Do you know what it feels like to be the only person left in the world? I used to think I did. A few moments in life both cherished and dreaded come to mind. Sometimes momentary isolation is exhilarating, peaceful, and other times the silence squeezes the air right out of your lungs. I remember my teenage self sneaking outside after midnight. The dewy, freshly-cut grass behind the house pillowed my body like I was floating into the smog-cradled stars overhead. Lightly puffing on my mother's Virginia Slims, I grimaced at the taste and the smoke that scratched my throat; yet at the same time, I felt more alive than I ever had. And no one understood it. No one shared it. For that one hour, I was the only person in the world. I remember my first night in Georgetown in an empty apartment surrounded by a city full of strangers. Wrapping the quilt Gram made around my shoulders, I curled up on the only piece of furniture in the room: the window bench. Raindrops splattered against the icy pane as I pressed my forehead against the glass, trying to listen to the whispers of the city as if I were outside looking in. I'd never felt so alone. I remember sitting on my knees beside the grave, touching his name with my fingertips and still not believing it was real. My chest ached as though powerful hands were crushing the bones; and I marveled at the possibility of life without breath as I cried tears that wouldn't come out. But I felt our baby inside me then and I knew I wasn't alone; not really. Today is different, because now I understand what it is to be alone, stepping into another world and becoming an outsider to everything I knew before. In a way it's emptiness, a void I didn't quite expect, but at the same time, it's liberating. I can breathe. My name was Dana Scully. Six days ago, I died.
---
Fuckin Song Sung Blue. The words scrawl across the mirror in blood red. My face peers out from behind looking pale and far away. I brush the smudged letters with the back of my hand, wondering who those words belong to and why that person shared them with me. In a whisper, they flow from my lips, and I think maybe I understand. The mirror and light bulb above begin to shake. Another train is coming in. The woman that gazes back intently watching me is a stranger; I can barely recognize her as myself. Eyes never change; they're the same pale blue with a hint of grey they've been since the day I was born. But now fine lines appear near the lids, and puffy dark circles give evidence of my weariness. I remember a time when I took great care of my physical appearance, every day applying a face-full of make-up and dyeing my hair to get that perfect shade of auburn sunset. My fingers run over my head in the absence of a brush, and once again, I'm surprised at how different my hair feels to the touch. It's cropped shorter than I've ever worn it, and now I'm a blonde, causing the sprinkling of freckles to stand out a bit more deeply on my cheek bones. Rummaging through the few personal belongings in my purse, my fingers clasp a tube of gloss. I rub my lips together after I apply the sheer rose color, feeling like myself again. When I drop it in the bag, I delicately remove my dearest possession with my thumb and pointer finger. For a brief moment, I gaze at the image and remember another life. A baby with chubby cheeks, hazel eyes, and a dusting of auburn hair giggles for the camera. Lightly I press a kiss against my fingers and touch the child's face before folding the picture and placing it in the pocket of my jeans.
---
Hurriedly I weave through the crowd of impatient travelers, dodging businessmen in designer suits as I make my way to the platform. He's sitting on the bench waiting for me, his chin resting on clasped hands. Lines of worry crease his brow as he loses himself in contemplation, and the stubble of a growing beard shadows his cheeks. He looks as tired as I feel. Every day we're in a different place, and I don't think we've slept in over twenty-four hours. As I approach he looks up, his face instantly softening. Our new world is just the two of us; it's all we need to survive. And somehow, despite everything against us, I know that we'll be okay, my partner and me. Gently I lower myself beside him and clasp his hand in mine; he squeezes back. His rich hazel eyes meet my gaze in a give and take of reassurance and comfort.
"It's done," he says, "Skinner called."
The enormity of that small statement hits me, tears blurring my vision. I didn't expect to be so emotional over it. In a sense, our lives are saved now; I should feel grateful—we're free. Our former boss with the Deputy Director has managed to plant false information into the federal database, stating that our remains were discovered five days ago burned beyond recognition amongst the Anasazi ruins. Dana Scully and Fox Mulder are dead. With them passed their social security numbers, bank accounts, properties and possessions, a master's degree in psychology from Oxford, an MD in forensic medicine, and nearly fifteen years of service to the Bureau. I can't help but think of my mother hearing the news, planning another funeral, weeping over my grave. Charlie will offer comfort by reassuring her I am at peace—that I am with God. He said the same thing after Daddy and again after Melissa, even though Melissa wouldn't have wanted anybody talking about her being with God… Bill will say he knew it would happen, that my love for Mulder would eventually kill me.
"Shhh, it's okay, Scully. It's okay. We'll figure something out. Everything will be all right, I promise you." he murmurs as I bury my face in his neck. I feel his arm come around me tenderly while he holds my hand. For a long moment that seems to stretch into forever, we hold one another silently, oblivious to the commotion around us. Eventually I lift my head and swipe my sleeve across my cheeks to dry the tears. We needed this. We needed to mourn before we could go on. I almost smile; mourning my own death—that's kind of funny.
"So who are we now?" I ask him.
"Skinner said he can help us with new identities to an extent. He can probably get us social security numbers, but not a college degree…When he asked for a name, I told him Hale. William Hale."
I have to fight against the lump that returns to constrict my throat. Hale—that's easy—he's used George Hale before, but I know why he chose William. It won't be easy for me to call him that name.
"What about you, Scully?" he asks softly. "When he calls back, what should I tell him?"
Without hesitating, it flows off my tongue easily. I don't know where it comes from. It just is. It's me. "Lauren Hale," I say. "Tell him my name is Lauren Hale."
