Title: Strange Oasis Author: Spooky email: ddwake1@netcom.ca Keywords: post-colonization; M/Sk friendship Spoilers: Requiem Summary: Running for his life in a post-apocalyptic world, Skinner finds a strange refuge among his enemies. Strange Oasis By Spooky Moving. He had to keep moving or die. That was the imperative that drove him, past exhaustion, past instinct, past hope. As if it would make a difference -- as if it would change the fact that they had lost. Lost their world to black, otherworldly death, fanged and taloned. Soldiers for the Grays, sent to rid the planet of its human pestilence. His companions gone, ripped apart one by one. Even Scully, a year dead, her face frozen forever in surprise. No time to mourn, to bury the dead. They had had to keep moving. And moving he was still; some stubborn remnant of the Marine he had once been refusing to succumb. Once, in a different war, he had been the sole survivor of his patrol. Now time had looped around and repeated itself. Stunned numbness eclipsed hunger, fatigue, his sporadic and uneasy sleep. Driven by some instinct for survival he couldn't comprehend. Some vain hope that resistance still lived somewhere. The forest spoke around him: leaves rustled their secrets to the air, startled animals announced his presence in their domain with their flight. The activity was reassuring: if they were running from him, it was because they hadn't already run from the unnatural creatures in their midst. Three years of living and running in the forests and devastated cities had made him adept at interpreting the messages in the sounds that reached him. Nevertheless, long paranoia kept him looking for fleeting shadows within the shadows, black death on silent feet. He was beyond exhaustion. His once powerful physique had suffered beneath hardship and privation; his gaunt body was burning the last of its reserves. Already the promise of winter was in the air and he knew that if the black death that stalked the land failed to find him, then winter's white death would. He stumbled to his knees again, a whoosh of breath escaping despite his efforts to keep silent. His rasping breath drowned out the forest noises. Was that rustle in the underbrush more stealthy than the others? Was the prickling at the back of his neck the eyes he'd felt watching him since he'd begun his flight? Or merely his overwrought paranoia? He rested a moment on the forest floor, taking a long swig from his canteen before readjusting the pack that held his meager belongings. His head snapped up; the sudden absence of sound as shrill to his shattered nerves as an alarm. There was ominous rustling in the bush and even the trees seemed to be telling him to "Run, run!" First one, then another, shadow detached itself from the trees and Skinner knew he had finally come to the end of his flight. His shoulders slumped in defeat as he felt the presence of a third monster slide behind him. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling, finally, to see from which direction his death would come. The moment stretched into forever and Skinner found himself wondering whether it was only his perception of time that had slowed or if the monsters were indeed deliberately drawing out the moment of this death. There was more rustling and Skinner blinked at the boots that were suddenly in his view. His gaze swept up worn, dark jeans, black t-shirt to find a face he hadn't seen in five years. A face he'd last seen in a forest like this in Oregon; a man he'd come to believe was dead. Mulder. Words deserted him; it seemed there must be something to say to this, this unexpected resurrection. Questions surged through his mind, unable to find their way past his numb tongue. Of all the scenarios he had imagined, dreamed of, this didn't even come close. He could only gape at the familiar countenance. Five long years of guilt and despair. Of knowing he had failed. And here Mulder was, standing before him, alive and seemingly well. A movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention and he watched the killers slide into back into the forest depths. Rage surged through his veins, grayed his vision. *Traitor*. Mulder flinched back as if Skinner had struck him. "Come," he said wearily, his voice raspy as if from disuse. "You need to get warm, eat." He held out his hand. Skinner stared at it balefully a moment, then took it, reluctantly allowing Mulder to haul him to his feet. He followed his former agent through the woods, wondering all the while if he was about to be delivered to some alien death camp; become a host to breed more monstrosities. He was acutely aware of the shapes flitting through the woods on either side of them. What betrayal had given Mulder this authority? Wondered wearily why Mulder hadn't just ended it there and then, why toy with him now? Mulder looked back at him, his expression askance, before resuming his sure-footed path through the