A Distant Refrain
by LiLx (a_is4Addiction)

Rating: PG-13 for a semi-gross description of death.
Word Count: 4,284
Character/Pairing: Mulder/Scully, mentions of Skinner and William
Summary: For Fox Mulder, time has been separated into two beings.
Disclaimer: Belongs to 1013.

My XF Santa gift for Memories_child. Many thanks to mack_the_spoon, 
namarie24, and drtrish197 for beta!

Feedback is appreciated at abbitha7@gmail.com.



For Fox Mulder, time has been separated into two beings, before and
after. After is melancholy and bland. He stopped seeing color, really
seeing it, months ago. The world has been repainted with a neutral
palette; the green of grass now dead, the sky a lonely gray. It holds
silent atrocities he couldn't have imagined before. Homes long
abandoned stand on broken streets, their shutters wide open as if to
welcome them inside but he knows what they will find, if they're
lucky. There are empty beds, the occasional threadbare blanket or can
of asparagus, but more often than not they find the bodies.

Turned inside out at the chest, they lie in their beds, on floors,
and in bathtubs once filled with bubbles and warm water. They are
fathers caught unaware in their backyards, children taken during
dinner. There is nothing peaceful about their deaths. Cloudy eyes
stare blankly at the sky, the fear on their faces palpable.

He keeps one eye open at all times when they enter these tombs.
Amongst the bodies and the loot and the coagulated, blood stained
floors she finds the bees, missing their stingers, curled into little
striped commas with legs.

They take care not to touch anything, to leave no trace of their
existence.

"We probably don't need to do this, Mulder. We're immune to the
virus," she says softly, watching him wipe down doorknobs and
rearrange the kitchen cupboards.

Mulder pauses, the dirty rag hanging from his hand. "Not if one of
those things finds us."

He smears dirt on the stove handles before they leave through the
open back door. They step carefully over fallen phone lines and a
large orphaned branch. It's amazing what a widespread virus will do
to the population's sanity, but Mulder is so used to it that he
barely notices the evidence of the disaster anymore.

Where cities once thrived, there are now graveyards.

***

It pains him to know that he can't remember the last time he saw her
smile. Her normally stoic features seem etched in stone now more than
they ever were when she carried a gun or wielded a scalpel.

They have walked this ruined stretch of road in what used to be rural
Virginia for two days without a word, as if their voices would tear
at the corners of the world until it crumbles like the asphalt under
their feet.

She didn't say anything when it happened, her blue eyes staring
intently at the television screen. The veteran reporter had looked
more frightened than Scully but then, she had known it was coming.

"I can't believe this is happening," he had whispered, his hands on
his knees. He couldn't believe they didn't do anything to stop it.

***

Chaos reigned for months after, all of the rules of civilized living
forgotten. The dead littered the streets after unceremoniously
succumbing to the virus, or being destroyed by its product. Because
of their knowledge (or more likely, their immunity) they had easily
taken charge at a camp in D.C.

They began stockpiling weapons; if it could be thrown, shot, or
brandished, it would do. Days during which they didn't have to kill
alien creatures were few and far between.

Mulder watched Scully's hands work skillfully on the infected, the
dying. There was not a tremor in her voice when she barked out
orders, had the alien bodies burned in stinking mass graves. Without
a workable vaccine, no one unfortunate enough to become infected
could be saved.

He estimated that by the time it was over, 95% of the world's
population would be dead, or worse. For what seemed like the first
time, Scully agreed.

***

Now, it is Autumn. The world has slowly fallen silent, and so has
she. He tries desperately not to think about the way things were
before; how her eyebrow rose when he brought up a new theory,
challenging him to think more clearly, the delicate sighs that
escaped her when they made love, even the way she smiled when he told
one of his lame jokes.

Before, he had the feeling that he wholly understood Dana Scully-
every expression, every sound, every nuance. How she would use up the
day caring for her patients, and then relax with a bottle of Pinot
Noir in front of an old movie, her feet in his lap. They used to
spend long evenings naked in bed. He would tell her stories taken
from his books, and she would talk of their son in a hushed voice.
She kept a box of pictures in the back of the closet that they never
discussed, but he looked at them whenever he needed to get out one of
his old suits.

