This vignette is a post-episode/missing scenes piece associated with the season 5 episode "The Red and the Black." I really love that episode (and "Patient X" as well), but I have always felt that 1013 left an emotional chasm between Mulder and Scully that they never entirely dealt with before the episode ended. This is my attempt to paper clip and bubble gum a few fragments of the story together. This story was originally posted to atxc on Tuesday, 9 March 1999. It is rated PG, and may be classified VA, according to the Gossamer convention. It is not an MSR story, but it is written with the assumption that Mulder and Scully share a profound (if unconsummated) romantic love. Disclaimer: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, and all of the other characters and situations related to the X-Files, belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and the FOX network. I am using them without permission but intend no copyright infringement. My most profound thanks go to Rachel Howard, for her insightful and gracious advice concerning this piece. Without her help, this would have been much poorer, and indeed may never have seen the light of day. Please read the HTML version below or download the text version.

The Rivers Under the Sahara

"It's over, sir."

The voice was young, and sounded shaken. Mulder looked up into the beam of a flashlight, which was lowered to reveal a figure--a boy, really--in dark camouflage fatigues.

"Will you come with us, please?"

Mulder nodded wearily, not resisting as a second soldier gently removed his pistol from his right hand. The sharp scent of its discharge lingered in the back of the truck, though Mulder could not remember firing it. He'd crouched behind the makeshift cell when the light had appeared overhead, then...

His head hurt. The soldiers took hold of his elbows, steering him toward the tailgate. He turned and looked back into the cell, which stood empty, its door ajar, then followed the men out and into the rain. He let them lead him to a waiting vehicle, settling into the rear seat. The soldier who had first spoken got in next to him, leaving the driver's seat unoccupied.

Mulder raised his hand to his brow, massaging his temples briefly, then turned to his escort. "How long?"

"Sir?"

"How long since I got on the truck?"

"I'm not sure, sir. About twenty minutes, maybe."

"What did you see?"

The young soldier hesitated. When he spoke, a note of awe had crept back into his voice. "I'm...not sure, sir. There was a lot of light. Then..." He seemed to catch himself. "I don't know, sir."

Mulder sat back, closing his eyes. The light, yes. He'd hidden himself as the driver of the truck walked slowly from cab to tailgate, and then the light had come. Mulder replayed the scene in his mind. Outside, soldiers went to and fro, performing their duties with a brisk and ineffectual thoroughness.

The soldier next to him said, "Do you know what it was, sir?"

Mulder shook his head. Too late, he thought. Too late. The light had come, and...

He had walked into Krycek's war. The image flashed before him suddenly: a strangely familiar figure, bearing a hand-spike, and another, who extended a metallic wand just as Mulder was bringing his gun to bear.

The light burned down on them--light and sound and an intense vibration that resonated in Mulder's skull until just remaining upright was agony. He held his weapon two-handed, with a desperate grip, as much governing himself as directing his aim. The two figures, silhouetted but unmistakable, turned and beheld him, as though assessing his role in their conflict.

Who was the enemy? The shapechanger, who had thwarted him yet spared him? Or the newcomer, the faceless man--Krycek's 'alien rebel'?

Indecision froze him. Krycek had sent him here. Alex Krycek, who had lied and murdered and called him 'tovarishch,' had stared down, his face a mask of hope and hatred, and bade him to rescue a resistance of which Mulder had never before heard. He had returned his weapon and vanished, leaving him with the task and the vaguely irritating memory of his lips on his cheek.

Mulder felt himself begin to fade. His howl of protest was purely instinctual. He felt his gun discharge, unaimed, and then...

White time.

A moment in the mind, that can encompass long hours.

Mulder had not known how much time had passed when Scully arrived at his apartment. Krycek had gone, and Mulder had settled on his couch and waited in the dark, for minutes or hours--he wasn't sure. The time had slipped away unnoticed, as the events of recent days had passed before him in vivid replay.

The long walk across the bridge at the dam, the dead crumbling into ashes all around. The sickening scent of scorched flesh and hair had nearly overcome him, until it and all other sensations were eclipsed by the endless seconds of horror that came with the realization that Scully had died there. Mulder had run toward the dead woman, knowing for a time that the desert of his existence had become perfect. When he had realized his mistake, his relief left no room for regret or compassion, or even guilt over not feeling them.

And then the bizarre, voyeuristic thrill of Scully's hypnosis. He'd watched her, mesmerized by her subconscious account of her rapture, her submission to the siren call of the implant. He'd wanted to deny it, to deflect the awful truth of it. But in the end, he could not. Alien or human, the price was the same.

