Open to White by Dasha K. (Part 1/2)
Summary: We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
Rating: R
Keywords: MSR, AU
Timeline:  This universe takes off somewhere in Season 6 
and ignores the rest.
Disclaimer: Even after ten years, they still don't belong 
to me. 
Archiving: Have at it, but I'd love a note letting me know 
where you're putting it.
E-Mail: dashaxf@gmail.com

Note: This story might not make a ton of sense unless 
you've read a previous story of mine, "Blinded by White 
Light."  If you'd like to give it a read, it can be found 
on my web site at www.geocities.com/dashafic. 

I have taken a bit of liberty with some of the details from 
"Blinded by White Light."  It's nothing major, though.  



Black as ink, soft as velvet.  I've never been quite as 
happy as I am right here, right now.

--------------------------------

In the morning Rachel walked to work in a thoroughly bad 
mood. She had too many roommates who snored or talked in 
their sleep, calling out names of people they'd forget by 
morning.  Sometimes their bad dreams entered hers and she'd 
wake with a start in the dark room of bunk beds, wondering 
just where the hell she was.  That, and bad coffee, made 
her irritable this morning. Seriously, they could revive 
the near dead and grow new cities from the ruins, but they 
couldn't properly synthesize coffee?  How hard could it be?

Rachel couldn't remember much, but she did remember the 
bitter-smooth richness of good coffee and the cup she 
currently held in her hand wasn't it.  Not even close.  
Before she reached the sky bridge to the Clinic she pitched 
the cup in the garbage.  She'd have to rely on adrenaline, 
not caffeine, today.

In the middle of the sky bridge, she stopped to look over 
Atlanta, waking under the dome. It was beautiful - metallic 
surfaces glittering in the unreal morning sunshine. The 
city felt like a living organism, growing and mutating by 
the day.  In just the last few weeks a brace of high-rise 
apartment buildings had emerged on the horizon and new 
roads were weaving their way east and west, north and 
south, through clusters of smaller buildings and patches of 
green. 

She was all for speed and progress.  The faster the new 
version of Atlanta grew, the faster she'd move up the 
housing waiting list and get her own apartment.  

She was so wrapped up in watching the city, she almost her 
dread of the upcoming work day.  With a jolt, she 
remembered what the day held and had to fight the urge to 
return to the dormitory.  Keep walking, Rachel told 
herself, you're almost there.

--------------------------------

A hot, hot night in West Virginia and we're stuck in a town 
so remote the single motel doesn't even have air 
conditioning, just a noisy, rusty fan that only pushes the 
humid air around the small room. This motel has to be a new 
low in our partnership, I think, while I finally pull off 
my suit, slightly damp with humidity and perspiration, and 
throw my briefcase in the corner.  The walls are delicately 
brushed with mildew and the television is strictly black 
and white, sporting a pair of rabbit ears.

On a night like this, memories of Antarctica seem pleasant.

Mulder and I sprawl naked on the scratchy sheets, almost 
audibly sweating.  At least the motel's ice machine works.  
We're both sucking on ice cubes, rivulets of freezing water 
running down our chins and splashing on our bodies in 
refreshing droplets.

Thankfully, the case proved to be nonsense.  The 
extraterrestrial sightings a number of teenaged girls 
reported turned out to be the result of a slumber party, a 
late-night viewing of "Alien" and several ounces of 
psychedelic mushrooms someone's sister had smuggled back 
from college.

"Tomorrow," I sigh.  "Tomorrow we go home and join the rest 
of the twentieth century.  Oh, for central air. . ."

"I'd settle for my cantankerous window box," Mulder says.

I'm not really listening to him, lost in my own reverie. 
"Central air, ice-cold beer, delivery Thai, and. . ." 

"Thou," he interrupts, grinning.

"Very funny," I say.  It sounds snappy.  I'm in something 
of a mood, have been from the time I woke up.  I've felt 
oddly restless, keyed-up all day, as if I've forgotten an 
appointment I made long ago. Everything made me jump today, 
from the sound of a door slamming as we were interviewing a 
witness to the unexpected touch of Mulder's hand on my arm 
while in the car.