trees. They trekked in silence, and silence from Mulder was an X-File in and of itself. He studied the back of the man he had known, the man he would have once called friend. Would have wagered his last breath that Fox Mulder would never betray his own species. He tried to reconcile that man with this one. This Mulder was thinner, nearly gaunt, as he was himself. Mulder had always radiated an aura of pain and sorrow, but now these were amplified a hundredfold. But there had also been a sense of hope and wonder about him as well -- the set of Mulder's shoulders suggested that these had died long ago. Despite present circumstances, Skinner just couldn't believe Mulder capable of such treason. There simply had to be another explanation. At length they came to a clearing, and Mulder ushered him into the small cabin uncertainly. Skinner let his gaze roam, his rage once again mounting. The cabin was simply appointed, with bookshelves lining the walls. There was electricity and running water and Skinner knew those hadn't existed in the three years since the invasion. Mulder set about building a fire in the large fireplace, then shuffled his feet, as if unsure of himself. "Coffee," he muttered, as if unused to speaking aloud. "Coffee." There was the clanging of mugs and cupboards and Skinner wondered what crimes Mulder had committed that entitled him to such luxury. He could see Mulder stiffen, as if he could see the words hanging above Skinner's head, like some obscene cartoon balloon. The words came through clenched teeth. "It's not what you think." "Oh?" Skinner challenged. "What do I think?" Mulder turned to face him then. "You think I'm a traitor. That I would deliberately..." His hand swept out in a gesture designed to take in the entire cabin. "It's a pretty prison, granted, but still a prison. And the jailers are damn ugly." His voice rasped as if it hadn't been used in years. Or as if it had been damaged beyond repair. "You seem pretty chummy with them." Mulder snorted in disgust, his shoulders slumping in resignation. "They leave me alone as long as I stay in the valley. If I try to leave ." His voice tapered off, his gaze becoming vacant. Skinner shifted uneasily, unwilling to contemplate what punishment might be incurred for attempted escape. In an effort to bring Mulder back from whatever depths had claimed him, Skinner asked, "Why didn't they kill me?" The younger man turned back to pour the coffee, thinking about his response. "I don't know," he said at length, handing Skinner his mug. "I begged them not to, but I never thought they'd listen." Skinner nearly choked on his coffee. "You can communicate with them?" Mulder squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "Yeah." Skinner's mind returned to a hospital room six years ago, his agent drowning beneath the onslaught of other minds, his own duplicity revealed -- proof undeniable that Mulder could read his thoughts. He raised his head to look at Mulder, and for the first time he got a look at Mulder's eyes. Christ, they looked like they belonged to a dead man. Pain and terror and despair had eclipsed all else and left only desolation in their wake. Skinner was certain he could see the destruction of the world reflected in Mulder's eyes. His former agent's eyes skittered away, uncomfortable with his superior's thoughts. Skinner took another sip of his coffee, allowing himself to savor a luxury he'd had too seldom over the years. And realized how much he'd missed it. He closed his eyes, and tilted his head back in enjoyment. He heard Mulder snort with amusement and cracking an eye open, he could see the younger man coaxing a grin out of muscles long unused. The two men savored the moment, finding a simple human comfort in the levity, in the companionship. Despite the initial awkwardness, the old patterns of friendship were beginning to reassert themselves. Silence settled over them like a favorite sweater. Skinner, never garrulous by nature, found the silence comforting. Mulder, bereft of human companionship for five long years, seemed to have fallen out of the habit of conversation. At length, Skinner's voice broke the quiet. "Why *are* you here?" Mulder shook his head wearily. "I don't know. I just woke up here, after they were done. And *they*," he gestured out the window, "won't let me leave." "How long have you been here?" "Two winters." Mulder suddenly squinted his eyes shut, a hand to his forehead. "Mulder?" Skinner queried, concerned. Mulder waved him off. "'S okay. I just get headaches now. I'm not used to having human thoughts in my head. I just need to lie down for a while." "You can read my mind?" Of course, Skinner thought, dumbfounded. Of course. "'M yeah. Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa, and all that. Oh," he turned to Skinner, his expression strained and grave. "I wouldn't go far from the cabin if I were you. Just in case." With that, he disappeared into the lone bedroom. ****** Skinner sat in front of the fire, savoring another cup of coffee, sated. He'd stared a long moment after the bedroom door closed, before his stomach let him know it had been far too long since it had had its fill. He'd wandered into the kitchen, staring stupefied at the array of foods available there, foods he hadn't seen in ages. He'd run his hands lovingly over the packages, breathed in the aroma of fresh vegetables, basked in the deliberate coolness of the frozen meats, unable to remember when the Resistance hadn't had to scrounge for sustenance from society's ruined dregs. It had taken all his willpower to keep his meal small and simple, knowing his deprived stomach could handle no more. And now he was sitting here, replete, in this comfortable prison, when only a week ago he was watching his comrades die. It spoke of things he didn't want to dwell upon, so his mind skittered away from them, choosing instead to contemplate Mulder's words. Wondered how one endured, day after day, year after year, a prisoner, isolated not only from friends and family, or anything familiar, but isolated from even his own species. Could any loneliness touch that, Skinner wondered. Far more than being a stranger in a land where your skin marked you apart, but where the inhabitants weren't even your own species. It was no wonder that Mulder was changed -- the wonder was that he'd stayed sane at all. Skinner stared uneasily as he watched the dark shapes glide past the window. Wondered how safe he really was. He had seen these monstrosities bursting out of living bodies, seen them rip those bodies apart. Friends. Comrades. Scully. Yet Mulder had moved among them with assurance -- he could communicate with them. And that was what was bothering him. Mulder had not moved among them warily, as a prisoner among his jailers; he'd moved among them as a man among comrades, colleagues -- friends, even. Confident of his place. His gut clenched in rebellion. Could it be true? Could Mulder have lied? Anyone can break, Skinner knew. And Mulder had spent five long years in enemy hands. He didn't want to believe it, but couldn't shake the notion. Communicate with them. Read their minds. Read *his* mind. He supposed that was why Mulder hadn't asked about Scully -- no doubt he had seen the truth of her death imprinted in his mind. Did he know then, of the fate of her child? *His* child? How she'd learned of her pregnancy the day of his abduction, only to miscarry in her fifth month? How the loss of another child had very nearly undone her -- only her fierce faith that she would one day find Mulder had kept her from complete despair. But Skinner had never seen her smile again. Better by far, he thought, if Mulder never saw these thoughts. He would have them expunged from his memory if only he knew how. ******* Mulder was watching with thinly veiled amusement as Skinner tried to make up for years of privation in one sitting. If he had picked up the other man's doubts, he said nothing. "I'm not that bad a cook." Mulder looked up from picking at his food, startled. "No, it's good. Better than I can make. I'm just not very hungry." He pushed his plate away. Skinner guessed Mulder ate as little as he could get away with, considering the man's gauntness in the midst of plenty. Or maybe Bureau rumor hadn't exaggerated the man's dependence on take-out. "So where does all this," Skinner gestured to the food on the table, "come from?" "Manna from heaven," Mulder answered bitterly. "There's a bright light, and abracadabra, groceries." Sated once again, Skinner was yawning now, eyeing the small, lumpy couch with trepidation. That got a wry expression from Mulder that Skinner thought was trying to be a full-fledged smile, only it had gotten misplaced somewhere along the way. "The bed's big enough for two. Don't worry." This time a real grin answered Skinner's stunned expression. "Your virtue is safe with me." Skinner didn't tell Mulder he would have happily sold his virtue for a night in a real bed. He yawned again. "You coming?" "Later," Mulder answered. "I don't need much sleep." Skinner wondered if that were true, or if Mulder simply couldn't face the terrors sleep must surely bring. * Reflexes honed from years of quick awakenings had him up and alert in seconds, hands groping uselessly for a weapon he had lost weeks ago. It took longer for memory to kick in, for him to remember who it was on the other side of the bed. Mulder was sitting upright, his back ramrod straight. