Monkey River

My Seven Dreams Of Emily

My Seven Dreams Of Ice

My Seven Dreams Of Hell

Date: Tue, 04 Aug 1998 22:53:42 +0000

Author: RocketMan >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No fringe is

intended.

Content: ::::: : Alternate Universe, MSR-Angst?ResolvedST?

Summary: Hiding out in Central America

NOTES::::::::This is based on my experiences in Belize, Central America

and mine solely. So whatever I get wrong, please forgive me. I am trying

my best to get it right.

~~~~~

Monkey River

~~~~~

"We hear the tide

Roll through the night

Come lead the weary

Lord please make us one."

--'Make Us One' Cindy Morgan

~~~~~

~~~~~

Monkey River, Belize, Central America

4:03 a.m.

~~~~~

Ellsie listened to the sounds of Monkey River as it rushed past, the

water jumping rocks and trees and rain forest in an attempt to make it

to the Carribean Sea.

They were right on the edge of the town, appropriately called Monkey

River, and the sounds of rain forest and water mixed to give a

frightening symphony.

She didn't like it. But of course, she hadn't grown up here, hadn't ever

had to live the way she did now.

Squalor was the only term for it.

Poverty was not known here, because being poor was everywhere. Sure, you

had richer families, those that owned half the town like the Zabanes,

but in comparison to what she had known before, everyone lived in

poverty, in squalor.

Even them, her and him.

Ellsie slipped out of the pallet on the rough built up boards, and

brushed aside the curtain that was their door.

Their . . . house . . . was up on poles, raised to survive floods, with

the under side a house for a washing machine and a rusted bike, along

with various odds and ends that he thought might come in handy someday.

Someday.

Here now, was their future. Here was their someday.

No more Washington, no more apartments, showers, good reliable air

conditioning, no cases, mutants, killers.

No more.

Just a wooden structure with open windows and a curtain for a door that

had made her so proud when they had built it from mahoganey and their

own two hands. Mahoganey had been a beautiful sight to them, so much of

it everywhere. Now, it was just another wood, just another tropical wood

that came in abundance with the rain forest, along with alligators,

mosquitos, beef worms, huge beetles, and monkeys.

The beef worms scared her the most. They were little flies that bit you

and laid their eggs in your flesh. You had to go to the hospital to have

the growing things removed surgically. She had been a doctor once, and

still, it made her shiver.

Ellsie sighed, padded down the wooden steps and onto the ground, the

grass sopping after the previous day's continuous rain.

She slipped, then regained her footing and jumped across the little

river that always formed in front of their house after a rain. The dirt

road was littered with broken glass and she had to pick around it in the

far away light of the lamp on the corner.

A dog scuttled toward her, his tail nonexistent, his teeth bared as she

picked up a rock.

His body dropped to a crouch, eyes shifted, and she raised the rock,

ready to throw.

It whined and reluctantly scampered away, knowing the dangers of humans

with rocks.

She shivered, knowing all the dogs were rabid, but continued on past the

other homes, past the palm trees stunted before the No Muerde (No Bite)

Bar, on down to the all night Cafe Hello.

The cafe was part of the Hotel Hello and it catered to the white

missionaries that came during the summers and the immigrant workers that

got off the buses to work in the orange groves.

The girl behind the long white counter smiled and grabbed a glass bottle

with the Coke logo emblazoned on its side, then stuck a straw in the

neck, handing it over.

Ellsie placed two heavy dollar coins on the counter and walked to an

empty table, relishing in the fan that blew directly on her. The girl,

whose name was Shermaine, came from behind the counter and sat down,

momentarily blocking the fan.

"De way, Mestizo?" she said quickly.

Ellsie smiled, recalling how confused and almost afraid she'd been when

she'd first heard the strange dialect and even stranger language.

Something they called Creole, but in it she could detect no French, only

gutterized Spanish, screwed up English, and maybe ancient Mayan.

Replying with the same she shrugged and the words that rolled from her

mouth sounded native, Creole, Belizean.

Ellsie told her she had just stopped in, was planning on going nowhere.

That's what Shermaine's question had been, roughly - Where are you

going? Mestizo was their nickname, being of supposed white and Spanish

descent. Mestizos--those whose ancestors were the British colonists of

Belize and the Spanish Hondurans.

Except neither her, nor her husband had Spanish blood in them. And she

herself had no British.

They did not tell the people here that.

She dropped into heavily accented English. "Ow many peepull you got

tonight?"

"A few. You, two mans over der. No more."

The accent was Carribean, definitely, almost a Jamacian was what she had

first guessed. It was easy to fall into after six months.

After so long, she no longer thought of it as an accent, but as her

language, her tongue.

"White mans?" she asked, feeling the horrible urgency that had woken her

up come back again.

"Si. Bot."

Both were white. She shivered and managed to smile at her friend.

"Tank you." she murmured and finished the Coke, then gave back the

bottle.

Ellsie rose and slipped back into the night. No dogs came to attack this

time, not so close to the cafe.

She would have to tell him. This morning, no matter how early it was. He

had to be up at five anyway.