I've been dreaming of things blue - swimming pools 
shimmering in the sun, Mexican tiles cool against my feet, 
even toxic blue Slurpees. Charlie and I used to rummage 
through the couch cushions for change and then run to the 
7-11 to get the biggest Slurpees our money could buy.  Blue 
raspberry was my favorite.  We'd have contests in the 
parking lot to see who could spit the blue slush between 
their front teeth the farthest. I almost always won.

Mulder rolls over on his side to face me.  "If you could be 
anywhere else at this moment, where would you be?"

"The morgue," I say.

"The morgue?" He looks vaguely horrified.

"It's always cool in the morgue. Slows decomposition."

"Romantic, Scully."  He half laughs, half snorts and I 
flick water at him. "No, really, where would you like to 
be?"

Anywhere blue. "I see a swimming pool, perhaps in Mexico or 
the Virgin Islands."

"Those places are hot."

"It's night and while the air is still warm, it's not 
sweltering.  And the water's nice and cool.  I'm up to my 
shoulders in the water, eating a mango, letting the juice 
run into the water."  Right now, nothing sounds better than 
a perfectly ripe mango, but I'm guessing the Abbottsville 
EZ-Stop doesn't stock a whole lot of mangoes.

"I like that place.  Am I there?"

I smile.  "Of course you are.  You're floating on your 
back, watching the stars."

"That sounds like me."

"I know, always working." I grab another ice cube from the 
bucket and let it melt through my fingers onto my thighs.  
"Where would you be?"

Mulder doesn't hesitate. "Yankee Stadium.  They're playing 
the Red Sox and we have really good seats, between home 
plate and first base.  Maybe the second or third row."

"A baseball game?"  My eyebrow rises.

"Sure.  I've always wanted to take you to a Yankee game.  
We'd have hot dogs and beer, yell at the umpire."

"Why don't we do things like that more often?"

"Because we're working all the time," Mulder sighs. "But we 
could do it. Maybe next weekend. . . if we don't pick up a 
new case by then."

"I wonder what it would be like if. . ." I say, not quite 
sure how to say it. Something sad flickers through me.

"If what?"

I picture a sunny apartment or a small house on a quiet 
street. Rooms that have never known murder or abduction. A 
lazy dog stretched out on the floor.  Maybe a garden.  I 
even, just for an instant, picture a little girl, straight 
brown hair cut in bangs.  No, I tell myself, don't imagine 
that. You'll never have that. 

"I just wonder if this all ended, what do you think we'd be 
like?" 

Mulder closes his eyes, as if he can see my idealized 
vision of the future.  "We'd just be ourselves," he says.  
"But with fewer hospitalizations. Maybe some peace and 
quiet."

"Do you think we'll ever get to be those people?"  This is 
the question I've don't like to ask.  

He touches my shoulder.  "Do you want out of this?"  His 
voice has dropped to a whisper.

I shake my head.  "Of course not.  I just wonder 
sometimes." And truly, I don't.  What we have is enough for 
me.  It has to be. It's all I know now.

Warm lips press against my forehead.  "All we can do is 
hope that day comes."

Hope.  After all we've seen, the horror we've endured, hope 
still remains - battered, bruised and torn, but still 
standing.

--------------------------------

Yesterday, after her shift was over, Bradley called Rachel 
into his office.  She sat on the edge of a desk chair, 
trying to remember if she'd done anything egregiously wrong 
lately.

Bradley stroked his salt-and-pepper beard.  "I've been very 
pleased with your work," he said.

She noted the slightest trace of condescension in his 
voice.  Some of the Ones could be like that, fluffed up 
with pride in the fact that they had more time than anyone 
else, that they were the first to wake, the true pioneers.  
She thought it was ridiculous. Their numbers had been 
called first in an intergalactic lottery, so what?

"Thank you," she said, demurely folding her hands in her 
lap like a good little Four should. "I enjoy my work."

