Title: The Discipline of Blessings
Author: Scullysfan
Story outline: Laney
Rated: PG
Category: SRA
Spoilers: "Requiem," "Closure"
Distribution: Do not archive at Xemplary. Anyone else, *please
ask first.* Thanks. : )
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are
the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not
mine and no copyright infringement is intended. Any other
characters belong to me.
Summary: Making it new.
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at:
Scullysfan@aol.com
Author's notes at the end.
~~~~~~~~
But the discipline of blessings is to taste
each moment, the bitter, the sour, the sweet
and the salty, and be glad for what does not
hurt. The art is in compressing attention
to each little and big blossom of the tree
of life, to let the tongue sing each fruit,
its savor, its aroma and its use.
Attention is love, what we must give
children, mothers, fathers, pets,
our friends, the news, the woes of others.
What we want to change we curse and then
pick up a tool. Bless whatever you can
with eyes and hands and tongue. If you
can't bless it, get ready to make it new.
-- Marge Piercy
~~~~~~~~~
A shifting wind in what was shaping up to be an unseasonably
early snow storm sent icy crystals plinking against the window
pane. The power, having succumbed to the weight of snow on
electrical lines, had gone out hours ago. It took with it all
light for blocks and most ambient sounds save the crackles of
ice-laden tree branches and the spats of snow on glass.
Thank God, the heater was electric and no longer worked. The
chill from the outside had long since seeped through brick and
sheetrock to cool her bedroom.
Now, if she could just do something about the furnace pressed
against her back and the other one heating her from within its
cocoon in her belly.
Scully hefted the bulk of two blankets, three quilts, and a
bedspread and tossed them back off her body. Mulder's only
response to the added weight was to burrow deeper beneath the
covers. He sought shelter, she feared, not from the bitter
cold, but from the horrors he couldn't -- or wouldn't -- remember
during the day, and from which he couldn't escape even under the
cover of night.
Lying with him spooned up behind her, she welcomed the prickles
of goosebumps spreading down her bare arms and legs, across the
rounded expanse of her stomach. Her nipples puckered in the
chilled air; they were nearly painful. With the twitch of
Mulder's fingers as his hand rested beneath her breasts, she
wished for his touch to soothe their ache. But she was loathe
to wake him. Restless though he was, at least he was sleeping.
That, along with the physical therapy regimen he underwent
during the day, would help him regain the strength he lost
during his missing months.
The call had come in the dead of night, interrupting not her
sleep but a nightly conversation with her only link to him. It
wasn't even a positive identification, but almost seven months
of fear and uncertainty left her with a desire to believe that
seven years on the X-files had not instilled. No matter how
tenuous the threads of hope, she had to grasp them.
Dressing as quickly as her present shape allowed, she took from
the closet one of two packed bags, both waiting for equally
anticipated but completely different arrivals. The plane was
airborne and Montana bound before it occurred to Scully that she
should have contacted Skinner. He'd unnecessarily assumed
responsibility for Mulder's being taken in the first place, and
by all rights he deserved to have the burden lifted as soon as
possible.
She knew this, but with barely a twinge of regret, she allowed
selfishness to rule. If it wasn't Mulder, there was no need to
raise anyone else's hopes. And if it was....
If it was Mulder, this reunion belonged to them alone.
The circumstances of the John Doe's appearance had been
somewhat similar to her own, at least in that he'd appeared in a
hospital without explanation or evidence. The significance of
the appearance being in a tiny one-story hospital in Fort
Benton, Montana was lost on Scully.
For a few moments, upon walking into what passed for an
intensive care unit, she didn't care about the hows or whys.
Unlike her own condition years ago, she found Mulder not in a
coma, but in a deep sleep.
And it was indeed Mulder. Every inch of him. She knew because
she checked, mapping every inch of his skin, every scar, every
freckle and mole that she'd uncovered and tasted at some point
in the months before he was taken.
There were tests of the more conclusive variety, too. Scully's
need for proof hadn't changed since Mulder disappeared. But
when she held the results of the DNA test she'd bullied hospital
officials into letting her perform herself, they were a mere
formality. Confirmation of what her heart already knew.
All she'd needed then was for him to wake.
It would have made a more pleasant, happier story if his
passage into the conscious world had been a gentle one, but
she'd found happy stories are rarely very realistic.
No, there was wild-eyed screaming, restraints, threats by
medical personnel of powerful sedatives and by one furious
pregnant woman if they used them. Mulder had returned to the
living -- if not the lucid.
In the end, Scully and the comfortable dose of reality she
offered won out over the doctors and the horrific images that
remained trapped in Mulder's subconscious. She ignored protests
that she was putting herself and the baby in jeopardy and
climbed into the bed with him, settling her bulk as close to him
as possible. To everyone's amazement but Scully's, he began to
quiet; and when he saw her -- really saw her -- she motioned for
the restraints to be removed and, with one sharp nod toward the
door, for them to be left alone.