~~~~~

Monkey River

4:47

~~~~~

His face, the perpetually dark eyes, perpetually sunburned nose, jumped

out at her when she got back.

He had been afraid, she could see that.

"Scully!" he hissed and it made her suddenly want to cry, want to

collapse into him and never let go.

But she couldn't, wouldn't, let herself do that.

"Ellsie." she said back calmly, to give him back his focus, make him

realize that they had left behind the old ways.

"Where were you?"

"At Shermaine's. She's seen two more again."

"Whites?"

"Yes. Why so many in the off season?"

"It can't be good. But how'd they find us? And why are they being so

obvious about it?"

"I don't know. So far, Shermaine said no one has meentioned us. And she

says we're fa enough away to keep dem from coming close. De river and

everyting. Der afraid of it, she says."

Her voice patterns always had the hint of accent now, even when she

didn't have to keep it up for pretenses.

"All de whites are. We should be too, but we're too desperate."

Ellsie sighed, slipped over to the bed and sat down heavily. "I didn't

mean to wake you."

"I had a bad feeling."

She glanced to him.

"I did too."

"Monkey River's not safe anymore. Dey must know we're here."

"You tink it was the plane, right? De pilot was tracked down and dat

little eight seater was abnormal to dem. Dey got our descriptions when

dey questioned him."

"I tink so. Flying into the private airstrip was a mistake, too

different from the norm here. We didn't know. We'll take the Z-line bus

to Belize City. Get out. Fly to one of the lesser known tourist spots."

"What? Why?"

"San Pedro would be good."

"But-"

"No, dey've got white tourists there. Everywhere. What's two more?"

She nodded, blinked and looked around at their squalor. She realized she

was going to miss it.

"We still have the American money saved up?"

"Yes. Shermaine will trade it for us. They get U.S. all de time with de

hotel being right der."

"Yeah. She will. And she won't tell antyone."

They plunged into silence; plans were made, ideas formed, things falling

into place.

It was dark still, the bull frogs and toads creating too much noise to

let her think any longer.

She heard the river's namesakes howling, screeching, thrashing.

She shivered.

"San Pedro. Dat'll be wonderful."

"Expensive though. I'll have to get work somehow . . . good work. Not

just working in the orange factries."

Mulder . . . Manuel she had to call him now, worked in the plant that

squeezed the year round oranges into juice and was sold all over the

world. It was good, rich, and running much more efficiently under his

supervision.

He reached out to her while she was caught in her thoughts, brushed his

hand through her hair.

"You can change it back, Scully." he whispered, making her startle.

His voice was the old way, the rich flowing American sounds that she had

missed for so long.

She glanced to his fingers, which ran down her black hair, the attempt

to assimilate into a Spanish culture.

His own hair was dark, in spots sun lightened to a brown that turned

almost blonde, but that was natural here. Her reddish color was strange,

a thing not seen. So he had died it black for her from some plant juices

Shermaine had mixed for them.

It never washed out.

She smiled and took his hands, pulling them around her, needing some

kind of warmth in the early morning fear.

"We'll make it. We'll blend much better in San Pedro. It's winter and

tourist season. No one will think it strange. Then we can relocate. Go

to Honduras probably." he said, his voice strangely smooth, silky,

wonderfully normal again.

She nodded, accepted his words, knew they were not yet trapped.

Monkey River jumped along its bed, crashed into the rocks, rumbled over

the trees.

The rain forest screeched with life, howled with early morning

awakenings.

The dawn came, and so did their second new beginning.

~~~~~

end

how dumb was that?

adios

RM

Date: Tue, 28 Apr 1998 23:03:30 +0000

Author: RocketMan >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Emily belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No

infringement is intended.

SPOILER: All Souls, US5

CONTENT WARNING: This may seem so random at first, but remember it is a

dream told in first person by Scully and it's supposed to be very vivid.

Please let me know how this worked because it is very different from

anything I've done, prose wise.

My Seven Dreams of Emily

****

My First Dream

The light coming through the stained glass windows shifts unto my face

in golds and greens and warms small patches of skin in the otherwise

cool trap of this confessional.

I am on the wrong side.

The door slides open and the triangles cast over my face and obscure the

tiny figure beyond. I can hear the breathing, feel the slight raise in

temperature that tells me another person is in here with me.

This box of forgiveness strains with the knowledge of a legion of sins,

pops and creaks on its well built foundation with the shuddering of

damned offenses. It waits for one of us to speak, and as it waits, it

takes in a deep breath.

"Forgive me, Mother, for I have sinned."

It is a small voice, a small commanding voice with clarity and reason

beyond age or time.

It is Emily.

"Emily?"

My breath hitches close to my lungs, my ribs catching on my attempt to

speak, my hands fluttering to my throat.

"Emily?"

"Forgive me."

The whimper comes to my throat before I can even recognize it is there,

and it bubbles through the defenses of my steel armor, acid-like and

quick.

"I forgive you, Emily. I forgive you."

"Don't you want to know my sin?"

Her voice is petulant, her words sly and soft, as if she is teasing me

with some unattainable knowledge, knowing I will grab at it as surely as

I grab for her.

"I don't care. I forgive you."

"You can't. You can't." she says and I managed to see a small glimpse of

brown blonde hair and a sweater and I think <it's too hot for a

sweater>.

"I do, I forgive you."

Her words are ignoring mine and they come forcefully, suddenly:

You can't. You can't.

I crumple to the side, digging my fingers through to the holes that

separate us, the solid wood between us, the void of life between us.

"Emily, Emily." I whisper, knowing that soon she will be gone again.

"You can't. You can't."

"Take my fingers, Emily. Take my fingers."

I want to hold onto her, as if I could save her simply with a touch. My

touch did not save her before. Why should it now?

"You can't." she says again and I shake.

I can't save her. I can't forgive. (Her, or Him, or Them, or Me).

I can't keep this all in.

"Please, Emily. Please."

I want to save her, I want to at least try. I want my baby girl.

"Oh God, don't take my baby girl."

The light shifts again and I glance out, expecting someone to be

standing in the way of the sun, but there is still the window, and still

the stillness.

I look back and Emily is gone.

"No," I shudder. "No, you can't. You can't."

But still, she is gone, and still the sun comes through the stained

glass window and makes patches of green-gold warmth across my skin.

Everything is holding its breath.

****

****

Second Dream

"I can't."

"Sure you can, Emily. Just puff out your cheeks," he says.

My little girl stares at him as he demonstrates Mr. Potato Head and then

gives her ghost smile.

Mulder looks up to me and rolls his eyes. "She's harder to get a laugh

from than you."

I raise an eyebrow and gather Emily into my arms. She is stiff and

frightened; I can tell she still does not know me. She has not lived

with me like she should have. She does not know me as her mother.

I shiver as I feel shadows cross the sun, like the footsteps of Evil

walking across my grave. Emily buries her head into my lap and seems to

feel it too.

Mulder watches us.