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated crazily into black pools that allowed no light to escape. His breath came in hitching gasps, low moans strangled with half sobs. Skinner could almost have rathered awakening to screams -- those moans were hideous. Skinner was familiar with the look on Mulder's face - - too familiar. Such a strange dichotomy to see that expression transplanted thousands of miles and dozens of years from steamy jungle to quiet cabin. What was left of those who survived, Skinner mused, knowing his own face had held that same look of horror for too many years after Vietnam. "Mulder," he said ineffectually. Knowing what was happening didn't make it easier to deal with -- he wasn't a touchy-feely sort of person, as Sharon had reminded him endlessly. God, he presumed to be fighting for the entire human race and he couldn't even manage something as human as compassion. As giving comfort to a fellow human being. "Mulder, you're safe. It's okay," Skinner tried again, no more sure of himself. "No one's going to hurt you." Mulder gave no indication he heard Skinner's pleas. His whole body shook as if with palsy and Skinner could see the sheen of sweat covering the younger man. He touched Mulder's arm in what was meant to be a comforting gesture -- the skin beneath his hand was ice-cold. "Mulder," he said more forcefully, damning himself for an insensitive fool when Mulder flinched from his tone. He was more certain than ever that he had to stop this -- if only so he wouldn't have to hear those broken sounds. Years dissolved beneath the onslaught of memory and he remembered his own night terrors during his long convalescence in the VA hospital. Remembered the matronly nurse enfolding him in her arms, rocking him, cooing to him as if he were her child. How safe he had felt. "Mulder," he repeated, his voice gentler this time and full of sorrow. Hesitantly at first, he gathered the shaking man into his arms, rocking him and whispering reassurances. Mulder's gaze remained blank, but something must have penetrated the terrors of his mind for the moans finally stuttered to a halt, although the trembling continued. Skinner pulled Mulder's cold body closer, sharing his body heat. There was something comforting about it all, Skinner mused, as if it wasn't a 45-year-old man he was rocking like a child. Something reassuring about being needed, about being able to give comfort. He'd never considered himself the paternal type -- it had been a major sticking point in his marriage with Sharon -- now he wondered if he had been hasty. Dawn was filtering through the curtains when Mulder's body finally relaxed and dreamless slumber found him again. Skinner carefully disengaged their bodies, gently settling Mulder on his side of the bed. Skinner wondered what, if anything, Mulder would remember when he woke. How the hell, Skinner wondered aghast, had he managed all these years, crying or screaming himself awake, or silently shaking in his sleep? The nights had eventually fallen into a rhythm. Sometimes it was Skinner who suffered from the nightmares; Mulder waking him, or occasionally holding him until the worst had passed. Once, he had awoken from a dream of Scully's death, only to find tears streaming down Mulder's face. Skinner realized then that Mulder relived it all -- every nightmare Skinner endured, Mulder endured too. Most often, it was Mulder whose nightmares disturbed the night, and Skinner who played the role of comforter. Often, a touch and a word was all that was required to bring Mulder back from the tormented depths of his psyche -- but there were times when he couldn't wake the younger man and had to ride it out, holding him and murmuring reassurances until lucidity took hold or Mulder collapsed back into slumber. By unspoken agreement, the men never spoke of the nightmares, or their odd intimacy. *********** Looking back on the preceding weeks, Skinner could only find them surreal. He had always known the human mind and spirit were resilient, able to adjust to an infinitude of adversities -- he had only to look at Mulder to see that. And yet if anyone had told him that at any point in his life he'd be cohabiting with Spooky Mulder, the FBI's enfant terrible, he would have sent them for a psych evaluation. It seemed incredible to him that he *was* here, among the entities that had virtually destroyed the human race, sharing this plush prison, and he was content. Content. Huh. He was regaining his strength, gaining back the weight he'd lost through the years of scant rations. With improved health came restlessness and cabin fever. It seemed their captors were more interested in their physical health than their mental well-being. The books that lined the shelves were the only form of recreation available to them, other than hiking or jogging through the woods. Skinner accompanied Mulder on these excursions only rarely, contenting himself with endless pushups and sit-ups. The proximity of those deadly shadows caused a visceral fear in him, despite Mulder's assurances. As the winter wore on, Skinner wondered if he, too, was now confined to the valley, or if he was free to leave if he wished. On the one hand, he wanted to leave, to find another resistance group and continue the fight. He felt vaguely guilty for living in what was essentially luxury, knowing what