This story is a post-episode vignette based on the season five episode "Pine Bluff Variant" (5X18). It is rated R for language and disturbing images.

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Afterimages

Mulder watched from a distance as his partner told him he had been set up.

He should have felt outrage. Hell, he wanted to feel it, to feel anything that would lock his mind back on the case, on his duty, on his identity as an FBI agent. But for the last few hours, he had been too bound up in alternating waves of urgency and detachment, recurring panic and distance, to do more than stumble along, knee deep in the surf, just trying to remain upright.

The sensation of simply being alive itself cast a fog of sensory overload about him.

The sensation of death, looming just behind, one false step away from seizing him, knotted the muscles of his back in near agony.

Through this turmoil he had driven, in the car Bremmer had left for him, his conscious mind giving direction to his storm of emotion, away from the horror he had so narrowly escaped. In the end, though it was the only thing he could do, returning to the bank had seemed little more than an afterthought.

Mulder tried to focus on the case, to challenge Skinner, to make sense of what Scully had told him, but he found himself slipping in and out of focus, the tumult within filtering out the events around him. He had been that way for some time, ever since the world had exploded and he had somehow found himself alive in the aftermath.

He heard himself say something about the people that had died in the theater. He felt sick, appalled, but only vaguely so. For some reason, his mind seemed more interested in minor details -- the tang of auto exhaust, or the black sweep of Scully's trench coat -- than the conversation he was supposed to be having.

Get a grip on yourself, he thought.

I'm alive, he thought back.

"Agent Mulder!" A voice cut across his hearing, bringing him out of his reverie for a moment. "Our government is not in the business of killing innocent civilians."

That brought him back, all right. "The hell they aren't!" For a moment, rage gave him something to cling to, something to anchor him. "Those were tests, on us, to be used against someone else." Mulder held onto the anger, glaring at the U.S. attorney in front of him. He could almost smell the cigarette the man wasn't smoking.

But even as the attorney spoke, Mulder felt himself drifting again. He knew he should be listening, recording every word for later analysis, but he was tired, so very tired. The man was saying something about bills and no evidence and....

"You knew about this all along!" Scully exploded next to him, bringing him back once more. "You knew about this the whole time."

Mild amusement swelled in Mulder as he watched the son-of-a-bitch actually wilt momentarily. Dana Scully under full sail could take the starch out of just about anyone, and Mulder could tell she was royally pissed off. She was actually panting as she stood next to him.

Downright erotic, an unhelpful part of him mused. He silenced that thought.

Instead, he drew on her fury, letting it energize him once more. He demanded that the bills be re-checked, bearing down on himself as his opponent absconded into lies about evidence and federal prosecutions and all the bureaucratic crap that held his world together.

"That money is as dirty as you are, isn't it?" Mulder watched himself -- he was hanging in there, but his conttrol was starting to fray again. He hoped Scully would rejoin the battle, but she remained silent.

He worked his aching shoulders, trying to loosen them up. He had driven with his hands locked in a death-grip on the steering wheel, forcing his attention onto the road and not the myriad other mundane things that now seemed endlessly fascinating as they passed him.

And forcing it away from the baleful memory of the skin-head, now dead in the grass where Mulder had almost died, would have died, but for the merest of chances.

Damn. He was definitely drifting off.

In front of him, Cancerman's little brother was asking him what he wanted.

Mulder did his best. "I want people to know the truth."

He didn't even hear the answer, just felt the man brush past him. Mulder watched him for a moment, and then felt his legs get weak. He leaned against something. So damn tired, he thought.

And his mind went into replay. Again.

"There's a car for you, just over the horizon," said Bremmer. "Head south until you get to the highway."

Mulder tore his gaze from the beautiful grass in front of him, trying to get his brain to work. "Who are you?"

"Go on. If they come out here and find us, they'll kill us both." Bremmer nodded ahead. "Go on."

"Go."

Mulder ran, adrenaline flogging him, his lungs drinking the cold, sweet air. He ran from the gun he felt aimed at the center of his back, ran in spite the pain from the muscles that constricted between his shoulder blades, waiting for the bullet.

He ran on, though his legs threatened to give out with every stride. Keep it going, Mulder, just another 50 yards. Just as far as that tree, just over that rise -- he chanted the litany to himself, his mouth dry.

"Agent Scully, get him out of here." Skinner's voice brought him back yet again. Mulder felt his head start to pound. Why does that guy always sound like his jaw is frozen?

"Come on, Mulder, I'll drive you home." Scully moved closer to him, her light touch electric on his forearm, guiding him gently out toward the street. "It's over," she said.

It's never over, he thought, but he followed her.

Mulder sat rigid in the passenger's seat, unable to relax into the motion of the car, watching his partner drive. He soaked up every image: the alert movements of her eyes, the deliberate sweeps of her hands on the wheel...the dark red fall of her hair, the pomegranate red of her mouth.