She treasured the hours she spent with her Second Week 
patients, talking to them, helping them ground themselves 
in their new realities, even holding their hands as they 
cried or screamed out their wrath at the brave new world.  
Her favorite thing was taking them for little walks to the 
garden behind the Clinic or to the sky bridge to see the 
city's lights at night.  Their lost faces would light up at 
the odd beauty of it all.

"I think you're ready, Rachel," he said.

"Ready for what?" she asked, but she suspected she already 
knew.  Her mouth felt dry.

"I'd like to reassign you to the First Week Unit.  I think 
you can do it this time."

Her mind flashed to being pinned to the floor, a strong arm 
at her throat, and the sound of her own screams for help.

"You've grown and matured into your position. What happened 
wasn't your fault.  We shouldn't have assigned you to First 
Week at that time.  It was premature."  Bradley chuckled a 
bit and she almost hated him for it.  "Admittedly, that was 
a rather unusual case.  Incidents like that are rare.  I'd 
be very surprised if you saw a reaction like that again."

She frowned, remembering the broken collarbone and the 
livid bruises that had mottled her arms, the souvenirs of 
her sole day on the First Week Unit.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked.

"Of course you do, Rachel.  No one is going to force you to 
do anything you don't want to do."

She lifted her chin.  "Then I choose no. I don't want to do 
it."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Bradley chuckled again, but this time there was real warmth 
in the chuckle.  "Were you this stubborn Before?"

"How would I know?" She shrugged. Really, what a stupid 
thing to ask, almost bordering on impolite, she thought.

"Good point.  But I just want you to know one thing.  We 
really need you, Rachel.  We need someone with your 
compassion and patience.  Tomorrow a new batch of Eights 
arrives and we need good people in the unit."

Oh, he'd hit her where it counted, her secret soft spot, 
underneath the hard carapace she presented to the world.  

Slowly, Rachel nodded her head, even though her brain was 
telling her it was a bad, bad idea.

"So, you'll do it?  Excellent."  Bradley typed something 
into his computer.  "We'll start you with just one patient; 
keep it light to get you into the swing of things.  You'll 
also receive a ten-percent raise."

Big deal. There wasn't much to buy, not yet. Commerce would 
come, they were told.  They just had to be patient.

Rachel thought about the patient.  Sometimes, although it 
was rare, they didn't make it back, not all the way.  
Sometimes they were left a mere husk of a person, doomed to 
drooling from the sedatives in an out-of-the-way ward. And 
sometimes they made it for a while, seemed to be thriving 
along with all the rest, and then figured out a way to 
commit suicide. There was always something in the Clinic, 
or the Orientation Center, that could do a person in if 
they were clever.

She stood up.  "So, 8:00 tomorrow?"

"Yes.  K will be the doctor on duty." Bradley stood up to 
see her out of his office.

The news made Rachel smile, just a little, although she 
tried to make sure Bradley couldn't see it. She didn't want 
to give him the satisfaction that she found good news in 
any of this.

--------------------------------

Sticky fingers travel up and down my thigh.

When I was young, I thought my life would be unexceptional.  
Oh, I was sure I'd excel; I'd excelled at most things I'd 
done, but I imagined my life traveling the well-worn path 
followed by most people. How wrong I was.

In high school, I could clearly see the Dana Scully of the 
future.  She'd go to an excellent college, then an even 
better medical school.  I couldn't remember a time when I 
hadn't wanted to be a doctor.  I'd do my residency in 
pediatrics, maybe family practice, and then join a 
successful practice and heal the ill with my compassion and 
intelligence.  Somewhere in all that, I'd marry my nice, 
steady college sweetheart. Maybe he'd be a doctor, too. At 
the very least, he'd be a lawyer. Our wedding would be big, 
complete with a white dress and veil, all the relatives 
squeezed in the church, walking down the aisle on my 
father's arm.  We'd buy a house in a gentrifying 
neighborhood and spend our free time fixing it up.  After a 
few years there would be children - two of them, a boy and 
a girl.  I could almost see their faces.  Sometimes I 
daydreamed their names.  Watering the lawn, Sunday Mass, 
wiping runny noses, a Volvo station wagon, and summer 
weekends at the Chesapeake Bay.