was happening outside this remote valley. On the other hand, leaving would consign Mulder once more to solitude, with only alien assassins for companionship. Could he really do that to his friend? As it was, Mulder, who had never willingly been still in all the years Skinner had known him, seemed to have adjusted to the inactivity far better than the older man. While Skinner combated boredom with such exercise as he could, or perusing the extensive library, Mulder would sit staring at the window, or endlessly wandering the woods. Mulder staring out the window now, his gaze unfocused, his mind roaming among his captors, gleaning what information he could. Curious, Skinner asked, "What's it like -- reading their minds?" Mulder stared at the window thoughtfully. "Their minds are simple," he said finally. "They were created for a purpose, and they derive satisfaction from serving that purpose." Skinner snorted in derision, showing what he thought of the aliens' vaunted purpose. Mulder seemed not to notice. "They're all linked," he continued slowly. "What one knows, they all know. They are never alone." He looked at Skinner for the first time, searching for words, his voice wistful. "Their minds are uncomplicated. They don't know how to lie. It's refreshing." "You admire them," Skinner accused. Mulder shook his head. "It's not their fault they were made this way." He turned back to the window, his voice so soft Skinner had to strain to hear. "There's something -- comforting -- in knowing what you are, what your purpose is." He's traumatized, Skinner reminded himself. They've been his only companions for two years. Mulder gave him a scathing look. "It's not Stockholm Syndrome either," he ground out, stalking to the kitchen. Unfortunately, the cabin was so small that no real escape was possible. "I'm sorry, Mulder," Skinner apologized. "But I don't really know what to think. I've seen them kill." He took a deep, steadying breath. "They killed Scully. I can't admire them or feel sorry for them." Skinner waited for a flash of the famous Mulder temper, but the younger man simply sank into a kitchen chair. Skinner saw the that pain lingered in Mulder's eyes at the mention of Scully. He spoke softly, his eyes fixed on his hands, as if they belonged to someone else. "I tried to end it so many times." Skinner could barely hear the words. "They always brought me back. Even here." Mulder raised his head then, his gaze once more locked on the window. There was a long pause. "I cut my wrists." His gaze fell once more to his unmarked arms. "I tried drowning myself in the lake. Even starving myself." He let out a strangled parody of laughter. "They keep bringing me back. I even went out in a snow storm in a t-shirt and shorts. I didn't even feel the cold. They won't let me go." If Skinner could have, he would have wept for the despair in that voice. And just what, precisely, was one to say to that? ********** Skinner heard a muffled curse from the kitchen where Mulder was slicing vegetables for dinner. "What is it?" he asked, concerned. "Nothing," Mulder answered, placing his hand beneath the faucet. "I just cut myself, that's all." "Need a bandage?" "There aren't any," Mulder replied. "Our hosts don't provide first aid supplies. But it's stopped now." Skinner grunted a reply, turning to leave when his eyes caught the bubbling hole in the countertop. "Mulder," he whispered, feeling like he'd been gut shot again. Had he been played for a fool? Was the man before him about to morph into an alien bounty hunter? Mulder swallowed hard as he followed Skinner's gaze. "They did to me what they did to Cassandra Spender," he murmured. "My DNA has more in common with those things out there than with yours," he concluded bitterly. Skinner knew he should have some comforting words to say, some reassurance to Mulder that in every way that mattered he was still human. But the corroded countertop still held his gaze, rendering him speechless. He knew he'd waited too long when he heard the cabin door slam shut. Mulder's social skills might have been a little rough, but he had been one of the most human people Skinner had ever known. And despite everything the younger man had been through, Skinner suspected that hadn't changed. Hours went by as Skinner fretted, and Mulder remained still absent. He was concerned Mulder had hurt himself (but he'd heal, wouldn't he? a voice whispered in his head) or had gotten lost in the dark. He grabbed a flashlight and pulled on his parka and boots, hoping that the aliens would leave him alone while he looked for his errant roommate. He needn't have worried. He saw no shadows gliding just out of the reach of his light, nor did he feel the pricking at the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. Following Mulder's tracks was easy enough, if slow, and before long he reached a clearing among the trees. What he saw there made him stop in his tracks and he barely