Scully turned her gaze on him for a moment, watching him watching her.

Mulder closed his eyes. It had been close, today. Death had been near enough that he had nearly lost himself completely, despite his years of training and field experience with the FBI. Work on the X-Files had led him into harrowing situations before, plenty of times, and he had long lost count of the foolish chances that had nearly gotten him killed in the line of duty. But this had been different. Nothing he had seen before had prepared him for the feeling of utter helplessness that had overcome him as he waited for his execution.

It was as close to rape as anything he had ever suffered.

And now, though he felt so alive that even the non-descript faux leather of the armrest could captivate him, he nonetheless felt the chill of terror and regret creeping up his spine.

It crept up from his knees as he knelt next to Haley in the cold mud.

The moment Bremmer had produced the tape recorder, Mulder had known the game was up. He could only stand and listen as Scully's lovely voice and his own condemned him to death.

And now he could only kneel there in the chill, watching the weak sun dance on the water, as the New Spartans decided how they would dispose of him. He hoped it would be quick, and clean.

Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn, I'm not ready to die. Not now. Not like this. He would have run, would the effort not have been so pathetically hopeless.

"Mulder?" He must have made a sound. Scully had turned to face him, a frown crinkling her forehead.

"I'm okay, Scully," he heard himself say. I am not okay, he thought. "Just need rest."

Mulder felt some of her attention go back to the road. He closed his eyes again.

"We've made some decisions," Bremmer rasped in his ear.

That didn't sound good.

Mulder looked over at Haley, saw Bremmer set a packet of car keys on his head, telling him to get out of there, not to show his face again. His heart swelled in a moment of wild hope. They're letting him go, he thought. Maybe...

"On your feet." Bremmer's voice killed the thought half-formed.

Mulder felt the sudden urge to urinate. "I don't need a car." His voice sounded inane. "You can call me a cab, that would be fine."

The skin-head's hands made a garrote of Mulder's collar, dragging him upright. Stand up, Mulder, said a disdainful voice inside him. You're supposed to be an FBI agent. At last, his legs stabilized.

"Let's go," said Bremmer.

"Go where?" Mulder heard his voice catch. He clamped down on himself. You're going to die, Mulder, try to do it with some semblance of dignity. The voice in his head sneered at him.

Bremmer was saying something about witnessing the murder of a federal officer. Mulder spoke to the skin-head behind him, tried to sound light-hearted. "Hear that?" It wasn't working.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Mulder could hear the man grin odiously over his shoulder.

Then the walk began. Mulder forced his legs to move, forward through the wooden framework and hanging plastic shreds. Like prayer flags, he thought, prayer flags for robots -- a fitting place to die, in an insane sort of way.

He wondered if they would find him. Not for a while, probably. No way these bastards would just leave him here. Hell, there was no telling what they would do. Maybe they would dismember his corpse, and some coroner someday would wind up puzzling over his femur and tibia, wondering where the rest of him was.

The plastic thundered in the soft breeze around him. His blood rang in his ears. I wonder if part of me will wind up in Daytona Beach.

The dismemberment capital of America, one of his instructors had said years ago.

You're losing it, Mulder, said the voice.

He felt adrenaline course through him. He wanted to run, but couldn't seem to take the first step, not that it would have mattered. The skin-head would have him down before he took two strides.

I don't want to die.

"Stop here," said Bremmer.

"We're here," said Scully. Mulder stared at her. She had stopped the car in front of his apartment building. She looked like an angel.

He sighed heavily. "Okay...come up for a minute?" He did not want to be alone.

Scully looked thoughtful, nodded. "I want to make sure you're okay."

"I'll be alright," he said, climbing out of the car. She was at his side a moment later.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs," she said. Mulder followed her, found that he was leaning on her as she led him inside and upstairs to his door. He propped himself on the frame as she found his key from among her own. He fumbled momentarily for his own keyring, suddenly unsure of its whereabouts, then desisted as his fingers touched cool metal in one of his pockets.

Scully was already opening the door. She took his arm again and led him within, guiding him to his couch.

"You need sleep, Mulder," she said, sitting him down. "You've been under a lot of stress."

He half-laughed, half-coughed. "Don't I know it," he said.

She regarded him closely. "I'll get you some water," she said, slipping away toward the kitchen.

Mulder watched the motes dancing in the beam of fading sunlight cast through the apartment window. He breathed deeply, savoring the peculiar scent of his place, and then reached down to tug at his laces, yanking off his boots and heaving them into a corner. They landed with a slap on the wooden floor.

Scully was in front of him again, guiding his hands to the glass she had brought for him. He sipped from it, wishing for a moment that it were bourbon instead. He pushed that thought aside too and fumbled for the bottle of aspirin that was a fixture on the end table by the couch.