There, in that tiny hospital room, healing began for both of
them. She bathed him in tears and nonsensical murmurs. And
with the same incredulity as her initial announcement to Skinner
so many months before, Scully shared with Mulder the
unbelievable truth growing inside her.
Now Scully winced and pressed her legs tighter together. Their
little pod person, as Mulder persisted in calling the baby, much
to Scully's annoyance, kept stepping on her perpetually full
bladder in its middle-of-the-night calisthenics.
Poking at her rounded belly, she whispered, "Be still in
there," and smiled when a fist or elbow poked back in stubborn
defiance.
The desperate urge to pee and another sleepless night aside,
every movement within reassured her. While nothing would do as
well as finally holding their child in her arms, being able to
touch and see the baby for herself, Scully was as certain as
every test imaginable could make her that the baby she sheltered
was whole, healthy, and unquestionably human. A product of
herself and Mulder, nothing more. For this, she thanked God
every day.
Her gratitude was never as great as that day early in her
pregnancy -- the day she'd realized whole and healthy didn't
necessarily mean normal.
It had been a fluke, really. One of the many random acts of
violence that kept D.C. police busy around the clock. Perhaps
Scully wouldn't have found it as difficult to bear if it had
happened during her search for Mulder, instead of when she was
merely walking to her car in the cavernous Hoover parking
garage.
Rounding a huge concrete support beam, she'd surprised him.
Just a juvenile delinquent out car shopping, but he came well-
armed. She didn't have time to empty her arms, loaded down as
they were with printouts of satellite tracking information. Two
shots tore through her abdomen, and as she fell, she stupidly
wondered if at least one bullet had entered where Ritter's had.
A scar on top of a scar. How efficient.
Then her thoughts were of the baby, of the tiny life struggling
within the fire that consumed Scully's belly. She pressed her
hands to her stomach, blood bubbling over the area that had only
in the last week begun to curve and expand.
And she thought of Mulder. Who would find him if not her?
Tears of anger, not pain, flowed from her eyes and into her
hair as she lay curled on the filthy concrete. She doubled over
tighter when a wave of cramps seized her. Through the buzzing
in her head, she heard distant shouts -- security investigating
the gunshots. She opened her mouth to call to them when the
fierce burning underneath her hands became as cold as the
Antarctic ice.
As the chill radiated from her center, she gasped at the sudden
absence of pain. Then she felt it -- tears closing, fibers of
arteries and muscle weaving themselves back together, the
healing of soft pink flesh. With shaking hands, Scully had
raised her blood-soaked blouse and tugged at the waistband of
her pants. She traced one finger across the white surgical scar
from the incision made to repair damage from a fellow officer's
bullet. It was the sole blemish on the downy skin.
Scully's mind raced. A hallucination? The blood staining her
clothes and her hands belied that. The chip? If so, why had it
not performed the same feat before?
Her answer came in the form of a flutter. An almost
imperceptible movement in her belly. Then there was another,
this one a little stronger, and Dana Scully, who by then had
thought she'd seen it all, believed in the impossible.
"Thank you, sweetie," she whispered, caressing the smooth skin
shielding her child before scrambling off the floor. As she
gathered her dropped papers, she spotted and scooped up two
flattened pieces of metal. She ducked between rows of cars
until she reached her own and sped away, leaving security to
puzzle over the pool of blood on the ground.
She didn't sleep that night. Possible, more understandable,
explanations for what had happened in that parking garage
returned to swirl endlessly through her mind. By dawn, she
didn't know whether to laugh or cry; the only answer that truly
made sense -- the one she knew Mulder would have favored from
the very beginning -- was, naturally, the most unbelievable.
The next day, armed with the bloody, torn blouse, the two
bullets that had passed through her and left neither entrance
nor exit wounds, along with a glowing ultrasound report for the
fetus, she informed Skinner of her instantaneous recovery. Once,
she thought, he might have had her committed if she'd voiced the
idea that a pre-born baby possessed the gift of healing. But
apparently, after seeing one of his agents spirited away on an
unidentified flying object, believing in the strange and
improbable wasn't as difficult for him anymore.
They agreed to tell no one, save Mulder after his return, but
she suspected neither of them was foolish enough to believe that
sinister forces would remain ignorant.
That their child would be born with a price on its head was the
fearful certainty that haunted Scully's nights from then on.
Nights like this one, when the dark was blacker than usual and
Mulder's gutteral whimpers behind her were reminders of the
threat to a tiny life.
The threat was a real one, she was sure. At some point They --
though she'd long since given up trying to guess which They it
would be -- would want the child.
You can't be abducted twice and the father of your child once
and expect your offspring to be any less valuable, she thought
dryly. Even if They were unaware of the ability she suspected
this tiny person possessed, They would never pass up a chance
that something useful to Them was there.
A tremor raced through her body as she thought of the huge
responsibility protecting this child would be. With a jerk,
Mulder's feet began to shuffle back and forth in the bed, as if
he were running from the shadows she'd been imagining. He
clutched her tighter and his breath huffed and puffed in her
hair.