Surprise, surprise - my life didn't follow that exquisitely 
planned script.

I look into Mulder's eyes.  I know that look well by now.  
"It's too hot," I say.  "I don't know if I can stand to be 
touched." The fan sounds like it's whirring louder but it's 
not working any harder to cool the stifling air.

"It's never too hot," he says.  "Or too cold, or windy, or 
rainy, or snowy. . ."

I mutter, "You're a veritable U.S. Postal Service."

His kiss changes my mind.  

I can't refuse him, even on a sticky night after a 
strangely nervous day.  So much is bound in his touch, his 
presence.  We've lived a thousand lives together and 
endured unimaginable events.  Mulder is now an elemental 
part of me.

With Jack, Ethan, all the others stretching back to my 
first date with Sean Cafferty to see Star Wars, I could 
never figure out why love disappointed me so.  I thought I 
was cold, withholding, all of the names they called me when 
it finally went sour.  Now I know that they, and I, were 
wrong.  It was a matter of waiting - long, lonely years of 
waiting.  I was abducted, shot, and made barren. I was 
given cancer and lay beside my child as she died.  I was 
torn and humiliated in hundreds of creative ways.  But 
sometimes I also found wonder, small pieces of the truth, 
and fleeting moments of beauty that knocked me to my knees.  

Through it all, I became the woman who is here today lying 
on the bed with her partner in this dingy motel room 
somewhere in the West Virginia mountains.  She's not the 
caricature doctor-wife-mother I'd daydreamed about in study 
hall, but someone stronger, tougher, and much wiser.  A 
woman nursing a full load of hurt and anger, to be sure, 
but a woman who can take it and who will fight back. And 
through it all, the unbearable and the triumphant, was 
Mulder. Is Mulder.  My partner, walking side by side with 
me on the journey.

His mouth hard on mine, hands everywhere, reading the 
Braille of my body.  He knows everything about me now, the 
crooked little toe on my left foot and the brown birthmark 
at the crook of my elbow.  A thousand times, Mulder has 
kissed the gunshot scar on my belly and traced the colors 
of the snake on my lower back.  He has felt me arch against 
him as I've come so hard I thought I'd snap a ligament and 
held me as I've cried from the nightmares that haunt me on 
an all-too-frequent basis.

Mulder isn't like the others were, I think drowsily, as he 
takes nips at my neck, my breasts, the soft skin of my 
inner thighs.  He wants to know the real me.  Mulder has 
seen me at my darkest and lowest moments. He's not dazzled 
by the wonder girl facade. He wants to know my secrets, and 
I, his. There's nothing to hide anymore.

We haven't always been kind to each other and we haven't 
always been honest.  Our suffering has torn us apart and 
brought us together dozens of times.  But we're trying, 
we're really trying.  We deserve an A for effort.

His beauty never fails to take me by surprise.  The gold 
smoothness of his skin, the way his hands clench and 
unclench as I take him deep inside me, the stunned look in 
his eyes as we move together, as if he can't believe this 
is really happening.  I know I can't.  It's still too new, 
too fresh - we're still surprising each other by the day, 
still a little shy with one another, still in awe at how 
large this is.

Sweat is now running down my face, into my eyes, as I ride 
him harder, faster, wanting nothing more at this moment 
than for everything to dissolve, for the separate Mulder 
and Scully to merge for just one moment and become one 
being.  I've never wanted forever before him.  I was so 
careful of my precious identity, and so ready to shield my 
heart from hurt.  Now I know who I am and Mulder is 
inextricably entwined with that identity. 

When I come, it feels like letting go of everything for 
just a moment - my doubts and my fears.  They'll return 
soon enough, but now I breathe with pleasure and 
contentment.  This is a respite, a time to recharge for the 
inevitable battles ahead.  

No, this is more.  This is love, I think, touching the face 
of my beloved.  

--------------------------------

She stood in front of the door to the unit, palm poised to 
touch the security plate.  Deep breath, Rachel told 
herself.  Just do it.  Her heart was beating out of 
control.

