Title: Immortal Innocence
Author: annaK
Feedback: annakarrennina@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13
Classification: S, A, MSR
Disclaimer Characters are not mine.
Spoilers: This deals with the events of Seasons 8 and 9 with main references to Per Manum, TINH, DeadAlive, Existence, Provenance, Providence, TrustNo1, William and The Truth.
Archive: I'd be honored! Just let me know so I can visit.

Summary: Two years and everything turned to dust.

Many, many thanks to xdks and Elizabeth.


You used to captivate me by your resonating mind,
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind.
Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams
Your voice has chased away all the sanity in me.
These wounds won't seem to heal,
This pain is just too real,
There's just too much that time cannot erase.
When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears,
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears.
I held your hand through all of these years.
But you still have all of me.
I tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone.
But though you're still with me,
I've been alone all along.
~ My Immortal, Evanescence.


It began with a fairy tale. The father was a giant, torn from the earth by unearthly forces, taken to fight those that could not be fought.

The woman, left behind. Her fragile heart breaking at the unforgiving cruelty of the world, gentle tears sliding down porcelain cheeks.

Within her womb, a child.


**Following the stars of time down passages of age, the hallways of experience white like the blank canvas of freshly fallen snow. A hand to guide and a smile to share, thoughts unspoken yet comprehended all the same. Walking unseeing.

We were innocent, Mulder. Young, naive. Willing to walk in darkness yet always expecting to emerge in light, always expecting the horrors to end and the pains to cease as day bled to night. But the pains never ceased, the horrors never ended. All our smiles were confiscated, guiding hands snatched away as the slopes grew harder to navigate and the rocks began to fall and we clung like ivy to the rocks of deception.

You spend all your time waiting for that second chance, that hope of redemption, but the past holds no answers, no forgiveness. Ever hopeful that we can make up for mistakes, change our fates along the way, we carry on; but to what end?

No one could ever have made us understand all that would be lost, all that would be vanquished. We wouldn't have listened. We didn't listen. There were warnings along the way, sirens blazing in the night, bloody alarms and broken dreams, but nothing concrete, nothing tangible.

No one ever told us what the future would hold.** **

She stands by the mirror. Her reflection is the same as always, dark suits, dark circles around red rimmed eyes, hair falling across her cheek, yet she is different, changed. Too much loss, the futility of the search, the fading hope of redeeming her lost love; all is taking its toll.

The child is within her, gentle and undemanding. She'll be showing soon.

Tears brim behind drooping lashes. Her wounds won't heal, pain too deep to disappear beneath the tides of memory.

She had always been there to wipe away her lover's tears, to hold his hand when times were hard and allies were scarce; now, she is left to wipe her eyes alone.

Composure is a shroud, a blanket that she wraps around the remnants of her hopes, death's shadow shutting out the hurts as it chills the veins.

He is not dead, yet she mourns his loss.

The child is within her, trying to push her forward into another day.

She's tired, tired of the lost years, the lost warmth of a lover's hold, tired of loss. She has her child and, in that, she is made whole.

That is enough. That is everything.


The office used to be a sanctuary, a private world where the two of them lived, hidden from those above. The space is filled with memories, fragments of ancient conversations echoing within the walls. His name plate is still hidden in the desk drawer, awaiting his return. The edges are worn now, her gentle caresses gradually scuffing the metal. She holds this remnant of him daily; it is her anchor.

The office is no longer their space, it belongs to an outsider. John Doggett is not the enemy, yet he is not who she wants him to be. He is not Mulder. She finds herself filling in the missing part of the partnership. In the face of a skeptic, she becomes a believer. She will live that role until he can return and continue his quest.

This morning, the room is on edge, the very walls seeming to watch as she receives the latest in a long line of blows.

A man named Duffy Haskell speaks of his lost love. She gives him no credence; trust no one is her motto, especially when the speakers words hit too close to home.

The new partner cares, yet he is to the point, his words cutting through her defenses and wounding her. He speaks of the past decade without the hushed reverence it deserves, without the knowing respect for all that has been lost.

"A bout with cancer, then a remission."

**A child.**

"That's your story, Agent Scully. I'd say right down to a tee."

Her story, her history. The past has a habit of creeping up, wrapping its wiry tendrils around her, suffocating her with its umbilical cord of truth.

His words hurt, but there is nothing she can do.


She goes to see her doctor, to voice her concerns. Haskell lacks credibility, yet what he's said hits too close to home.