The toy is abandoned on the wooden floor of the orphanage, its bright

red lips and bulging white eyes looking garish and out of place for a

child's companion.

"Emily?"

There is no answer and Mulder stares at me for a long time, his eyes

asking <Is she dead?>

I twitch, my hands hold tighter to my girl, tighter and tighter until

she breaks and crumbles in my lap.

"You can't." Mulder says and begins to sweep up the pieces of my

once-daughter.

I slap away his hands and cradle the jagged edges, hating him for trying

to take her from me.

"You can't."

I glare at him, my eyes daring him to say it one more time, to refuse my

motherhood once more, to deny my life its completion.

"You can't."

I crumble then, fall into the floor and hear the sounds of tinkling

glass, as if I am the unicorn figurine in Laura's collection, my horn

broken off in the attempt to impress someone.*

"You can't."

I can't put back these pieces, I can't find the glue that will hold them

to each other, I can't find all the shards that once fit together.

I am broken.

****

end

*Author's Note: For those of you who were confused about the glass

unicorn, it is from the play by Tennessee Williams called "The Glass

Menagerie." In it, a girl named Laura has a collection of glass animals,

one of them the unicorn, who she relates to because it is the odd one

out and doesn't belong with the other horses. When a friend of her

brother's comes to the house acting as a suitor, she shows him the

unicorn and he accidentally breaks the horn off. But she is glad because

now it won't feel so different. The friend tries to make her see her own

beauty, her own original-ness, her own 'horn' that makes her a unicorn

as something that is not a bad thing.

(Okay, enough Jr. English)

RM

****

Third Dream

I am in my house, but it is not anything I really own, yet it feels as

if I do, and it is normal and all right.

I can see out the window, and there are birds squeaking in the chimney,

begging for their mommas, and I can just about smell dinner cooking.

It is home, and yet it is missing something.

I run upstairs and find Mulder, asleep in a chair, his face serene,

blank, more natural and childish than I have ever seen it before.

Something is wrong because this feels so wrong, so right, so wrong, so

really Right.

"Mulder?"

Why am I not questioning how Mulder came to be here, in my house (his

house) asleep in the chair?

Why am I afraid that something isn't right in our perfect world?

"Mulder?"

He wakes up slowly, bringing his hands to rub his eyes and he looks more

like a four year old than a husband.

"Where is she?" I ask and my voice is shrill, biting, afraid.

"Where she always is."

As if we'd had Emily long enough to put her someplace to be her 'always'

place.

But I run through the rooms and run through the tunnels that this house

suddenly seems to grow and run through the trees that these wooden

floors seem to sprout and run until I make it.

She's alseep in bed, turned in a soft way, eyes shut and face just as

blank and serene as Mulder's was.

Only, I know that this time, she won't wake up.

"Emily?"

"Emily?"

I hear the echo of my cry coming from Mulder too and as I tremble

forward into the bedroom, I can feel Mulder following.

My head lays down beside the still, so still body of my only child,

wishing for an instance that I would feel her breath suddenly hot

against my cheek.

Mulder reaches out and pulls back the sheets and I want to scream at him

to leave her alone, to scream at him all the blame: he was here when she

died, he was supposed to be taking care of her, he was asleep when he

shouldn't have been.

I want to scream.

But I can't.

"Scully...."

Emily is colder now, her face frozen in a mask of innocence, and I

engrave every detail of her face into my mind, wishing I could sketch it

out endlessly because I know that someone will take her from me.

"Scully....."

I don't look at him, I don't choose to acknowledge him. He's too painful

a reminder.

"Scully....."

My eyes close and I feel the whisper of a need rise in me like flood

waters.

"I want to have her back, Mulder."

"You can't," he whispers and I feel his hands on me, pulling me from her

and I let him.

I let him.

There is nothing I can do.

There is nothing I can do.

****

****

Fourth Dream

"Have you accepted your grief?"

"I can't."

"Have you faith?"

"I can't accept my grief. I can't."

It is Father McCue, but it is not Father McCue, and he is watching me

cry through the slits of the jail cell and it feels like confessional,

and it feels like the time when I was in the hospital.

Either way, I am a prisoner.

I glance around the cold concrete blocked cell, feeling the eyes of a

million other prisoners who have gone before me- here with me now, their

anger and guilt seeping into me like a second skin.

I shut away these voices, the ones that say I am too old, too young, too

hurt, too pained, too loving, too cold, too hot, too stone.

Mulder is the voice, in a different language every time, yet the same

and I can understand it is him, and what he says, and I wish he didn't

see me the way he sees me.

I want him to feel like he can make Mr. Potato Head faces at me if he

wants. I want him to feel like he can pull me together with his arms and

tell me that death is all right, that death is something you never get

over, you only get with.

I shudder and Father McCue changes to Father, and he is frowning at me

and whispering those late night AbFlexer commercial words that came to

me when he was dying, right there in my chair.

"Daddy, I can't."

For I know what he is saying even though I can't hear his words. It is

not "I'm proud of you," it is "Can you accept your grief?"

I couldn't even accept that my Ahab was dead, how will I accept the

grief over my baby girl? My little girl that was made from me, stolen

from me, raised away from me, finally found by me?

"Mommy?"

Oh, God. Oh God, oh God, ohGod ohGod......

"Mommy?"

Please, just make her go away. Make her go away. I don't want to see her

anymore.....

"Let me go, Mommy. Please let me go."

"I can't baby, I can't."

I turn and there she is, sitting on my prison cell bed, her brightness

beating the greyness of the room, her baby cheeks thick with her words.

I have to hold her. I have to touch her once more.

I have to feel this flesh of my flesh one more time before she is gone.

I grasp her, I hold her tightly, clasping her shoulders in a too tight

hug.

"Mommy, please let me go."

As I sit here in this cell, her words are the key to get me out, but I

do not take them, I do not take them.

Oh, God, help me. I do not take them. I can't.

I love her.

"Mommy."

I can't.

I have to hear her say Mommy again; I have to hear her voice trembling

with child sounds; I have to hold her like this and feel her cornsilk

hair and touch her chubby round fingers.