Just a few months earlier, her debut on the First Week Unit 
was a very different experience. She'd been so excited and 
confident.  Wasn't she the first Four in her work group 
chosen for this most important assignment?  Wasn't she 
widely regarded as one of the best befrienders at the 
Clinic, sending her patients off to their Orientation 
Centers as almost-functioning human beings?  Didn't she 
consistently get the mute to speak and the despondent to 
laugh at one of her terrible jokes?

Rachel had been awed at the responsibility of her new 
position, but she was sure it was something she could do, 
and do well. She'd be the befriender every survivor wished 
they'd had when they'd awakened to the brave new world - 
calm, compassionate, and infinitely patient. She'd passed 
her training with flying colors and had shadowed several of 
her colleagues.  Head held high, spine straight, she'd been 
so ready.

She remembered the small room, painted a soothing sage.  
False sunshine spilled through the filmy curtains at the 
window.  Soft classical music played somewhere in the 
background. A bed with a dark green quilt. Pictures of 
flowers and trees on the walls.  It was meant to be a 
happy, calm place to wake.  Non-threatening, non-clinical. 
The only sign the room belonged to a medical facility was 
the IV unit on the wall, a plastic line running to the 
sleeping patient's hand. A thin band of plastic ran around 
his forehead, monitoring his vital signs and brain 
activity.

He looked so peaceful, her first patient.  Rachel wondered 
if she'd looked like that, months ago, as if she'd just 
dropped off for a nice nap on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

She sat in the chair at the bedside and took his hand in 
hers.  It was a large hand, pale olive in skin tone, the 
veins prominent.  He was probably in his late thirties, 
early forties; there wasn't much gray in his brown hair.  
Dark lashes fanned on his face and his cupid's bow of a 
mouth was slightly open. His hospital gown was pale green, 
almost matching the walls.

She thought, who are you? There was no match in the DNA 
database. No name, no date of birth, no record of where 
he'd been found.  There had been mass chaos in those days 
of rescue; keeping good records hadn't been a priority.  
The Others had assumed that survivors would be able to sort 
themselves out after awakening. They hadn't known what 
their miracle drug for the Plague would do to Human brains. 

She squeezed the patient's hand. "I'm ready," she said.  G, 
the doctor, could hear everything she heard and see 
everything she saw through the connector wrapped around her 
left ear.  It felt like having someone reading over her 
shoulder.

"Everything's looking good," G replied. "We're going to 
start."

The IV unit began humming; new drugs were being introduced 
into the patient's system.  It would only be a minute or 
so. Rachel felt pity for her patient.  Awakening was 
something she'd never want to go through again.

Another squeeze of the hand, this one a bit stronger.  
"Good morning," she said in the soft voice she'd been 
trained to use.  "It's time to wake up."

A tiny fluttering of lashes and a cough.  Then his eyes 
opened all the way, cloudy hazel, trying to focus on what 
they saw.  A sharp indrawing of breath.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

He turned his head to look at her.  His eyes narrowed, but 
he said nothing. He now looked exhausted, as if he'd 
witnessed a thousand terrible things.

Rachel tried to make her voice sound even gentler.  "Do you 
remember your name?"

He jerked his hand out of hers.  "Who the hell are you?" he 
demanded in a voice hoarse with disuse.  

She took a calming breath.  "My name's Rachel.  You're in a 
safe place and nothing bad will happen to you here."  The 
words from her training module flowed off her tongue like 
honey.

The patient struggled to sit up.  "Take it easy," she said. 
"You've been ill and need to get your strength back."

He sat up all the same and looked Rachel dead in the eyes.  
"Where is she?" he rasped.

"Who?" They'd covered this in training.  Sometimes the 
patients called out for loved ones, lost artifacts from 
ruined memory banks.  Still, it threw Rachel.

"Just go with it," G whispered in her ear. "See where it 
takes you."

"Where. Is. She?" he said, through gritted teeth.

"Who are you talking about?" she asked.  Maybe this would 
be a good way to jump-start the few memories he had left.

