Title:  Pre-Apocalyptic Soldiers

Author:  Erilyn C

Rating: PG

Classification: Story - Angst/Romance

Keywords:  character deaths

Spoilers:  season five

Disclaimer:  They belong to CC, 1013 and FOX, not me.

Archive:  Gossamer, yes.  Anywhere else, ask me first 
please.

Summary:  Scully waits for her partner in a bleak future, 
which not everyone they care for has survived.

Feedback:  yes please :)  Public or to erilyn_c@yahoo.com

Author's note:  see end of story

~*~*~*~*~*~

It should have been a dark and stormy night.

A wild night, of lightening and thunder battering the 
heavens.  A night befitting the cataclysmic events about to 
take place.

Or a beautiful day at dawn, with the rising sun kissing the 
land, and a gentle breeze caressing her skin.

If she was going to die, Scully thought almost 
hysterically, why did it have to be in an decaying 
warehouse, with bitter gusts of wind sidling through the 
cracks and chilling her to the bone.  No bright sunshine 
struggled down through the gaping fissure in the roof, just 
grey miserable light, unfit to illuminate the last steps 
she would ever take.  A laugh almost escaped her lips, that 
she was going to die and was worrying about the weather, 
but couldn't fight its way past the gag stuffed in her 
mouth.  She tried to look around, but one of the men 
gripped her neck and shoulders tightly, forcing her to her 
knees.  Scully bitterly reflected that maybe this was 
appropriate.  Brought down by forces beyond her 
comprehension, brought here to die in this cold, desolate 
shell of a building, for reasons she was only beginning to 
grasp.

Someone spoke softly, Scully not understanding the foreign 
tongue but fearfully guessing the meaning.  She flinched as 
she felt the barrel of a gun press against the back of her 
neck, and she desperately searched what she could see of 
the large room for any escape, any way out.

She could see none.

Another command that eluded her was uttered, again softly, 
and a gunshot rang out, reverberating around the warehouse.

Then another.

But that was not here or now, but half a world away and 
last century.  She stared in the mirror, and a stranger 
stared back impassively, a stranger unfazed by the memories 
of violence and death playing out in her mind.  Short brown 
hair, no wig today, and a fading memory of the brilliant 
red it had once been.  Brown contact lenses to hide her 
angry blue eyes.  A body made strong and hard by necessity, 
a weapon she knew how to wield.  She was still short 
though, no way to change that easily.  Her face twisted up 
into a parody of a smile.  The one thing she wouldn't have 
minded changing, and they couldn't add a few inches.  The 
steam fogging up the mirror drew her back to her purpose at 
hand, and she welcomed the too-hot water of the shower 
gladly, using it to scrub away the fake identity she was 
wearing today.  To see if Dana Scully was under it anymore.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully sat cross-legged on the bed in the apartment that 
wasn't home, would never be home.  Simply another place to 
rest herself for the battle.   The room was relatively bare 
but comfortable, a floor lamp near the TV the only light 
on.  It was an empty soulless place, and it would be until 
she wasn't alone.  She ached for him, they'd been apart for 
most of the past weeks, as they executed the latest phase 
of their war against the Consortium.

Against the Colonists.

The adrenalin and exhilaration of the victory had faded, 
leaving a need that wasn't sated by brief moments together.  
It wasn't simply sexual desire, though she longed for the 
feel of him against her skin, longed for him to be back in 
her bed.  It was his friendship, his company, and that he 
was one of her only links to her previous life.  He knew 
her before, when she was, and she required that tangible 
bond to her former life, her former self.  It would scare 
her how much she needed her partner, if Scully didn't know 
that the trust and loyalty she gave him had been justified 
time and time again.  A partnership forged out of blood and 
fire and death bound them together, to fight the future.

She contemplated watching some television, but screeching 
sitcoms, inane game shows and news that never reported 
events she knew had happened didn't appeal this evening.  
So she stretched out on the bed, softer than the last bed 
they'd had, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling.

Intellectually she knew he was not late, but she didn't 
feel like being rational or fair.  She wanted him here, 
with her.  It was a complete transformation from the early 
days of their life on the run, when the time together 
dragged out into long, silent moments, when she'd wish 
herself a million miles from his side.  They worked well 
together, smoothly and efficiently, keeping each other 
alive and fighting their secret war.  But when not occupied 
with "business" conversation could be strained, and the 
long silences filled with the ghosts of their shared 
history.  But times change, and people change, and now she 
waited for him to be at her side.