"Let me go, Mommy."

"Emily..."

My words are choked, wrung hollowly from my chest.

"I can't."

****

****

Fifth Dream

We make Kool-Aid together every Friday because her face is beautiful

when she's having fun, and also because Kool-Aid at least gets her to

drink water.

The television is on in the other room and she listens with half an ear

as Big Bird complains about Oscar again, managing to work in the number

of the day four times; I'm impressed. Scripting must be very good today.

She glances at me and suddenly I realize.

My stomach drops out, flips over, and shoots up to my mouth.

Oh God, this isn't real.

I panic, turn away blindly, waiting for my body to catch on that I want

to wake up now . . . *I want to wake up now.*

"Mommy, can we put in more sugar?"

I nod absently, then suddenly, I have to know what kind of Kool-Aid this

is. I have to remember every detail of this dream.

The sugar sifts into the bottom of the smiling Kool-Aid man pitcher and

sends grains of it scattering across the counter.

"Oops," she says and giggles over at me.

My hand clamps over my mouth to keep my stomach down.

I can't look. I can't look.

Strawberry-Kiwi.

Light pink.

The water bubbling, almost frothing as I fill it up.

The way it is still clear, not yet the pink of Kool-Aid, the color

drained of life as the sugar coats the bottom.

I press the plastic spoon into her hand and bite my lip, lifitng her up

to stir the pitcher.

She is a comforting heaviness in my arms, as if she is mine and meant to

be there.

She teeters on my knee as I prop her up against the counter, her blonde

brown hair falling forward as she peers into the depths of drink.

"It's still clear!"

Her child-joy makes me tremble and I nod wordlessly, watching.

She sticks out her tongue and dips the spoon in, then begins to twirl

it, taking her time with the job. My arms grow weak from lifting, my leg

shaky from her weight. She leans forward and I have a panicky feeling

that I am going to *drop* her.

The moment leaves and she's still in my embrace and I crush the sickness

into a small ball of pain that I can bounce relentlessly later.

As she stirs, the sugar drifts and the Kool-Aid mix rises and flows with

the eddies of water and sugar, and suddenly life and color have come

back.

She gasps with delight and looks back at me.

Her look of pure delight and love knock me over and I stumble, reeling

as she clutches onto me.

Oh, God, don't make me give her back. Don't make me give her back.

I can't see this and be okay again. I can't know this wonderful feeling

of completeness and not want it.

I can't love her and not hurt because she's gone.

"Mommy? I want down."

I'm still holding to her tightly, as if my arms can prevent her from

leaving me.

"Mommy. Let me go."

These words are a slap.

A stinging, tearful backhand across the face.

I drop her, skittering away.

She looks up at me and her face is hurt, her body crumpled on the

ground.

"Mommy. Mommy, you hurt me."

Oh God, I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to, Emily.

"I'm sorry."

I rush to her, arms opening to her, face pressing into her shoulder,

grabbing her up into me, wishing I could enjoy her touch without the

knowledge that she will be gone from me when I wake.

The warmth of her small blood and bones knitted into this chubby package

of antics and playfulness. The small fingers with their small nails

handling mud pies and dolls and forks and my love. The smell of

yesterday's bath and fresh ozone like she is lightning incarnate. Her

soft, peach fuzz skin on the tips of my fingers and the way her small

nose crinkles when she smiles at me- these are the things I have

forogtten.

"It's okay to cry, Mommy," she says and one small finger raises to my

cheek and traces an imaginary path down to my lips.

"It's okay to cry."

And so I do.

****

****

Sixth Dream

The golden cross leaps at me in the mirror, as if it is the white rabbit

beckoning me into the Wonderland of faith that only I can fall down.

There is no more confessional, no more prison, no more house with

Mulder, or Kool-Aid with Emily.

There is just me.

Me and this thing shinging like new pennies in my fist.

I clasp it tightly and turn it over, inspecting the small work, the

chain, the way the cross piece smoothly gives over to the base. It is a

study in perfection, in faith, and I fear that my selfish perfection has

decided faith to be unattainable.

I shudder.

The woman in the mirror shudders back and makes an ugly grimace, her

still-too-thin body giving up images of sticking out ribs or bony

elbows.

I watch the woman in the mirror. Her eyes regard me carefully, studying

every curve of my former glory, every sallow impression of my former

cancer, every shape of my former faith.

Her waist is too small, her eyes too narrowed, her lips too strained,

her face too pale. She is disdaining of me and she is disdaining of the

world.

I see visions behind the mirror.

I see Emily running for her and being brushed aside.

I see Mulder reaching for her and being coldly refused.

I see sadness enveloping her and fury making love to her. I see anger

seducing her skin and depression paying homage to her hips. I see

nervousness sneaking into her hands and bitterness between her breasts.

I see Emily dying.

I see Mulder dying.

I see her dying.

I close my eyes and breathe again. The visions disappear and the

blackness of the world in my head refocuses into nothingness.

I trace the curve of my lips, the swell of my stomach, the expanse of my

thighs. Everything is there. Everything is fuller here, in my mind.

Everything is right and beautiful and in control about me. Emily is here

with me, and Mulder, and my father and mother, and sister and brothers.

I open my eyes and the woman in the mirror is me again.

She is holding onto her faith with a hand that will not let go.

I lift up the cross and clasp it around my neck.

It rests against my skin and warms with my blood.

In the mirror, I am me again.

****

****

Seventh Dream

There is the sea stretching before me with its waves of women that

caress the men of the shore. They whisper intoxicating things that make

the men slide out to them before they realize and are sucked into the

tides, forever displaced.

I can see the brightness of the sun mirrored in the sand and it is so

brilliant that I turn back to the ocean, letting its endlessness calm

me.

The sea has always been my anchor.

The sea has always been my lover, pushing me into heights unknown and

pulling me into its embrace.

I called the waves women, but the sea is a man, and that is odd, but I

cannot explain it too well.

I feel a gentle tug at my arm and there is Emily, my precious little

girl.

She smiles in the sun and her face is reddened and freckled, just as am

I sure mine is too.