"Shhhh," she shushed him and took his hand resting at the top
of her abdomen's swell. Drawing it down, she pressed it beneath
her own to the heaviest part of her belly. Whether sensing the
needs of its parents or merely trying to find a more comfortable
position in an increasingly tight quarantine, the baby bumped
the spot underneath their hands.
And bumped it and bumped it.
Mulder had calmed with the rhythmic movements, so Scully had to
stifle a chuckle as she sympathized with their unborn child,
already banging its head against a wall over its father. She
knew exactly where the tendency came from.
She sighed and began to rock the three of them as Mulder's
breathing evened out and his feet lay still. In his sleep, his
fingers tangled with her own, and together they held the future.
Their future, she amended as the fuzzy curtain of sleep began to
draw closed. There was no going back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A volley of gunfire jolted Scully from a dreamless sleep. Her
heartbeat stutter-stepped into a sprint as she pressed herself
against Mulder and tried to determine the origin of the
shooting. She chanced a look over her shoulder.
Still asleep, his head pulled in turtle-like under the covers.
The shots rang out again, only this time she recognized them
for what they really were. Someone knocking on her door in the
dead of night during a snowstorm did nothing to slow the
pounding in her chest.
Easing from under the leadened weight of Mulder's arm, she
slipped her hand under her pillow and pulled out her gun. The
cold steel had been a better security blanket these last few
months than anything soft and stuffed. Quickly she donned the
terry-cloth robe that used to swallow her but now barely met
across her expansive girth. The shadows retreated slightly as
she moved toward the living room, where the blinding white of
the snow through window blinds left open sent a little light to
illuminate her path. Still, she stopped to fumble at the table
behind the couch, striking a match. A soft glow and a whiff of
vanilla came from the candle she lit.
She shook out the match and moved to the door, wincing as
another series of knocks sounded right in front of her. At this
point, she didn't give a damn who it was -- if they woke Mulder,
she was going to kill them.
Scully balanced her baby-heavy frame on the balls of her feet
as she peered through the door's peephole. The red brilliance
of the building's exit sign, powered by back-up batteries,
reflected off the shiny pate in front of her.
Skinner.
Her paranoia too far gone to reign in now, she kept her gun in
her hand as she unlocked the door and opened it.
"Sir?"
Skinner glanced down the hall, then stepped into the apartment,
shutting and locking the door behind him. He turned to look
down at her. Standing in bare feet and wearing only a robe, she
felt smaller next to him than she ever had pre-pregnancy. He
was dressed for warmth and stealth in black jeans and Gortex and
melting snow trickled down the waterproof material, dripping
onto her non-waterproof carpet. He registered no shock to see
her weapon by her side as he unzipped his jacket just enough to
reholster his own gun.
"Sir, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the night.
The roads must be covered with ice...." By the glow of the
candle flickering in the lens of his glasses, Scully saw his
creased brow, the clench of his jaw as his mouth opened and
closed as if he didn't know how to begin. "What's wrong?"
Even as the question tumbled from her mouth, she knew.
"Agent Scully, it's time."
She took a step back. "What are you talking about?"
"I think you know." His voice was low and hard, the best
indication of fear for this man.
Seven years of allusions, of scraps of hints, of riddles and
dancing around the obvious were quite enough, thank you. She
could get that line from Mulder anytime, but she didn't have to
be strung along by Skinner. "Would you stop being so damn
cryptic and tell me what the hell you're doing here?"
"I received word a short time ago that a plan has been set into
motion--"
"What? Wait a min--"
"--a plan to come here and take you. You and the baby."
"Sir, please stop a second." She stepped closer and raised her
hand, grabbed for his sleeve to stop the rush of words. He ran
roughshod over her demands and rummaged in his bulky jacket
rather than look her in the eye.
"You and Mulder have to leave now. I've already arranged
everything -- transportation to a safe house--"
"Stop."
"--supplies, and here... these are your new I.D.s." His voice
shook a little, the hoarseness of his loud whisper cracking.
Pulling a clear Ziplock bag filled with papers and cards from
inside his sweater, he turned it over and over in his hands.
"There's even a birth cert--"
"I said STOP!"
He looked at her then. "Scully, there's no time to waste."
"I'm not going anywhere or doing anything until you answer some
questions." Satisfied that she had his attention, she demanded,
"Who told you about this plan?"
Skinner pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose
and sighed. "I don't know... I don't know, but my best guess is
Krycek.
"Since Krycek has controlled these...things in my blood, he's
gotten his kicks sending me surprise reminders on my Palm
Pilot." Barking a short laugh, he shook his head. "He's bold
enough even to identify himself -- just another way of thumbing
his nose in my face, I suppose. This last message didn't have
that identification, so there's the chance it's not him. I
almost wish it was. Otherwise, I have no clue who exactly is
responsible."
"What was the message?"