"I love you, Lauren," he murmurs, testing my new name on his lips. Then he smirks, revealing a glimmer of my former coworker as he says, "It's a little feminine for you, Scully. I'll have to get used to it."
I roll my eyes, feigning annoyance, because that's what I've always done. That's our game. My lips brush across his and he responds, holding me tighter as his the tip of his tongue lightly slips into my mouth. As we kiss, the passers-by don't see us. It's like we're not even there, as though we're part of another world. Ghosts.
---
I hate New York. After a week or so the glitz of Manhattan starts to wear off and you're left on a piss-reeking concrete island with far too many people. Skinner said his brother, Richard the architect, is renovating an old brownstone in the city and that he's out of the country this month. It's a place to stay for a good two or three weeks, so without any better prospects, Mulder and I decided to come to New York. We arrive at the subway station during evening rush, barely able to squeeze on a train. The car is so tightly packed I can hardly breathe; and additionally, summer heat sinks into the caverns below the city with a stifling heaviness. I can't reach anything to grab hold of to steady myself as the train lurches forward, so I wrap my arms around Mulder's torso and rest my head against his chest while he grips the bar above. He counts the stops on the rectangular map above the sliding door.
"Almost there," he says.
---
We sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor enjoying a feast of Chinese take-out by candlelight that probably doesn't fit into our practical budget, but we don't care. The little Brooklyn townhouse is definitely a work-in-progress; we'll have to remain on the street level since the stairs are missing. Patches of the floor are uneven, and here and there, a few gaping holes reveal the ground floor below. An old, worn mattress lounges in front of the main fireplace, offering a welcomed place to sleep. A light rain patters against the large front windows accompanied by distant cracks of thunder rolling in from the east over the Atlantic. What we're doing is, of course, illegal—trespassing—but I don't tell Mulder that I'm scared. Tonight we have a roof over our heads, and for now, that's enough. After dinner, however, discussing practicalities becomes a necessity; so we first empty the contents of our wallets on the floor to see what we're worth. Before we boarded the plane to Philly, we removed just enough money from the ATM for travel expenses. Now sifting through piles of twenties, we discover our total is just short of one thousand dollars. For some time we sit in silence staring down at all that's left of our lives' work. Skinner and the other allies would probably help us get started if we asked, but we won't.
"What will we do, Mulder?"
"We'll get jobs, that's all. We'll work," he replies, chewing a hangnail on his thumb, his eyes still on the floor.
"How? William and Lauren Hale have no experience, no training in any field. They haven't even been to college."
"Someone will hire us. We may not find the most glamorous of jobs, but we'll get by, Scully."
"Not in New York," I tell him, "New York is too expensive. We have to go someplace else."
"There's still three weeks left to make a decision. I don't want to think about it right now," he says, his expression blank as he folds his arms in his lap.
"Mulder, we need to think about it now. Our means will run out soon, and we have to budget for travel. We'll need food, clothes…"
"I know," he says, "I know."
On that first night in the motel room, the day we died, thinking of the future proved easier. We were alive together and promised one another we'd never give up hope; but that was before we had time to ponder all the glitches and technicalities. Fighting alien replacements infiltrating the government could no longer be a primary goal; that particular agenda would have to be bequeathed to the hands of others. Mulder and I survived death, but now we have to live through the next life.
He reaches across the pile of take-out cartons and dollar bills to brush a strand of blonde hair out of my eyes and cup my cheek in his palm.
"Just give me now, Scully. Just tonight. It's all I'm asking for."
My eyes meet his, and I know what I want, what I need—just him. After I blow out the candles, we walk hand-in-hand to the mattress. He kneels before me as I lay back, watching him. Butterflies dance in my belly and liquid heat melts through my pelvis when I feel his weight sink over me. Our mouths meet, and it becomes more feral, driven by a need for comfort, for confluence, for a taste of home. I reach for his warmth when he moves away, but I don't object when his purpose becomes clear. My hands stroke through his thick, dark hair as he lifts my hips off the mattress, removing my jeans and cotton panties. Tomorrow we'll worry, but tonight is for us.
---
Pounding rain on glass awakens me. During those fleeting, grey seconds between dreams and reality, I honestly believe that I'm still in Washington, expected soon at Quantico for my eleven a.m. class. First I open one eye tentatively then reluctantly blink the other. Above me looms a high window, water streaming down outside to curtain a dismal grey sky, providing a reminder of where I am. For some reason, words come to my lips that I haven't read since school days. To die; to sleep. To sleep perchance to dream. I shiver as the cool air brushes against the dried sweat coating my skin. Searching for warmth, I roll into Mulder, pressing my nude body against his as I wrap a leg over his hip. My touch stirs him. "Scully," he whispers before I cut him off with a kiss. Neither of us desiring to move again, we lay there for minutes, or perhaps, hours. Time doesn't matter any more. We have nowhere to be.
"What do you think will happen?" I finally ask, preparing myself to face the world again. These questions are for Mulder, because I admittedly have no answers. He's the one with the imagination.
"I think…I think we'll find another city. And we'll work there until we have just enough money to go overseas. We'll explore Eastern Europe and Asia. Can't you see us walking the streets of Bombay, crossing the Great Wall, witnessing the beauty of the Himalayas? You can be a doctor again, Scully, because no one will care about credentials. We'll find people that need help and give hope to those who have none. We can do it, can't we Scully?"
"Yes, Mulder," I reply softly, "We can." And for a fleeting moment, even I believe it.
A/N: I am going to finish 'Poison'. After a computer crash, I lost all notes, drafts, and research, so it'll take me awhile to get back on track, but it will be done. I've missed Scully, which drove me to write this one. It's actually already finished—I just have to edit and release the chapters. : )