had the presence of mind to switch off the light. Moon and stars reflected off the snow, casting a surreal illumination. Mulder stood in the centre of the clearing, facing Skinner. He didn't seem to be aware of his friend, however. Nor did the aliens surrounding him. More aliens than Skinner had ever seen gathered in one place. All the aliens patrolling the valley must be here, he surmised, watching spellbound. Mulder seemed to be held in a trance, eyes tightly closed, muscles not even twitching. Even as the creatures' long, taloned hands caressed him. Skinner couldn't be certain what they were doing -- they were touching Mulder all over, as if they were children needing reassurance from a trusted parent. Or as if Mulder was taking strength from them. The aliens' touches appeared gentle enough, Skinner decided, even worshipful. Something was happening here he didn't comprehend -- just what else had Mulder been hiding from him? If Mulder's story was all a ploy, what was its purpose? He concentrated on making a silent retreat, uncertain of the consequences for intruding on what had to be a private affair. He'd be certain to ask Mulder in the morning though -- no more secrets, regardless of Mulder's fractured emotions. Skinner had to know where he stood -- was Mulder sympathetic to the alien cause, if not an outright collaborator? Five years of imprisonment and torture could do that, Skinner knew. Silently he withdrew, and headed back to the cabin. It must have been past midnight when Mulder returned to the cabin. Skinner was roused from his doze by the fading fire by the closing of the door. He heard Mulder give a heavy sigh, then the thunk of another log being added to the fire. The flames rose, casting more light over the dim cabin. "You okay?" Skinner asked. Mulder refused to meet his gaze. "I'm fine," he answered, almost defiantly. Skinner took a deep breath. The tension in the air hung like a miasma of doubt. "I followed you tonight," Skinner blurted. Mulder shrugged. "Enjoy the show?" "That depends on what the hell was going on out there. 'Cause I have to say, Mulder, you didn't look like a prisoner tonight." Rage contorted Mulder's face. "You *still* think I'm a traitor. You don't trust me." "Mulder," Skinner rubbed the bridge of his nose, helplessly. This was as bad as any of the confrontations they'd had back in the Bureau. "Help me out here, okay? I want to understand. I want to understand how you can be so chummy with those things. I want to believe." Mulder collapsed into an overstuffed chair, head in his hands. "You were a soldier. You understand about following orders. Now imagine that you were *created* to be a soldier, *programmed* to follow orders. You can't imagine anything else, no other existence is possible. They're soldiers. I don't, I can't I can't hate them for what they are. Not anymore." "And what was going on tonight?" Skinner asked gently. Mulder looked up, his gaze unfocused. "They're responsible for my well-being. I don't... there aren't words. I was upset. They don't like that -- it makes them upset too." He shrugged. "They respect the similarities between us. The DNA we share." Once again, Mulder's revelations had taken away Skinner's capacity for speech. ******** Winter had begun to fade and the thaw brought with it the promise of spring. Amazingly, the two men had managed to survive the past weeks without undue flaring of tempers. They took advantage of the break in the weather to alleviate their cabin fever and tramp through the woods. Skinner had even grown accustomed to the menacing shapes gliding through the trees alongside them. It was worrisome, then, when he awoke one morning to find Mulder gone. More worrisome when he did not materialize during the day. Skinner wondered if he should go out looking for his friend, but the agitated state of the alien jailers changed his mind. Skinner didn't want to know what could make them this upset. He was woken by a thump in the middle of the night. He could barely make out Mulder's silhouette as the younger man leaned heavily against the doorjamb. Skinner scrambled out of bed, turning on the lamp as he did so. He took a sharp breath. Hurriedly, he helped Mulder to the bed -- the younger man looked as if he was about to collapse. Mulder looked terrible. His face was ashen, and he was sweating and shaking uncontrollably. It was a struggle to keep himself upright. "What the hell happened to you, Mulder?" he asked as he settled Mulder beneath the sheets. "The warden wanted to see me," he responded wearily. Skinner disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth to wipe the fever- sweat from Mulder's face. "I thought they had finished the testing," Skinner said neutrally, trying to keep his rage under check. "Oh, they like to surprise me every now and then." Forlorn hazel eyes locked with Skinner's. "If they didn't still need me, I wouldn't be here." And that, Skinner knew, was