His gaze slipped, coming to rest on her most prominent feature
these days. The chill of the room couldn't have matched the ice
running through her veins at that moment, and she shivered.
"Scully...." He reached for her but she stepped back again.
Pressing her weaponless hand to the side of her belly, she
silently asked for and received from within the reminder of her
and Mulder's future.
"Tell me."
"'Time for the incubator to disappear. The contents are ripe
for harvest.'"
"God...." Those bastards.
Harvest.
Merchandise.
Human life meant nothing to Them, something she learned years
ago but which had just been driven home once again. Her eyes
burned at the intrusion of salty tears. She put her hand to her
brow, trying to make sense of it all, to somehow massage her
brain into accepting what Skinner was saying. They were going
to disappear, to become a different family. Would it be one
more normal than their real one?
It would have to be.
And that made her want to cry all the more. When she told
Mulder she wanted normal, she meant their brand, not whatever
passed for normal for the people Skinner held in his hands.
Did it have to be this complicated?
"There was no definite timetable, so we have to assume every
minute counts. You've got to pack a few things and get out of
here." His voice had turned gentle, as careful as the hands he
rested on her shoulders. He began to turn her toward the
bedroom. "Go wake up Mulder."
"Mulder's already awake."
They both jumped at Mulder's introduction.
Scully didn't need to ask how long he'd been standing there. He
looked rumpled and weary, his pajama bottoms wrinkled and barely
clinging to hips still far too lean, his hair spiking this way
and that. One side of his face bore creases from his pillow.
Tired though his body appeared, his eyes flashed with fear as he
looked from Scully to Skinner and back again.
His eyelids clenched shut and his head bowed, looking to her
like a defeated man. She whispered his name.
He came to her, even as Skinner stepped away, his expression
one of embarrassment as Mulder wrapped his arms around her from
behind.
She supposed it should bother her that their superior was
seeing them in such a state of undress, her hands locked around
Mulder's forearms as they rested against her chest. Her sense
of professionalism probably should have risen up and demanded
that Mulder stop pressing kisses in her hair, and certainly her
dignity ought to have protested the way he nuzzled her ear and
rocked her from side to side. But she was tired of playing by
someone else's rules. Maybe it all came down to that.
Tilting her head back, Scully smiled softly into those sad eyes
she knew so well, and then she faced Skinner again. "Mulder and
I need to discuss this. Alone."
She knew he would have protested had she given him the chance,
so she turned and slipped her hand into Mulder's, leading him
through the dark.
The door clicked shut behind them. As Scully stood at the foot
of the bed, Mulder moved to her bedside table and lit the trio
of candles there. His stiff gait next took him to the closet
where he tugged at the red satchel sitting in the corner. She'd
made sure the maternity bag wasn't very heavy, in case she had
to carry it to the hospital herself. Still, she saw his arm
shake under the strain of lifting it onto the bed.
"It's a good thing you've already packed this bag for the
hospital. Do you want to add a few more changes of clothes for
yourself, maybe for after the baby comes?" He began pulling
open dresser drawers.
"Mulder..." Her voice trailed off, trampled by his frantic
searching through stacks of underwear and socks.
"Where's that bla--" He was back digging in the closet again,
this time pulling out her rolling black suitcase. "Here it is.
I'll shove some stuff in here." Pausing to look at her, he
asked, "What about baby things? You have more clothes besides
what's in the hospital bag?"
Her head was beginning to spin. Too many questions for this
time of night. Why did babies and threats always come in the
wee hours of the morning?
"I...I haven't... Mom gave me a few things of Matthew's,
but...." As she gestured toward the paper bag in the corner, he
brushed past her and began to rummage through its contents.
"Mulder, stop!"
The order came out more harshly than she meant, but it had the
desired effect. Mulder dropped the stack of onesies back in the
bag and turned to face her. Confusion colored his features.
"We need to discuss this."
"Discuss what, Scully?" His tone was incredulous. "It seems
simple enough to me. They want you and the baby. I'm not going
to sit by and let that happen, so we're leaving. We'll run as
far away as we can, go underground with Skinner's false
identities, whatever."
He moved toward her. His eyes were pleading. "I told you once
before, I'm not going to lose you."
A sympathetic murmur escaped her lips, but she shook her head.
"Mulder, you're improving every day, but there's still residual
muscle atrophy in your legs. Your stamina is still very low.
Being on the run, under who knows what conditions -- that can't
be good for you."
"I can do this," he asserted, his voice stronger than the rest
of him.
"Maybe I can't." She got his attention with that one. Dana
Scully actually admitting weakness -- film at eleven. "This
baby will be here in a few weeks. Where will we be then?
Driving at night, in some hole-in-the-wall motel during the day?
Hiding in a cabin? What if Skinner can't find a doctor, are you
going to deliver the baby?"
If the situation hadn't been so serious, she might have laughed
at how quickly his complexion faded to green. He stammered, "I,
I think I could, if you... talked me through it."
"Maybe," she shook her head, "but if something goes wrong, I
can't talk you through a Cesarean."