She is afraid for the child, afraid of the truth. Nagging concerns have built in strength, gradually silencing her rationale.

Science shows nothing wrong. The child is healthy, strong as it beats a private heartbeat against her womb.

"It's normal to be worried." Parenti smiles. She does not.

There is nothing normal about her worries. She carries her burden alone, ever waiting for the day when her friend and lover will once again return to help balance the load.

Her hope keeps her moving forward. It is all she has.


A roadside diner and a midnight meeting. The small life inside her is too small to feel, yet she knows its weight, feels the implications of its being settle at the base of her spine. With another woman in tow, she will hunt down her answers, will know the truth. It is the only thing she knows to do.

The silence she keeps is isolating. They don't understand.

She's not sure if she does either. Whatever her reasons, no matter how noble, how true, those left on the sidelines are hurt, ever left in the darkness as she wanders the tunnels of knowledge.

She can't tell her new partner about the child, can't speak the words aloud. Mulder must know first. It is how it should be.

Doggett doesn't understand the secrets or the lies, doesn't understand her distance, her quest. He cares, though. That is enough. That is everything.


Inside the heavy heart of a medical facility, she finally concedes trust.

The picture on the screen is perfect; a tiny heart pulsing within a jumble of cells. This small memento means everything to her. It is her miracle, her future. She wishes Mulder were by her side to witness this silent reverie. She is still afraid, though, ever uncertain of what lurks within.

Fears have built in strength and weight and they force her to take drastic action; to confront the enemies before they confront her.

She has a procedure.

A needle through her stomach, a spy camera that will look within. But if their machines lie, then so do their findings.

If trust is impossible, then reassurance is, too.


Leaving the hospital, being pushed into a car; all is a blur.

She only knows the present moment, time slowing as drugs soften the edges of the world. The images cascade in a waterfall of dangers, the screams of an infant seemingly inhuman to her addled mind.

So close this time. Like a thousand times before, the answers are within reach yet remain hidden. A baby or an abomination?

She doesn't know, can't see.

"Let go of me!" she cries as the darkness engulfs her and her fears turn within.

She is forever held back, restricted, the dangers allowed to spiral out of control behind the foggy glaze of lies.

Will she ever know the truth?


She awakes, yet again, to the blue gown and antiseptic smell of the hospital. The friend is at her side, loyal and caring.

Companionship is everything.

"Lucky," he says.

Yes, she is lucky. She is a survivor, a miracle growing for the future, and a miracle beheld in the past.

"It's over," he says.

**It's never over.**

"Mulder."

He's still out there.

"I said we'd find him."

Maybe they will.


Weeks pass by and the quest intensifies. Another abductee is returned, hanging to life by a thread. Will Mulder follow, battered and broken but finally back at her side? She doesn't know.

Teresa Hoese's image ripples and fades, her lover's beloved face taking its place, staring at her from the pillow as tubes and bandages disappear and it is only him, just him, finally home. It is not the truth. The truth, her truth, is still out there. She has to find him.

The truest truths, however, are those that lie within. She can't face them.

"Bad as you want to find Mulder, you're afraid to find him, too," the new partner accuses.

Knives twist and tears fall. She stands alone.

Mulder was dying, the evidence had said. He didn't tell her.

He was lost, he'd said. He didn't let her go with him, wouldn't let her guide him back. What if he's really left?

Own volition and own mind deciding to make the final ditch, to crawl away after lights in the sky or his own mortality, either way, leaving her behind.

Her dreams are haunted by him, midnight terror wrapping itself around her as surely as his warm body ever did in the months before he was lost.

Lost.

She lost him, and now she cries for his life.

"What if he's already dead?"

She doesn't want to know. Doesn't want to face it.

There is an eternity of nothingness lying behind that door.


History. The ticking of time through the ages of deception, the knowledge of the past wrapping itself around the subconscious of the present to be carried forward into the future. The point not to redeem the dead, but to inspire the living. History was hollow, something over with, done. Past tense, no longer important.

History matters. It is all she has left.


She'd been to his funeral. It was strange. It seemed she had no memory of it.

"Where are we going?" she asks her mother.

"Home."

**I don't want to go home.**

She has no home.


Ice on the ground and ice in her veins, the warm bundle of cells in her stomach could not permeate her body, could not warm her blood.

Like a caged animal, nose pressed against the window pane, she watches the fires of life pass her by. City buildings and endless streets, people living and loving in the crisp air.

It is cold for March.

