was so curious when your partner came asking me about the nature of stigmata." He placed his hands on the armrests of Mulder's chair. "And now I know why."
"My apologies." The voice was like a calming breeze that almost blew away the stench of the other man.
All turned to face the elderly figure still sitting in the shadows.
"I didn't come here to startle you or to scare you, but to learn from you."
"Learn from me?"
"Yes, I believe that our meeting was more than chance."
May the Fates damn Fox Mulder as well.
"Last night, you came to our congregation. You spoke to us."
"I did?"
The elderly figure clasped his hands tightly in an attempt to stifle his excitement. "Yes. Revelations, I believe you were trying to tell us something."
"What?"
"That's what I came here to ask you."
It was Skinner who broke up the inquiry. "In regards to the situation-" The TV clicked on to CNN.
//Shit.//
"It was amazing! He-he just-"
-x-
"-he just started bleeding!" The TV blared with eyewitness reports along with a red banner below: 'CLAIMS OF STIGMATA IN DC AREA CHURCH.'
He could not contain himself, and the laughter escaped. It rose and drifted to the fog of people who laughed as well.
-x-
After what seemed like hours, Assistant Director Skinner felt they had seen enough and gave Mulder the decency of shutting if off. He sighed placing the remote down. The next few words would have to be thought out, very carefully.
"I don't suppose either of you have an explanation for this." Then again he never was one to carefully articulate his words.
Mulder looked down at his hands. Still bandaged, still raw from their encounter days ago.
"I don't-" A firm hand landed on his shoulder.
"I don't feel Agent Mulder should be weighted down with the task of explaining such an event. Mr. Skinner, please allow me to assist your agents as an expert on the matter."
Skinner looked at both his agents, emotions mixed and faces staring off into the distance, he really had no other option. "Very well Reverend Handel I appreciate any information you can give to assist my agents. That's all."
"Sir?"
"Yes Agent Mulder?"
He blinked bemused at everyone's actions. "I'm sorry but I'm still not sure about what you would like us to do concerning the Abrams' case. As you know it's still open and-"
"Yes Agent Mulder I am full aware of the status of the case. I had previously spoken to Agent Scully about this shortly after your return, it has been reassigned to another agent."
Another agent. As if anyone else was even half as qualified as Agent Mulder. Both of them knew it, but only one of them knew the other's limitations. To see his agent break or become isolated in darkness was not something AD Skinner was willing to see.
In the end he did it out of compassion and consideration for Mulder's wellbeing. But it would never look that way. He was always the middleman, the gatekeeper to let the secrets out in the open or to retain the lies as the only truth the public would know. He feared he would always be in Mulder's eyes an adversary.
-x-
"Son? Can I speak with you for a moment?"
It was the voice of a man who either had never even conceived the notion of fathering children, or of one who thought children were the equivalent to diseased rats whose only diminutive existence was to bring pain and pestilence to others.
It was the voice of so many figures in his life. Currently, it was the voice of Reverend Handel.
He paused watching Scully and Father Joseph step aside to discuss matters that could only be related to himself. "Father Handel." Civility forced his hand out to grace his, it was instinct that begged him to recoil it back.
Thick and sweaty fingers wrapped around and suffocated Mulder's own fragile hand. While one wheezed with excitement, the other desperately clinched his own air hoarding all that didn't appear to be fouled by the other's presence.
"The Assistant Director contacted me after he had arrived at St. Francis' Church and spoken with Father Joseph. He's a man who's quick to act."
Mulder's legs swayed, uneasy with his comment and unsure of how to response. //Skinner's approaches are often too quick. How could something like this hit national news this fast? Fast enough for Skinner to reach Father Joseph? Or was it something else? Could he be involved?//
As he continued to speak, ignoring Mulder's unsettling demeanor, his fingers continued with their own mission. They pressed harder and hard into Mulder's hands.
"Are you familiar with Latin?"
"Uh, Latin?" He could feel a fever coming on and a dull ache that would inevitably become larger.
"Yes. I was told by many that you had begun to-"
"Ugh..."
"Something wrong, son?"
Two of his fingers remained on Mulder's palm. Piercing through the gauze and grazing the still tender skin.
