From: claypotato@netscape.net   
      
   IN THE CLEARING (1/4)   
      
   by Rae Lynn (claypotato_AT_netscape.net)   
      
   RATING: PG   
      
   CLASSIFICATION: SA   
      
   SPOILERS: Through "Requiem."   
      
   KEYWORDS: Post-episode for "Requiem."  Character death.   
      
   ARCHIVE: Please inquire within.   
      
   SUMMARY: Two years after "Requiem," Mulder is returned.  Warning: a   
   character is already dead at the beginning of this story.  From   
   Skinner's point of view -- here, let him tell you himself: "He weighed   
   132 pounds when we found him -- bone-thin, his legs knobby like Erector   
   Set legs, swollen and disfigured at the joints.  It almost ached to see   
   him; my voice died on my lips like I was eighteen and back in the jungle   
   where I'd seen so many things that would make this man -- this ragged,   
   tortured shell of a man -- look like a blessing.  But this wasn't 'Nam   
   and Mulder wasn't my CO or even my friend, Mulder was just a guy who'd   
   put his ass in the fire for so many people that it was starting to look   
   a little scorched around the edges."   
      
   AUTHOR'S NOTES: I apologize profusely if this somehow gets re-posted; I   
   think there was some kind of snafu with my submission.  Additional   
   author’s notes at end of story.   
      
   DISCLAIMER: With a few tiny exceptions, all the characters contained   
   within are the property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen Productions.   
   No profit will result from this story and no copyright infringement is   
   intended.   
      
   _____________________________________   
      
   He weighed 132 pounds when we found him -- bone-thin, his legs knobby   
   like Erector Set legs, swollen and disfigured at the joints.  It almost   
   ached to see him; my voice died on my lips like I was eighteen and back   
   in the jungle where I'd seen so many things that would make this man --   
   this ragged, tortured shell of a man -- look like a blessing.  But this   
   wasn't 'Nam and Mulder wasn't my CO or even my friend, Mulder was just a   
   guy who'd put his ass in the fire for so many people that it was   
   starting to look a little scorched around the edges.   
   	   
   What I saw first were the burns -- radiation burns, as it would turn   
   out, but at the moment they just looked bad, a patchwork of smooth white   
   scars across his back and legs.  I knew the moment I saw them that   
   nothing on this earth could have caused those burns.  Yes, Virginia, the   
   aliens *are* among us.  For a split second I was living in a twisted   
   Aesop's parable:   And the moral   
   of the story is...   
      
   He tried to stand when he saw me.  I searched his eyes for a shadow of   
   that old shit-eating grin and when I couldn't find it I searched again   
   for a hint of that old weary defiance, and when I couldn't find that   
   either I tried for fiery determination and it was there, thank God or a   
   lifetime of particularly painful strife, I don't care either way because   
   it lasted him a good five seconds, that resolve, long enough to push   
   himself off the mattress halfway until he sank back into its soft sheets   
   and drew his knees into his chest.   
      
   "Agent Mulder," I said, as evenly as I dared.  "We've been looking for   
   you.  For a long time."   
      
   At the sound of his name Mulder's head jerked up, and in his dark eyes I   
   could see the gears in his mind processing, rapidly clicking into place.   
     God.  So he hadn't known me when I walked in, then.  There was a low   
   rumble in his throat -- the sound of years of screaming and silence   
   clearing away.  Maybe more.  He licked his parched lips and was silent   
   for longer than I could hold my breath.   
      
   "Sir?"   
      
   I was still "sir" to him.  I could have cried with relief, but I doubt   
   Mulder would have believed his eyes.   
      
   "Come on, Mulder," I said as I offered him my hand and he took it, his   
   legs struggling to stand while his eyes struggled to comprehend.  "We're   
   going to get you out of here."   
      
   * * *   
      
   At the hospital, I paused in the doorway to take stock.  Mulder was   
   facing away from me, his lips moving wordlessly, and from the door I   
   imagined I could count his ribs through his back, even mottled as it was   
   with those burns.  Jesus, Mulder.  What have they done to you?   
      
   He must have felt me standing there -- Mulder always did know when he   
   was being watched.  He shifted in the bed, painfully.   
      
   "Sir," he said, the word coming more easily to his lips this time.  I   
   took it as an invitation to step fully into the room and cautiously pull   
   up a seat by his bed.   
      
   "How are you feeling?"   
      
   The corners of his lips curved briefly, as if he was set to crack a   
   joke.    But   
   his mouth drew back so quickly that I wondered if I'd imagined it.   
      
   "I feel -- "  He spread his arms tentatively, as if taking stock.  "I   
   feel...intact, I guess," he offered, as if "intact" was the best he   
   could do.   
      
   "What do your doctors say?"   
      
   Mulder leaned his head back against the pillow.  "That there's nothing   
   wrong with me that some cortisone cream and a few Big Macs won't cure."   
     His eyes flittered from me to the doorway and back and it was obvious   
   from the look in them that Mulder wasn't sure he agreed.  He drew in a   
   deep breath.   
      
   "Sir," he began haltingly.  "Nobody's told me anything.  I need to know   
   what..."   
      
   "What do you remember?" I asked sharply.  Mulder's eyes were lost, far away.   
      
   "I don't -- I can't..."  He shook his head, frustrated.  "It's gone," he   
   said, "it's all gone.  I remember...the forest.  A bright light.  There   
   was...there was screaming."   
      
   Screaming?  Christ.  His own, no doubt.  Mulder's eyes were darting   
   around the room and I was positive it wasn't the hospital room that he   
   was seeing.   
      
   "Mulder."  I touched his shoulder and he winced.  "Why don't you take   
   some time."   
      
   He shook his head, swallowed hard.  "I know how much time I've lost   
   already, sir," he said in a low voice.  He paused, then looked at me, hard.   
      
   "How did you find me?" he said quietly.   
      
   How did we find you?  We looked, Mulder.  We looked every day.  We sent   
   teams of federal agents streaming over every inch of the Oregon forest.   
     We put out bulletins to every hospital and homeless shelter in four   
   states.  Every John Doe, every unidentified suspect, every unclaimed   
   body.  We devoted an army of manpower.  We devoted our lives.   
      
   But I didn't tell him that, not yet.  Instead I said, "An anonymous tip   
   pointed us toward the shelter.  They said they'd picked you up on the   
   outskirts of the Bellefleur forest.  You were..."   
      
   I trailed off abruptly.  When they'd found him, Mulder had been   
   murmuring a name.  Scully's name.  And I didn't want to be talking about   
   Agent Scully, not yet.   
      
   But it was too late; Mulder had picked up on my hesitation.  His eyes   
   tracked to the doorway again, as if he expected her to be standing   
   there.  Hell, I almost expected it myself.  But then, Mulder always had   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)