A man and a woman sit on a park bench near the edge of the Potomac. His arm draped loosely over her shoulders, their breath hanging between them in cotton wool clouds as they whisper together. The man smiles and bends to kiss the woman.

Simple, touching; excruciating.

She wonders if she'll ever be kissed again.


Home sweet home. That's what her mother said. It used to be true.

Her Apartment used to be a refuge from the uncertainty of the outside world. Now, pain and confusion fill the space, blowing through the partially open window as menacingly as the cold air.

She shivers.

Her mother fusses around her, boiling the kettle and hunting for tea bags. Cushions are fluffed and shoes are removed.

They speak occasionally, monosyllabic words catching in her throat before forcing their way out between cracking lips.

She can't speak, can't feel.

The cold has numbed her insides, its icy tendrils seeking out her most hidden parts and filling them with its chilled love.


It is late and she is at last alone, the darkness outside more fitting to her mood than the light cast from the inconsiderate street lamp. She closes the curtains against its onslaught.

Inside the shower, she stands, head bent and fiery needles raining onto her reddening flesh in a staccato rhythm. The heat of the shower burns her skin but will not warm her, the steam fills the room with a misty presence, fogging the mirrors as it fogs her eyes. She can't see. She doesn't want to.

When the water turns cold, she climbs from the shower, blindly reaching for her robe. Wrapping the warm material around her, she begins to dry her hair, the roar of the blow drier silencing the roar in her ears. Her hair dances in the air like fire, its flames licking at her face in a distorted halo.

She wants it to consume her.


Lights turned out, the darkness eerily comforting, she makes her way to bed, the warm comforter engulfing her small frame.

Burying her head beneath the covers, she tries to hibernate, to disappear within the warm material and never resurface.

Like a little girl seeking comfort from a beloved bear, she clings to the pillow that used to be his.

Breathing in the scent that was once his but is now hidden beneath the salty tang of her tears, she allows herself to cry.


Mornings came and went, bringing with them a mirage of shadows and the warmth of sunlight. Spring bloomed outside as it bloomed within, her child growing in strength and resolve; just like its mother.

The days lost numbers, the thoughts lost grace; she existed, her body moving forward, yet she lacked purpose, direction.

She was alone.


One day, her lover was returned. Resurrected, given new life.

She was allowed to live again.


Distant eyes and cold clasps, he, at her side yet miles away.

Desperate searches and dangerous haunts, playing with the fire that she cowered from; she had been burned enough already.

Time brought them closer. His external wounds healing at a rate that science could not explain, his internal wounds festering but gradually being sutured together by a warm smile and the kicks of new life beneath his hands.

Time brought him back; back to her.

Time would steal him away.


The birth of a God, the pain of labor, the scream of a small, bloody bundle.

Like his father before him, the son would be hunted down, his innocent life jeopardized time and time again by the callous hands of the deceivers. People who lived by lies and died in their name, people who would snatch a small bundle of joy from his mother's frightened arms. People who wanted one thing; destruction.

Whether to bring about the destruction of the truth or the destruction of the truth-seekers, they worked with ruthless brutality, their weapons powerful and their tongues sharp.

These men and women destroyed everything that they could and even that which, for so long, they couldn't.

They destroyed her faith.

A young woman, widow at heart and keeper of a barren womb, they tore her apart piece by piece.

One day, the threat of a life, a million for one; he left.

One day, the man, her lover, guardian and protector, was not there to solder her back together.

One day, they won.

One day, she lost everything.


Trust no one, he'd said. He called her Dana. He said he loved her, her and William.

He was meant to come home, they were meant to be a family again.

She lost him. Maybe forever.


He said he'd never leave her. Promised her with a sprinkling of kisses and a lullaby of lies, a shadow of love and an encyclopedia of prayers.

He'd left her. Again.

Children grow and adults age, hearts are broken and tears dry. A tiny hand and soulful eyes, loving yesterday's distant hopes.

**Hold my hand and never let go, breathe my breath and let me drown in your eyes. Say you love me. Mean it.** She dreamt of him.

He was standing in a field, green blades licking at his ankles whilst the sun caressed his face. Tulips grew at his feet, a collage of beauty, reds, purples, yellows, all surrounding him.

She wondered if he was really there. Peacefully searching whilst she was left to fall apart.


His son tried to speak today. The child is happy. Smiley, chubby cheeks and bright blue eyes. It's surprising considering his upbringing. She's loved him in the shadow of death.

**The Grim Reaper stalks me, Mulder.** The chip in her neck, the hole in her heart. She used to think he could fill one to compensate for the other, that if he were with her, they could carry this burden together.