She would have died, her beauty and spirit consumed by fire.

By Krycek's war.

Mulder turned Krycek's note over in his hand. Things are looking up. Wiekamp Air Force Base. Human or alien, blood or oil, it didn't matter. He was responsible. He had to be responsible.

Scully interrupted his meditations, her knock coming just before he could draw together the will to act. In the half-light of his apartment, she was like porcelain--lovely, fragile.

Vulnerable.

Mulder felt the weight of obligation focus into a sudden need for movement. He handed her the note and brushed past her, invoking their shared destiny to draw her along with him, and to forestall any inquiry. He had the door open when her voice came from behind him.

"Mulder?"

He turned. Her hair gleamed a bright copper in the light that spilled in from the hallway, and her hands, half-hidden by the sleeves of her long black coat, were small and pale. She held up the note. The bandage on her right hand accentuated her fragility, but the light in her eyes was strong, determined.

"What is this?" she asked. "Who wrote this?"

Mulder closed the door and leaned against it. "Krycek."

There was silence. After a moment, Scully said, "Alex Krycek was here?"

"Yes."

She moved closer. "You spoke to him?"

Mulder nodded. "Yes." He didn't want to explain. Now that he had mustered the energy to begin, delay was suddenly intolerable.

"What did he say?"

Turning toward the door, he said, "Scully, we have to get going."

"Mulder, no. I need to know what we're going after."

He turned again, looking back at her, and it was as though he were seeing her for the first time in weeks, or months. As quickly as it had arisen, the urgency began to ebb, leaving behind a different compulsion, less immediate, but no less imperative.

She said, "You waited for me to come here--you can take time to tell me what this is about."

He told her. He told it just as Krycek had, without embellishment, and watched as her expression grew incredulous.

When he had finished, Scully said, "And you believe him?"

He shrugged helplessly, not speaking.

Her expression hardened. "Mulder, what are you saying? First you insist that all you ever believed about extraterrestrial phenomena was wrong, and now all it takes is a word from Alex Krycek--" She stopped, seemingly at a loss.

"I don't trust Krycek, but I think there must be at least some truth in what he said. I don't see why he would take the trouble--"

"The only certainty about Alex Krycek is his treachery," said Scully.

Mulder reached for her then, placed his left hand on her upper arm, drawing her closer.

"It doesn't matter, Scully," he said. "It doesn't matter what I believe. It doesn't matter whether Krycek was telling the truth or some half-truth, or something else."

Under his touch, she was tense and hard, her breath coming in shallow rhythm that was both adamant and distractingly erotic. "Mulder, that doesn't make sense." Her eyes were locked on his, azure intensity. Frustration suffused her tone.

Mulder let go of her and slipped past, back into his living room. Behind him, Scully said, "You're the one who said the government put that chip in my neck. You said that the truth is in me..."

"I know, Scully."

"You told Skinner that what I saw was staged--"

Mulder wheeled to face her. "Well, isn't that what you wanted me to believe? Isn't that the 'truth' that Kritschgau gave you?"

She was undaunted. "Mulder, it's not a matter of what you or I want. The truth is itself."

"Scully--"

"Explain it to me, Mulder. We've spent five years on this, and suddenly you want to just throw it all away, and then just as--" She broke off, then went on, her voice softer. "I don't understand."

"Scully, you said you needed memories, proof, to keep searching. Why?" She began to speak, but he cut her off, slashing the air with his right hand. "Does that make any more sense? When I said I believed what you thought was true all along? Why, Scully?"

"Why shouldn't I ask for proof? With all that we've been through, all that's happened to us..." She trailed off, half turning away. Her eyes were suddenly bright with moisture.

Mulder felt the anger drain out of him. He turned away, found himself staring into his fish tank. "That's just it Scully," he said. "It's what they've done to you."

Behind him, she was silent.

He said, "It doesn't matter whether Krycek's story was true or not, because it doesn't matter who did this to you. It only matters that it was done."

Scully still said nothing. Mulder watched the bubbles rising through the water, trying to find a way to explain, to find the words that would reach her. He said, "When I left Oxford...it's been so long now." He paused, then, as memories long unhandled came rushing back. "I had a choice. There was something that I wanted to do--overland, Algiers to Tombouctou, and then maybe on to Senegal--that was the plan." He could still see the desert of his imagination--names on a map translated into pictures in the mind: Biskra, Ouargla, In Salah, Tamanrasset...starlight on the dunes.