Scully sat on the coffee table in front of him, placing a hand on his knee. "What happened, Mulder?" She lowered her gaze briefly. "I was worried about you." Her voice fell to a near whisper as her eyes returned to his. "You don't seem like yourself."

"What happened?" He laughed sickly once more. "I robbed a bank," he said. "Then I watched some psycho kill a man just for the fun of it." He stared at his feet. "Couldn't do a damned thing."

"That wasn't your fault Mulder." Scully's hand tightened on him slightly. "Don't blame yourself for it."

As usual, she could sense his distress, Mulder realized. And as usual, she was searching for some way to help. She's always here for me, he thought.

He looked down, shook his head. "I don't really. Still, it doesn't sit very well, does it?" Scully did not answer.

What would you do if she weren't here, Mulder? His contemptuous alter-ego had returned. You'd have gone over the edge by now, no doubt about it.

"After the bank," Scully said carefully. "What happened then?"

Mulder looked up at her. "Bremmer had a tape -- of us. Here. Talking about Haley." She paled. "Yeah, that's how I felt," he said. "I was sure they were going to kill me."

Scully started at that, and he realized he had said it to her before. "No, I mean it this time. I was certain." He set the empty water glass on the table next to her. He heard himself tell her what had happened, then. He spoke simply, reciting the unadorned facts, but he sensed that she perceived far more. Her eyes were bright with compassion.

And he was back in the surreal forest of frame and plastic, looking over his shoulder at his killer.

"Down on your knees," he said. "Hands behind your back."

Mulder stared long at Bremmer, looking for something, anything in his lupine features. But there was nothing there. His eyes were empty.

Mulder knelt. So this is the place, he thought. This is where I die. He wondered if Scully would be the one to find him.

Scully. Oh, God, he thought. I never told you.

He cursed himself, guilt and terror and regret assailing him all together, clawing at his composure. He felt the almost sexual glee of the skin-head standing above him, felt the emptiness of the spot where Bremmer stood behind him. And he felt the hollow feeling of a road not taken.

All these years with Scully, and he had never had the courage to tell her what she meant to him. He had just strung her along, clinging to the ties between them but pushing her away whenever she got too close. He had relied on her devotion to ensure that she would follow him into whatever straits he led her, no matter what price she had to pay as a result. At times, on his own terms, he had pushed the limits of their intimacy, but not once had he closed the final distance between them, never had he returned her devotion in the measure she deserved. And in about 10 seconds, when he would be lying with whatever was left of his face planted in the midst of bone and blood and brains, it would be too late to change any of that.

The click of the round being chambered shattered the silence around him.

Mulder closed his eyes, felt the maw of the pistol behind his head. His ears were ringing again, his chest tightening in panic. He fought to control his breathing, fought the urge to pant.

Fought not to plead.

He almost lost it, but then settled into a strange calm. And she was there with him. At the end, she was there, a perfect image drawn from his perfect memory. 'Mulder...' Her voice caressed his mind.

'Dana,' he breathed...

The gun roared behind his skull.

And he was alive, the skin-head falling next to him.

Mulder lurched forward, swallowing fiercely against his need to vomit.

And she was there with him, on the couch, her hand behind his shoulder. He felt his hands trembling over his face, felt his body quaking in reaction.

A dry sob heaved in his chest.

"Mulder..." Her hand took one of his, drawing it gently from his face. His eyes sought hers, let them bring him back to himself. Calm returned to him.

It had been just too close this time, he thought. He had to say something. He could not again risk checking out without having had the courage to tell her how he felt -- to tell her she was the hope of his love.

"Scully..." he began. "There's something more I have to tell you."

She waited, one russet eyebrow arched slightly, and Mulder found that, though his mind raced with what he wanted to say, the words would not come. I have to tell you that the reason I work 60 hours or more every week is that I get to spend the time with you. I have to tell you that the reason I've spent virtually every night for the last five years by myself is that I haven't wanted anyone but you with me.

Say something, Mulder, he thought.

He folded both of his hands around hers, tried again. "Dana," he spoke quietly, "for a long time, we've been close. Friends. Partners." God, this sounded stupid. He almost gave up, but her hand tightened around his, encouraging him. He took a deep breath.

"I want to be more than that for you," he said.

Mulder waited, staring nervously into the intense blue of her gaze, and saw comprehension there.

And acceptance.

Something to build on, he thought. The red tide of his unrest finally began to recede. He drew breath to speak again, but she silenced him with her fingertips, and then leaned in close, her sea wind essence washing over him.

Her lips caressed his cheek. The kiss was chaste and gentle, yet it shocked into awareness every fiber of his being. Her arms tightened around him for a moment, inciting in him a joyous pizzicato, and then she was laying him back on the couch, standing up to draw a blanket over him.

"Sleep now," Scully said. Her fingertips glided along his face. "I'll be here."

Mulder closed his eyes and at last felt himself relax.

He knew she would be.

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