Title:  Willing Sacrifice


Author: Agent L


Classification: SA, MT


Rating: PG, I guess


Spoilers: Amor Fati, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest


(yes, the movie)


Distribution: Archive anywhere, but keep my name and 


e-mail attached please! 


Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Fox:


I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or even chocolate would be


expected or accepted for this. You're not using Mulder right now, anyway.


Summary: Missing scene from Amor Fati








Willing Sacrifice





"Are you willing to sacrifice yourself to the truth?"


--Albert Hosteen, Anasazi





Our escape was too easy.





Doors are never opened to us. Keys are never meant for 


the locks we must open. Yet in the Department of Defense, 


arguably one of the most secure buildings in the United States, 


if not the world, an unauthorized female visitor and her barely 


conscious companion -- still in his hospital gown -- are nearly 


given a personal escort out the back door. 





I have no doubt this was part of their agenda, as it seems our 


every move is carefully planned and orchestrated, and I suppose 


I should be resentful or angry or questioning...But all I can feel is 


gratitude. For whatever reason, they've let us live another day.





Although as I look at Mulder now, I'm not sure he's alive. He 


breathes, his heart beats, he can walk -- although it's more of a 


shuffle, and my shoulders ache from supporting his weight. But 


since he woke up and looked at me in that operating room, he's 


been unaware, going where I go simply because I drag him in that 


direction. His eyes are unfocused, his jaw slack, and I can't help 


but think of Jack Nicholson at the end of Cuckoo's Nest. 





Will I end up smothering him with a pillow, unable to face the 


shell that was once a vibrant, intelligent man?





I return my own focus -- a little shaky as well -- to the road, 


although I'm not exactly sure where to go. He should still be in 


a hospital, but how do I explain his condition to the doctors? 


How do I trust anyone? He is the only one I trust, and he's gone 


somewhere that I can't follow.





Still, I reach across and put my hand over his, desperate for 


some form of contact, even though his fingers remain lax under 


mine. Glancing over when we pull up to a stop sign, I see his 


eyes are closed, his mouth slack, and I remind myself that sleep 


is a normal part of the healing process after surgery. That's the 


best thing for him now, probably the only thing he really needs. 





I drive for hours until I'm sure we haven't been followed before 


I take him to an anonymous hotel off the interstate. I desperately 


wanted to take him home, to his apartment or to mine, but for all 


I know both places are being watched. Or perhaps my paranoia 


is unnecessary. Perhaps he's outlived his usefulness now and has 


become so much refuse, like medical waste left to be discarded. 





When we arrive, he waits patiently in the car while I register and 


then allows me to lead him into the small, musty hotel room, as if 


he has borrowed my will in the absence of his own. I help him 


recline on the bed and pull the covers over him as he shivers in 


the thin hospital gown, and then I carefully explain that I have to 


go get some things and I'll be right back. There is no indication 


he understands me, but it's important that I tell him what's going 


on, in case he's in there somewhere, terrified that I'll leave him to 


die, like they did.





I find an all-night drugstore not far away and stock up, snarling at 


the clerk who dares to question why I need all these medical supplies 


and makes some stupid joke about a rough night. He is immediately 


forgotten as I drive back to the hotel and to my relief find Mulder 


still on the bed. He hasn't moved, as far as I can tell, and remains 


motionless as I check his head and his vitals. Terrified by his continued 


silence, I keep up a continuous dialogue of soothing comments, 


assuring him that his pulse is strong, his blood pressure close to 


normal, until I'm sick of the sound of my own voice.





He is still so cold. I climb into the bed next to him and press up 


against his body, my hand over his heart where I can feel the slow, 


steady beat that finally lulls me to sleep.





________


I awake sometime later to a sound I can't readily identify -- like a 


frightened child trying desperately to keep the sobs deep inside. 


Mulder's body is warm now, and his heart races beneath my 


fingers. In the moonlight I see a tear seep from beneath his 


closed eyes as he dreams... or perhaps remembers. His lips 


move soundlessly at first, and then he whispers something 


unintelligible. I don't know if I should wake him or not. Not 


knowing what exactly has been done to him, I hesitate to take 


action too hastily. Instead, I stay close, hoping that somehow 


he'll sense my presence and not be afraid.





"Diana..." 





His voice, rusty from disuse, is nonetheless loud in the quiet 


room, the word clearly spoken. I fight an unreasonable jealousy 


of this woman who betrayed him, who nearly killed him and 


yet still claims his loyalty, feeling small and selfish to resent him 


for not calling out for *my* name.





"Please. Don't let him..." His voice sinks to a whisper, a plea, 


and I realize he is back in the operating room, begging for her 


help. If she walked into the room at that moment, I would kill 


her for the anguish she put him through...still puts him through.





"Ssh." I stroke his forehead, his temple, his unshaven cheek, 


praying that my touch will break the spell and release him from 


the nightmare. "Mulder, it's me. You're safe now."  





Whether from my touch or my words, he calms down, and a 


few moments later he opens his eyes.





"Scully...?"





"I'm here."





"I - I had a bad dream..."





"I know. It's all right. Go back to sleep."





He obediently closes his eyes and I feel ashamed of his faith 


in me, unworthy of his trust. I no longer know who or what to 


believe, acting on instinct more than intelligence -- forced to 


rely on the whims and wills of other players in this complex game 


who make up the rules as they go along. 





I trust no one, except for this man beside me -- but my trust 


cannot save or protect him in his headlong dash toward the truth. 


I can only follow behind and pick him up when he falls, mend 


the visible and invisible wounds to the best of my ability. But I 


know it's only a matter of time before he'll be lost to me. And it 


won't be a bullet or poison or brain surgery that takes him. 





I will lose him to the truth.





The End





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