Now she knows she was meant to live this alone.

Like the golden cross that she wears around her neck, a talisman against the evils that haunt her, she alone can maintain their course, continue on their journey.

**It's lonely, Mulder.**


Days turn to weeks and weeks to months as the fears build and the threats appear.

A man and his beliefs, a cult and its curse; both share one mantra:

"Your son has to die."

"Why??" she yells, tears sparkling and heart breaking at the unforgiving cruelty.

Threats build and build, pressure increasing until the danger erupts.

Screams and tears, bedtime stories and open wounds. A baby, small and vulnerable; a pillow, deadly and warm.

A piece of rock. Powers unimaginable and God deceived. The grip of metal in a sweaty palm, the drip of blood onto carpets of insanity.

So much blood.

She wanted answers.

She received silence.


Silence echoes within the chasm of her self imposed quarantine; she is afraid to let anyone close: lies are contagious.

A man sworn as protector, sworn after a personal loss and a crippling guilt; he lost Mulder the first time and watched him go the second.

Now, Skinner watches her back in his absence.

"I asked them to put somebody else on the case, because I was afraid that after all that you'd been through this might break you," he says, voice hushed in fearful surrender.

Break her? She is already broken, her mind and heart lying around her feet in jagged pieces that threaten to tear at her soles, her soul, threaten to trip her as she attempts to stumble along this path.

More threats.

"Threats on Agent Mulder's life."

Ah, the reason for her losses, the reason for her sacrifices.

Funny that the threats should come from a group that Mulder would probably have been fascinated by, probably supportive of.

Trust no one, the prophets had said.

"We've been trying to confirm... that Mulder is already dead."

Nothingness.


Dead.

She sits on the couch, head bent and breaths deep and even.

She feels like she's suffocating. In and out, in and out, she thinks, her mind full of the mundane and shying from the profound.

Dead.

A world turned upside down, a lopsided grin and a beautiful mind. Science ignored as bright eyes played with fire. A candlelit confession of a quest that drove, a hallway where breath mingled and eyes caught, a field where bodies swayed as shooting stars passed by overhead, a room where new life was sealed with a kiss.

So much that time cannot erase, so much still to come, still to do. Alone.

The soft tap at the door brings her back to the present, back to the future; back to an eternity of hurts.

"There's your mommy," Reyes says, passing the child into her outstretched arms.

Yes, she's a mother. The warm bundle in her arms is affirming, safe. He may be a legend, may be a God, but he is soft under her cheek, steady against her heartbeat.

She can no longer say his father's name, the word a lost utterance amidst the tears in her throat.

The child has powers, true. He can make science fly, make faith and DNA, codes and scriptures, turn missile, make them cut through nursery plywood to hover in the air in silent respect. He can do all of this, yet he's still her baby; still her son.

She will protect him.


The dangers erupt.

"My baby! They're after my baby! I have to get back."


"Go home."

"To what?"

She has no home.

Her arms are empty and her heart is breaking.

She has no home.

Only her search. In this, as in everything, she has few allies.

"You can't do this alone," Reyes says. She has no choice.

She is all they have, all she has. Without herself, there is nothing. Without her child, there is nothing.

Trust no one.


Desperate searches and friends in peril. Doggett has been at her side throughout the disintegration of the past years, has supported her with a steady hand and a growing mind.

She likes him.

He reminds her of who she used to be.

Naive and trusting, yet skeptical. He is a dog person, loyal and true yet ever doubtful. She is happy for him.

Maybe she should have left years ago.

Now, new friends are being vanquished to the fight, new allies falling from the cliffs of despair as the days pass by and the terrors build.

Angels, not in prophecy but in life, lie helpless as the tides come crashing in.

Doggett hangs by a thread, caught by the waves of history and the whisperings of beyond, sheltered by a woman's love.

Monica will not leave him.

The hospital scene is all too familiar; history is repeating.


Sharing information.

Silence.

"It doesn't work like that," Monica complains.

There are no rules.


Lethal force.

"Your son has to die."

The same words, again and again, your son, your son.

A temple.

"Tell me a religion that decrees the death of a child."

**God visits the sins of the fathers upon the sons, and the third generation, and the fourth generation.** The book of Exodus.

Mulder's father; Mulder; William.

"How many religions warn of false prophets?"

Mulder was not a sinner. She will sin in his absence.


The friend awakens.

Spirit worlds and distant prayers;

"They'll come to you, but you can't trust them," he warns.


