DISCLAIMERS ETC IN CHAPTER ONE.

PREPONDERANCE 
By Alanna Rabun. 

Chapter Five. 

+++++ 

They remained in suspended animation for what seemed like years. 

Scully tried to move under him, to push him away and regain her composure, but
he was too damned heavy.  And the look on his face told her that he wasn't
about to budge. 

Talk.  Was it as easy as that? 

No.  It could never be that easy with Mulder. 

Still, he was crushing her lungs and a part of her cried out for relief -- not
only to be able to catch her breath, but to tell him everything and await his
reaction.  She wanted to be able to talk to him again, even if it meant losing
him altogether.  She wanted to be able to touch him again, without all this
tension and fear.  His body pressed into her own, and she was so attuned to it
above her that she barely noticed the shards of the coffee mug digging into her
back.  His body was hard -- not in a sexual sense, but the hardness born of
tension and pain. 

Oh, God, what had she done to him? 

The thought that his lack of faith in her had brought this on lurked at the
back of her mind, but she also knew she couldn't blame him.  She alone was at
fault for this debacle, this horror.  And somewhere in the midst of the pain in
his eyes, she saw a lust, a passion.  Slipping into his mind, she saw that
though he didn't realize it, he wanted her. 

And God, she wanted him too. 

But not now.  She couldn't raise her mouth up to his and ...  not now. 

Scully took as deep a breath as she could manage, and held his gaze. "Talk.  Is
that all you want?" 

He didn't blink.  "All I want is to hear the truth." 

She forced herself not to bite her lip or show weakness, then rasped, "Get off
of me, and I'll talk." 

Mulder gave her a wary look.  "Are you sure you're not going to try to escape?"


"Goddammit, Mulder!  No, I will not try and escape.  Now get off of me." 

He complied. 

A rush of blood flowed through her body as he lifted his own off of her.
Instinct flushed disappointment through her, followed by the physical release
of freedom.  She caught her breath and the air rasped through her lungs,
causing her to cough violently.  Scully sat up and the headrush combined with
the coughing made her double over.  Through the throbbing in her head, she
opened her eyes and was surprised to see him holding out a hand to help her up.
 After a moment's hesitation, she accepted it. 

Mulder led her over to the sofa, his hand resting in the same familiar place on
her back.  She was too dizzy to pay close attention, but she thought she heard
him whisper, "I'm sorry." 

Her breath caught at the sound. 

The couch was hard and unforgiving under her.  She wanted to get comfortable
but the tension pervading her body wouldn't let her.  Scully closed her eyes
and tried to regain her composure while Mulder walked back over to the
kitchenette and got them some water.  Her eyes tracked him as he returned to
where she was sitting, and Scully could sense him training himself to remain
guarded. 

But he couldn't disguise his pain. 

Though barely big enough to seat one person comfortably, the sofa stretched a
mile between them as he sat down on the opposite end from her.  Scully took a
long sip of water, trying to figure out how she should begin. 

He started for her.  "Why did you leave?" 

"Why do you think I did?"  She could barely manage more than a whisper. 

"You tell me."  He granted her no favors. 

Lacking a coffee table to set it on, she kept the glass in her hands, rolling
it in her hands.  The tepid glass felt hot against her clammy palms.  Finally,
she decided to tell him the truth.  She had nothing left to lose. 

"I had to get out of there.  I had to find the answers for myself.  I had to--"
Despite her vow of truth, she couldn't bring herself to speak of the very real
possibility of her death. 

Mulder's voice remained steady.  "What did you hope to find out here?" 

She turned to look at him.  He was staring into the middle distance before her,
not focusing on anything in particular.   Scully reminded him,  "A few months
ago, the Gunmen ran an article about an HMO which they suspected was using its
clients for medical experimentation --" 

"-- And I thought that they were implanting...."  His voice trailed off as she
saw him make the connection.   "Why did you remove the chip, then?" 

Her fingertips traced the bandage on her neck.  "It was the key.  It's the
reason all this happened." 

Mulder didn't respond, but she could hear his breathing elongate and sense his
muscles tense.  Scully could feel the beginnings of exhiliration, as she
finally started to slough off her fears and tell the truth.  "I'm not sure of
exactly how it happened, but I think the chip was making me do things -- that
it was creating involuntary actions.  I don't know how, but somehow it
triggered a response in me when I saw Samantha, and that's why I shot her." 

