From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Thu, 23 Dec 1999 21:19:39 -0600 Subject: Love During Wartime by Karen Rasch Source: direct Reply To: krasch@earthlink.net "Love During Wartime" (1/1) by Karen Rasch krasch@earthlink.net http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are not mine. They belong to 1013 and Fox Television. I'm merely borrowing them for fun. No profit is being made. Rating: PG Classification: V, A, MSR Keywords: Strangely enough, Christmas Archive: At will. Please make certain my name remains attached to the story. Spoilers: Though this story is set in the future, there are no specific references to past episodes. Summary: Time will come, when we'll know what happened here. Change will come in time and make it clear. We learn one thing, if we learn at all. In the secret wars we call our lives, anything can happen. Credits for this intentionally vague summary and the story's coda appear at the end. :-) *************************************************** "Scully, I don't know if this is such a good idea. We don't have a lot of time." "I won't take long. Only a minute or two. You know . . . to look around." He should have known the moment he laid eyes on the place that she'd be drawn to it, pulled like a compass needle unerringly spins its way north. He can't really blame her for the attraction. The unexpected always has its allure. Who knew they'd stumble across something like this in the middle of a snow-covered Minnesota forest? After all the devastation they've seen, they could hardly have anticipated finding a public building in such pristine condition, unmarked by the Apocalypse save for the broken window outside of which they now stand. He knows that if he were to be stubborn, insist they move on, she would give in. It wouldn't be simply to please him. She is as aware of the danger they're in as he. But he can sense how badly she needs this, even if he doesn't really understand the need itself. More to the point, she so rarely asks for anything, so seldom admits to weakness or want. He could no more deny her the minutes she craves than he could leave her there to explore on her own. Besides, he tells himself, it's Christmas morning. And he hasn't exactly had time to do any shopping. This is a gift easily given. So, he nods. She smiles. And they enter The Church of the Pines. Tidy and small, the inside is nearly as well maintained as the building's clapboard exterior. The area near where the window was shattered is damaged, of course. The outdoors has blown in through the jagged stained glass; twigs, rotted leaves, what looks to be bird droppings; even a few pine cones litter the snowy aisle. Still, all things considered, wreckage is slight. If the parishioners were ever to return, it would require little effort to set it all to rights. "I'm surprised," she murmurs from somewhere on his left. "This place is in pretty good shape. Not like the churches we saw back east." The churches back east . . . THIS IS THE END OF THE WORLD And suddenly, it's all too much. He closes his eyes and swallows against the nausea, struggling to hold the memories at bay. "It's off the beaten path," he replies after a time, hopeful his terror has gone undetected. It appears as if it has. She couldn't have seen him. She is facing away, her head bowed, flipping idly through a hymnal. Pressing his fist to his mouth for an instant, he stations himself beside the ruined window, his pulse gradually slowing its gallop. "Literally. I'm sure when the bees hit, most people were too concerned with getting on the interstate to swing past here first." With that, she turns to look at him, holding his gaze for longer than he'd like. He can see it in her eyes. Contrary to what he first believed, she knows. Perhaps she heard something in his voice, something that alerted her to his state of mind. This isn't the first time his emotions have gotten the best of him. The horror that is colonization has overwhelmed him before, driven him to despair and beyond, pushed him into the arms of the woman now staring at him, her expression a silent question mark. But she has been there too, has known what it feels like to have existence cease its sense, to have panic take hold and squeeze until it's impossible to reason, breathe or function. It is because of this odd kinship they share that she says nothing, not a word to dispute the lie that is his fragile cool. Instead, she purses her lips and half-heartedly raises her right brow. Turning away once more, she unzips her parka and pushes back her hood. Setting the hymnal down on the seat of the pew, she continues her investigation. He watches her, perversely wishing it were too chilly for her to get comfortable in this way, too icy to expose her hair. Although their breath continues to fog before them, the mercury has noticeably inched its way up since daybreak. If he were a betting man, he'd wager it's a full five or ten degrees warmer than it was the day before. This temperate turn could spell disaster for them. The cold is the only thing slowing the newborns. "I guess you're right," she says as she wanders away from him, looking and touching, unknowing of his fear. "I just can't help but think that someone besides you and I would have found this place before now. After all, it's been more than five months since the invasion began." Five months. July 4th of the year 2000. You had to wonder if Earth's would-be conquerors were Will Smith fans. You really did. As unlikely as it might have seemed at the time, poor old Alvin Kurtzweil had been right. They had timed their attack to coincide with a national holiday, just as he had predicted. National for the U.S., anyway. Fourth of July. Let Freedom Ring. For weeks, Scully and he had been hearing rumors through unofficial channels. Unsubstantiated, yet too frightening to ignore. It still haunted him that they hadn't been able to do more with their advance notice. That they hadn't been able to do more with their lives before the aliens came and changed everything. "It looks as if some of the ritual items might be missing," she says, standing now at the front of the church. Her tone is detached, as if she were cataloguing evidence at a crime scene. "I don't see any chalice or candlesticks. In fact, the communion table is entirely bare. All that's left is the altar cloth and these crushed flowers." "That would explain the window," he offers. She nods. "Someone broke in and took what they needed." Took what they needed, he echoes inside his head. Took items they thought they might be able to barter. Though anyone who believed that silver plated communion-ware would be considered valuable in this brave new world ought to have his or her head examined. He and his partner had quickly learned the finer points