The woman who walks next to him now is bone thin, shoulders stooped
with the weight of their circumstances. She hasn't showered since
they left the base camp six days ago, although she carries a tiny
bottle of perfume that he found in someone's bedroom, forgotten in a
panic to get out. She has no qualms about sleeping in a strange home,
taking canned food from its cupboards, covering herself with its
blankets. Scully hasn't mentioned William in far too long, although
he fully believes that the child is most likely still alive.

They move down the road slowly, leaves from the nearby trees falling
gently around them. He clears his throat, surprised at the nervous
fluttering in his chest.

"You know, it's a common superstition that if you catch a leaf on the
first day of Fall, you won't catch a cold all winter." His voice is
husky from lack of use, and it's so far from the first day of Fall
that he hopes she points out his mistake.

Her eyes flit to him for a brief second. He holds his breath, but she
disappoints him. He stuffs his free hand into his pocket and holds
her eggshell hand as tightly as his conscience will allow.

***

In the months before it all went to hell, Mulder stopped writing and
started reading again. He subscribed to every major newspaper in the
country and diligently read them all, looking for any signs, no
matter how minuscule, that something was coming.  He spent countless
nights alone in his office while Scully slept upstairs, cutting out
articles, sifting through websites, and lurking in conspiracy theory
chatrooms. Without the FBI, without the X-files, there wasn't much
more he could do.

Mulder realized a few weeks into the venture that the effort was
futile. If the people of the world really were going to be infected
by an alien pandemic, what the hell could he alone do about it now?
But for his sanity he kept up, just in case.

Sometimes, when she couldn't sleep, Scully would sit in his chair and
watch him tack inky papers to the walls, the dim light of the desk
lamp casting ghastly shadows across her face so that when he glanced
at her he thought he could see Special Agent Dana Scully, but then
she turned her head and was gone.

"Mulder, just because the general population has mistaken the end of
the Mayan calendar for the end of the world doesn't mean that this is
going to happen. The fact that this date," she tapped the desk with
each word, "was that one you saw at the military base makes it all
the more suspicious. Everything has been quiet for years."

"Too quiet, don't you think?" He didn't even turn his head,
preoccupied with fitting the articles together.

She sighed, the resigned sound overpowered by the rustling of paper.
"Haven't you ever thought about the possibility that this year will
pass and we'll just see another?  Maybe they- whoever 'they' are
exactly- have decided we're not worth it. There's been no further
evidence to suggest that an alien ship is waiting to drop in on us.
Skinner would let us know if any cases had been brought to the FBI.
And besides, if something were going to happen, what good are you
doing by hanging articles and not leaving the house?"

He turned to face her, ignoring the last part of her diatribe
because, if he was going to be honest, he had no idea how to respond.
"Haven't you thought about the possibility that the same conspiracy
we fought for nine years is still in place?"

Her brow crinkled, her voice becoming a little more desperate. "How?
They're all dead, Mulder."

"Not everything dies, Scully." He crossed the room, and kissed her
just to shut her up.

***

As they hike up the twisting gravel road, the house comes into view,
tall and Colonial. Once, it was a vibrant white, its dark blue
shutters providing an expensive looking contrast. Now, most of the
shutters have fallen, or been pilfered to use as blunt objects.
Although the house still stands, it has a slight lean to it, and the
paint is peeling. Even in the minimal sunlight it casts a heavy, cold
shadow over Mulder and Scully when they get close enough. She
clutches his hand and stops near the front door.

"I don't know if I can do this," Scully whispers, her silence quietly
shattered. Mulder searches her pale blue eyes and finds nothing but
trepidation. He pulls her to him, crushing her against his thin
chest. When did they become so accepting of this terrible fate?

"Ten years ago you would have given anything for this." The words
come out more callous than he expected. Ten years ago she had done
the worst thing a mother could do...but he's still convinced that she
did it because of him. Scully only nods in reply, her gaze giving
away nothing. "We should go inside, it's getting dark."

She nods again, and lets Mulder lead her to the front door.

He is expecting anything, but mostly he's fraught with anxiety. What
awaits them in this house is something he has never really been
prepared for.

***

On the drive down to Roswell, Mulder finally had the time to process
the last year and a half. Living with Gibson Praise hadn't been easy.
He had spent too many nights lying in bed alone; the humidity
suffocating him, making him tired and sticky. The only thing that had
gotten him through that year was the woman and child waiting for him
at home-or so he thought.