Waiting like this had become a major part of her life, 
something she had learned to live with.  At this time, she 
waited for him to return so they could share data gathered 
from their varying sources and operations.  They needed 
time to plan strategy, contact their allies and discuss 
options.  Scully thought fondly of one pair of those 
allies, wondered how Frohike and Byers were, where their 
current lair was located.  The four of them hadn't been 
together in over a year, it was too risky.  The Lone Gunmen 
had so much acquaintance with paranoia, their current 
lifestyle must seem familiar.  But there should have been 
three of them in hiding, as Scully put the image of 
Langly's heat-twisted body from her mind.  She was good at 
not thinking about things, she'd had so much practice.  She 
understood as few others the inherent dangers of 
reminiscence, of might-have-beens and what-ifs.

But at that moment Scully didn't care.  Remembering all she 
had lost, all that had been taken from her, kept the fires 
in her soul burning white-hot.  She willingly sank into the 
memories that were always there, just under the surface of 
her conscious mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Was there a point of no return in your life, when your feet 
are on the path and there is no other way you can go?  
Birth? Scully didn't want to believe in pre-destination, 
but still she looked for a defining moment when free will 
was lost, and fates were determined.  Joining the FBI? 
Despite the corruption, she didn't blame the Bureau.  The 
first day she walked into the basement and Mulder looked at 
her through those seductive glasses?  Too easy to blame it 
all on him, he'd tried in his own way to warn her, to 
protect her.  When they'd abducted her, stolen away part of 
her life and infected her body?  She chose not to walk away 
from the X-files, and from Mulder.  Her sister's death in 
her place?  That still hurt, as did Emily, her little girl 
that she never knew, only had for long enough to love, and 
then to lose.  When had Mulder's all-consuming quest for 
truth and answers encompassed her so completely? No matter 
how she looked, the moment of transformation eluded her.

Maybe there is no one decision that determines one's fate, 
but there are warning signs, revelations that show where 
the path is heading, if you take heed.  AD Skinner's death 
in the car "accident" was one such warning, not only that 
the Consortium had tired of his interference and support 
for the X-files, but of the agents themselves.

But they had failed to understand the warning.  Instead, it 
had given them fresh incentive, added impetus, to bring 
these men down, to bring them to justice.  Before his 
death, Skinner had warned them not to listen to Krycek, 
when the former agent had reappeared, speaking of wars, and 
the possibility of resistance.  Even though Krycek had been 
on the level, and the information he provided genuine, 
Scully contemplated the infinite possibilities contained 
within what-if.

What if they'd slammed the door in his face, what if Mulder 
and she refused to listen, as they had reason to, as they 
discussed doing?

Skinner would still be alive.

Langly would not have been burnt to death as his car became 
an inferno, after tracking down some names for them.  
Langly would not have passed on the information before he 
died, something their opponents had not counted on.

Mulder, Krycek and she would not have ignored the growing 
body count around them and pursued the leads.  She could 
have gone on pretending she had a choice about her fate, 
even though before Krycek showed up she knew too much to be 
allowed to walk away.  But at least she'd still be working 
in that cramped basement office, living in her own 
apartment, not existing in the shadows, with false names 
and disguises.

They would not have inconvenienced the Consortium enough to 
warrant a termination order.

She would not have been kidnapped from outside his 
apartment, and taken to a gutted warehouse, to feel a gun 
against her head and hear a shot ring out.  Not have been 
freed, shaking and in shock, by Krycek, as his men disposed 
of her would-be assassins.

Mulder wouldn't have been gunned down and left to die alone 
in the dark.  Scully's throat tightened and her stomach 
clenched, but she replayed the events of almost twenty nine 
months ago in her mind, forcing herself to witness them 
again.  The terrible drive to his apartment, Krycek in the 
passenger seat, trying to call Mulder on the cellphone.  
There was no answer.  Even now, she can't remember running 
up to Mulder's apartment, Krycek on her heels.  The door to 
no.  42 was already open, no lights on, a man she didn't 
know standing besides the door, apologising to Krycek that 
they'd been too late.  Mulder lay crumpled on the floor 
just inside, a dark pool spreading from his body.  She had 
fallen to her knees beside him, feeling for a pulse and 
trying to staunch the blood flow.  He'd been shot multiple 
times at close range.

Not breathing.

No pulse.

She had felt rather than saw Krycek kneel beside her, and 
lay his hand on her shoulder.  Sobs had wracked her body 
but no tears had fallen.  Mulder's blood had been all over 
both of them, washing away past sins and old lives.  
Baptising them anew into the world, into new existences.