of trade. They had been forced to in order to survive. Guns, ammunition, food, clothing--these were the things most sought after these days. The necessities of life. The finer things--luxury items, or even cold, hard cash--had quickly lost their worth. "Do you ever wonder how specific people have ended up?" He had been looking out the window, surveying the area between the church and the surrounding woods. Her question catches him off guard. He thinks for a moment he has perhaps missed something important leading up to the query. "What?" She glances away for a moment, her eyes lingering on the wrinkled white linen topping the altar. Taking hold of the cloth, she smoothes it back into place, the task made clumsy by her gloves. She's grown thin, he notes. Her lips and cheeks are chapped by the winter wind and she has shadows beneath her eyes. "How specific people have ended up," she repeats. "Not people we know, but the people who used to go to this church, or who lived in the houses we've stayed in, owned the shops we've taken supplies from. Do you ask yourself what's happened to them?" "No," he confesses, vaguely embarrassed he can't summon up the proper level of sympathy for this nameless, faceless throng. "I've never really thought about it." He knows his admittance sounds callous, unfeeling, that there ought to be enough room in his battered heart for more than just his immediate circle. And yet, there's not. He is consumed with keeping this woman and himself alive. He can't think beyond that, beyond the two of them. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. "I do," she tells him. "I think about it. About them. All the people who have gone missing or into hiding. I think about them all the time. Sometimes I feel as if they're watching us." He doesn't say this to her, but he wonders if maybe she daydreams about these unknown people because it's too painful to imagine ends for those she does know. Those she loves. He wonders for the hundredth time if she will ever forgive him for being unable to save her mother. "Scully, we have to go," he blurts out, mostly because it's true. They have a long way yet to travel, miles upon miles before they reach the Black Hills and the rebel camp they've been told awaits them there. But he also prods her because the memories are threatening again, and if he speaks it's easier to chase them away. "I know," she says with a nod and a sigh. "I'm sorry. I just need to do one last thing." At first, he thinks she is coming back to him. Then, he realizes she is actually only going as far as the first pew. She genuflects, enters and kneels there. Clasping her hands, she rests her forehead against her thumbs. Her eyes close and her lips begin shaping silent words. Surprised, fascinated, he edges closer, knowing he is intruding, yet unable to help himself. As she had promised him earlier, she doesn't take long. Little more than a minute passes before she raises her head. Turning, she sees him standing now beside her. Kneeling still, she smiles. He does not smile back. "How can you do that?" he asks. "Do what?" she replies. "Pray. What . . . why would you petition a god who would bring this on his people? What makes you think he's listening? How, after all we've been through, can you even believe he exists?" The moment the words leave his mouth, he is certain he has offended her, past all tolerance, all patience, all affection. She says nothing at first, choosing instead to avert her gaze, to moisten her mouth with her tongue, and ponder his blasphemy. When she lifts her chin, however, he sees no anger in her eyes. She is calm, almost serene. Reaching out, she takes his hand in hers, thick wool separating them even as their fingers entwine, and pulls him down to sit beside her. "Mulder, I can't prove to you that God exists," she says. "And I'd be lying if I told you there weren't times when I'd questioned this myself, moments when I was frightened or angry, when I'd felt betrayed by my faith." "I know that you and I have seen things these past few months . . . experienced things that would drive even the most devout followers into doubt and despair." "But I'm alive. And you're alive. And we're together. I have to be thankful for that. And no matter how hard it might seem or how impossible the odds may appear, we can't just give up. We have to fight." His hand gripped tightly in hers, he finds himself nodding, tears stinging behind his eyes. "But I can't do that in a world without hope. Without God. I have to believe that there is more to my life, my existence, than this. This hardship. I have to trust that God hasn't forgotten about me, that he is instead using me for a purpose." "So you believe because you have to?" he asks. "I believe because I know it to be true," she says. "How?" "I feel it," she replies. "Here." She pulls their hands inside her open parka and places them on her chest. Her heart beats reassuringly against his palm. "You feel it?" he queries again, as he feels her heat, her life. "I believe without proof," she says. "You taught me such a thing was possible." He shakes his head, yet uncertain. "You taught me all things were possible," she says softly, persuasively. Leaning in, she kisses him. Though her nose is cold against his cheek, her lips are warm and firm. "All things. Even God." He looks at her, his hand still tucked inside her jacket, and finally nods. "Merry Christmas, Scully," he whispers. "Merry Christmas, Mulder." Keeping hold of each other, they stand. Parting, she zippers her coat. Before she can do it herself, he lifts her hood up over her head and ties it beneath her chin. This time, when she smiles, he returns it. "Let's go." Side by side, they leave the church behind and strike out in the direction of the Badlands. As they walk, he prays to her God that it remains cold enough to keep them both alive. * * * * * * * * THE END "We watch the days, we make our plans We change in ways a life demands But what ever pleasure this life may allow I'll give you the love I have for you now Because anything can happen In a world so full of fear . . . Yeah, if this love can happen here Anything can" Jackson Browne "Anything Can Happen" from "World in Motion" ENDNOTE: At one time in my young life, this song had the power to make me cry like a woman (hey, . . . wait a minute . . . ). A review I read for "World in Motion" referred to this ballad as being about "love during wartime;" thus the name of my story. I guess many people might feel that the random universe Browne writes about is a scary place. But the notion of love flourishing against all odds fills me more with hope than despair. I hope this piece did the same for you. I know it's an atypical holiday story, but what the hell. You write what's there. Season's Greetings! :-)