The patient looked momentarily confused, as if the name was 
just on the tip of his tongue.  He shook his head. "What 
have you done with her?" Tears began to run down his face.

"She's just fine," Rachel said, improvising.

"You liar!" He was shouting now.  "What have you done with 
her, you bastards? I'll fucking kill each and every one of 
you if you've hurt her!"

She touched his shoulder.  "Shh, shh," she soothed.  
"Everything will be all right."

"Fuck that shit - WHERE IS SHE?"

"G, what do I do now?" she whispered.  There was no answer. 
Her hands began to shake.

Rachel remembered what happened next in jagged shards.  One 
second he was tucked in bed and the next he seemed to be 
flying directly at her, the IV line ripping out of the unit 
on the wall. The weight of his body knocked her out of the 
chair and she hit the floor, hard, her head bouncing off 
the tiles. The patient straddled her, his large hands 
gripping her arms with impossible force.  He leaned towards 
her, his breath hot on her cheek. "Now, are you going to 
tell me where she is or am I going to have to shoot you in 
the head, you fucking bitch?"

She heard herself scream.  Where the hell was G?  Where was 
security?  His arm was now at her throat, pressing at her, 
and she struggled to breathe.  She felt a sickening pain 
flood every cell.

The next thing she heard was the door opening and frantic 
footsteps, G's voice saying, "We're here, Rachel." She saw 
G's lean form bend over the patient and inject something 
into his bare thigh. Almost immediately, the patient 
loosened his grip on her.  G and a security guard rolled 
him off her and managed to deposit him back in the bed.

Rachel lay on her back, staring at the white ceiling tiles, 
too stunned to move.  G crouched next to her, charcoal eyes 
wide.  "I'm sorry," he said in his soft voice. "I wasn't 
paying attention like I should have.  I took off my unit 
for just a moment and -"

She turned her head and threw up on the shiny floor tiles.

Rachel was taken to the Medical Unit in a wheelchair.  As 
an orderly rolled her out, she saw the patient.  He was 
lying in bed, glassy-eyed from the sedatives, but the tears 
continued to roll down his face. She looked away.

Her injuries weren't anything life-threatening.  A hairline 
fracture to her clavicle, bruises on her arms and chest, a 
goose egg at the back of her skull.  She was given a sling 
to immobilize her shoulders, pain and anti-inflammatory 
derms, and was told to go home and rest.

When she got back to the dorm, everyone on her wing seemed 
to have heard the story and wanted the gory details.  The 
last thing she wanted to do was discuss what had happened. 
Rachel was achy and feeling a little dazed from the pain 
derm on the inside of her forearm. Instead of lying down as 
ordered, she left the building and began walking until 
she'd climbed the small hillside behind the Clinic and the 
dorms.  She sat on a bench at the top of the hill, wincing 
at how even her leg muscles were sore from what had 
happened.

The adrenaline from the attack had long since worn off and 
Rachel now felt drained and disappointed.  Her first day 
hadn't gone as expected.  She'd failed and nearly gotten 
herself killed in the process.

She remembered the anger on her patient's face and, more 
importantly, the sorrow and loss. Who was she?  He hadn't 
remembered himself, probably never would, but some 
elemental part of his subconscious had only wanted to 
protect her. Rachel wondered who she'd been to the patient.  
Wife, lover, daughter?  And what had happened to her - had 
she been killed in the Invasion or die of the Plague, or 
was she somewhere out there, in a Clinic or Orientation 
Center, not remembering him either?

I can't do this, she thought.

That afternoon, Rachel did something she rarely allowed 
herself to do anymore.  She cried.  She wept for her 
bravado and her failure, and she cried for the patient and 
his lost one.  But mostly her tears were for herself, for 
the ones she'd lost and could no longer remember. 

The next day, she walked into Bradley's office and demanded 
that he reassign her.

And now here she was, about to hop on the merry-go-round 
for another ride. Rachel took a deep breath and touched her 
palm to the plate.  The door swished open and she stepped 
inside.


End of Part 1 of 2.