From: laughing458@yahoo.com   
      
   Title: Beautiful   
      
   Author: Gauri (lauging458@yahoo.com)   
      
   Category: Romance/ Angst   
      
   Keywords: Post-colonization, William   
      
   Rating: R   
      
   Spoilers: Seasons 8 and 9   
      
   Disclaimer: I want The X-Files. Specifically Mulder.   
   But, alas, it (and more unfortunately he) is not mine.   
      
   Summary: Post-colonization: What a view. What a drop.   
   William Mulder, at the age of nineteen, must come to   
   terms with his place in the world after the   
   colonization.   
      
   Notes: I do not speak Spanish.  I also have an   
   aptitude for angst.  I hope you enjoy, nevertheless.   
      
   ***********   
      
   Fuck, she was high up.   
      
   The penthouse balcony afforded a sight of the city   
   that no other place of such decadence could boast.   
   From here, the entire plan of Washington DC was laid   
   bare, and night had left the entire scene lit up like   
   Venice during Carnival: fountains were colored; the   
   faces of those long dead were silhouetted by lone   
   spotlights. Up here, the breeze was light and cool,   
   and Kate was able to accurately approximate the   
   distance from her place soldered on the iron wrought   
   banister to the center of the busy intersection below.   
   It was about 150 feet.   
      
   The balcony was also perfect hideout for someone   
   trying to escape the stifling sensation of loneliness   
   that overtook her in large crowds such as these.   
   Parties allowed Kate to see just how many people she   
   did not know in the world, that she had cut herself   
   off from, and while the separation did not affect her   
   now as horribly as it did upon its onset, it still dug   
   into her side from time to time.   
      
   She turned from her downward contemplations back to   
   the French doors that led into the penthouse, sliding   
   her arms out to support her body against the   
   guardrail. The scene inside was the picture of Roman   
   debauchery, decorated with reds, golds, and oranges,   
   replete with chocolate fountains, spreads of fruit and   
   breads, and the ubiquitous champagne flutes that   
   servers spread around the room like disease.   
      
   How very ironic.   
      
   Two of the infected men stumbled out into the balcony   
   with their flutes in hand. They were shaking with   
   laughter, threatening to spill their drinks across   
   their beautiful suits.   
      
   “My God, Dana Scully is a genius,” the first one   
   commented, taking his spot by the rail and looking out   
   into the city.   
      
   The second one snorted. “She’s had a lot of help. God   
   knows that no one thinks of those things by   
   themselves.” He paused and took a drag of champagne,   
   then eyed his friend. “Fuck, an antidote to the Black   
   Cancer was known years and years ago, probably before   
   she had even shacked up with Mulder.”   
      
   “Yeah, but she took that knowledge and did something   
   with it. Saved everyone. Saved your scrawny ass,” he   
   cajoled, slapping his friend hard on the shoulder. “No   
   matter how much help she got on that one, you can’t   
   take the glory away from her.”   
      
   “As if she wants glory,” the second stated, before   
   taking another swig of his champagne. “My God, late   
   fifties and she still looks like a fox.”   
      
   “Kate Doggett?”   
      
   She turned, her head of curls escaping their loose   
   prison, her caramel dress scraping against the metal.   
   A young captain had addressed her, perhaps twenty five   
   years to her seventeen, and he gave her a warm smile   
   that she assumed was usually only brought out at bars   
   and press conferences. Handsome enough. He held out   
   his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Captain   
   Fairchild.”   
      
   And he thought she was beautiful.   
      
   She bowed her head and admired his honors and his   
   handshake appropriately. He smiled and bestowed a   
   fitting thanks, and Kate turned from his countenance   
   out to the city. What a view. What a drop. “Actually,   
   I wanted to ask you about the design on the back of   
   your dress,” Fairchild stated, handing her a flute of   
   champagne, brushing over her hand too much in the   
   exchange. “It’s very interesting.”   
      
   Among the rich golds and reds inside stirred a trio of   
   older men with Nihls in their wake, cloaking a fourth   
   person within them. Her eyes glanced up for a moment   
   and then returned to her companion. “It’s, umm,   
   actually a tattoo,” she explained with a demure sip of   
   her champagne. “Dress blends with my skin, I guess.   
   Been getting too much sun.”   
      
   The captain raised his eyebrows, surprised. “In that   
   case, it’s very well done,” he complimented   
   uncertainly. He paused, as if unsure how to continue,   
   trying to stare as gentlemanly as possible at the   
   blue, four armed being etched into her skin. His mouth   
   hung open for a moment, working out how to respond,   
   before finally settling on a simple “What is it?”   
      
   The older men inside finally parted around the fruit   
   canopy to reveal a young man, nineteen years old. Will   
   Mulder was laughing with them, she noticed. All the   
   red was gone from his eyes, and his countenance   
   betrayed nothing to those who worshipped his DNA, his   
   body, and his charming smile.   
      
   “Shiva,” she said simply to the captain, and with a   
   simpering smile excused herself.   
      
   (U-U)   
      
   Her parents had broken down and bought a trampoline   
   for her eleventh birthday. They rationalized it by   
   saying what good exercise it was, what fun it would be   
   for her in the backyard when she had friends over.   
   They never once admitted to themselves that they were   
   indulging her just a bit, celebrating her existence   
   after the loss of so many four years before, during   
   the colonization attempt.   
      
   The only person that jumped on it besides herself was   
   Will. When he and his parents would come to visit, the   
   four adults came and sat in the dining room and the   
   two children went outside to play one-two-three on the   
   trampoline. One bounce, two bounces, three bounces,   
   and then they would land on their rear ends and see   
   who would bounce the highest. Because Will was   
   thirteen years old and a good twenty pounds heavier   
   than Kate was, she always flew up the highest, and   
   Will would eventually get frustrated with the game   
   that physics had dictated he couldn’t win.   
      
   Eventually, they would both tire and lay on the   
   trampoline, closing their eyes against the sun. They   
   would then, despite their best intentions, somehow   
   always revert back to their favorite game, “This or   
   That”. What would you do; this action or that action?   
   Kiss a monkey or chase a cheetah? Sometimes they got   
   Shannon McMahon, Will’s self-appointed protector when   
   he was outside of the Compound, to play along, but her   
   choices were always a little too strange, and   
   eventually they would opt to play ball instead of   
   “This or That”.   
      
   “This or That” turned into “Dogs or Peter Poiter”,   
   referring to Will’s infamous question to a thirteen   
   year old Kate concerning who she would rather have sex   
   with. In its final evolution, “This or That” became   
   “Sex, Drugs, and Rock ‘n Roll”, where the choices   
   could only consist of the subjects of musical bands,   
   drugs, or fellatio. The subject of sexual intercourse   
   lost its luster after they lost their virginity to   
   each other, and fellatio was dropped off the list.   
   Eventually, they outgrew the game entirely.   
      
   But during a hot August day when Mulder and Scully had   
   come to spend the day at the Doggetts’ home, nineteen   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)