"We can--"
"Do you know what happens when a woman's uterus fails to shrink
after birth? She can bleed to death in a matter of minutes."
First green, now his face was white. She pointed out, "Leaving
is not without its own risks."
"What are you saying, Scully?"
Her chin jutted out in the Scully trait of assertion. "I'm
saying I think it's time we took our lives back."
All those nights spent lying awake and alone in her bed, trying
to face what her life had become and where she wanted it to go,
boiled to the surface and bubbled over. She'd had enough of
being cast as the victim. She wasn't a victim; she was a
survivor, and it was time to take a stand.
"I'm tired of my life not being my own, of having CGB Spender
or Krycek or, or whoever is out there pulling my strings. They
wanted me for testing, so they took me -- twice. I was given a
child and had her snatched away. The cancer, the chip... My
God, someone flips a switch somewhere and my mind is not my own."
"I'm sorry." He slumped onto the side of the bed. Resting his
elbows on his legs, he cradled his head in his hands.
"No, dammit!" she shouted. Both the baby and Mulder flinched.
"I don't want you to be sorry. Mulder, your life has been
manipulated and controlled since you were a child. You haven't
come out of this any less unscathed."
When he didn't move, she stood in front of him. Bracing
herself on the side of the bed, she knelt at his feet, nearly
toppling over in the process. The skin of his forearms was warm
as she ran her hands from elbows to wrists.
"Don't you remember what you said to me in Bellefleur?"
No response. She ducked her head to better see his face and
whispered, "You said there's so much more than this, that it has
to end." Finally he met her gaze; she prayed it was as full of
hope as she intended. "Maybe this child is our chance to shut
one door and open a new one."
"You mean quit the X-Files, leave the Bureau?"
"How would you feel about that?"
Silence settled around them for a moment, and then he gently
moved her back and stood. Scully pushed herself up with a grunt
and sat on the side of the bed as Mulder crossed to stare at the
closed window blinds.
When he spoke, his voice was sure. "I took on the X-Files as a
means to search for Samantha. She's gone. I've accepted that."
"I remember. You told Harold Piller that you both had to let
go."
He turned to face her and nodded. "So maybe it is time I let
go of that chapter." Their earlier positions reversed and he
tried to kneel in front of her. The weakness in his legs made
the trip to the floor a sudden one, and she reached out to
steady him. One hand stroked her hair back from her forehead,
and then he took both of her hands in his. "But what about you?
I thought you wanted justice. For Melissa, for Emily... God,
Scully, for yourself. You're telling me you want to give up?"
"No. No. I just want what you found." She shrugged her
shoulders and gave him a wistful smile. "Freedom."
"Mulder, that night after Harold walked away, you said, 'I'm
free.' I didn't believe it at first, but I watched you the next
few months. You were different -- unburdened. And I was
jealous. There was a peace in you, something I'd never seen
before and certainly hadn't found for myself."
She squeezed his hands in earnest. "I want that freedom,
Mulder. And in the months you were gone, while I looked
everywhere I could think to, while this little one got bigger
and bigger," their joined hands moved to rest on either side of
her stomach as she continued, "I became more determined to have
it. I would search for you until I found you and I would never
give up. I would have this baby who wasn't supposed to be -- but
IS. And no one was going to stand in my way."
He raised one finger and swiped a surprise tear from her cheek.
"I always knew you were stubborn." Sniffling through quiet
laughter, she brought her hands to his cheeks and pulled him to
her. Their lips met once, twice and then their foreheads rested
against each other.
She shook her head, her hair rustling his. "We can run,
Mulder, but you know They have always been and always will be
one step ahead."
"Wouldn't be much of a life, would it?"
"No, it wouldn't."
"So we leave the Bureau and we stay here. Then what?"
"We live each day as it comes." The assertive chin was back,
she knew, but it helped compensate for feeling vulnerable in
bare feet. "We do our damnedest to protect ourselves and our
child, but no matter what, we go forward. And we're grateful
for however much time we have together."
"Do we get a house in the country and a minivan?" He grinned
carefully, as if those muscles, too, were stiff from disuse.
"I've always wanted a dog."
"Let's not go crazy, Mulder," she answered dryly. He
snickered. "There are things to work out, of course -- jobs,
security. We'll get with the boys and let them set up something
for us in that area. It'll work out; they're just details."
Mulder's hands were still molded around the curves of her
belly, and he startled when a ripple of movement flowed from one
side to the other. For good measure, a swift kick landed just
behind her belly button.
"I think it's unanimous. The pod person has spoken."
They shared a smile and sat for another moment feeling elbows
and feet trying to punch their way out. Finally Scully
straightened her shoulders and spoke.
"We'd better go tell Skinner."
Mulder struggled for a bit to stand, until Scully hooked one
arm under his shoulder and gave a tug as he pushed off the bed.
She turned to open the door, but Mulder caught her by her robe's
belt. Her body melted into his. Wrapping his arms around her
and cradling her head against his chest, he purred into her
hair. This was all the shelter she needed.