The night Scully told him that she'd given William up, he had dreamed
of teaching him how to play baseball. His son's eyes were the
color of the sky, and his smile a brilliant half moon. He had caught
on so quickly, his lanky legs carrying him around all the bases back
to home plate. Mulder had hugged his child, smelled the soap on his
skin, and ruffled his chestnut hair.

It had all been so real until he opened his eyes to a dark, empty
jail cell, his hands grabbing at stale air.

Perhaps they'd been driving for too long, but Mulder began to feel
more agitated with every passing mile. She'd given his son away. His
son. He remembered the few short days they had together. Mulder never
thought he could love something so much, but lying in bed, Scully at
his side and William dozing on his chest, he found himself the
happiest he had ever been.

The image of William's downy head in his mind, Mulder spoke to her,
"Why didn't you let me know what you were going to do?"

Scully lifted her head from the warm window and sleepily asked,
"What?"

"Why didn't you at least talk to me before you gave him up? Before
you threw him away?"

At his words she instantly became defensive, her voice low and sharp.
"I did what I had to do to keep my child safe, Mulder. You weren't
there to provide that. Maybe if you had been...And Mulder, even if I
could have contacted you I wouldn't have risked it. I'm sorry his
safety and yours interfered with you being kept up to date."

He clenched his jaw, only hearing two words. Her child. "Your child?
So I don't have a say in any of this?"

Scully lashed out at him, her words striking him like a whip. "You
didn't see what he could do, Mulder. You didn't watch strangers come
into my apartment and try to take him. You didn't search for him when
was kidnapped or find him in the ruins of a ship, dirty and crying
but somehow completely unharmed. You may have been his father but you
didn't love him!"

The last syllables crackled in his brain, igniting white hot anger.
"Bitch." He regretted the remark the moment it parted his lips, but
there was no way to take it back.
  
Surprisingly, she had no reply. Instead, she stared at the
encroaching sunset, chin quivering. It was several minutes before
either of them spoke again.

"It was the hardest decision I've ever had to make," she said
eventually, her voice cracking like frozen glass. "Mulder..."

"I'm sorry," he whispered before she could continue. "I just...just
didn't know I would miss him so much." He inhaled a shaky breath, his
throat clogged with tears held back.

She took his hand, caressed his pale moon fingernails. 

***

The interior of the home is surprisingly well-kept; even a few pieces
of furniture still remain. Mulder can see that they've been
rearranged several times. There are light surface scratches on the
hardwood floors surrounding the fireplace. Pictures hang on the
walls, captured moments of a family long gone. She automatically
straightens one depicting a young man and woman and two children,
girls with flowing brown hair and blue eyes the color of William's.

Scully moves carefully around trash and debris left on the floor by
looters. Curtains, nearly transparent, cover the windows, but she
pulls them back to let more light in anyway.

"It's too quiet," she says to herself, watching dust particles dance
like fireflies in the thin beams of twilight.

He moves to check the kitchen, half grateful for the silence. They've
known for months that this meeting would occur, but he still hasn't
fully prepared himself to see the son he never really knew. He opens
and closes the cupboards, feels the oven for warmth, and examines the
floor for footprints. Nothing. He notes the rust colored stain on the
ceiling.

He's spent years trying to imagine what William might look like. When
he was a baby, Mulder was convinced that he looked exactly like
Scully but he desperately hopes now that the boy resembles him in any
way whether in looks, mannerisms, interests, anything that will
reveal a connection.

Mulder returns to the living room. "Nothing's been disturbed."

Scully inhales sharply. "Mulder, they should have been here since
yesterday. Maybe they were delayed." She uses one finger to wipe at
the dust on the ornate mantle.

"I know," Mulder breathes, hating the words he has to say next. "We
have to search the rest of the house."

***

When Skinner contacted them with information about William's
whereabouts, Mulder was scared shitless. If Skinner could find him,
who else already had?

"Mulder, I wouldn't have risked contacting you like this if I wasn't
certain that he's okay," their former boss' voice crackled over the
bad phone connection. Most of the cellular towers had been destroyed
soon after colonization began; it was rare to find someone that even
had a working cell phone. Skinner had been lucky enough to be away
from populated areas when the virus hit, visiting a relative in rural
Nevada. Since then he had been slowly making his way East.