She remembered little of the next few days, running and 
hiding, ensuring Byers and Frohike were fleeing too.  Dark 
holes, darker thoughts.  She had operated automatically, 
not thinking about where she was going, or what she was 
running from, but only of the task at hand.  Of survival.  
Of revenge.  Of a war she would fight.

Footsteps in the hallway interrupted her self-immolation in 
grief and guilt, summoning her back to the present.  Scully 
moved silently into the dark outer room, as a quiet rap 
sounded on the door.

"Who is it?", her voice pitched higher than usual, a slight 
southern drawl present.

"It's me".  Again, a disguised voice, but still instantly 
familiar.

A normal, everyday greeting.  Or an all-clear signal.

Depends on your lifestyle.

He unlocked the door and let himself in, unsurprised by the 
gun pointed at his head.  She was always careful, despite 
the security he had already been through.  The day either 
of them stopped be careful was the day the resistance lost 
another soldier.

"You wouldn't shoot a one-armed man, would ya copper?" he 
teased, green eyes laughing at her in an otherwise straight 
face.

"Keep up those awful puns and you're a dead man Alex", she 
tried to keep her tone casual, but failed, as she put the 
gun down and turned on the lights, both of them blinking in 
the sudden brightness.

Alex dumped the bags he carried on the floor, and wrapped 
his arm around her waist, his breath hot against her skin.

"Gods, I've missed you Dana," he whispered as their lips 
met, in an enthusiastic, fervent homecoming for both of 
them.

"Is everything okay?", Scully reluctantly turned her 
thoughts to business after several minutes of investigating 
exactly how much he'd missed her.

"Yeah, we should be fine here for a while.  Fallout from 
the success of taking out their Minsk labs is easing off.  
I've got reports that we should look over tonight, some new 
recon data about their base in Tunisia.  And I really want 
to hear about the work you've been doing with the material 
Rory provided you about the Alpha's creation.  I spoke to 
her briefly last week ago, and she was positively 
exuberant.  She actually smiled," he said, mocking their 
friend's restrained temperament as he pulled a compact 
notebook from a bag and turned it on.

"How is she?  I haven't seen her since I was in Denver."

Their conversation touched on friends and comrades, which 
was a regrettably short list, before moving to business.  
This ranged from the genetic research Scully had been 
overseeing, to the latest stolen spy satellite images of a 
Consortium base in North Africa.  They had both worked on 
taking out the cloning facilities in Russia, an unusually 
overt act in a war that was mainly fought silently, in the 
shadows.  But then their skills had drawn them apart, 
different projects had needed them, and now there was much 
to brief the other on.  Several hours later, Scully noticed 
that while he seemed the model of interest and attention as 
she gave a detailed explanation of the ramifications of the 
gene resequencing, his focus was actually miles away.  
Without changing her tone, she continued "and next Tuesday 
is the date in the movie '2001' when Dave passed through 
the monolith."

"Absolutely essential," Krycek started to agree with 
whatever she'd been saying, then realised he'd been caught 
out and grinned.

"Really?" he queried, and Scully nodded.  "Thank god," he 
continued, "we'll finally be done with all these bloody 
'and today is the day HAL went mad' and 'this is the day 
they left Earth' crap that's been going on for months."  
Scully began laughing at his grousing about the "Space 
Odyssey" fever that had gripped the world in this first 
year of the new millenium.  It was growing bloody tedious.  
Something far more interesting was Krycek's hand wandering 
up her thigh, tracing a delicate pattern invisible to most.

"What are ya doin' Alex?" she deadpanned, and he muttered a 
"Not you too," under his breath before replying in a 
lascivious tone, "what do you think, Dana?"

"I think that there isn't any other business that can't 
wait until tomorrow.  Don't you agree?" she said, in a 
calm, moderate voice.

"Absolutely," Krycek shot back, mimicking her tone of 
voice, before his mouth was claimed for other duties.

And the war was forgotten for a few precious hours.

~*~*~*~*~*~

This was the first XF fanfic I wrote, though it has been 
almost completely rewritten since then, after seeing the 
rest of S5 and the movie, so it is not the first I posted.  

It should end up as a middle segment in a loosely connected 
series of stand-alone stories I have planned, but with 
exams looming I don't have much time to write fiction for 
the next six weeks or so.  But given time I will explain 
how they came to be working with Krycek, who Rory is and 
what happens in my bleak little future history.  Feedback 
is welcomed and celebrated, both on newsgroup or at 
erilyn_c@yahoo.com.  I know this story is far from perfect 
<g>, so critical feedback is appreciated.  Thanks for 
reading :)

END