Title: Wings And Lilacs Author: Lissa E-mail: alexeevv@cadvision.com Disclaimer: They own them. "They" means Fox, 1013 and Chris Carter. "Them" means Scully, Krycek and those small parts of Mulder which are in this story. But it is me who loves them and wants them to be happy. Rating: PG Category: S Keywords: Slash, Mulder/Krycek Spoilers: None Summary: For the boys to be completely happy they need Scully to accept their relationship. Is she able to do it? Archive: DO NOT ARCHIVE Feedback: Do not need food. Do not need air. Do not need water. Definitely do not need sleep. Feedback is all I need. alexeevv@cadvision.com Author's notes: This is a sequel to When Death Was Kind, which you can find at http://www.members.tripod.com/Araxdelan/Lissa.html Wings And Lilacs will make more sense if you read When Death Was Kind. Thanks to Lone Gungirl the Great for beta. It's for Araxdelan, for finding me, adapting me, feeding me and loving me, for the sweet, caring, talented Araxdelan who created the most wonderful home for me. Thank you, angel. Wings And Lilacs The night is soft. There was rain again but it has stopped and now the air is fresh and a little tart. It is a summer night and all windows are wide open letting the wind blow freely into the rooms, peaceful and silent in their deep sleep. The wind does not howl and weep this night breaking against the thick walls and the blind glass of the tightly shut windows. Instead it quietly slips into the soothing darkness of people's homes bringing, as if in a dream, the fresh, barely noticeable, salty smell of the sea and the strong, sweet, moist aroma of lilacs. The night is soft and so is the touch of a woman's hand. She is not asleep. Curled up in a chair she is watching a sleeping man. His face, partly covered by the darkness and partly lightened by the streetlights, is breathtakingly beautiful and angelic. And she, in hesitation, reaches out and touches his features with the tips of her fingers. He does not vanish into the air. The woman lays her palm on his cheek gently caressing and he, in his sleep, instinctively leans into the warmth of her hand. Now it is trapped. She wants to get free but he is seeking her hand again and his sleep is becoming uneasy and troubled. She stays in this position in spite of a slight annoyance. After a moment she tiredly lays her head on the edge of the bed, still watching him. The light falls on her, and suddenly there is a flash of the red fire in the blackness of the night, the fire that frames her elegant features, on which shadows of the trembling eyelashes are dancing as if fondling the white and soft skin of her face. She is falling asleep and weariness is slowly leaving her body and the lines of her face, when finally only peacefulness rests on her features. He came to her a few nights ago and brought this creature into her home, carried in his arms as if it was a stray kitten. His hands were covered in the blood of that creature, which surely was dying, if not already dead. His bloody hands were violently trembling, as was his voice, desperately saying only one name, the one that before was pronounced with mockery and scorn, later despite and hatred, then bewilderment and confusion. Now the voice saying that name was full of despair, mixed with the wish for a miracle, need and crying gentleness. And also, and that frightened her the most, love, accepted and understood, newly discovered love sounded in that voice, looked at her from those sad, bright eyes full of hope and faith in her strength, in her skill, in her talent and in her ability to forgive. Several nights she fought death. Several nights she watched how life slowly, agonizingly slowly, was returning to that ruined, severely destroyed body. Several nights she battled with mixed feelings of fear, hatred and despair. Several nights she stayed awake, finding new threads of life in him and connecting them all together, bringing that creature back to the world, because suddenly it had become most important for the one who meant more than anything to her. Several nights there was struggle and silent tears and search for the meaning of it all, for the importance of it, for the truth of it. Several nights, which she prayed would never repeat again. The way to compassion was hard and slow. But she had walked that entire road, turning in every corner, stumbling over every stone. And she had done it. Mulder's hands were always there reaching for her, comforting and demanding comfort. His eyes were always looking into hers, understanding, and asking for the same back. Those dark fearful hours he had spent on his knees, holding her hands, holding on to her waist and talking, talking without pause, spilling out every emotion, every feeling that had been tormenting him for years of denial, terror, nightmares and self destruction. And he made her talk. Those nights had gone in the fever of the hot, quick whisper when they were talking fast, intense, choking on the sentences, gasping in tears, afraid that the right words would be lost and they would not be able to say everything that needed to be said. They were walking together that road of searching, thinking, exploring, looking for that something, that most important, that only thing, which mattered. She knew what that thing was. She did not dare to say it out loud because it would mean absolute acceptance and she was not ready, was not yet ready for it. But it was growing inside her, slowly but certainly. It was growing when her heart skipped a beat, when she noticed Mulder's hand clasping Alex's in fear to lose him, in that groundless, but painfully powerful fear. It was growing when she caught the glimpse of the aching gentleness in Mulder's eyes when he was looking at Alex. When his lips softly, like feathers, caressed Alex's motionless face. When he was sinking to his knees near the bed, holding his hand, covering it with fervent, desperate kisses and deficient tears. A sharp and bittersweet lump suddenly was in her throat holding back and provoking the same tears. At those moments something like awe was rising in her heart, the awe before the miracle of the never-fading story of love and grace. Troubled by her dreams the woman suddenly opened her eyes and met big, shining ones staring at her in the darkness, the eyes of the man lying in bed. And for the moment the whole world suddenly fell into the abyss and there were only those eyes in the whole universe, for the first time looking straight into her own and there was the bared, real truth in them. And she suddenly believed, believed in him, believed him. She understood that he would never let himself love Mulder if he had really done something so terrible of which he was accused. She believed him like Mulder did, blindly, thoughtlessly like she believed in kindness and justice, like she believed in God. She remembered the lesson from her childhood that once you looked into a human's eyes you would never be able to hate them, once your glance met another and there was only love possible between the two of you. His eyes were dark in the night air but she, knowing the intense, clear green depth of them, suddenly saw the endless, calm sea of love and hope and undying faith. And in one moment, overwhelmed by compassion, she wanted to cry in joy of her discovery, but could not. The tears froze somewhere in the corners of her eyes, in the curve of her lips, the tears of awe, the awe in front of the innocence, alive, survived through the terrible pain, suffering, hurt and death, the newly born innocence of the angel who got his wings back. In his eyes she saw a great admiration and she was strangely honored that he gave this kind of respect to her, this kind of love. And acceptance grew from those small seeds that were scattered inside her during the time of the struggle. And from that acceptance only one small step was made and love, only love was in her heart and finally she was possessed by the long awaited peace. And she cried. And her tears were wiped away by his hand. And she closed her eyes, trusting him now to guard her sleep, wrapped in the invisible but soothing wings of the angel and the sweet, fragrant aroma of the rain wet lilacs. The End Lissa June 17, 1999