I think this is California. I like California's beaches, when they

aren't populated that is.

Emily takes me to a sandy hill, the grass struggling to grow through the

heat and salt to a better plane. She sits and I pull her into my arms as

we wait.

I know we wait for someone important, but I do not know who and I begin

to grow restless.

Emily plays in the sand with her fingers, letting the sand dribble out

slowly like a time keeper. She moves her toes around in it, smiling a

private smile as the sand flows around her.

"Emily?"

She looks up and places a finger to my lips, silencing me. I kiss her

sandy small finger and smile.

The sun gets hotter, brighter, more intense and I shade my eyes.

I stiffen.

That isn't the sun.

Silence greets me and it is terrible and absolute, as if nature itself

is in awe of the creature before us.

It is glowing, but glowing is such a weak word for the brilliance of its

shine. Beaming is more like it. It has a glistening face that shifts

even as I try to focus on it.

I'm not afraid of it this time.

Emily scrambles up from my lap and reaches out.

I sit, letting her go and knowing that this time, it is the right thing

to do.

The light reaches for her and begins encompassing her tiny frame. I know

she is still there, but she is clothed in white and I cannot see her.

She turns her small head and I see her eyes as she speaks.

"Thank you for letting me go, Mommy."

I can't watch this anymore, though.

The sky darkens as I turn my head, even though the sun is still shining,

that is how bright this angel is.

I sigh as I feel the whisper of a daughter's last kiss upon my cheek.

I swallow tightly past my sorrow and open my eyes again.

"Mulder!" I yelp as his face floats before me.

"It's okay," he says and his arms reach out to me just as the angel's

did for Emily.

I am biting my lip to keep these tears away, but like Emily, I am

trusting this being. I am trusting this man.

I fall into him and let my tears come, like waves upon the shore.

For once, I am proud of what he sees when he looks at me.

****

end

adios

RM

Date: Mon, 29 Jun 1998 17:51:40 +0000

Author: RocketMan >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and FTF belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No

fringe is intended.

Summary: This is similiar to "My Seven Dreams of Emily" and can likewise

be archived in one unit. It deals with the MOVIE and is in Scully's

point of view. I will later do one in Mulder's pov.

~~~~~

First Dream

~~~~~

Quiet.

Library quiet: books and reading and soft rustling like pages being

turned.

She tasted the beginnings of maraschino cherries on her tongue, at the

back of her throat. The sharp tart of the first juice, the efect of the

cold skin.

It was there.

She was encased in liquid black, suspended in dark that was warm and

supporting, lifting, bouying.

It was nice.

Quiet.

It flowed around, through, along, across and in her, lapping like the

ocean licks your feet.

Quiet, quiet. Resting, unthinking, being.

Quiet.

Quiet.

Quiet.

She settled into the waves of dark, closed her mental eyes to the quiet,

nestled with the presence of God.

That quiet, that nice, that easy.

Her ears were humming.

Whining, high pitched noise that came sometimes in silence.

She twisted.

It was there.

Tilted.

It followed her.

Hummed.

Whined.

Screeched.

Deafened.

Insistently tagged after her.

It whispered something. It screamed something.

It said,

this is not right.

~~~~~

end of first dream

in case you didn't know, this was the time when she's unconscious and in

that green fluid.

~~~~~

Second Dream

~~~~~

She screamed.

Oh God

the pain

the pain

~~~~~

~~~~~

Third Dream

~~~~~

She would be climbing forever. She was convinced.

Climbing and cimbing and pulling her weak body up and up and up by her

nails, by her fingers digging painfully into dulled metal.

She climbed.

It was forever.

Forever climb, forever feeling her muslces rip

rip

from her sockets, from her bones, lashing through her skin and clawing

out her energy.

No breath no life no energy

No breath.

Her heart hurt. Her arms ached with pulling.

Her legs refused to move, to support her, to even let her rest.

Please, please, just a rest.

"Keep moving Scully."

He was screaming. She wanted to stop moving, to rest.

Please, rest

So very tired, so cold.

She shook, felt her arms collapsing, felt the world dropping out from

her, felt her stomach lurch to her throat.

Nothing, nothing, screaming, dying.

Looking up through black vision, she saw him hanging onto her.

She couldn't get her arms to him, couldn't slip her hands into his and

know that every, every thing would be safe again.

Please, just a rest. No more climbing, no more hurting.

He yanked on her, jerked her arm from her bones and hauled her to his

side, panting, frightened.

She clutched his jacket, clutched him.

She couldn't climb anymore.

She couldn't.

Things felt weird. Moving back and forth and in and out.

She felt her head roll across her shoulders.

Looked up.

So many long long miles.

Too many more steps of dragging her body.

She let go.

Fell.

It was nice, like the liquid black, cushioning. Quiet with just the

sound of wind and her heart beating close to her. Her eyes closed, let

her disappear back into darkness.

She would fall

forever

and ever

forever

and ever

for

ever

f

a

l

l

.

~~~~~

Fourth Dream

~~~~~

Cold.

She was so cold.

Biting her lips like a hurting lover, scratching her skin with potent

slivers of breath.

It wouldn't let her feel anything else.

Too much light.

Dazzling, bright white intense

cold

light.

She shivered, drew her knees to her chest and tucked her arms into her

body, searched without words for Mulder.

Mulder.

He would make her not be cold.

Make her not be cold.

Please, make cold go away.

SHE WAS FREEZING!!!!!

Couldn't stop shivering or her teeth from chattering, couldn't make her

breath come in right, couldn't move.

It was cold.

Leeched into her bones, made her marrow frozen, blood slush, her eyes

rock hard.

Everything hurt. Everything ached.

Mulder....make it go away.

Severe.

It was the only word that made sense to her.

Severe.

Severe cold, severe hurt, severe pain and agony and . . please. . .

Mulder, please.

Everything shook.

Thunder.

Thunder.

She wanted to move, wanted to reach out for the thunder and touch its

lightning heat and feel the power in her.

Wanted the thunder to slam into her so hard it knocked her back alive.

