SPOILER WARNING: Faint shadows of the Pilot, Field Trip, Orison, Millennium, and Closure.
RATING: PG-13 for profanity and violence
CLASSIFICATION: S, A, M/S- season 7 UST
CONTENT WARNING: Disturbing imagery
SUMMARY: Out of the night that covers me, black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, for my unconquerable
soul. --William Ernest Henley, "Invictus"
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to Ambress and Branwell for giving this a peek-over.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was written for as a Birthday Challenge for Jill Selby.

CHALLENGE ELEMENTS: 1) One of the characters must be wearing a leg cast at some point in the story. 2) One character should give another a homemade gift. 3) Scully must face the dilemma of how to conceal a weapon in whatever outfit she is wearing. 4) A dead cow.

 I wake. The cold night has settled in my body, stiffening the
muscles. Groping for my weapon, I find it tucked in the back of
my jeans.

I peer out of the bushes I've hidden in. Shadows flit under the
pale green streetlights. The hunting has begun.

I crawl out to join them. No one acknowledges me but I make eye
contact with a young man. He's not my man, but he'll do.

He nods and I fall in step behind him. We cover a few miles of
streets in silence.

Out of the houses, televisions bawl terrifying reports from
behind barred windows. The inhabitants fear us. They should.

I tap on the man's shoulder. I've picked a house. A hybrid lives
here. The car is new. There is the buzz of an alarm system as
lasers sweep the manicured lawn, seeking movement.

Another woman and man have joined us. Everyone can tell when a
kill is going to be made. The sweat of fear draws us to our
victims.

We begin hurling rocks at the windows, the tinkle of breaking
glass stirring the darkness. The security forces will be notified
but they're lazy and fearful. They'll take their time.

I see figures in the lit windows of the neighboring houses, but
no one comes out to stop us. In fact, the inhabitants move back,
pull the curtains shut and turn off their lights.

Leaving the others to continue the barrage on the windows, I slip
around the back of the house. I find a break in the high fence
and force myself through.

I check my pistol. Six bullets. I'll need to find another weapon
tonight.

A tickle at the back of my neck warns me and I dive behind a
piece of lawn furniture just as a light is flicked on and gunfire
rakes the yard. My eyes tune in on the crack of the open door and
I start crawling toward it on my belly.

When I get close, I give up one bullet. The shooter retreats,
leaving the door ajar. Instinctively, I follow. I have him.

The house is dark. I stand up and start searching. I find a rifle
but reject it. Too difficult to carry.

The man is in the living room, cowering behind the sofa.

"Get out here," I tell him.

"Fuck you!" he screams, his voice high like a young girl.

Retreating, I let him empty his gun into his own walls as I wait
in the hallway.

Meanwhile, I open the front door and motion the others to enter.
They begin searching the rest of the house.

When he's finished and I can hear nothing but his fear-filled
sobs, I go in and pull him out, putting him in position, on his
knees, head bent.

I stare at the pulsing green nodule on his neck. Suddenly,
there's a scream from the doorway and I look up in time to see a
wild-eyed woman advancing on me with an axe over her head. I
shoot three times before she gets another step closer. She
descends into an untidy heap.

The man has tried to scurry away and I have to shoot him in the
leg to stop him. Grabbing him by his wispy hair, I blow a hole in
the nodule. Flicking his limp body aside, I hurry from the toxic
fume-filling room.

The woman had killed one of Us. The man I'd met in the street is
looking down at the body when I enter the bedroom.

He points at me. "You."

We have no names. In these dark years, I've forgotten the name I
used to carry.

"Yes?" I answer.

"Guns. In the bureau." He jerks his head across the room.

"Thanks."

We leave the house together, the wail of approaching sirens
quickening our step.

The man asks, "You want to come with me?"

We have no cells or organization. We only share our hatred of the
invaders and their hybrids and a will to live. All I have in the
world is tomorrow. It's the only thing I can lose. If I gain one
more day, it's another day I can hunt.

I shrug. "Sure."

We find an abandoned house and curl up in a corner. He reaches
for me and I shuffle away. His arm retreats.

I had a man. I can't remember his name either. But I will never
forget his face. I assume he's dead, but a day doesn't go by when
I don't glance to my side, expecting to see him there.

In the morning, this man is gone too. I check the streets from
the windows before leaving. It's too quiet and still.

Most of the houses on the block are deserted and I slip from yard
to yard, my ears alert.

Appearing suddenly, cars are racing down the streets, pursuing
me. I'm used to it and know to dodge into the trees behind the
houses. The lazy shits won't get out of their cars.

The sounds of pursuit fade behind me as the trees meet over my
head, blocking out the pale sunlight.

A bombed-out building is in a clearing. Automatically, I move to
hide inside its walls.

In the dark space, a glint of metal catches my eye. A gun?

I move closer. It's a crucifix. Jesus is crying painted tears.
This was a church. My hand gropes at my neck and I have to remind
myself I lost my necklace.

Wandering through the shell of this holy place, I notice a single
flickering candle in a dark corner. Drawing near, I realize it
stands beside the confessional.