He whispered, "Let's go," and reached around her to open the
door. They made their way carefully down the hall and found
Skinner pacing the length of the living room. His steps were so
deliberate, Scully glanced down to see if he'd walked a trench
in her carpet. At their entrance, he swung around to face them
and his mouth dropped open before he bellowed. "Agents, you're
not even dressed! Where are your bags?"
She inclined her head toward the couch and moved to settle in
one corner of it, expecting the men to follow her. Mulder sat
to her right, but Skinner remained standing, his hands on his
hips and his feet set apart. He looked expectantly from one to
the other, but it was Scully who broke the silence.
"Sir, we have something to tell you."
~~~~~~~~~~
The snick of the deadbolt sliding into place sounded harsh in
the stillness of the downstairs. Scully's fingers danced over
the keypad by the door, and a low hum signaled the activation of
the Gunmen's souped-up alarm system. When they first installed
it, she thought she would never become accustomed to the
constant sound. Now she was convinced it was soporific, as
peacefully as they all slept.
Moving through the living room and into the kitchen, she toed
off her sneakers. Mud from after this morning's rainstorm
stained the left one, so she pitched them both into the tiny
laundry alcove by the back door. She checked the locks and
switched on the floodlight outside.
They'd had to put up thickly lined curtains on the bedroom
windows overlooking the backyard. The light's bright beams made
the night look like high noon. It was fortunate that their
nearest neighbor was at least half a mile away.
Her stomach protested the late hour and no nourishment since a
cup of yogurt from the morgue refrigerator and a stale Twinkie
she found in her locker. She opened their refrigerator and
stared at the contents. The leftovers from the pizza Mulder
must have had for dinner didn't look at all appealing. Nor did
the only other choices on the bare shelves. She was hungry, but
not desperate enough for strained beets or mushy chicken.
The grocery store tomorrow, she thought, and waved the
refrigerator door closed with a sigh.
Making sure all lights but the one over the stove were off,
Scully took the narrow back stairs, carefully closing the door
separating them from the kitchen.
The door at the top of the stairs was closed as usual, but it
swung open silently. When she pushed it shut again, the seams
of the door blended in with the dark wood panels of the wall,
and it became invisible. The stairs, and their location just
outside the smaller bedroom, had been Frohike's idea. If
necessary, it provided a means of escape from someone coming up
the front stairs, and hopefully the hidden doors would go
undiscovered until they could get away. It had already worked
beautifully for them once.
Only two lights burned upstairs. From her vantage point across
the hall, Scully could see the brightness from the desk lamp
spilling over the stacks of files and papers cluttering Mulder's
office. The closer his deadline, the bigger the mess. He must
be overdue, she chuckled to herself.
A softer glow came from the room on her right. Peeking around
the corner, she found Mulder where he was almost every night at
this time.
If he heard her, he gave no indication, but continued to rock
their daughter. The rocking chair had been a gift from a
sheepish Frohike, who Scully was surprised to learn was nearly
as talented with wood as technical gadgetry. The wooden dowels
and slats fit together so perfectly the chair never creaked.
Scully was able hear Hannah sucking her bottle when Mulder
paused to turn a page.
His voice was low and slumberous. Scully could imagine the
baby blinking slowly, sleepy but fighting to stay awake. The
feeling was mutual and Scully yawned. Very quietly, she slid to
the floor, wrapped her arms around her bent legs, and leaned her
head on the door facing to listen.
"Daisy began to cry," read Mulder. "Brown Cow said, 'Why are
you crying, Daisy?'
"Daisy said, 'I am a cow. But I cannot moo.'
"'Oh come now,' said Brown Cow. 'All cows can moo. You can
moo, too. I will show you how.'
"'Open your mouth, like this,' said Brown Cow. 'Let the sound
come out, like this -- moo. That is how a cow moos.'
"'Now you try it,' she said to Daisy."
A soft wet pop came from Hannah's direction, and Scully knew
Mulder had pulled the nipple from the baby's mouth. She heard
the rustle of Pampers and looked around to find Hannah staring
wide-eyed at her from over Mulder's shoulder. As he patted her
back, he continued reading.
"Daisy opened her mouth. Out came a sound. It was not a
goat's sound..." Mulder stopped and leaned his head back to look
at Hannah. "Remind me to tell you the El Chupacabra story
tomorrow night, huh?"
Scully shook her head and dropped her forehead to rest on her
knees.
"It was not a dog's sound. It was not a rooster's sound."
He paused. "It was a big, big 'MOO.'"
Hannah whimpered at his protracted sound effects, and he
shushed her. "Goat, Dog, and Rooster all said, 'Good for
Daisy!' Now Daisy moos. She moos all day long. And she moos
as she dances under the yellow moon."
When all was quiet for a few moments, Scully eased herself up,
intending to kiss her daughter good night. Mulder's next words
turned her around and pushed her down the hall to her own
bedroom.