"Sir," Mulder said, involuntarily using his former boss' title yet
again. If Skinner found it odd, he didn't let on. Mulder cleared his
throat and lowered his voice so Scully couldn't hear the
conversation. "How do you know it's him?"

"There's a young boy living in a camp in Gilman, Colorado, a mining
town abandoned almost thirty years ago. I've been here for a month
observing him. He goes by Will, and he's not with anyone. No one
knows how he got here. Not only is he by far the youngest person
here, but several others witnessed him being stung by infected bees.
They had no effect on him."

Mulder swallowed hard. To find a surviving child was a feat in
itself-they were slower, smaller, and surrendered to the virus more
quickly than adults. To find William would be a miracle. "Are you
sure it's him?"

Static partially obscured the voice on the other end, but Mulder
could have sworn Skinner said "He has her eyes."

***

They maneuver up the stairs, light on their feet. Scully removes the
10mm pistol from her pants pocket and holds it at her side. Mulder
follows suit, stepping in front of her reflexively.

As they near the top of the stairs, he suddenly pauses and turns to
her. "Do you hear that?"

Scully nods, pointing her gun slightly away from her. Mulder bends
down, creeping into the hallway. When she's next to him, he tilts his
head toward the furthest room. Taking step after slow step, he inches
along the wall, tension rising to high tide in his veins.

On his fifth step, the floorboard creaks, and the rustling stops.

Mulder pauses, prepared for the inevitable, prepared to fire on
something or someone. He holds his breath and doesn't blink.

Several seconds later, the rustling resumes.

He quickly enters the room, pointing his gun at all corners. When he
turns toward the bed he almost throws up. With all he's seen, this
might be the worst.

A little girl who can't be more than seven lies on the floor next to
what is presumably her dollhouse. Her hands clutch so tightly at her
blue jeans that her knuckles will be forever white. Her long brown
hair, matted with blood and fleshy tissue, lays trapped underneath
her. The girl's chest and abdomen are completely destroyed, and
there's so much blood that it's soaked through the floor and he is
reminded of the stain he saw on the ceiling earlier.

The child's face is fairly peaceful, her mouth closed. However her
eyes, a striking blue, are wide open. One has been removed from its
socket. He finds the source of the rustling when a raccoon saunters
out and makes its way toward the dead child.

The body looks fresh.

Mulder has to force himself to speak. "Scully, come here."

She enters the room and immediately notices the body, her eyes
sliding shut for a few moments. When she reopens them, Mulder asks,
"How long has she been dead?"

Scully reluctantly bends down and performs a quick external
examination on the girl after shooing the raccoon away. "A few days
at most. Mulder, I checked the other rooms. No one else is here. This
girl was in a picture downstairs. The rest of the family must have
left."

Mulder stares into the child's eye. "She would have exhibited
symptoms of being sick," he says in monotone.

"They had to have left before this happened," Scully sighs. "I can't
imagine leaving your child to die alone like this. Why they stayed in
their home, didn't find a camp."

Mulder shakes his head. "They must have felt they didn't have a
choice." He grabs a nearby blanket and together they cover the body.

Back downstairs, Mulder shuffles toward the door. "Scully, I don't
know if it's safe to stay here. That thing might come back."

"I think it's something we're going to have to risk, Mulder." She
moves to the fireplace. "I'm going to start a fire."

As much as he wants to argue with her, he knows that she is right and
suddenly he feels the need to risk something for their child. The
child upstairs was probably left alone in a terrifying moment. He
won't let the same happen to William.

***

When Fox was seven, he had commissioned his father to build him a top
secret tree house in the oak tree in their backyard. Fox had overseen
every detail, had paced the thick green grass while his father worked
with a hammer and nails on the weekends. He picked out blue curtains
for the little window in one side and scoured the basement for a rug
to use as carpeting. When it was finished, Bill sat Fox down and
reminded him over and over to be safe and to use the ladder and to
report any creaking. Most importantly, Samantha was not to be in the
tree house because it was too dangerous. Fox, of course, readily
agreed as he stared out the window at his new toy, sitting on the low
hanging branches.

For a few weeks, Fox diligently obeyed every rule his father had laid
out for him.

