Title:  Wash Away those Years
Author: Nat
Classification: Angst, character death, post colonization, MSR
Summary: "Fifteen years. Can't quite decide if that's a 
lifetime or just a handful of sand in the wind. Fifteen years 
ago the aliens came with their bees and ships and death 
that followed them like a shadow."
Disclaimer: No infringement intended Chris, please forgive 
me. And more importantly don't sue me. My apologies also 
extend to Chaim Poto, e.e cummings, and Creed, no 
copyright infringement intended. 
Archiving: Go ahead, but for linking or archiving please tell 
me.
Feedback: Yes please. My world rotates around my inbox.
Author's Notes at the end. 

"She came calling
One early morning
She showed her crown of thorns

she whispered softly 
to tell a story
About how she'd been wronged"
~Wash Away those Years, Creed. 

 
My fingers trail along the cold muddy floor. In the corner 
of the room my cell-mate lies in a fetal position, 
trembling and praying.

I reach the steel bars, bumpy with years of congealed blood 
and spit. Using their strength I pull myself up. My legs 
shake under my weight. It's been so long since I used them.

They're thin, hard, and emaciated. The skin looks stretched 
and taut as if one jab could break through to the bone. 
Even my voice seems thinner and cracked; all the screams 
have taken their toll. 

But the insanity has lifted and left reason in its place. 
I must think, I have to work, grow strong, and get out of 
here. I can't spy for them. I can't, I won't. But what can
I do? I can't leave my son here and there's no one who 
will help me. But, I can't, can't betray my race. Won't 
become a mole against my own kind, won't stand on the side 
of the people who may have killed my son. 

"They killed me yesterday." declares my cell-mate. His 
words surprise me, jar me out of the caverns of my thought. 

He continues, "But then they changed their minds, decided 
I'd be more useful alive. So, they brought me back."

He looks up at me, his eyes boring into mine. 

"Have you ever died?"

Pretty damn close. "No."

"You can't imagine what its like. All that blackness. 
They say it's like falling asleep, but they're wrong. 
It's like being knocked over the head with a ton of bricks. 
But then suddenly the pain goes away and death comes. And 
red lights flash and stars glitter and whistles shriek. 
And then death grabs you."

"What does he look like?"

"Who, death?"

I nod but then realize he can't see me. "Yes."

"Nothing. It's not a he or a she. That's like asking what 
life looks like. It doesn't *look* like anything. It just 
is. But it smells like chocolate and mold and it tastes 
like waterfalls and dirt. And you feel like you're being 
dipped in honey and roasted at the same time."

His look is manic, an unbridled surge of emotion. And yet 
he sounds sane. 

"How can you smell when you're dead?"

"Memories of course.  Death comes on a train of memories."

"Ok."

"Look you don't get it, do you?"

"Excuse me?"

"It called me by name. And death doesn't like letting people go."


-               -               -           -


My name is Dana Scully. Perhaps you recognize my name, 
remember it from discussions in mock whispers over dinner. 
Or maybe you've heard children screaming it, taunting 
other children: "You're a Dana Scully, you're a Dana 
Scully."
      
I have been branded a traitor to my kind, a murderer 
of innocents, a blasphemer of ideals and human truths. 
Strong words are being said and written. I am a self 
hater, and an inflicter of shame upon my race. 
      
Well, I am none of those things. But, in all honesty, 
my accusers are not wholly wrong. In a way, I am all of 
those things. 
      
But if there's one thing I've learned it's that 
everybody needs a scapegoat. I'm unit five's scapegoat. 
My death will undo all the murders and rapes, all the 
torture and loss. I am the catalyst and the eraser.
      
So, maybe they were disappointed by my appearance. 
News had traveled fast by word of mouth and a large 
crowd had gathered to hear my verdict, and if the verdict 
was not to their liking, to carry out another sentence. 
      
The crowd clapped and screamed when they heard, but 
perhaps not as loudly as expected. I was the traitor? 
This middle-aged woman, with rubbery, thin skin, and 
straggly blond hair? Most of them has expected a curvy 
brunette in black leather.  Truly amazing how the cliches 
never change; there hasn't been a scrap of leather here 
in fifteen years.

Fifteen years. Can't quite decide if that's a lifetime 
or just a handful of sand in the wind.Fifteen years ago 
the aliens came with their bees, ships, and death 
following them like a shadow. I remember the panic that 
settled over the world like a warm, scratchy blanket. 
The wildness and cowardice in men's eyes. The hatred 
that seemed to fill so many. Furious that the life they 
were meant to have had been ripped out from under their 
noses. As if a normal life was just another piece of 
property like a couch or a lamp. As if it wasn't and
different from anyone else.

But, even when the panic ended leaving us beaten and 
much fewer in numbers, the hatred remained.  No one 
hates better than my generation and the one below me. But, 
my son, oh he was different. Consuming hatred wasn't 
something new to him, it wasn't a fragile aquisition 
that had to be touched with latex gloves.  It couldn't 
control him, because it was part of his existence.  He 
grew up running from camp to camp, living with fear, 
looking only to the future and his own strength for hope. 
      
That was years ago and I don't know how things are now. 
Not even news could slip through the prison doors. But, 
I do know that humans, all the camps, all the units, 
were desperate.  The slightest hint of rebellion and you 
were marked down. 
      