There.  She'd said it.  Now, all she could do was await his response, and brace
herself for it. 

"So, that's why you removed it...."  Mulder's voice was thoughtful, and oh so
haunted. 

"Yes," she whispered. 

"And you knew what would happen."  The haunting became horror. 

She closed her eyes.  Oh, God.  In her incredible self-centeredness of the past
two weeks, she hadn't given much thought to how he would react.  All she had
seen was his anger and hurt.  It smothered everything else they had ever felt
for one another.  She had never realized that this would kill him as much as it
could her. 

Scully shifted on the sofa until her body was facing  his.  He turned toward
her and naked terror was painted on his face.  It was the physical
manifestation of everything inside of her.  She wanted so much to reach out and
touch him, but instead set the glass of water on the floor and clenched her
hands in her lap. 

"Mulder, I'd rather die than live like that.  I *can't* live like that, not
having any control over my own actions.  And even though this seems to be
bringing back my cancer, it's nothing I don't deserve."  She could feel the
sobs rumbling in her chest.  "I killed a woman.  I killed your SISTER.  I
deserve this." 

The sobs broke free, and she bit her lip and closed her eyes to keep from
dissolving into them. 

And there he was, his arms circling her, crushing her against him so fiercely
that she couldn't have breathed if she'd remembered to.  His embrace was enough
to overcome her composure, and she buried her face in his shoulder, letting
herself cry -- cry for herself, cry for them.  She needed him so much.  God,
she needed him. 

As the tears stung her eyes and bathed his shoulder, she whispered, "I'm sorry.
 I'm so sorry." 

She heard him whisper the same. 

Though their world had crumbled -- exploded -- around them, she had never felt
as safe as she did at that moment.  Anyone could come for her and she could
conquer them. 

But death chose to call for her first. 

Mulder's hands clenched around her arms and he pushed her away from him,
looking at her with his beautiful tearstained face.  His chin tilted up and he
lowered his lips to her forehead so softly, so gently, kissing away the tumor
which just might lurk below.  His lips were warm against her skin, a
benediction in the icy hell her life had become.  Mulder shifted her body in
his arms until her cheek was pressed against his, the dark shadow of his
stubble pressing into her skin.  It comforted her.  It made her feel alive. 

Finally, he pulled back and she opened her eyes to look at him, then gasped in
horror. 

Blood coated the side of his face where she had pressed her cheek against his. 

She felt an unbearable, knifing pressure in her sinusoid cavity, and the
scalding bath of blood flowing over her upper lip, dripping onto her lower lip.
 Instinctively, she licked her lips and tasted the bitter, metallic blood. 

It was back. 

But this time, she was not alone. 

+++++ 

Despite all the horrors and dangers he had faced in his life, he never thought
his final breakdown would come in a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. 

Mulder scarcely noticed the chill of the icepack he pressed against Scully's
brow as they lay on the small twin bed.  She drifted in and out of sleep, and
when she was awake, neither of them spoke.  Words seemed trite. 

Rivulets of melted ice began coursing down her face, bathing her hair.  He
finally tore himself from her side and took the icepack over to the
kitchenette, emptying the ziploc bag into the sink and wringing out the towel. 
The flow of blood had stopped some time before, but he couldn't resist running
the washcloth under some warmer water, then shaking it out and folding it back.
 Mulder walked back over to her and almost sat down on the edge of the bed next
to her, but instead pulled over a battered plastic chair and settled himself
into it, placing the washcloth on her forehead. 

And, in a need to confess to her which he hadn't felt in so long, he opened his
mouth. 

"Scully,"  she stirred slightly at his voice, but didn't wake.  "There are so
many things I wish I could change about my life.  There are so many mornings
when I wake up and wish to God that I'd never met you.  That I'd never brought
you into this hell my life has become.  That you could be somewhere else far
away from me, safe and happy." 

He paused, as the tears he'd kept in check so he could remain strong began to
fall down his cheeks. 