//Either he had mistaken the size in the wooden mallet or it had grown, for it seemed larger than even the leader's massive head. And the leader raised it up blocking the glowing light, and his world was shrouded in darkness.//
The mass of red swallowed the white strips and surged onto the cool flesh.
The elder man's eyes went ablaze, coated with shear pleasure. Still keeping his fingers on the agent's hand, he slowly pulled a white handkerchief from his lapel with his free hand and sullied his cloth with the rivers of the unknown.
-x-
Like a conductor moments before orchestrating his piece, the clouded figure raised his 'baton' queuing the chorus. And as his 'baton' swung down, the one-man choir let out a harmonious cry.
The man was pleased. It was after all a beautiful performance.
-x-
For a man who was often left forgotten in the shadows of the basement, he had quickly become a person of interest.
It only took moments for Scully to notice the blood. Seeing others stop and gasp as the scene, she quickly led him to the nearest restroom, the women's restroom. Considering she was a doctor she felt survival trumped humiliation. If only her beloved partner felt the same way.
"Mulder what happened?" Her breathing was short and her voice was quickly overpowered with the surge of running water.
Quickly she washed away the blood, and it was as she had anticipated. //Is it even possible to anticipate nothing?// Nonetheless, nothing was what she found. His palms were flushed but perfect. Her fingers circled the once injured area, nothing. Though it was nothing, the nothing meant something to her.
Turning off the faucet she turned to face him. "Tell me everything."
"In here?" His gaze trailed to the empty stalls.
"I can't think of a better place."
As ridiculous as her statement was she was serious. Considering the two men outside, who were practically strangers, were waiting with intentions that were unknown to her, this was the only place she could help him immediately.
"I don't remember last night."
"What do you remember?"
"Your phone call."
"That was this morning." Her response was met with a small nod and an even smaller whisper.
"I know."
"Tell me."
Was it demand or a plea? It was part of her charm in some respects. She was a woman of many philosophies and principles. Not so much like a book, but more similar to a puzzle. One couldn't just read her and then understand her. No, Dana Scully was a person of integrity and strength. A complicated and intricate individual that demanded patience, detail, and commitment if you were to completely decipher her correctly.
Despite all this, Fox Mulder was the man who broke her. Not her spirit or her essence but her stability and predictability. He always pushed, not so far as to allow her to plummet but always to the edge, where she hung in the balance.
//Does she deserve my silence? It's my fault she's even asking. Would an answer bring her back, or would it push her off?//
//You hold such little faith.//
He closed his eyes. What was it? A presence? Could it even be called such a thing? It was nothing to everyone else but something to him. If only one man acknowledges it does that mean it exists? Or does that destroy the existence of the man's own sanity?
"I've been having these dreams."
"What kinds of dreams."
Samantha. "Bees."
She was taken back. "Bees?"
He nodded and waited, that was all he was willing to say.
She leaned against the sink thinking back. Melissa. //You would know just what to say. Wouldn't you?//
"Maybe it's something significant." //C'mon Dana try harder.// "Maybe it has something to do with your experience. A way of your subconscious dealing with the stress that was caused by it and associating with something familiar, something you could relate to." //What a terrible explanation.//
"You're probably right." //You're probably wrong.//
-x-
He walked again on the velvet path. It had already been twice this week he had approached this place, now he had arrived again. Perhaps the answers lay within these walls.
He was met only with silence. No consoling voice to comfort him, yet no peering eyes to examine him. The media had left once they had been suspiciously tipped off of a similar citing in the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Of course they would in no such manner be allowed anywhere near fifty yards of the premises.
Seeing only one other option, he entered the confessional.
"Good afternoon my child."
"Father."
The thin man's head whipped to the black-netted metal that served as a barrier between confessor and forgiver.
"I am having some trouble."
That was a severe understatement.
"I don't feel I belong in a place like this. Only, in times of despair have I..." He couldn't finish. His mind was too weak to process, it desired another to guide it and give it proper direction.
"That is when a place like this is needed most. When our minds are numb and our hearts are heavy we turn. Not to the cold winds outdoors but to the warmth that can be only gained inside."