So I had no chance, I had given much more than a hint. 
The verdict was a foregone conclusion. Death next Sunday, 
which gave me exactly seven days.
      
It was all a bit ironic, that the justice system, albeit 
a different one than the one I served faithfully for so 
long would condemn me. And most ironically of all that 
the man who stood by me for all that time would be the executioner. 
      
Of course that's not literal. He won't be the one who 
shoots the gun, but he allowed it to happen. 
      
He didn't believe me.
      
He was also the one who gave me a week instead of a day. 
I'd like to believe that's because he wants me to escape, 
but I know him. 

Mulder, my steadfast pillar of guilt.  
      
Some things never change. 
-               -                   -           -
     
I don't know the exact moment he knew who the traitor 
was. Maybe someone had told him, or maybe he saw me and 
just didn't care. But he never blinked or made any sign 
of recognition, not even when he whispered to me that 
red hair fit me better. 
     
"Too damn bad," I had hissed back, "No red hair dye 
after colonization."
     
That was in the trial before the trial. A sort of 
unorganized interrogation. But, everything is settled 
then. 
     
"Do you admit to attempting to steal top unit 
secrets, murdering ten guards, and betraying your 
race?" asks one of Mulder's secretaries. 
     
"No." I reply. 
     
"We have proof." exclaims another, slapping the table emphatically.  
     
Mulder turns towards me, "Miss. Scully we have pictures
- physical evidence- that you are lying. Do you have 
any reason why we should believe you?"
     
Because I spent seven years at your side?
     
I pause. They were men right? They had to have families, children. 
     
"I hav-had a son. They told me he was alive, so I obeyed 
them.  They said if I didn't spy they'd kill him! I 
couldn't just give up!"

Calm Scully. Articulate. 
     
"My son and I were captured by the aliens, who tortured us 
and performed experiments on him.  They asked me to spy 
for them, to discover the identity of a hybrid, and to find 
the location of this base. I had to, they had my son, don't 
you see?"

For the first time Mulder noticeably flinches and then 
says evenly, "Liar."

I know you can't believe I had a son, Mulder, but I 
did.  Please, trust me, believe me.  

A soft-spoken, tall brunette with syllables like 
scalpels whispers to Mulder. 

Mulder looks up and starts again, "Miss. Scully, we know 
you are barren, please do not attempt to lie to us."

"I'm not."

"No?  So you're saying they forced you to do this.  
Well, that's B.S, no one's ever forced you to do anything 
in your life."

I pause, attempting to collect my thoughts. 
     
"She's guilty." intervenes the first man, "Send her to 
the jail and then the courts."
    
     
     -              -           -           -                   
    
    
Suicide. Never really appealed to me before now, but 
I'm beginning to see its allure. No messy death in front 
of thousands of expectant watchers, no haunted eyes 
gazing up at me with a confounding mixture of guilt, 
self hatred, pity, and loathing. 
    
I want to die on my own terms. 
    
But, apparently most of the others on Black Watch feel 
the same way. My food is slipped through a small opening 
on a soft papery tray. And I'm discovering it's impossible 
to suffocate yourself. At some point your body just kicks 
in and you stop. 
    
Damn my body. Why can't it just give up?
   
I guess you have to admire that gumption. The eternal hope 
of a breathing body. 
   
Never give up.
   
I can almost convince myself I've been in tighter 
corners before. Almost. But I had him then.
   
Now he's the enemy. It's hard to believe really. Mulder 
is the leader of unit five. Their general, their 
commander, president, honcho. 

The man could hardly take care of himself. 
   
   -                    -       

   
So much not to think about and so much time. 
   
Time seems to take on a new definition here. It's all 
that there is.
   
Heartbeat. da-dum. 
   
One. Two. Three.
  
Shadows lengthen, dusk settles. Sun falls.
  
Sun rises. Chirp. Chirp. 
  
Don't think, just listen. 
  
Don't remember Mulder, or the way the light used to fall.
  
Don't remember James. Don't think. 
  
Can't think can't think can't think not too much longer 
now.
 
James.
 
"MOM!!!!!" ripped out of him like a gut. Death comes on 
a train. Toot, toot.
 
How do you like your blue eyed boy Mr. Death?
 
I didn't know if he was dead, see I had to make sure. 
He's my son. 
 
Mulder's son.
 
Mulder.
 
Strong arms reaching over. Gentle, slurred words 
muttered against the tissue soft part of my neck. When 
did you get so gentle Mulder? When did we finally get somewhere?
 
All through that night we held each other with open 
palms. And he whispered to me in a voice huskier and 
rougher than his own, "seeing you with that baby..." 

Broken, like his vocal cords had been rubbed against 
shards of splintered glass.

We reached something then, a pinnacle, the perfect 
balance between grace and nature. And I remember 
thinking fiercely -no, knowing- that this was not 
right. It shouldn't take seven years to be able to 
hold and love.  But, I also knew that I just had to 
hold on, because for that one warm night I could believe 
in happily ever after.

For that one moment I could see a bright future, with 
kids and smiles. For one brief passing second we 
touched. So gentle, Mulder, where'd that go?
 
A light velvety kiss and you're gone, leaving nothing 
but a gust of hot breath.

I've never been good at holding on.
 
 -              -                   -                   
End of Part One.