I laugh and my cackle rattles against the stone walls, then
drifts away.

Opening the small door, I crawl into the black hole.

Just as I settle onto the stool, the window slides open. Whipping
out my gun, I crouch on the floor.

A low voice asks, "Yes?"

Regaining my breathing, I sit back down. Cradling my weapon, I
stare at it, watching the faint glint of light on dark steel.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

The voice. I know the voice.

Wrenching the screen open, I stare through into his side of the
booth.

It's him. The man.

His full mouth is in an 'O' of surprise, then widens to a grin.

"Scully."

Yes. Yes, my name was Scully. Of course he'd remember my name.

I open my mouth and say what comes easily. "Mulder."

He nods and his intense eyes never leave my face, seeming to be
searching for something.

Flabbergasted, I continue, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm doing my work," he tells me.

I push my door open and yank open the door to his side of the
booth. "We have to go! They'll come soon!"

He lowers his eyes. "I can't go. I'm trapped here."

I follow his gaze. The smell of rot reaches my nose. His right
calf is encased in a blood-crusted steel sleeve. Pins appear to
be driven into his knee and ankle joints, securing it to his
limb. The cast is chained to the wall.

"Mulder!"

"You have to escape," he insists. "They're coming."

"I can't leave you!" I reach out and let my fingertips stroke his
shoulder. He shifts away from my touch.

"You have to save yourself. There's no way to free me." He won't
look at me.

"There has to be a way!" I sob, even as my ears pick out the
sound of approaching vehicles.

"No!" His cry echoes off the cold walls. "Go!"

As the stomp of boots fills the church, I start running, my feet
finding the familiar pattern of retreat. But I can't run fast
enough to leave my self-loathing behind.

I wish he hadn't said my name. I don't want to remember her.

I follow a river out of the woods and into a desert. The open
sand is littered with the bloated bodies of slaughtered cattle.
They destroy our food to make us Their slaves. The hideous smell
is familiar and welcome. It blocks out my thoughts.

Darkness is falling. I need sleep so I can have another day. I
find a rock to hide behind and curl up in a ball.

I wake, cold and stiff again. The room is dark but a sliver of
silver light burns across my blinking eyes.

I'm on a mattress, the rough sheets bunched around my feet. How
did I get in a house? I fumble for a gun and find it on a bedside
table.

I have to get out of here, get going. It's another day. My head
feels like it's full of cotton batting. Shaking it, I stumble
towards the door. I crack the sagging curtain on the window,
peering out to assess the situation.

The parking lot is full of cars. The large sign over it is still
lit up in the pale blue dawn. CAPTAIN ROGER'S MOT-R INN blinks in
red. My confused thoughts try to pull everything together.

I hurry to the door and wrench it open, my heart still pounding
in double time. Just then, Mulder, in jogging gear, comes out of
his room three doors down and glances in my direction. I meet his
eyes and know I must look insane. My eyes are wide, my hair a
swirl around my head, and I'm clutching my firearm.

Embarrassed, I turn and retreat into the room. I don't bother to
close the door. I know he'll be coming to check on me and I don't
want him banging on the door.

I crawl up onto the bed as his form looms in the doorway.

Glancing around the dingy room, I try to place myself. Scituate,
Massachusetts. Doomsday cult investigation. Third day here.

"Scully? Are you all right?" He's advancing on me, concern etched
on his face. "What's wrong?"

Placing my gun carefully back on the table, I say, "I had a
nightmare."

He sits on the edge of the mattress. "Bad?"

I nod and whisper, "It seemed so. . .real. I've never had one so
intense before."

He seems surprised. "Really?"

I have to smile. "Believe it or not." The smile fades. "We see
things. . .experience living nightmares--frightening-- the dream
and real world have even merged. But I've been able to stay
grounded. This was different. . ."

I've turned my face away, but out of the corner of my eye, I
watch him prop his heels on the edge of boxsprings. He settles
his elbows on his knees and his chin on his palms. All long
limbs, knobby joints, and large nose, he looks like a gothic
gargoyle.

"It's tough--at first," he agreed.

Protesting, I say, "I don't want to get used to it."

"What happened in the dream?" he asks.

Evading, I query, "Have you ever thought about becoming a
priest?"

His wide, bent back bulges with a chuckle. As though I've been
battered by a storm and have spotted a rock to cling to, I crawl
up to him and drape myself across its firm, warm surface.
Suddenly exhausted, my eyes begin to drift shut.

Rising and falling with his steady breaths, I'm slipping back to
sleep. His answer jars me awake. "Although I share some
attributes with a man of the cloth, I must say, I've never
considered taking orders."

I try to make sense of his words. "Devotion to your cause?"

His muscles harden to a marble surface. "That's one."

I fall silent. I shouldn't be touching him but I can't help
myself at times like this.

His voice rumbles under my ear. "Were you alone?"

"Yes. I was lost..." I whisper.

"I hate those dreams," he says passionately.