-x-
They had found him, but that wasn't really fair. In all truth Special Agent Fox Mulder had found him, they were just going to apprehend him. Entering the compound all men became the march through the premises with cautious thoughts, a reenactment of another David Koresh incident was not something that many would like to see shine across the front page of the D.C. weekend newspaper.
Carefully, they proceeded down the halls. Each group spotting for the other as they continued through the endless metal corridors.
-x-
"In light of all that has happened, I need advice. I'm so confused. I don't know where to turn." Feeling defeat, he allowed his face to fall into the embrace of his hands. Waiting for anything.
"My son, there is only so much I can give. I am a specialist in nothing, just a man."
"Can you console?"
"Only as much as you will let me."
"I can't sleep. It's the dreams that frighten me, not-not this." He raised his hands for the man to see.
"Dreams? About what?"
"Bees. Everywhere. Surrounding me."
-x-
They swarmed in and surrounded the fog of zombified followers.
"Federal Agents! Freeze!"
Muzzles of guns darted too and for. Like black stingers they twitched and turned, until the homed in on their most lethal target.
"Mikeal Abrams! You are under arrest!"
His eyebrows raised and his mouth curved to form a mask of sadness.
"So soon?"
-x-
"Dreams are very powerful things. They give us insight and grant us wisdom to face the challenges of the coming day. Joseph had such dreams, and the great prophet Samuel heard the voices of God while he slept."
Mulder listened in silence. Though he wasn't a man who felt the need to follow organized faith, he had heard the stories long ago and he understood them now.
"You seem troubled by such a dream. Although seen commonly as a menace today, bees are very powerful in dreams. Spiritually they embody gift givers. They supply those with the sweet nectar, bringing satisfaction to all."
It was a powerful message but such a violent dream couldn't possibly pertain to such a utopic theme. Still the old man smiled.
"I know that is not the answer you wanted to hear."
"No, that's alright Father. I appreciate your time."
-x-
"Yes that is correct. I am somewhat of an expert on the matter."
"And you say you actually met this man?"
"Yes that is correct, and I have been fortunate enough to obtain a sample of the stigmatic victim's blood."
"You have his blood? Can we see it?"
"Well, once our facilities have properly analyzed it we will release it to the public, and-"
CLICK.
//Son of a bitch...//
He placed the remote down and sighed aloud. It seemed at such an awkward time, that was all his mind would allow.
"Agent Mulder-"
"Sir. I-"
"Neither us were aware of Reverend Handel's motives. However, I'll take full responsibility."
//Scully no, you can't.//
"Agent Scully. I'm not about to place blame, not now and certainly after all that has happened. As Assistant Director I will discuss this matter further with the Director."
Mulder's attention shifted from Scully to the Assistant Director. How could something so serious be taken so lightly? Was he doing it out of generosity or did he just not care? Thus was the characterization of Walter Skinner, and because he could never keep a straight profile on him, Mulder could never pin him as a trustworthy source.
"I will deny any claims that this is somehow related to Agent Mulder."
//...maybe he can be trusted.//
//Maybe.//
He saw quickly the relief in Mulder's face. Perhaps now he could claim a side in this seemingly endless battle for the truth. Hell, maybe he would even support Mulder in destroying those bastards who have been working so hard at destroying all of them.
"I don't mean to change subject but I thought both of you should know...Mikeal Abrams has been apprehended."
And Pandora's Box burst open.
Mulder shot up from his seat but it was Scully who spoke first.
"When?"
"About fourteen hours ago. Agent Mulder!"
The agent paused, but he wouldn't be stopped indefinitely.
"I have to see him."
"Agent Mulder, after all that has happened-"
"Sir! Because of all that has happened I need to see him."
A gentle tug on his arm cuff was what stopped him.
"Mulder. I don't know if that's such idea. Right now you are still in the process of healing. You need time."
//You don't understand. I'm scared Scully. Time isn't something that's on my side right now.//
"It can't wait." His eyes apologized for the bastard that his mouth portrayed, and he walked out of the office.
-x-
Glazed eyes with a plastered grin met the agent's dull and clouded features. "You have returned to me. As I knew you would."
"I'm sorry I couldn't offer better accommodations."
The fallen leader scoffed at the man's weak attempt to humor and make light of the situation, while hiding his fear.