"Who'd believe it? Only the faithful."

They believed Mulder was dead, but now they are doubtful. The father prevents the son's destiny; he must die.

It is repetitive, already said.

He must die.

He can't die. She'd die with him.


Burning, burning. The scent of charred flesh permeating the air with Hell's perfume.

Amongst the ruins, a survivor.

The child screams, the warmth of his mother comforting amidst the terror of uncertainty. Young, innocent, he is stolen and used, locked in the dark caverns of prophecy, yet ultimately allowed to go forward.

Can his father do the same?


Bureaucratic reprimands: "You should have let us take care of this. We could have got there faster, could have saved the others."

What others? She only cares for the child in her arms, her shaking embrace suffocating in its intensity.

He may be all she has left.


The journey home is quiet. Monica at the wheel, the fires of life passing by outside. The midnight blackened downtown streets seem to scream with excitement, the nighttime crowds filling the pavements with raucous noise as bars and clubs turn out.

The outside world is alive.

She's not sure if she is.


John had cleaned up the nursery, the bloody stains that had shrieked from the carpet in silent warning now gone, nothing but a gray rug in their place.

She wonders if the same will happen to her, or if it already has. If you see enough blood, does it all turn gray in the end?


Once Monica has gone and she is alone to face the moonlight, the child is coddled, wrapped in fluffy pajamas and safe beneath the soothing sway of a mobile. His mother stands on the sidelines, ever watchful of the passing night, ever waiting for the moment where she is forced to protect her young.

She does not sleep.

Naps are taken and eyes are rested, but like a cat, one eye is always half open, one ear alert.

The soothing breaths of the child waft through the room, his contented sighs comforting in their rhythm, brushing across her palm in butterfly kisses.

She has these moments of peace.


Next mornings arrive in the blinks of sunrises, her tired eyes weary yet ever reverent of the glory of the new days.

She wonders where he is, wonders when he will next contact her, wonders if he will.

She has her hopes, has her love.

They keep her alive.


Warm baths, the cotton wool bubbles caressing her sides as the child clings to her chest. Deep blue orbs and peach soft skin, playful splashes and sleepy surrender; bliss.


Another threat. The mother tiger is alert, the danger too close to home.

Is the wayward father returned? Or is this another cruel trick, a game where her mind is the dice and her hopes the six?

It's not him.

From the base of her soul she recognizes the lie, confronts its perpetrator. He has not seen Mulder, he is not Mulder.

Blood, DNA, all the same. The eyes hold secrets, though.

You cannot deny the truths of their depth.

Another threat.

"He injected him with something."

The truest truths are those that hurt.

"No, it makes perfect sense."


Little finger. Small, chubby, warm.

Apricot cheeks.

Squeals of delight.

Cries of need.

Tiny toes on palm size feet.

Warm, soft.

Never safe.


An empty crib, an empty heart.

A hollow shell clings to the sandy floor, the carpet rough beneath her cheeks, her tears steadily dampening the rug as she weeps for eternity.

There's nothing left.

"And you have to love him and raise him in spite of everything"

Funny how she never really let herself love him until he was gone.


**We were innocent. Time took its toll and naivety was lost, the young and the vulnerable, in mind and in body, vanquished to history. Love grew complicated, too hard to fathom in a world without spirit, impossible to hold onto as the avalanche descended and we fell from the rocks like discarded foliage. Unable to reach the light as we followed the passages of darkness, we had only each other to rely on.

When you were not at my side, I had no lantern to guide the way.

You once said that you believed in fate, yet in free choice.

In the layers of universes that allowed for life after life to be lived in parallel. For each choice, a road, for each road, a destination. I would forfeit all of my choices, all of my lives, to get one right, to know without fear or doubt that I had done the best thing, done the right thing.

Time moves forward without forgiveness or reproach, does not look back and stop for those that are pulled beneath it's currents. We were drowning for years, Mulder. It's only when the waves crashed that we knew it.

No one ever told us what the future would hold.** **

It began with a fairy tale, but ended in tragedy. Two years of searching, holding, loving and nurturing. Watching and waiting, crying and laughing, freezing and burning.

Two years and everything turned to dust.

Like a pumpkin at midnight, dreams were vanquished and starlight embraced, wounds healed only for new wounds to open.

Tears were shed and blood was lost, lies were sold to the highest bidders.

One day, her lover returned.

Returned to love and to nothingness, to a fierce embrace and a gentle kiss.

One day, he came home.

"Maybe there's hope."


End

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