Cold winds, sharp as acid against cheeks icy with frozen tears.

Grey, depthless light falling from the cloud-diluted sun and oozing over the hard ground. It erases all the shadows, silhouetting the skeletal tree branches, harshly outlining every detail.

Snow like frigid dust, whipped into a frenzy. Ropes, creaking, straining, strands rubbing together, sound like the moaning of condemned souls.

Dark, polished wood, black as night, heavy as despair.

Descending. The pit.

Earth falling like a final farewell, like failure, like a faithless surrender. All warmth leeched from life; all hope leached from spirit.

Death.

With a gasp, Dana Scully jerked awake. Her breath came harsh and fast in her throat, and her hands trembled as she reached for the clock. 3:15 am. Her flesh was cold with sweat; the heavy down comforter had fallen from the bed. She pushed back her hair with a distracted hand, focusing on slowing the frenzied coursing of blood through her veins. Rising, she struggled with the tangled sheets and her own ungainly bulk. There was a strong kick against her stomach, and she automatically placed a hand to her belly, calming the life within as she calmed herself.

He's alive. Scully closed her eyes and concentrated on relaxing the tightness of her shoulders. It was just a dream. Slowly, she made her way to the bathroom, and began drawing a hot bath. Lately, an ache had settled in her back, just above her hips, and the warm water helped; it let her feel almost light again. The sound of the rushing water was soothing, and soon the air was filled with steam. A few drops of lavender brought a rush of scent into the room, and she eased off her blue cotton pajamas and settled gratefully into the tub.

The waves of heat radiated up through the water, soaking into her tired limbs. But behind closed lids, the gray sky returned, pushing insistently against her thoughts. Black wood...falling earth...suffocating... Scully shook her head. He had been dead. There was nothing she, nor anyone, could have done when they found him. How could she know that he would return? Keeping his apartment had been strange enough, but his lifeless body? She had done what had to be done. And yet, he had defied all her science, all her logic, and returned. He always had to be right, damn it! Living proof of the very truth he had tried so long to prove.

When his eyes had opened, it was as though the shutters on a window to a different life had been opened. Something had been there--something so far removed from their work, from his ceaseless quest, that it was almost alien. But with his first words, it had disappeared, as though some ghost had twitched a curtain back into place. They had fallen into the superficial patterns of partnership. Scully shifted, bringing a hand to her forehead. The heat of unshed tears stung her eyes. Fish. They had talked of his goddamn fish. His scarred face drifted past her inner vision, expressionless, empty of emotion, reproaching her for Molly's death. And when she tried to give him the truth he sought...

The baby was still now, the warmth of their shared bath easing it into sleep. Scully stood and reached for a towel, then returned to her bed. Her glance fell on the phone, its silence echoing the emptiness of her apartment. It was nearly four in the morning. She looked away. The bed was a mess, covers and sheets entwined like the nest of happy lovers. She changed quickly into her pajamas and left the room, took the afghan from her couch, and lay down. The cushions gave beneath her weight, and she settled into a deeper sleep, hugging herself and thinking of other couches...

Four am. The fluorescent glow of the cathode tube flickered over Fox Mulder's face, shadowing the remains of his quickly healing scars. Ron Popeil was hocking his fruit dehydrator, and his perkiness was the final irritant that started an avalanche of annoyance. Mulder stabbed at the remote and the 50-watt grin disappeared. Standing, he began to pace his small living room, pausing occasionally to stare into the false dawn outside his window. But always, he turned away. There was nothing out there for him. No truth, no X-files, no Scully. "Damnit," he hissed to himself as he failed to trip over even one unattended file folder. The place was almost too clean. He flicked idle fingers against the glass of the aquarium, sending the fish darting behind the fake seaweed. Molly's absence bothered him. Everything had changed. The world outside wasn't his world anymore; the world inside only made him think of Scully, carrying away his junk, straining against her gravid stomach.

His hands clenched into fists. There was the biggest change of all, something he was powerless to return to its rightful order. Seeing her for the first time, he had felt icy shock grip his heart, threatening to send him back to the dark depths he had only recently thrown off. He could still feel the slight warmth of her slim body in his arms, the dampness of her grief on his neck, when she had told him that the in vitro fertilization hadn't been successful. Desperately, he wanted to rewind the clock, find that moment, and make it different. Make it right.

But the sight of her had paralyzed him. His mind was empty of words, even now. He remembered saying, "Never give up on a miracle," and the rush of feeling, the joy inside him, when she smiled through her tears. But in his heart, he knew even then that this was not the miracle he had envisioned.

He slumped down on the couch. How had it happened? The world had continued its spin through the vacuum of space, and he had fallen off the wheel. Change had overcome him; he, who always believed that he had all the time in the world. Now, his time had been cut short. The mantra began again: no truth, no Scully, no X-files.

Every time the X-files had been shut down, he had not given up hope. There was always the chance of a new administration, the intervention of his superiors, even the possibility of undeniable evidence. Being shut down was not an insurmountable problem; as a last resort, he could continue on his own.