"You know, this story would have been much better if some of
these cows were exsanguinated."
Baby peals of laughter trailed Scully and she smiled to
herself.
Hannah was definitely her father's daughter.
THE END
Author's notes: "Requiem" killed my muse. It wasn't that I
didn't love the episode -- it had *spooning* in it. Did anyone
really think I wouldn't love it? g But suddenly all my little
MSR desires had been met, and though I wanted to write, I
couldn't think of a thing to say. Luckily my friend Laney
didn't have that problem. This story was what she wanted to
see, and she came up with the outline. I only wrote it. ; ) So
Laney, I hope this is what you had in mind, and thank you for
filling in when my muse went AWOL. : )
The book Mulder is reading to Hannah is called "Emily's Moo"
and is by Tibor Gergely. Yes, the cow's name is really Emily
and not Daisy, but I didn't quite think a cow named Emily would
be appropriate, you know? g Anyway, it was one of my favorite
books as a little girl, and I still get all sniffly when Emily
lies down and cries because she can't moo. :::sniff:::
MAJOR thanks and hugs to my crack beta team: Meredith, Jill
Selby, Jesemie's Evil Twin, and Jean Robinson. Any typos,
unwieldy sentences, or excessive schmoop are my responsibility,
not theirs. They warned me; sometimes I didn't listen. ; )
Thanks also to Jordan for a guest appearance on punctuation.
Feedback will be loved and spooned at: scullysfan@aol.com
My other stories can be found at:
http://members.aol.com/scullysfan/myfic.html
Author: Scullysfan
Story outline: Laney
Rated: PG
Category: SRA
Spoilers: "Requiem," "Closure"
Distribution: Do not archive at Xemplary. Anyone else, *please
ask first.* Thanks. : )
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are
the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not
mine and no copyright infringement is intended. Any other
characters belong to me.
Summary: Making it new.
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at:
Scullysfan@aol.com
Author's notes at the end.
~~~~~~~~
But the discipline of blessings is to taste
each moment, the bitter, the sour, the sweet
and the salty, and be glad for what does not
hurt. The art is in compressing attention
to each little and big blossom of the tree
of life, to let the tongue sing each fruit,
its savor, its aroma and its use.
Attention is love, what we must give
children, mothers, fathers, pets,
our friends, the news, the woes of others.
What we want to change we curse and then
pick up a tool. Bless whatever you can
with eyes and hands and tongue. If you
can't bless it, get ready to make it new.
-- Marge Piercy
~~~~~~~~~
A shifting wind in what was shaping up to be an unseasonably
early snow storm sent icy crystals plinking against the window
pane. The power, having succumbed to the weight of snow on
electrical lines, had gone out hours ago. It took with it all
light for blocks and most ambient sounds save the crackles of
ice-laden tree branches and the spats of snow on glass.
Thank God, the heater was electric and no longer worked. The
chill from the outside had long since seeped through brick and
sheetrock to cool her bedroom.
Now, if she could just do something about the furnace pressed
against her back and the other one heating her from within its
cocoon in her belly.
Scully hefted the bulk of two blankets, three quilts, and a
bedspread and tossed them back off her body. Mulder's only
response to the added weight was to burrow deeper beneath the
covers. He sought shelter, she feared, not from the bitter
cold, but from the horrors he couldn't -- or wouldn't -- remember
during the day, and from which he couldn't escape even under the
cover of night.
Lying with him spooned up behind her, she welcomed the prickles
of goosebumps spreading down her bare arms and legs, across the
rounded expanse of her stomach. Her nipples puckered in the
chilled air; they were nearly painful. With the twitch of
Mulder's fingers as his hand rested beneath her breasts, she
wished for his touch to soothe their ache. But she was loathe
to wake him. Restless though he was, at least he was sleeping.
That, along with the physical therapy regimen he underwent
during the day, would help him regain the strength he lost
during his missing months.
The call had come in the dead of night, interrupting not her
sleep but a nightly conversation with her only link to him. It
wasn't even a positive identification, but almost seven months
of fear and uncertainty left her with a desire to believe that
seven years on the X-files had not instilled. No matter how
tenuous the threads of hope, she had to grasp them.
Dressing as quickly as her present shape allowed, she took from
the closet one of two packed bags, both waiting for equally
anticipated but completely different arrivals. The plane was
airborne and Montana bound before it occurred to Scully that she
should have contacted Skinner. He'd unnecessarily assumed
responsibility for Mulder's being taken in the first place, and
by all rights he deserved to have the burden lifted as soon as
possible.
She knew this, but with barely a twinge of regret, she allowed
selfishness to rule. If it wasn't Mulder, there was no need to
raise anyone else's hopes. And if it was....
If it was Mulder, this reunion belonged to them alone.
The circumstances of the John Doe's appearance had been
somewhat similar to her own, at least in that he'd appeared in a
hospital without explanation or evidence. The significance of
the appearance being in a tiny one-story hospital in Fort
Benton, Montana was lost on Scully.