"It seemed so real," I repeat. "Not the events per say. Now that
I think about them, they seemed fantastical. It was the emotions.
I can still feel them--"

Trying to reassure me, he says, "Remember, dreams are never about
what they appear to be about. It was all probably a manifestation
of anxiety at leaving your laundry unfolded before coming out of
town. Will they be wrinkled when you return?"

"I never leave my laundry unfolded," I retort but make no move to
leave my position. His tee shirt is impossibly soft. My hands
skim it lightly and his breathing become shallow. It smells of
fabric softener, harsh cheap motel soap, and lingering
sleepiness.

Finally, he asks, "Want to come for a run?"

Now it's my turn to stiffen. "We've never run together."

He hasn't asked since the first time seven years ago. Usually, he
runs at night and I run in the morning. When he does run in the
morning, we head off in different directions. I don't want him to
think he has to keep the pace slow for me, nor to I want to alter
my regimen for him.

My muscles clamor at the thought of movement but my emotions
still feel weak and childish. I don't want to be alone.

Slowly he's saying, "Okay, if you want--"

I stop him. "I want to run with you."

He jumps off the bed and I barely catch myself from falling onto
the floor. Whirling, he grins down at me. "Get ready then!"

Digging some running clothes from my suitcase, I grumble, "All
right, all right. . ."

When I come out of the bathroom, he's hovering by the door,
bouncing on his toes. I hurry over to pick up my firearm, then
look down at my spandex pants and tight shirt.

"You want to bring your gun?" he asks.

I glance over to him and bite down on my lower lip. "I guess
not."

Curious, he queries, "Do you always take it with you when you
run?"

"No, I just. . ." I don't finish that thought. Without his solid
muscles under me, I feel anxiety lapping at me again. I look my
outfit over again and shrug. "I'll leave it."

His mouth opens and then closes. I give him a point for stopping
himself for reminding me he'll be there to protect me. Besides, I
don't need his actual protection. I need to crawl up in my
Daddy's lap and be rocked.

The morning is still cool and wet. Yesterday, I'd run down a
quiet residential street to the left of the parking lot. To the
right is a cemetery. I turn towards it. The pale stones glisten,
laced with the black shadows from the still naked trees.

My fingertips graze his shoulder as I surge forward. "You're it."

I hear his gasp and then I'm gone, running hell bent. He has the
length of legs but I can be quick as a sparrow. He's stumbling
after me, all long, flapping arms and legs.

Dodging between the cold, clammy headstones and dew-frosted tree
trunks, I lose him. I need to be chased. I want to feel the power
of staying just out of reach.

His arm snags me around the waist, lifting me off the ground,
swinging me up in the air. I like that feeling too. For a brief,
thrilling moment, I lose grounding and control.

Overcome with a fit of the giggles, I beat helplessly at his arm.
"Lemme go! Lemme go!"

Immediately, he eases me down onto my feet, babbling his apology.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry--"

I have to reassure him. Tipping my head back, I gasp, "I'm fine."

I recognize this certain expression on his face now that I've
seen it a few times. He's only acted on that emotion once, and he
still needed an excuse--the celebration of the incorrectly
designated turn of the millennium.

His head is lowering. I have to make a decision. I bounce up onto
my toes and meet his lips.

His arms slip down from my waist to my hips, his body enveloping
me like a warm cocoon. Our mouths slide against each other,
tasting, testing, but too timid to open completely. Our heads tip
to and fro, allowing us the freedom to explore the surfaces of
our lips but keeping just enough suction to retain the
connection.

As my arms wrap around his waist, his sweatshirt rides up and I
touch bare skin. I gasp and jump back.

Thoughtless, I say the cruelest thing possible. "What did you do
that for?"

He looks devastated and I frantically try to think of a way to
smooth things over. Then, what he says reminds me that he does
love me. He can forgive me with shocking ease.

The edges of his still damp mouth lift and he says, "Happy
Birthday, Scully."

Relief washing over me, I remind him, "It's not my birthday."

He feigns surprise. "It isn't?"

"Nope."

"Oh," he seems to think. "Well, it's some woman's birthday. You
just got her birthday kiss."

I have to let loose a big grin. "Her loss." I'm rewarded with a
rare, but satisfying blush on his stubbled cheeks.

He advances on me, and my breath catches in my throat. Looming
over me, he leans close. "Scully?"

"Yeah?" I gurgle.

He shouts, "You're it!" as he taps my shoulder and heads towards
the motel with the long-strided lope of a short-necked giraffe.

My pursuit, although I lack his ground covering ability, is
determined. I love the thrill of a hunt.

MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES: I know. The old, 'It was a dream!' trick.
Sorry.

Actually, the scene is based on a dream I had during the height
of the Reagan presidency, where I was a guerilla freedom fighter
against a future totalitarian right-wing society-- sans Scully's
religious imagery. I also cut out the part where I came across
Ron and Nancy eating in a Burger King and was plotting his
assassination.

On that note, let me just say, Happy Birthday, Jill.

BTW, does a kiss count as a handmade gift?

Feedback always appreciated

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