"But then I get to work and I see you, and I don't regret a minute of it. And I
want to see you every day for the rest of my life.  You're more important to me
than a thousand crusades, or," he bit his lip, "a thousand sisters." 

Tears started to pour, and his voice caught.  "I was mad when I found out what
had happened.  I was furious.  I didn't know what to think -- all I knew was
that my sister was dead and that you had quite obviously killed her.  I didn't
stop to think about what might have caused it.  All I could think of was...
well, nothing.   Then you were gone, and it all fell apart. 

"Scully, I'm sorry, I am so sorry I wasn't there for you.  I was furious -- not
that you'd killed her, but that you'd turned away from me and disappeared. 

"I fucked up.   I need you to stay alive and give me a chance to earn your
trust again." 

He reached down and clasped her hand in his. 

"I need you to stay alive for yourself.  But more importantly, I need you to
stay alive for me." 

And as the tears fell, he rose from the chair, stepped out of his shoes, and
lowered himself into the bed next to her.  The mattress was too soft and lumpy,
but he barely noticed as he slowly drew her into his arms. Scully stirred and
hec aught his breath as she awoke. 

Her tired, haggard face turned to meet him, and if this had been a happy
occasion, she would have smiled.  Instead, she merely looked at him under a
veil of sorrow and fatigue, and pressed her body into his. 

Mulder fitted his body to hers, every curve melting into his hardness and
fusing them together. 

And they lay there together, dreading the morning to come. 

+++++ 

END (5/9) 
 
DISCLAIMERS ETC IN CHAPTER ONE.

PREPONDERANCE 
By Alanna Rabun. 

Chapter Six. 

+++++ 

I never want to sleep again. 

I never can sleep again. 

My dreamscape tonight is a hellish pit of quicksand.  I furiously kick and push
forward, but my feet refuse to move.  And when I look down, I find myself
trapped knee-deep not in sand, but in blood -- viscous, ruby-red blood,
congealed and curdling around me. Rising.  Mocking me.  Threatening to consume
me whole. 

And then Mulder is in front of me.  He seems to be walking on top of the blood,
immune to its effects.  The look on his face -- it's furious. Angry.  Mocking
me just like the blood. 

In his hands he has a rope, which could easily pull me out of this dire mess
even as I sink further into it.  I call out to him, imploring him to help me. 

Something in his eyes changes, and his anger melts into a reserved compassion. 
He begins walking toward me, unfurling the rope which will save me.  But with
each step, he becomes as mired as am I.  The rope snakes out toward me,
skittering away everytime I try to reach out to it. 

Then suddenly Mulder is beside me, his legs caught in the glue of blood. And
before either of us can scream, we are sinking together. 
 
+++++ 

Mulder was shaken out of sleep by an audible gasp near his ear.  His eyelids
flew open and quickly adjusted to the hazy morning light.  Beside him, Scully
struggled to sit up, a terrified look on her face. 

"Scully?"  His voice rasped in his throat. 

She shook her head and climbed over him to get out of the bed.  Her body
pressed down into his, one leg scraping over the stirrings of his morning
erection.  Instinctively shivering at the stimulation, he tracked her with his
eyes as she scrambled over the wooden floor in her wrinkled t-shirt and jeans,
still bearing the stains of her nosebleed. 

The sight of it brought all the memories of last night flooding back.  Her
anger, her fear.  Their fight and his pain at her words, her actions. 

Was she reliving it?  Had the truce he'd thought they'd reached all been an
illusion? 

Again, he called, "Scully?" 

Once again, she shook her head and walked over to the kitchen, keeping from
looking back at him.  Mulder watched her fill a kettle with water and place it
on the cookstove, then rest her hands on either side as if to steel herself. 

"Everything okay?"  He stepped out of the bed and stood, feeling the blood
pumping furiously through his veins.  His arousal faded, but he barely noticed
as he watched her. 

"I'm fine," she called over her shoulder. 

Of course. 

She's fine. 

That didn't make the traces of blood on her pillow disappear.  That didn't make
everything fine. 

Mulder chose not to pursue the issue, because he knew he'd never get anywhere. 
Instead, he asked, "What are we going to do now?"  He meant more than simply a
schedule. 