It shook the black world, growled and shrieked and howled for her

release.

She wanted the thunder to crash her back to life.

~~~~~

On the other side of the glass, Mulder raged.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Fifth Dream

~~~~~

She was in a river.

A river of green ice that swirled and rushed all around her, right past

her, freezing as it left.

She stood naked.

Cold.

Dark.

And then. . .

then hands touched her, made her breathe again, gave her sight.

Light and dark on his face.

Pain. Concern.

Hands touching, grasping her face, eating through the thin covering of

dark that clung to her.

"So cold" she gasped.

He was pulling her out of the black river, raising her up, warming her.

She shivered, naked.

He was holding her, living with her, breathing so that she could

breathe.

There was no warmth in her.

She could not move.

"Don't leave me," she said, wanting to touch him, wanting to feel

something for once.

Her body violently shook with spasms of cold that were coughed from her

in waves.

Ice coated her lungs and gripped her.

She sought warmth and was turned away.

~~~~~

RM

Remember. this is not what actually happened. only impressions of a

dream she's having.

~~~~~

Sixth Dream

~~~~~

So weak.

He made her weak, the ice made her weak, her own exhaustion made her

weak.

She wanted to open her eyes, to pull her face from the snow and look,

look so that it would be done with, look so that his smile would last a

lifetime.

She could not open her eyes.

There was no wind: she remembered there being wind.

There was no wet cold: she remembered snow getting down her back.

There was no cutting ice: she remembered slivers rough against her

cheek.

Her eyes dragged open.

Glass.

Frozen, green-white glass encasing her, wrapping around her body and

molding to her nakedness.

Weak.

Too weak to break through, too weak to call out.

Suffocating as the liquid came up, suffocating as the glass closed in on

her, drowning.

Her panic took flight and gave wind to her strength, flamed it higher

and higher until she could lift her arms and touch the corners of her

coffin.

Her hands froze to the glass and she wrenched at them.

Her fingers were stuck, already white and blue with the cold.

It crept through her blood; she could feel needles threading their way

up her arms, to her elbow, to her muslces.

She shook, yanking on her frozen arms, pulling, wrenching, sobbing.

She was too weak.

There was nothing she could do. She would freeze here, stuck to the

green glass, enclosed in her liquid coffin.

With both arms white iced and tingling, her fingers no longer felt, the

cold began claiming her chest.

Breath froze and she gagged, struggling to defeat a foe that could not

be conquered.

She heaved her lungs, sucked at air, breathed in and found nothing.

No more life, no more air, no more warmth.

Her chest was slowly becoming cold, tingling and restricting her to a

faint up and down movement as she struggled in her weakness.

Too weak.

She was always too weak. She could never do anything herself, never beat

the cruelities in life.

She sobbed and felt her whole body simply stop.

No movement.

Nothing to break free.

All cold, all frozen.

She was dying. She was dead.

Oh God. . .

Oh God . . .

why so weak?

Why so weak?

~~~~~

~~~~~

Seventh Dream

~~~~~

Hot.

Too too hot.

Steam for breath.

Fire for blood.

Electricity for eyes.

Burning holes into her lids and making her restless, uneasy.

She opened her eyes, found slats.

Slats?

White slats with long lengths, stretching endlessly before her.

She raised up, glad to move, rejoicing and almost sobbing for relief

that she was not in a glass coffin.

No more ice.

No more coffins.

No more weakness.

She let her eyes roam.

White everything all around.

Slats above her and electricity humming through the floor.

She felt something prick her thoughts.

Something inside, some kind of whining noise in her ears whispered,

whispered that this was not right.

Humming.

Louder.

Right under her feet , thrumming against the floor, battering the metal

she stood on with charges that jolted the entire place.

She looked to the ceiling, watching the slats.

Air.

Air rushing all around her, a blast of coolness that dried the sweat

from her face.

She stilled.

The slats hissed open, beaming bright stars down to her.

She had seen this before. She knew this. She expected a voice telling

her to run.

She jumped away, started for the end.

No end.

And then bees.

Oh no oh no oh no oh no

Bees everywhere.

Violently she shook, feeling them brush by, hearing them in her ears,

slipping around her arms, sliding down her legs, down her back, across

her face, darting into her eyes, flying into her screaming mouth,

gagging, choking on wings and pollen.

She couldn't get out, couldn't get rid of the millions of black specks

that dived for her, slammed into her body, bristled sharp points into

her skin and injected ice straight to her heart.

Ice cold fear.

She hated, hated, hated, bees.

Everywhere.

She was sobbing, crumpled on the floor, hiding her face in her hands,

peering out for any kind of exit, any kind of escape.

"Oh God, Oh God, help me."

They battered her, they stung her, they slipped into her face and into

her throat and down to her stomach and ripped up her insides with

hideous cold that froze into her soul and -

"Take my hand!"

She glanced up, confused, frightened, dreaming of bees with Mulder

voices.

Mulder's voice.

His hand, thrust out to her like some benevolent angel, reaching for her

with all the strength and promise she herself could not find.

She was weak.

There were all those bees darting between, hissing at him, slamming

their suicidal bodies into his face, tangling in his hair, prying at his

lips.

But he was strong.

She grabbed his hand, let him pull her up and guide her.

She could be weak in his strength.

The bees fell away, the cold melted into pools of strength.

No more coffins.

No more ice.

No more fear.

Just Mulder.

Just life again.

~~~~~

end

adios

So, what do you think?

Date: Tue, 30 Jun 1998 15:55:34 +0000

Author: RM >[email protected]<

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No fringe is

intended.

Summary: This is a companion to Scully's Dreams of Ice, but can be read

separately. In Mulder's pov though not first person. MOVIE spoilers

ahead.