"I see despite my best intentions you soul remains clouded."
"Clouded? Like the minds of your so-called followers? What did you do to them to make them follow you, after what you did to them?"
"I saved them."
"Is that what you call it? Mark Heisenburg was a 43-year with a successful business, with two children. Now he won't even speak! Your other so-called followers, who were your previous victims, are now being held as accessories to kidnapping and attempted murder. What did you do to them? I-"
"I've seen the reports. It's why you're here." He leaned in closer, drawing the attention of the guards. A wrong move and they would pounce.
"You see them?" He motioned to the alert guards. "Like lions waiting to slaughter the lamb."
"I take it you see yourself as the lamb."
"No." Leaning back he smiled. Although this was not what he had hoped for, his actions had changed the young agent. "I am just a humble messenger."
"Is that right." Anger fueled his words but annoyance drove them to the brink of near explosion.
"Don't be frightened of them."
"Of what?"
"The roaring hum of the enemy. Joseph is a man of wisdom, but young Samuel hides behind the shadows of Hannah. All reside in the bosom of St. Francis."
He was taken back. What could it possibly mean?
//Think.//
He jumped up from the desk, as did the guards assuming something unseen had happened.
//No. Not again.//
//Humming of the enemy. Joseph.//
//Joseph, the man with the prophetic dreams?//
//Samuel.//
//A frightened child who heard a message.//
//Hannah. All within St. Francis.//
//People within another person? I don't understand. Wait!//
//Yes!//
//The church!//
-x-
"Scully."
'Scully listen to me-'
"Mulder? Where are you?" Concern met with frustration.
'I'm heading over to St. Francis' Church. I need you over here as soon as possible!'
"But Mulder-"
'Just get over here!'
-x-
Again the church was silent. It never set well with him; the silence. Such a presence, or lack thereof, always brought out his own darkest fears and emotions.
"Hello?"
"Oh! It's you again. Forgive me, I was working on something."
He watched the man coming towards him. He'd never felt threatened by him before, but should he now? Was there really anyone he could trust?
//Scully.//
"I need your help Father."
"With what, my child?"
"I'm not sure." What could he possibly say? He had been led here by a man who had tortured and almost killed him. What was he doing? And why was he doing it?
//What do you hope to find?//
He ignored the voice and continued. "I'm looking for a woman. Maybe you know her. A Hannah, uh-"
"Sister Hannah? Oh, she's with the children right now."
"The children?"
"Yes in the mornings we have school service for young children. She's with them now."
Maybe he wasn't walking in the dark completely. This could lead him somewhere.
"Is there a Samuel with her?"
"Oh, um, yes...why do you ask?"
This was it! It had to be.
"Can you take me to them? Please."
"I suppose so."
Together they walked out of the back entrance, their feet lightly touching stepping stones paving the way towards the small schoolhouse. "Oh, it's eleven thirty, I believe Sister Hannah and the children are outside playing."
Moving past the thin elder figure he rushed into the lush green courtyard.
-x-
"Get back get away!"
"Oh! Sister Hannah, they're everywhere!"
Small figures ran in around the garden in circles with no direction. Some ran into one another while others flailed at the black masses surrounding them.
For such a large congregation it was no surprise as to the number of children. There were hundreds.
"Samuel! Samuel!" The nun cried out to the little boy lying in the grass slowly being consumed by the humming darkness.
He saw the boy's face, a boy that somehow seemed familiar to him. Had he seen him before?
//You act when you should think and think when you should act!//
//What?//
//Act now!//
Despite the dreams and the horrors encased within them, he lunged toward the black cloud.
The thin bristles that lay on the tiny bodies rubbed against his skin. His ears burned from the loud buzzing, or perhaps they had become inflamed from the stingers. In an act of desperation, he held in his breath unlike so many of the other children around him. Some lay still, so still he feared the worst. Their mouths slightly open unable to avoid the darkness from entering their bodies.
He grabbed the boy's arm which became the equivalent of grappling a handful of thin metal pins. It was taking too long. His mind fought his body's urge to jump back and run. But he didn't.
Soon the screams began to subside and were ultimately overpowered by the hum. Eventually his mind gave way into the desire to survive. He had to breath. Logic was overcome by survival. It mattered not that the air was infested, only that it was air.