the awful truth. Skinner stayed by Mulder's side during the night as Mulder's fever rose and he sank into delirium. He gritted his teeth while he held his former agent and tried to reassure him through the nightmares and hallucinations. A suspicious wetness filled his eyes as Mulder cried piteously for Scully. Not once since Skinner had arrived at this dubious haven had Mulder so much as breathed his partner's name. Silently he cursed all those who had hurt Mulder over the years, especially the bastards who had performed such inhumane tests. Torture. He bathed Mulder with cool water. At one point, Mulder was lucid enough to rasp, "Maybe this is why they let you stay." Mulder's fever finally broke about midday and he fell into a heavy slumber. Skinner seethed with rage at their captors, at the suffering of a good man. Finally, he followed his friend into sleep. ******** Spring had finally announced itself with rain-laden grey skies that inexorably beat the snow into submission. Dull light infiltrated the cabin, infecting the men inside with bored lethargy. Skinner, fed up with reading, and for lack of anything else to do, was on his second set of one hundred sit-ups. Exercise, a good diet, and a relatively stress-free life had conspired to replace the weight and muscle tone he'd lost in the years he'd struggled to survive colonization. He'd been giving thought, too, of moving on -- of finding another resistance group and continuing the battle. As idyllic as this interlude was, he could see it as nothing other than a brief respite, a strange oasis in the midst of chaos. He knew the peace was deceptive -- somewhere beyond the valley humans were being harvested, used to breed a race of super-soldiers, being rounded up, as Mulder had been, for ruthless experimentation and slave labour. There was always the possibility that the aliens would not allow him to leave -- they appeared to have no interest in him at all and he could only surmise that he'd been allowed to live simply so he could keep Mulder company in his captivity -- care for him when the experiments resumed. Mulder claimed he could not leave the valley -- but Skinner couldn't help but think there had to be a way. He wasn't about to abandon Mulder here, but Skinner knew he could not remain in this plush prison much longer. He'd regained his strength, and with it his outrage and purpose. He would find a way to continue the fight and his first act would be rescuing Mulder from his jailers. For his part, Mulder stood by the window, his eyes fixed, not on the rain, or the agitated black shadows moving restlessly in the dim light, but on a distance that Skinner could not hope to fathom. He shivered, as he always did when Mulder sent his mind out among his guards. "They're coming," the younger man announced suddenly, his mind returned from his communion with the monsters outside. No matter that Mulder didn't think of them as such, Skinner couldn't think of them as anything else. "Who's coming?" he asked, a raw pit of fear growing in his gut. No way was this going to be good news. "The second wave," Mulder answered wearily, trying to massage away the pain from his temples. "The ones the Grays work for." "Work for?" Skinner could only repeat dumbly. There were *more* damn aliens coming? There weren't enough of them on the planet? "Yeah. I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think the Grays were conquered a long time ago -- maybe thousands of years ago. They're the advanced guard, because they're considered expendable." "So who are these bastards?" "They," Mulder gestured out the window, "aren't really sure. It's not information that they've been given." His brow creased in thought. "I might have run into a few of them," he said slowly, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. "But I'm not sure. They scrambled my memories pretty good." Not good enough to keep you from having horrific nightmares, Skinner thought to himself. "Just what does this mean?" he prompted. Mulder held the other man's gaze, his voice serious. "It means there isn't any more resistance. They've won." The former agent's shoulders slumped in defeat. Damn, but Mulder had rendered him speechless once again. Skinner could only stare at Mulder, stunned. No more resistance? Skinner had always assumed that there would be a resistance movement, somewhere, that could use his skills. That there would always be blows to strike until they had won back their planet. But Mulder was telling him that wasn't going to happen. They had lost. *Lost*. His own incredulous eyes sought out Mulder's resigned ones and he realized his former agent had never held any illusions, any hopes, of winning this war. "Jesus," he breathed, unable to take it all in. The war was lost and now the victors were coming to claim the spoils. He heard Mulder shuffling off and the bedroom door closing, another headache making conscious thought well-nigh impossible. Now