However one morning, he awoke to find that Samantha had taken the
heads off of his G.I. Joe's. After stewing in his room, he decided to
get back at her.

"Samantha, wanna play in my tree house?" He approached her after
lunch, when their mother had left the room.

Samantha nodded wildly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Yep!"

Fox led her outside and up the ladder. The tree house wasn't more
than 8 feet off the ground, but it seemed to him as tall as a
skyscraper.

"I'll go behind you, so you're not scared," he said.

Samantha grinned, pure excitement radiating from her. "Don't let me
fall, Fox!"

"I won't."

Once Samantha reached the plank floor of the tree house, Fox simply
backed down and took off toward the house, smugly satisfied with his
stunt.

It was nearly an hour before Teena found her, red-faced and blotchy
from crying, having wet her pants, too scared to try and come down.

Looking at her, Fox felt terrible even before he received a spanking.


***

They wait for a week in the broken-down house. Mulder searches the
house daily in case something or someone comes to look for the rest
of the family, but thankfully no one does. Scully uses the fireplace
to cook the beans and minute rice that they found in the cupboards,
and Mulder finds that the water is miraculously still running. After
a shower, they both feel more optimistic... but Skinner never 
shows, or even calls. Attempts to contact him are met with 
disappointment.

On the evening of the seventh day, they lie together in a pile of
blankets on the floor. Mulder's fingers draw figure eights around her
belly button, and Scully's gently stroke the inside of his wrist.

After all these years, he finds that he is content with the silence
that moves around them. They have never been good at expressing their
thoughts and feelings to each other with words. Instead, he touches
her and hopes that she understands.

Scully rolls over to face him, and he can see that tears have formed
in her eyes. She speaks in a small voice of what may be inevitable.
"Do you think they're dead?"

Mulder wants desperately to say No, to tell her they have to be okay,
to scream at the top of his lungs that they've done the right thing
by coming here and that they have the right to be here because he's
their son. But mostly he just wants the ones they're waiting for to
walk through the door and dry the tears from her eyes. He wants to
see Scully hug her child again, to watch the world live in vibrant
color once more.

He brings his hand to her face and wipes at her tears. "Maybe this
was too much to hope for, Scully."

Scully moves closer to him so that her forehead rests against his
chest and their legs intertwine. "We'll have to leave soon. We don't
have enough supplies to stay much longer." She yawns softly and
stretches, pressing her body to his. "I'm so tired."

His arms find their place around her. "Go to sleep," he says. "We'll
decide what to do in the morning."

***

After the Henry Weems case Mulder decided to take Scully's advice,
albeit a little late. When they reached her apartment he pushed her
inside and used his hips to keep her pressed to the wall while they
made love, his breath hot and insistent in her ear. When he came he
couldn't stop himself from whispering "I love you" into the crook of
her neck.

Later, he spooned her in her bed and tickled the back of her knee to
make her laugh.

"You know, Scully," he began. "I meant what I said earlier."

"About what?" she responded, her voice tired and muffled against the
soft pillows.

About what, he thought, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Instead
he whispered, "That I love you."

The only sound he could hear was her even breathing. After a long
minute of quiet he shook his head, mouth slightly upturned, before
pressing his lips to the back of her neck.

Had she been facing him, he would have seen her smile.  

***

Long after she drifts off, Mulder lies awake listening to her even
breathing. Tomorrow they will make another difficult decision, one
that will undoubtedly haunt them for the rest of their days. But for
now, he thinks of Scully as she was before; safe and happy, lying
beside him in her Georgetown apartment, not a dark spot in their day.

For Fox Mulder, time has been separated into two beings. In both,
they are constants, and he revolves around her like a tilted planet
around the bright, burning sun.


The End


Author' Note: The title for this fic comes from this Czelaw Milosz
poem, titled "Forget."

"Forget the suffering 
You caused others. 
Forget the suffering
Others caused you. 
The waters run and run, 
Springs sparkle and are done, 
You walk the earth you are forgetting. 

Sometimes you hear a distant refrain. 
What does it mean, you ask, who is singing? 
A childlike sun grows warm. 
A grandson and a great-grandson are born.
You are led by the hand once again. 

The names of the rivers remain with you. 
How endless those rivers seem! 
Your fields lie fallow,
The city towers are not as they were. 
You stand at the threshold mute." 
-Czeslaw Milosz