His mouth opened and he inhaled it all. The swirling and buzzing of several bees drew silent as they entered his mouth. Their stingers plunged deep into the back of his throat. Oxygen obstructed, his whole body gave out, and the fires consumed him within and without.
Perhaps Fox Mulder was damned from the start.
-x-
Light penetrated his eyes almost blinding him, but he was too weak to close them. Seeing the small children though made him wish that he could.
Pustules and boils had emerged on the smooth flesh of the young. Blood and pus had exploded onto the grass muddying the soil below. Their bodies shook, though he couldn't determine if it was a desperate attempt to live or something attributed to imminent death.
They were so young. All of them. The hands of time had stopped; all was lost in their eyes. Eyes that had yet to see the world, their minds still covered in the sheet of naivety.
//It can't end like this.//
"What can you do?"
It was more than a thought in his mind, it was an actual voice. A voice so powerful it shook the ground uprooting the stones that led him to the courtyard.
His eyelids quavered and his vision worsened. Tasting blood in his throat and seeing it painted onto the once green and fertile grass, he knew there was only one possible answer.
//...nothing...//
Both the numbness that started in his throat and the light that had nearly blinded him began to grow until they completely overpowered his mind and body.
"Wrong."
-x-
Two weeks have past since that time. Again he is here. A place a peace. Why, he can't say. It calms him, allowing him a silent refuge to recollect his thoughts a reaffirm himself.
Currently his thoughts lie in the past, the recent past. The bees that seemed to have infested the school grounds were atypical in species. Though not in what they carried. He still remembers his partner's shock with the results of her findings. It was a mutated strain of the variola virus, in short a violent strain of small pox. Of course there were aspects of it which could not be identified. Just like so many times before.
Had all this happened for this reason? The dreams? The blood? Why had such a long-drawn and dramatic event happened to him? Did the ends justify the means?
It was dubbed a 'miraculous feat' that one agent was able to single-handedly rescue all of the children from harm without a single one being stung.
That's not how he remembered it. The darkness was all that he remembered.
"Hey."
And there was his light.
"How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
Her hand gently rested on his. A simple gesture that was so much more. She was so much more. "Skinner's expecting us."
"Yeah, I'll-I'll be there in a few minutes."
"Mulder? Are you sure you're okay?"
A genuine question that he for once had a genuine response. He smiled and nodded. True it wasn't much, but to her it was everything.
"Okay." She gently patted his hand and left him to his thoughts.
Red. It had left him. No longer would he see its hue or observe the fire and intensity it symbolized. Still, the promise of life that had been given back to so many in exchange for a removal of perception was a small sacrifice he was willing to make. In the end wasn't it worth it?
//Yes.//
He smiled and lifted himself up, walking into the unknown. There was work to be done.
-x-
Smoke clouded his vision as he sat surrounded by the shadows. He could feel the anger of the men that encircled him. A test that they had performed had been deemed a failure. What test, he could not say. All he was told was that he should pray that his evidence was promising.
Do men like him still pray once they associate themselves with men such as these? He hoped so.
"And you're sure this is his?"
"Uh, yes." Sweat collected at the top of the round balding head. His beady eyes watched as the figure shrouded in smoke balanced the bloody cloth in one hand. "I spoke with an elderly woman who claims she was healed by him."
"Did she?" The smoke faded and then dispersed again with another breath.
He nodded, moving in his seat trying to get comfortable.
The other continued with the onslaught of smoke as he continued to examine the cloth. He thought of all the people that the agent had touched while he had this affliction. Had they been healed as well? And what of his partner? What of her cancer and her barrenness? But more importantly, what of him? Could the myriad of sicknesses within his own body be cured?
A smile emerged from his aged lips as he brought yet another cigarette to his mouth. Perhaps so.
-x-
End.
-x-
End Notes:
I'm not going to go down the William conception route. I left it open for interpretation, along with a lot of other things that occurred (like the voice -was it divine, alien, or something else?) Having it all explained isn't that much fun. I hope this was an interesting, and possibly chilling, story.
I enjoy feedback, there are sooo many other ideas I'd love to share! (just be gentle)