"I had it all mapped out--the route we would take, the places we would visit. A friend and I were going to travel together. He wanted to go even more than I did."

"But we never did it. I had the chance to enter the Academy, and I had already spent too much time in school, getting ready. It was time to begin. I had been putting it off, even though...at the time...nothing else was more important."

He did turn then, to find her standing close behind him, her expression grown soft, compassionate.

He said, "It was just a dream, really. I had a responsibility--to find my sister. So I came back, joined the FBI."

She would have spoken, then, but he held up a hand, and she let him continue.

"You could have died, Scully. On the dam. At Skyland Mountain. Anywhere. I didn't want to believe it, even when the truth was staring me in the face."

"Mulder--"

"Whoever did this to you--I have to stop it. I've been putting it off, but I can't look away any more."

This time, it was Scully who reached for him, placing her bandaged hand lightly on his chest. "No," she said. "We have to stop it. It's not just your responsibility."

"It's my burden, Scully. I led you here."

"Mulder--"

"If you had never--"

"No," she said. "I won't be her, Mulder. Don't do that to me."

He wanted to protest, but could not speak past the sudden tightness in his throat. He swallowed, trying to find his voice.

Scully spoke first. "I told you that I followed you because of the strength of your beliefs." She caught hold of his hand, lifting it and enfolding it between hers. "That's true. But I followed you because I wanted to. Because it was important to me." Her voice fell a bit, becoming husky with emotion. "Whatever I am to you, I don't want to be her."

For a long moment, there was silence between them. Then Mulder lifted his right hand, caressed her face gently. Her burns were nearly healed, almost invisible beneath her makeup, and he could feel the consoling rhythm of her breath on his skin.

"All right," he said at last. "I...all right." The promise was unspoken. Her lips parted slightly, but she did not speak. "We still have to do this." He lowered his hand, letting the moment pass. "We should go now."

Scully nodded, collecting herself, and released his hand. He waited, briefly, and then together they walked out of his apartment and into the night.

A moment in the mind.

After a while, a soldier climbed into the driver's seat of the vehicle in which Mulder and his escort waited. He started the engine and pulled out onto the roadway, heading for the base. Other jeeps and trucks fell in line behind them. Mulder didn't ask whether they had found anything.

The drive back to the base was not long. When they arrived at the gate, one of the soldiers returned his weapon and led him to the car. Scully was waiting there, just as he had left her. He got in.

"What happened?" she asked.

Mulder looked over at her through the haze of his headache. "I don't know," he said. He covered his eyes with his right hand. The windshield wipers moved with a soothing rhythm.

Scully's hand touched his, took it in a gentle clasp. She looked at him inquiringly, but he said nothing. He looked away, heard her sigh.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. "Mulder, you were gone more than an hour. They made me get out of the car and wait in the gatehouse. Then they told me to get back in...that we could go. They wouldn't tell me anything."

An hour. "I lost time," Mulder said. "I think they did too."

"The soldiers?"

He nodded. "Something happened here, Scully. Something...momentous."

"But you don't--"

"No."

For a moment, the only sounds were the rain and the sweeping of the wipers.

"Let's go," he said. "It may come back to me, but I need time." He gently freed his hand, putting their car into drive and pulling away from the gate. Its lights were soon lost behind them, and they drove into a lonely darkness of woodlands and rain.

They didn't speak, but after a few minutes, their hands came together and clasped once more. They kept the connection throughout the long drive back to Washington. The night was empty around them, as though they had been left alone in the world.

Afterword: If I am not careful, this will end up being longer than the vignette itself, but I must give credit where credit is due. To begin, the phrase "a moment in the mind" was derived from a verse in the Wallace Stevens poem "Peter Quince at the Clavier":

                Beauty is momentary in the mind--
                The fitful tracing of a portal;
                But in the flesh it is immortal

                The body dies; the body's beauty lives.

Of course, my use of the phrase doesn't really carry the same meaning as these lines, but this is where I got the idea, so I thought it best to mention it.

As for the title of this story (and I'm almost embarrassed to admit this), it comes from a line in the song "Dreamline", by that ageing Canadian rock triumvirate known as "Rush":

'She's got a liquid-crystal compass,
A picture book of the rivers under the Sahara'

I have no idea what that's supposed to mean, but I liked the idea of the world's greatest desert having hidden waters beneath it, and I found it fitting, so I absconded with it.

Feedback is most welcome.  Please send email to: ravenscion@yahoo.com.

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