~~~~~

First Dream

~~~~~

There was a flashlight gripped tightly in his hand, almost as if it was

the cure for everything, as if it could save him in this place.

Everything glowed with a green darkness.

Iced air curled at his feet, icicles of green dripped slowly, melting,

melting.

There was something about the lessening cold that hurt, that made him

think it was all going to go wrong very soon.

The beam of light caught drifting ice-steam as it billowed across the

metal deck, looking phantasmal in the green and white of fading cold.

He grabbed the edge of his coat and pulled on it uncomfortably, feeling

sweat start coasting down his back.

It was getting too hot.

He wiped his brow and took off his coat, breathing loudly in the heat.

No more cold, no more chill.

Things began to move.

Things glowed with black eyes and rustled their long claws against

glassed in coffins.

They were growing, growling, hungry for something, or maybe just furious

that they were there, in such limited space, scrunched into a tight

spot.

He jogged down the endless metal darkness, hearing his feet fall heavily

to the deck, hearing the scratching behind him, feeling sweat riding

down him in waves.

Gasping, panting, passing endless coffins, all with black eyes.

The black eyes and pale, slick skin of the demons of death.

He must be in hell, must be in hell.

He could not see Scully, could not see anything but steam curling up in

his flashlight beam and black eyes glaring at him with an evident evil.

He panted, faster, running through the rows of green coffins like

running through corn.

Running through corn.

He was blinking and running through corn.

Tall lashing rows of corn as lights glared at him from black

helicopters.

He ran and ran and felt the earth vibrate with each heavy blade swinging

through the air like a reaper's sickle.

He could not see Scully, could only see green corn and the dirt being

churned by the black copters.

He gagged on his own breath, fell to his knees, the threshing cutting

into his pants and slashing his legs.

He felt like screaming in the pain, but instead moaned and struggled to

his feet.

Running, he found the corn rows stretching skinny fingers into forever,

found he could hear growling behind him, found he could feel baleful

black eyes searching for him as the copter blades beat at his air.

He screamed for Scully.

He screamed for life, for his breath, for fury, for indignation, for

fear.

No answer.

Not that anything could be heard over the explosion of air being slashed

down by rotating blades, not that anything could be heard except for

hissing, growling beasts, come to eat him alive.

Eat him alive.

He ran, oh God, he ran and and prayed and asked that he never never

stopped running, that he never never lost his strength, that he never

never stopped.

Oh God, give me Scully.

And only the alien beasts came, screaming louder, higher, than him.

~~~~~

end

~~~~~

Second Dream

~~~~~

He screamed.

Oh God

the pain

the pain

~~~~~

Third Dream

~~~~~

All he could see now was blinding snow, blanketing everything with a

certain amount of grim unreality that set him on edge.

He knew there would be black eyes coming for him soon.

He watched for them and continued walking, walking toward her, wherever

that might be.

The horizon began dotting with shapes, oddly human shapes that seemed

small and insignificant, but were in fact, the beasts come to eat him.

He sighed.

No Scully, still, no Scully.

He trudged forward, let himself be taken in the direction the wind

pushed him, knowing that it was pointless to run from the beasts, from

these devouring eyes that searched him out wherever he searched Scully

out.

He wished to find her first.

It would all end if he could find her.

The cold was nonexistent now, numbed him so totally that even his fear

was gone.

Only the realization that he would die, and therefore, Scully too, kept

him going, kept him walking, slow step by agonizing step, forward.

He would find her.

Or die, killing them both.

His hands clutched a vial, clutched a needle, and he wondered if he

would break it by holding it so tightly.

The sun beamed directly to the snow and then into his eyes, making him

white blind, white everywhere making him afraid he wouldn't see it when

it came.

But of course, as was the nature of evil, it presented itself.

In his face, right there, growling, hissing, scratching.

Black eyes, long claws, sharp teeth in an open, drooling mouth.

Demons, aliens, beasts.

Right there.

Licking nonexistent lips and watching him.

He ran.

Felt the ice slide beneath him, felt himself falling down, hitting into

drifts, packed down snow, falling down and down and down faster than the

demon-alien-beasts and faster than he could see.

Down, spiraling, falling, unable to catch himself, unable to even look

for Scully.

Wind cut deeply into his back and, howling, a demon jumped after him,

falling.

It slammed into him, teeth taking a chunk from his face before he could

stop, before he could move and then they were descending on him even in

the air, even as he fell.

And he knew he fell towards hell and he knew he would die.

He would burn.

~~~~~

Fourth Dream

~~~~~

He was sweating under the thick coat, his body heat trapped by its

massiveness, burning him up.

He wrenched at the throat, pulling it away, his breath exploding hotly

into the ice.

His face was freezing, his body melting.

The green-ness of the light and the almost silence that fell over the

place made him uneasy. Taking long strides, he walked down the rows,

thinking he knew exactly where to go now.

Somehow, everything was changed.

He had to find Scully.

But nothing was the same.

He turned, twisted into another row of frozen hosts, only to find the

same faces behind the glass.

Panicking, slamming his body into the next row, he saw again the same

people, same row, same things.

He couldn't leaves this row. He was trapped.

Ice smoke crept in around his feet and licked at his shoes. Stamping, he

made it dissolve, too frustrated to think.

Suddenly, he darted left.

And found a new row.

He had tricked Them. He had acted without thought and simply ran. They

hadn't been expecting it. Nothing easily referenced . . .

He shined the flashlight along all the faces, praying to see red brown

hair and beautiful baby blue eyes.

Kind of symbolic, really, because her eyes sometimes were a little more

green than-

Wait.

Look.

Stop being stupid.

He smeared away the ice covering one of the glass coffins and found he

was staring into the fear filled eyes of Dana Scully.

He gaped.

A hand rose and touched her prison, fingers running down the lines of

her face and chin through the glass.

There she was.

Trapped.

He shivered, slammed his palm to the glass.

It was rock hard, thick and solid.

He pounded his fist into it, was rewarded with a broken finger and

bloody glass.

Come on. Come on.

He couldn't get her out. She was right there and he couldn't get her

out.

If he moved away, he was afraid They'd switch everything again.

He slammed the butt of his flashlight into the glass, over and over and

over

slam

slam

slam

please, please, let her out...

He sobbed onto the glass, beat at it with his fists and anything that

fell into his hands.

He couldn't get to her.

