DISCLAIMER:  The characters found herein belong to Chris
Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox Network.  I
also think Vince Gilligan deserves some credit just for
being Vince.

This is a SONNET story, post-"Memento Mori."  Spoilers
abound.

Rated PG-13 for adult situations and language.  


SONNET:  "Song of Life"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Mortality speaks our names in whispered sighs,
Hushed and still, a fleeting, cherished breath,
A song of life that lifts its fists and cries
Against the silent harbingers of death.
Your heart is big and full and swallows me
As sunlight swallows shadows in its gold,
Its warmth and luminescence prove to be
The cloak I wear against the coming cold.
I will not look beyond into the dark
That holds no secret power over me;
Your soul is incandescent, every spark
Sheds light on all that's left for us to see.
Because your love is stronger than my doubt,
I will not contemplate a time without.
                           -  Paula Graves


*  *  *  *  *


She would be angry if she knew he was sitting out here like
a spy, watching her window at midnight.  She would feel
embarrassed.  Frustrated.  Convinced he didn't think she was
capable of taking care of herself.  The truth wouldn't
really occur to her.  The truth that he was here because he
couldn't bear lying alone in the dark, listening to the
steady cadence of his heartbeat like the ticking of a
clock winding steadily toward its end.

She's dying.  He let the words form in his head for only a
second before pushing them away.  

No.  He would not accept that.

There was a way.  The answer existed.  That black-lunged son
of a bitch knew how to heal her--Mulder knew with utter
certainty.  It was so tempting to make a deal--whatever
price the smoking man exacted would be worth saving Scully,
wouldn't it?  Mulder would give up the X-Files in a
heartbeat.  There was no question in his mind, no doubts
about it.  Small price to pay for Scully's life.

But Scully would never forgive him if he sold his soul to
the devil for her.  She'd never forgive herself, either. 
And that was too high a price to pay.

There had to be another way, like Skinner had told him.  If
the truth was out there, then it was knowable.  He and
Scully would have to work harder than ever to find the
answers they sought, but at least they could hold their
heads high knowing they'd not let the bastard steal their
honor and their integrity. 

The rare kind of tumor Scully had didn't have a history of
metastasis, she'd told him.  That was no guarantee that it
wouldn't spread to other parts of her body, but Scully
seemed to think that she was okay for now.  There was still
time before the tumor became life-threatening. 

Time....

God, what he wouldn't give for more time. 

Their very first case together, they had lost 9 minutes of
time.  He'd been thrilled.  Ecstatic.  Rejoicing in the time
loss, in the wondrous implications of it, in being part of a
supernatural experience.

Nine minutes.  Nine interminable minutes.  

He wanted them back.  Every second of them.

He wanted back the time he lost in Idaho, when he'd been
captured at the Yellow Base, drugged and stripped of memory.

He wanted back the days he'd spent comatose in Alaska after
his run in with the bounty hunter.  He wanted back the
thirty-six hours he'd spent unconscious while Scully had
driven him cross country to Albert Hosteen in New Mexico. 
He wanted back the days he'd hovered near death in a starry
void.

He wanted every second, every millisecond of the time they
had lost when she was taken from him, the time she had
lingered in the coma, the time he'd spent seeking revenge.

He lowered his head to the steering wheel and closed his
eyes.  Had they known then what they knew now, what would
they have done differently?  Would they be lovers,
cherishing every moment, every whisper, every touch?  Would
they have taken even more risks in their pursuit of the
truth, knowing that time was running out?

Or would he have walked away before his heart was so fully
invested in her, in them?  Would he have distanced himself
from her, avoided the pain that now seemed as inevitable as
his next breath?

Yes.  That's what he'd have done.  He would have armored
himself against the pain at all costs.

So he was glad he hadn't known.  Because the only thing he 
he would regret more than losing Scully was never having
known her at all.

That would be tragedy.  

That would be hell.

He lifted his head and looked up at her window. 

She stood there, backlit by the glow of the lamplight
inside.  Tiny but solid.  His heart clenched at the sight of
her.  She lifted one hand and touched the windowpane.  Let
her hand move slowly down the glass as if caressing his
cheek across the distance.  Then she turned away from the
window and walked out of his view.

He should leave.  That was what she was telling him, even as
she reached out to comfort him in her own way.  He drew a
long, deep breath and reached for the keys in the ignition,
tightening his seat belt across his lap. 

His hand fell away.

No.

He unfastened his seat belt, withdrew the keys from the
ignition and exited the car.  Within a minute, he stood
outside her door, his forehead pressed against the door
frame as he forced his ragged breath to calm.  His heart
thudded, a metronome keeping time.  He lifted his hand to
the door and knocked.

The sound of silk on silk whispered on the other side of the
door.  It fell silent for a long moment, and he could feel
her just beyond the wooden barrier between them.  Paused.
Waiting.  He felt the passage of time like blood spilling,
absorbed by fate, swallowed by eternity.

With a soft click, the door opened.  Scully stared up at
him, her face pale and devoid of make-up, but her eyes clear
and free of dark circles.  She looked better.  Stronger. 
"It's almost one a.m."

He nodded.

"You shouldn't be here."

"I know."

She pressed her lips together as if she were annoyed with
him.  But her eyes gave away her need.  She was glad to
see him. 

He held back a smile when she stepped back to let him enter. 
He let the door close behind him before he reached out and
touched her, his fingers closing over the curve of her
shoulder.  She fell still at his touch, her eyes fluttering
closed for a moment.

"I don't want to be alone," he said.  "Please."

Her eyes opened, her blue gaze searching his face.  "We
can't let this change our lives.  We can't allow it to
dictate our behavior, Mulder.  If we do, then it wins.  They
win."

"Am I supposed to pretend there's nothing wrong, Scully?" 
He shook his head.  "I can't pretend that.  There is
something wrong, and we have to find a solution."

"So you're going to camp out at my apartment every night
until we do?"

He managed a small grin.  "You got a problem with that,
Scully?

She shot him a glance of mingled irritation and amusement. 
"I don't want you to treat me differently, Mulder.  I need
to feel like things are normal between us.  I need to know
that you still trust me to cover your back."

"I trust you with my life."

"Then please don't make me feel like an invalid.  I can't
bear it."

He stared at her for a moment, words forming silently in his
head.  You're not the invalid, Scully.  I am.

Her expression changed slightly, a softness akin to sorrow
melting her eyes.  She knew what he was thinking as surely
as if he'd said it aloud.  "Mulder...."

He reached out and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. 
Like a kitten, she lightly rubbed her face against his
fingers.  His heart swelled.

Timing, he thought, is everything.

He wanted to take her back to her bed and make love to her,
imprint himself on her soul, imprint her on his, create
something strong and hot and vibrant, something no one and
nothing could ever strip away from them.  He wanted to sing
a song of life that death couldn't silence.

But he didn't think Scully could see it the same way right
now.  And he didn't want her to think he was offering her a
part of himself that wouldn't be hers were she not dying. 
Because he hadn't given up hope yet.  He hadn't admitted
defeat. 

She would live.  She would be cured.  She would find a way,
or he would find a way, or they would find a way together,
but he wouldn't--couldn't--accept that Scully was going to
be dead within a year.  She was going to live and they would
have time back, time to explore all the secret, sacred
places that they had never before traveled together.  And
they would do it free and alive, not pinned under the
swinging pendulum of death's scythe but soaring into the
limitless starry reaches of life's extreme possibilities.

This was his vow, to her, to himself.

There would be a time for them. Soon or late, it didn't
matter.  It was as inevitable as death.

As inevitable as life.


The End