Night Ride Across the Caucasus
Author: Politic X
Fandom: The X Files

Summary: '4D' done my way. Please note that you may need a knowledge of '4D' to understand it, even though that particular episode was about as clear as mud.

Disclaimer: All characters are property of 1013 and Fox, with the exception of Stephanie Laos, who's mine.
Thanks to my beta team, particularly Kate M. and Caeliste, whose guidance made this story much better than it was.
Author's notes to follow.

Feedback will be received with gratitude.
You can reach me at: politic_

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'It's the blaze across my nightgown.
It's the phone's ring...'
-Hirsch

PROLOGUE
11.10.01
10:08 a.m.

Two gunshots punctured the morning silence, but she only heard the first. It was the one that slammed a bullet against her spine, throwing her a full seven feet forward. The second bite of lead caught her at an angle and spun her around before she hit the asphalt. It was initially the less damaging of the two, even though it made its target and cracked her skull at the temporal lobe of her brain.

The pavement was slow to meet her, but she eventually hit, splitting a kneecap wide open and spraining her left ankle. Not that it made a difference at that point; Dana Scully would never use her legs again.

She'd escaped death so often in the past decade, her body had been so battered and beaten, that her legs didn't concern her. They didn't even matter.

All that mattered right now was A. D. Follmer shouting for her. It wasn't good news for Doggett that they'd stopped calling his name. Not good news for her, either, as they were still searching the building, unaware that she'd chased Lukesh to an alley, and that this is where he'd tagged her.

She'd answer Follmer's screams with one of her own if her voice was working, but it wasn't. Of course, that was probably the least of her problems. She was sure she wasn't helpless, though, and to prove it, Scully evaluated herself, beginning with her right toes. She focused on sensation and motor ability, and ticked off the parts of her body in a clockwise pattern.

It was a quick assessment.

She had full use of her torso, except her right side, which jerked and quivered spasmodically. She dragged her hand - the one that wasn't convulsing - along the asphalt and touched her head. Her face was icy cold and numb, her hair soaked with blood. She intended to search for the wound, but she was growing very tired.

"Scully!" Follmer yelled. This would look bad for him, and she was sure he realized it as well as she did. She'd bleed out soon if he didn't find her. Not as soon as Doggett, but soon enough. If that happened, Follmer would be retired like a lame horse. She was, after all, an FBI legend.

Or so Monica teased her.

Scenes of a different future ricocheted in Scully's mind. It could very easily have been Monica Reyes lying here. Would have, in fact, if Monica hadn't come down with a nasty case of bronchitis.

"Stake out of a tongue collector by the name of Lukesh," Follmer had explained to Scully. "Has to be today. I'll do it without her; there are other agents."

She knew Monica had been working with Doggett, trying to pin the murderer down. Lukesh was slippery, the opportunity was ripe, and Scully didn't want to risk him being out there another day. She didn't want to risk Monica being out there another day, either. She'd spooked Scully with one of her visions - Reyes' throat slashed, Doggett shot while they were on a case - just the evening before.

Of course, the only reason she was disturbed by the vision was because Monica was due another accurate one. They'd wrestled with her nightmares, vivid but misleading, for the past few months. This time, the vision came while Monica was taking a shower. And though she'd been self-medicating for the oncoming bronchitis, Scully didn't think this was a hallucination.

So, Scully didn't ask Follmer to put her on the case - she demanded it. And whether Follmer acquiesced because she intimidated him or because he needed another agent, he gave her the job.

She was glad Reyes was sick, had told her so before she headed to work.

And Reyes, in turn, had let Scully know that she wasn't worried by the previous day's vision. Why should she be? It didn't involve Scully. Besides, she said, "Nothing bad's going to happen to John unless he's with me."

Monica was even playful. "My hero." She grinned lopsided, dopey from Nyquil. "Rushing in where angels fear to tread."

Scully had felt a bit like Marlene Dietrich then, larger than life and suddenly so small, like a black and white image on a tv set. She was both vainglorious and humble in this love affair. "Where angels are too sick to tread," she murmured, kissing Monica's brow.

What else had she said to her this morning? She concentrated, hoping it was something more memorable. Hoping she'd told Monica that she loved her. Hoping it was a good enough goodbye.

It needed to be.

Somnolence was pulling her down like an undercurrent, its force greater than the weight of the world. When her eyes drifted shut, she tried to remain conscious, but an ocean of waves spilled over her. It was a billowing numbness. She was softly floating, being carried out to sea, far, far from this place. She was dying, she knew.

Dying was always water.