what? Skinner thought as he sank onto the couch. Should he leave anyway, in the hopes Mulder was wrong? And if he did -- assuming the aliens in the woods would allow him to leave -- to what fate would he be consigning his friend? Skinner was the only human the man had seen in five years -- the only soul he could talk to. Was there some way for Mulder to leave the valley? The aliens seemed solicitous of him -- to the point of allowing Skinner to live, of offering comfort.... Would that solicitude extend to disregarding their orders if Mulder tried to leave with Skinner? It was, he thought, a worthwhile question to ask. ******* A weight landed heavily on his chest and he was being shaken roughly and an urgent voice was calling his name.... Skinner snapped awake, disoriented; he had been expecting Doggett to be sounding the alarm and his men rushing about in preparation for an attack. When Mulder scampered back after so rudely awaking him, however, he remembered that Doggett wasn't going to sound any more alarms and his men would repel no more attacks. Ever. His backpack hit him squarely in the chest after Mulder flung it across the room. He hefted it -- it was immeasurably heavier than it had been when he had arrived. Mulder tossed him his clothes. "Hurry." "What's going on?" Skinner shimmied into his jeans, fear churning into his gut at Mulder's manic movements. "They're coming," the younger man muttered, resuming his accustomed stance at the window. "You said that the other day. What's changed?" Mulder shook his head. "No. I mean they're coming *here*. And if they find you you'll be dead -- or worse." He met Skinner's gaze steadily. "You have to go." The men made good time through the woods they'd come to know so well. Skinner was uncomfortably aware of the agitated forms shadowing their flight. He couldn't help but wonder if Mulder's urgency was all for naught -- if the alien jailers would bar their path from the valley. At length, Mulder halted their mad dash through the darkened forest. The woods here looked no different than any they had passed through, except that it marked the marge of the valley, the final restriction on Mulder's freedom. The dark shapes halted too, barely visible in the moonless night. "You need to head north-west," Mulder finally broke the silence. "Head into Canada, around Hudson's Bay. They," a glance into the shadows, "don't know much about the area, so I assume that means there aren't many of them there. Maybe you'll find someone...." "Come with me," Skinner said impulsively. Mulder shook his head slowly, nodding to the shadows looming in the forest darkness. "They won't let me leave." His hand unconsciously caressed the back of his neck. "And they could track me anywhere I went," he added ruefully. "I'd just be a danger to you." An implant. Of course. Skinner should have realized. "Go," Mulder said finally, his tone of voice belying the urgency of his command. He was as reluctant to see his only companion leave as Skinner was to go. Mulder nodded to the trees once again. "They won't follow." Skinner nodded, not trusting himself to words. To the living death his friend was facing. He thrust out his hand. Mulder grasped it like a lifeline and they stood for a long moment, hands clasped, eyes locked together. Each realizing they would not meet again and that the future for both was uncertain and fraught with danger. There was no awkwardness when they finally parted; they had endured too much and circumstances were too dire for such things to be relevant. Mulder turned and disappeared into the trees. Skinner stared after him a long moment before remembering the menacing shadows just out of sight. He hoped Mulder had been right they wouldn't follow. He turned his back on his friend, his strange oasis amid the devastation, and was finally able to face the days ahead with renewed hope. As he traveled throughout the night, it seemed he could feel baleful, malevolent eyes following him; every rustle caused his heart to jump in anticipation of being ripped apart, Mulder's assurances aside. He wondered if the black death that haunted these woods was capable of keeping whatever promises they had made. And what price Mulder would pay for those promises. But the hours passed without incident and he could believe that only his paranoia dogged his footsteps. At length he came to a road and the going was easier. Until the air shook with a low, utterly familiar, vibration. He looked up to see the ship pass slowly overhead and hover over the clearing he had lately left. A pillar of brilliant light leapt from the ship to the ground and Skinner could only stare dumbly, as he had in another forest, in another lifetime. "Mulder," he whispered, as he had on that long-ago night as the lights vanished and the ship sped into the distance. How long he stood there he couldn't say. Then Skinner once again turned his back and headed north. Always north. Finis