She was trapped.

He had failed her again. Again.

Again.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Fifth Dream

~~~~~

Everything shattered

shattered broke

into a kaleidoscope of green and ice and liquid and hair and freezing

and so white skin, oh Scully, so white skin

He placed tentative hands to her face, frozen in her frozen-ness.

She was not moving, not breathing, not watching him.

His pain was overcome by the need to help her, to make her better, to

get her out of there.

He pulled out the needle and vaccine.

Cure.

She relied on his cures so much . . . so many cures for her.

He aimed for the hole, jabbed his own palm hard enough to draw blood and

grunted.

Wiping away his blood, he tried again.

The needle plunged into the soft skin of his thumb.

His hands were shaking too much, his panic and fear too much in control.

He had to do this, if only for his own sanity.

He had to be in control for her.

The glass was broken, jagged, the first barrier surrmounted.

Get the stupid needle into the jar!

He jammed the needle down, ripped through a bit of skin but keep on

going until it plunged straight into the jar.

He exalted, pulled part of it up, sucking the liquid into the body of

the needle, hands shaking harder than before.

He pulled it out, put the empty bottle back into his pocket and looked

at Scully.

He had to put this in her.

Somewhere.

Where?

Her chest. . .just stick it straight into her heart maybe. . . maybe

that would hurt her, maybe it would bleed too much.

Close to her heart then, let her blood carry it all around.

The only other place he could reach was her left shoulder.

That was close enough.

He closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, then aimed for her

shoulder.

He felt her jerk.

He pushed in the brown liquid that would save her.

She jerked.

Jerked.

Nothing happened.

He felt his breath hitch, his mind go blank.

It was supposed to work.

Come on, Scully, shift your eyes to me, show me you're alive.

Empty silence, cold air, his breath puffed achingly in front of him.

He shook her.

Pulled on her shoulders.

He sobbed with frustration and grabbed for the vial again. Surely there

was more and he had just not gotten all of it.

Surely this was going to work.

He plunged the needle back into the glass bottle.

Nothing.

Nothing.

He had done it wrong, administered it in the wrong place.

She wasn't going to wake up.

He frantically pulled the rest of the glass away from her body, eyes

blurring by tears, blurring the lines of her naked body before him.

He stripped off the too hot coat and laid it on the floor, then yanked

the tube from her throat, pulling

pulling

pulling

until it gagged out of her and she coughed.

He held his breath.

Nothing, no flickering, no movement.

He pulled her out, laid her on his coat.

The ice smoke drifted around her legs, teased her skin with chill, and

masked her face for a moment.

He felt his tears freeze to his face and he rubbed them away.

He had messed it up again.

Oh God, how could I do this to her. . .

He curled up next to her, pulled his coat around her, then took her in

his arms.

His breath came slowly, hers not at all.

He buried his head into her neck, shut his eyes.

Shut his eyes.

Stopped breathing.

Stopped.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Sixth Dream

~~~~~

Fast

fast

fast

They had to crawl faster than this.

He could feel the breath of the alien beast behind him, could feel the

sick thing's claws scratching against the floor of the vent.

He shoved Scully further up, shoved her faster, pushed her even though

he knew she was ready to collapse.

They could collapse later.

He felt the angry nails dig into him and he screamed, ramming his head

into her back and pushing her forward with sheer fear alone.

She crumpled to the ground.

Crumpled . . . slow motion falling . . .

He grabbed at her as he scurried by, dragged her with him, pulling her

by anything he could latch onto.

She moaned as he wrenched on her arms, moaned as he attempted to outrun

the demon behind them.

He felt his body slow, felt the thing catching up to them.

She screamed.

Screamed

screamed

He yanked on her, pulled her from its grip, hearing flesh rip, bone

break, blood ooze out, bubble from her lips.

He pulled, pulled, pulled her out to the top, to the top, and there they

were, better, cold, collapsing in ice.

And there it came.

Rose from the hole in the ice, long claws shining, black eyes hating.

He felt no breath, no strength, no reason to move.

It descended.

He screamed.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Seventh Dream

~~~~~

Sounds filtered to him.

The far off howl of wind and ice rubbing together, meeting out there

with their own inward fury.

The creak of the building he was in, the shivering as it resisted the

wind's rage.

He felt warm.

Finally.

A body was near him on the floor.

Rough wooden planks scratched at his hands as he fumbled torward her.

His fingers brushed the coat he had wrapped her in.

He let his eyes open.

Scully.

He tilted forward, pulled himself along the floor to her side.

Her eyes opened.

"Mulder . .."

He felt sobs tackle his throat and he pulled her into his arms.

"Scully, Scully, Scully."

Her eyes drifted shut and he saw her mouth work as she swallowed, her

chest rise as she breathed.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He pulled her even closer to his body, buried his face into her hair and

let soft tears mix with the damp strands.

Her hands pushed at his arms.

He pulled away and looked at her.

"You saved me," she whispered.

Confusion trickled into him.

"How's that?"

"You saved me, Mulder. You saved me."

He shook his head, pulled her into him again, refused to see the truth

in her eyes.

She struggled and sat up, still in his arms, him still clinging to her.

"You did, you did. You saved me."

"I . . . I was just fixing what I had done wrong . . ."

Her face clouded. "Fixing your wrong? No, Mulder. You're selfish

sometimes, but no. No. You saved me regardless of your own life, putting

away everything . . . you saved me. I won't let you forget it."

She was pulling on him.

He shook his head, glanced around, felt the dreams interrupting him,

felt black eyes eating him before he could get to her, felt his own

failure.

"I failed you."

She seemed to hitch, to shrink into his arms. "No. No. No. Saved me.

Thank you, Mulder."

He felt his heart collapse into him, felt things slow down to nothing,

felt life stop beating, stop moving, stop breathing.

He accepted.

Pulled her deep into his embrace.

"You're welcome."

Kissed her forehead with all the gratefulness of a forgiven sinner.

Brushed her lips with his own and let warmth flow back through him.

~~~~~

end of all dreams

adios

RM