She finally turned to face him, two cups of instant coffee in her hands.
Without looking him in the eye, she walked over to him and handed him a mug. 
"I have to go to work in a few minutes.  This afternoon I have an appointment
at WestAssure." 

"The HMO?" 

"Yes."  Scully set her mug down on the small coffee table and stretched
slightly, then walked over to the foot of the bed and rummaged through a bag. 
She pulled out another t-shirt and pair of jeans, then disappeared into the
bathroom.  Mulder was slightly amused by her modesty, but found himself
grateful for it as he remembered how her body could affect him. And that was
the last thing they needed right then. 

He walked over to the bag he'd set near the door and pulled out a shirt for
himself.  After buttoning up the generic blue shirt, he ran his fingers through
his hair and felt himself finally completely waking up.  Calling through the
bathroom door, Mulder said, "Since you're going to be here at the ranch all
day, I'll go into the city and find out some more about WestAssure." 

"Okay." 

Scully was nothing if not reticent this morning.  He couldn't say he was
surprised, though.  The scars of the experience she'd -- they'd -- endured were
etched over her body and words.  They would talk about it.  They had to talk
about it.  But not now -- not until she was ready to be completely honest with
him. 

"When is your appointment?" 

She emerged from the bathroom, ready for her day.  Even with cropped black hair
and the haggard face of someone under great stress,  she still managed to be
the most beautiful sight he could ever see. 

Walking over to the kitchenette to make some toast, she said, "It's at 5pm, if
I remember correctly." 

There was one question they hadn't asked themselves. 

"How are you going to keep them from seeing the scars on your neck during your
exam?" 

She froze, a slice of bread in her hand and a drawn expression on her face. 
Without her saying anything, Mulder could see that she hadn't yet considered
that possibility. 

Then she spoke what must have been the hardest words for her to say. 

"I don't know." 

He rocked back on his heels, thinking furiously, but couldn't come up with a
solution. 

Warily, she murmured, "I have an idea." 

"Yes?"  He drew out the word. 

"When I first got here, I told Carla -- the supervisor here -- that I was
escaping an abusive husband." 

Mulder winced, picturing himself as such a batterer. 

She continued, her voice steady.  "I can't backdate bruises, and fresh ones
would stand out too much. "  She glanced down at her arms, and Mulder could see
the faint tracings of fingertip bruises from their struggle the previous night.
 He cringed.  Scully took a deep breath and continued.   "I need you to help me
with something." 

"What?" 

"I need to cut myself, so that the bandage from the chip will blend in." 

A wave of tension spread through Mulder's body.  Blood.  Mutilation.  The mere
idea of it chilled him. 

Scully kept on talking, as if the idea didn't alarm her in the least.  "I can
scratch myself on my arms and legs, maybe even hard enough to draw blood.  You
could scratch my back, though I doubt they'd look underneath my shirt."  The
toaster popped and she took a small tub of margarine out of the refrigerator. 

A slideshow  of images filtered through Mulder's brain.  Fingernails coursing
down his back.  Faces flushed in ecstacy.  Lips trembling with kisses given and
promised. 

Scratches like those were meant to be given in passion, not fear and deception.
 They were supposed to be brands of love, of lust.  Not like this. 

Mulder remained rooted to the spot, as Scully moved from behind the counter to
in front of him.  Hunching her shoulders, she pulled on the hem of her t-shirt
and lifted it so her back was bared to him. 

He caught his breath. 

The expanse of the golden-peach skin of her back glowed in the early morning
light.  His fingers itched to touch it, but all he could do was clench his
fist, feeling his own fingernails dig into his palms. 

Not like this. 

His gaze traveled down to the small of her back, and saw the top of her tattoo
inching up from the waistband of her jeans.  Dark as a bruise, red eyes mocking
at him.  Unable to resist, he placed one fingertip on it and traced the curve. 
She stiffened, and he could feel her repressing the sensations flooding through
her body.  Mulder didn't try to repress his own, as the electricity slithered,
snakelike, along his nerves. 

Scully looked at him over her shoulder, her face commanding but with an
inscrutable look lurking underneath. 

"Do it, Mulder." 

He wanted to shake his head, but he couldn't move. 

"Now!' 

Mulder wedged his tongue between his teeth, biting down on it as he tried to
smother all the erotic, dark thrills the command brought out in him. Finally,
he unclenched his palms and placed his hands flat on her back. 