But now he had been shut out completely, by some clueless career-man. Doggett. He frowned, squeezing his pillow in frustration. The man was Kersh's revenge on all the truths he had fought for. And he had been there ever since--Mulder winced. Flashes of pain shuddered through him, and he flinched away from the thought. He focused on Doggett, shielding his mind with anger. This was the man at Scully's side, working cases with her, watching as her impending motherhood emerged. The pain slackened, and Mulder leaned back. He tossed the pillow aside and let despair rush through him, drowning his anger. He hadn't been able to talk with Scully. Looking at her face, all he could think of was the months that had been stolen from his life--and the thief was himself. If he hadn't been so goddamned arrogant, he never would have reached for that light... Listening to her words fall into the strange distance between them, he felt as though he stood on the brink of a chasm. Faint and far, Scully was on the other side of the breach. Something had come between them; something had taken possession of every thing he had ever wanted in his life; and that something was Agent Doggett.

He looked at the phone on his end table. If only he had the strength to push the gap closed. He sighed. It was far too early...quarter to five. He shook his head and turned back to the T.V., watching Ron Popeil and thinking of something entirely different...

The day was pushing itself past the rim of the world as John Doggett opened his front door. His breath was cloud of warmth in the cold air. He checked his watch--4:45---and set off, across the lawn, at a steady jog. The city streets were quiet in this before the working-people time, and he liked the sense of being the only one alive at this moment. His breath came evenly, and the heat in his legs was comfortable. He pushed himself to a better pace, then settled into the run. He watched the sun bleed gold on the horizon, and remembered standing in Kersh's office waiting for the sunrise. He frowned. Kersh was so set against the X-files, and yet he refused to shut them down summarily. The Deputy Director wanted to break their spirits first, he mused. But why? Surely the financial audit and the solved-cases ratio was reason enough, if he actually meant to do it. No, there was something deeper...

He winced as the wind picked up and burned in the wound on his cheek. There was another mystery: the killing of Absalom. Those security men had never intended to let the man live. He frowned again. He was surrounded by mysteries, and it seemed as though good police-work wasn't enough to find the answers. The pieces all fit together somehow, he felt, but there were still many gaps in the picture.

One of those gaps was Mulder. The man made no sense. He still couldn't believe his eyes whenever he looked at him. People just didn't come back from the dead. It was unsettling...especially when he saw Dana's reaction.

Agent Scully, he reminded himself. She wasn't someone who invited familiarity, and though the titles were awkward, he couldn't bring himself to address her any other way. Ever since she'd tossed a cup of water on him, however, she’d been Dana in the privacy of his thoughts. There was something about her that didn't fit with her image of calm professionalism. Something that cried out to his intuition. She was not the person she pretended to be in his presence. She was the woman he had seen for a brief moment in Mulder's hospital room, with tears in her eyes, and her head resting so naturally on his chest.

That Dana had disappeared quickly enough when she had seen him standing in the doorway. The mask had slipped, but she had replaced it fast enough to warn him with her eyes that his presence wouldn't be tolerated.

He'd asked around, as tactfully as he could, but everyone he'd talked to agreed that Agents Mulder and Scully were no more than partners. But, he thought, they all believed in the masks. It was easier than delving into yet another mystery--that indescribable something he'd seen between them at the hospital.

Dana still refused to tell him who the father of her child was. He was sure she would never have told him she was pregnant at all if she could have found a way to hide it. Only Assistant Director Skinner had seemed to know more than he told, and he was too shrewd to give anything away.

All these secrets and conundrums washed over his head, dragging him far from the safe shores of linear cause and effect. But, he supposed, that's what the X-files were, and as long as there were questions, he’d be there to ask them. His breath sounded harsh in his ears, now, and the burn in his muscles was stronger. He had almost reached his home again...time to get ready for an early start at work. It was nearly 5:30. He pushed past the pain, striving for more effort, more speed, almost as though he wanted to leave all his confusion behind. That wouldn't happen for a long time, he thought, not if Kersh's threats could be backed up; and he was sure they could. If only Knoll was more forthcoming, he might be able to make sense of the enigmas around him...

In the growing light, Knowle sat on the metal bleachers overlooking the park, waiting. His sweatshirt was unnecessary, as the day was already turning warm, but he kept the hood up. He watched as Doggett ran past him, unaware, and still he waited. Suddenly, a hard hand clamped down on his shoulder, stronger than muscle and bone. "It didn’t work," said a deep, smooth voice.

"No."

"Scully is about to give birth. It could be any day now."

"Yes."

"There must be something more we can do."

Knowle frowned across the dew-jeweled park. "You want the child. It is of no matter to me."

"It should be." The voice grated, harsher, and the hand tightened its hold. Knoll did not flinch.

"It is not my plan. You may want to take over where the others failed, but you do not have what they had."

"I will. It won't be long now." And Alex Krycek smiled into the dawn of a new day.

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April 2001