Her skin scorched his palms, warmth and softness and... Scully. 

Taking a deep breath, he curled his hands until his fingertips pressed lightly
into her back. 

"Mulder...."  Her voice was plaintive and commanding, all at once. 

Squeezing his eyes shut until stars exploded behind the lids, he bit his lip
and yanked his fingernails down her back, hard, feeling her skin slightly
shredding at the motion.  She jerked on her feet, gasping hard and swaying,
nearly losing her balance and toppling backward into him. 

Jumping slightly, she regained her footing and he watched her shiver.  The
panting of her breath echoed around the small cabin, mixing with his own. 

He saw parallel trails of red on her back, small welts rising on her perfect
skin. 

"I'm sorry," Mulder whispered. 

She took a step away from him, and through his self-recrimination, Mulder
wanted nothing more than to draw her into his arms and soothe away the pain --
all of it. 

"No, don't be."   Her whisper matched his own. 

The t-shirt billowed down to her waist, and she retreated to the safety of the
kitchen.  A forgotten slice of toast trembled in her hands. 

It wasn't supposed to be like this. 

+++++ 

I slowly walk along a dusty path.  But this time, instead of a nightmare, it is
a waking dream.  The ranchhands have already risen and are preparing the horses
for the day's work.  One of the men waves at me and I raise a boneless hand to
return the gesture.  Another ordinary day at Rancho Cardenas for them, perhaps.
 But not for me. 

The stucco main house shines like the proverbial phoenix in the morning
sunlight.  Though I walk in a deliberate march, clouds of dust rise with each
step I take.  I feel like I'm caught in the middle of one of my dreams, a
cumulus cloud slowly smothering me as I frantically try to escape. 

Each minute brings me closer to my appointment this afternoon.  Each step takes
me closer to work.  Each step takes me further away from Mulder. 

I want to be away from him.  I can't be with him. 

But I need him as much as I do the clean New Mexican air. 

Self-loathing floods through me -- dirty water in the midst of a desert. When
had I become so dependent upon him for my sanity and my life?  This was
supposed to be my final assertion of independence, a way for me to find my own
truth in what might be the last days of my life.  Instead, he has come to me,
damnation packed into his luggage alongside the salvation he brings. 

He seems to think it's all so easy.  He's always been like that.  His windmills
are powered by the air he breathes, able to be conquered with the cessation of
wind.  Mine are intricately engineered, each gear and pulley relying on the
others, compounded by electricity and wiring and myriad other constructs, none
of which can easily be disconnected. 

What had he been thinking when he found where I was and set his path toward New
Mexico?  That he could find me and I'd fall into his arms, everything I'd done
evaporating in the desert heat?  Problems might be that simple for Mulder, but
they could never be for me. 

I killed a woman.  I aimed a gun at her and fired twice, then stood over her
lifeless body and emptied another bullet into her head for good measure.  I
accept responsibility for that, though I also know that I was not in control of
my actions. 

Every crime has its punishment.  I merely chose to punish myself by removing
the chip in my neck and accepting my possible death rather than stay and
subject myself to the whims of a court of law.  The preponderance of evidence
against me condemned me to guilt.  I knew I might die -- but I wanted to find
the truth first.  Not the truth to set me free in the eyes of the Law, but the
truth to set me free in my soul. 

My mother always said that our sins are lain bare when we face St. Peter at the
gates of Heaven.  I've already prepared a list for Him.  I'm ready for whatever
St. Peter might choose as my fate.  But until then, *I* need to be the one in
control of finding my truth.  It is all that will follow me whenever I die --
not a court's judgment, not a windmill of Mulder's making. 

I reach the house and turn the knob in my hand.  Stepping inside, I compose
myself and begin yet another day of work.  Who knows how many I have left? Yet
even if their number is rapidly declining, I must use them to save myself --
not my life, but my soul. 

+++++ 

"Are you okay, Barbara?" 

Carla's concerned voice rang through the small office area.  Scully stiffened. 
The other woman looked over Scully from head to toe, then her gaze rested on
Scully's face.  The older woman's hand flew up to her face and her shoulders
hunched forward in a deliberate  show of confusion and self-consciousness. 

Before Scully could ask what the question had meant, Carla stepped forward and
gestured toward Scully's face.  "Your nose is bleeding."  

Oh, God.  Scully stiffened and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had
known this would be happening with increasing frequency, but she couldn't
stifle her panic. 

Forcing her voice to sound calm, she replied, "Oh, I've gotten a few nosebleeds
since I got out here.  Must be the dry air." 

Carla continued to study her face, as if searching for chinks in her story. 
Finally, she said, "Here, let me get you a paper towel." 

"Thanks," Scully murmured, as she tilted her head back and pinched the bridge
of her nose.  She remained rooted to the spot as Carla walked over to the small
sink and ran some water.  Scully had spent her life repressing all shows of
emotion, so maintaining composure proved a mild challenge. 

As Carla approached her again, her voice grew quieter.  "I wanted to ask you
something, Barbara." 

"Yes?"  Scully tried not to show suspicion. 

"Um... how do I say this?  One of the workers told me that he'd seen a man
outside your cabin last night." 

Scully took a deep breath.  "Oh?  Nobody came to see me."  She hoped she
sounded convincing. 

Carla's relief was visible.  "Oh, that's good, then.  I was afraid that bastard
husband of yours had tracked you down." 

The older woman nearly laughed, and had to bite her lip to smother a sardonic
chuckle.  Bastard husband tracking her down -- not as far from the truth as it
might seem. 

"Thanks for your concern, Carla, but you don't have to worry about me. Really."


Carla smiled.  "Okay.  Good."  She walked back over to the door of her office. 
Turning back to face Scully, she said, "I'm going to have to go into town this
morning to meet with some suppliers, so it'll just be you and Dolores today." 
Carla disappeared into her office. 

Scully finally allowed herself to breathe again.  She wiped the wet washcloth
over her upper lip, hoping that she'd be able to remove all the traces of
drying blood.  Goddamn nosebleeds -- such a small thing to act as a harbinger
of death. 

Dolores arrived for work and studiously ignored Scully -- the woman had seemed
to have shown the new cleaning woman a condescending contempt ever since
"Barbara" had filled the job. 

That morning, Scully's mind was miles away as she mechanically cleaned the
offices.  She wondered why the ranch had hired a full-time custodian,
considering Scully really didn't have much to clean.  After giving the office a
once-over, she headed out the front door and over to the main entry of the
ranch house, to clean up the main living quarters.  Thank God the owner spent
most of his time in Santa Fe -- Scully didn't want to have to construct her
facade for yet another group of strangers, especially one who seemed to be in
cahoots with WestAssure. 

The temperature had risen considerably since she'd arrived at work a few hours
earlier.  As she transversed the gravel path, she craned her neck to get a
glimpse of the cluster of cabins where she lived.  No car outside, no sign of
life. 

No sign of Mulder. 

Closing her eyes as she walked, it was easy to imagine the previous night had
never happened.  But, as a gust of wind buffeted her and made her shirt billow,
the jersey cotton brushed against the welts on her back.  Scully gasped.  She
could still feel Mulder's fingers on her back, his nails pressing into her
flesh. 

The memory sent fire coursing through her veins. 

God, how could he do this to her?  How could he be this all-consuming? 

The stucco steps up to the front porch were solid under her feet.  She reached
into her pocket for the key which would let her in to clean -- Scully had been
surprised to have been entrusted with a key, until she discovered all the
valuables in the house were either bolted down or locked away.  The lock gave
easily and the house seemed to shudder around her as she opened the front door,
but she barely noticed the sounds until they grew louder. 

Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw a dark SUV speeding up the front
drive.  Squinting, Scully noticed that Mulder was behind the wheel. Before she
had a chance to gasp or to summon fury that he was destroying her cover, he
stopped the car and peeled out of it.  Running up to her, his face was flushed
and his body heaving with fear and adrenaline. 

She felt the same adrenaline flooding through her at the sight of him. 

And then he grabbed her arm and hissed, "We have to get out of her.  Now!" 

Though she could barely move from shock, she knew what to do. 

She dropped the house keys and ran to the car. 

Stirring up a hurricane of dust, they sped away. 

+++++ 

END (6/9)