For a few moments, upon walking into what passed for an
intensive care unit, she didn't care about the hows or whys.
Unlike her own condition years ago, she found Mulder not in a
coma, but in a deep sleep.
And it was indeed Mulder. Every inch of him. She knew because
she checked, mapping every inch of his skin, every scar, every
freckle and mole that she'd uncovered and tasted at some point
in the months before he was taken.
There were tests of the more conclusive variety, too. Scully's
need for proof hadn't changed since Mulder disappeared. But
when she held the results of the DNA test she'd bullied hospital
officials into letting her perform herself, they were a mere
formality. Confirmation of what her heart already knew.
All she'd needed then was for him to wake.
It would have made a more pleasant, happier story if his
passage into the conscious world had been a gentle one, but
she'd found happy stories are rarely very realistic.
No, there was wild-eyed screaming, restraints, threats by
medical personnel of powerful sedatives and by one furious
pregnant woman if they used them. Mulder had returned to the
living -- if not the lucid.
In the end, Scully and the comfortable dose of reality she
offered won out over the doctors and the horrific images that
remained trapped in Mulder's subconscious. She ignored protests
that she was putting herself and the baby in jeopardy and
climbed into the bed with him, settling her bulk as close to him
as possible. To everyone's amazement but Scully's, he began to
quiet; and when he saw her -- really saw her -- she motioned for
the restraints to be removed and, with one sharp nod toward the
door, for them to be left alone.
There, in that tiny hospital room, healing began for both of
them. She bathed him in tears and nonsensical murmurs. And
with the same incredulity as her initial announcement to Skinner
so many months before, Scully shared with Mulder the
unbelievable truth growing inside her.
Now Scully winced and pressed her legs tighter together. Their
little pod person, as Mulder persisted in calling the baby, much
to Scully's annoyance, kept stepping on her perpetually full
bladder in its middle-of-the-night calisthenics.
Poking at her rounded belly, she whispered, "Be still in
there," and smiled when a fist or elbow poked back in stubborn
defiance.
The desperate urge to pee and another sleepless night aside,
every movement within reassured her. While nothing would do as
well as finally holding their child in her arms, being able to
touch and see the baby for herself, Scully was as certain as
every test imaginable could make her that the baby she sheltered
was whole, healthy, and unquestionably human. A product of
herself and Mulder, nothing more. For this, she thanked God
every day.
Her gratitude was never as great as that day early in her
pregnancy -- the day she'd realized whole and healthy didn't
necessarily mean normal.
It had been a fluke, really. One of the many random acts of
violence that kept D.C. police busy around the clock. Perhaps
Scully wouldn't have found it as difficult to bear if it had
happened during her search for Mulder, instead of when she was
merely walking to her car in the cavernous Hoover parking
garage.
Rounding a huge concrete support beam, she'd surprised him.
Just a juvenile delinquent out car shopping, but he came well-
armed. She didn't have time to empty her arms, loaded down as
they were with printouts of satellite tracking information. Two
shots tore through her abdomen, and as she fell, she stupidly
wondered if at least one bullet had entered where Ritter's had.
A scar on top of a scar. How efficient.
Then her thoughts were of the baby, of the tiny life struggling
within the fire that consumed Scully's belly. She pressed her
hands to her stomach, blood bubbling over the area that had only
in the last week begun to curve and expand.
And she thought of Mulder. Who would find him if not her?
Tears of anger, not pain, flowed from her eyes and into her
hair as she lay curled on the filthy concrete. She doubled over
tighter when a wave of cramps seized her. Through the buzzing
in her head, she heard distant shouts -- security investigating
the gunshots. She opened her mouth to call to them when the
fierce burning underneath her hands became as cold as the
Antarctic ice.
As the chill radiated from her center, she gasped at the sudden
absence of pain. Then she felt it -- tears closing, fibers of
arteries and muscle weaving themselves back together, the
healing of soft pink flesh. With shaking hands, Scully had
raised her blood-soaked blouse and tugged at the waistband of
her pants. She traced one finger across the white surgical scar
from the incision made to repair damage from a fellow officer's
bullet. It was the sole blemish on the downy skin.
Scully's mind raced. A hallucination? The blood staining her
clothes and her hands belied that. The chip? If so, why had it
not performed the same feat before?
Her answer came in the form of a flutter. An almost
imperceptible movement in her belly. Then there was another,
this one a little stronger, and Dana Scully, who by then had
thought she'd seen it all, believed in the impossible.
"Thank you, sweetie," she whispered, caressing the smooth skin
shielding her child before scrambling off the floor. As she
gathered her dropped papers, she spotted and scooped up two
flattened pieces of metal. She ducked between rows of cars
until she reached her own and sped away, leaving security to
puzzle over the pool of blood on the ground.
She didn't sleep that night. Possible, more understandable,
explanations for what had happened in that parking garage
returned to swirl endlessly through her mind. By dawn, she
didn't know whether to laugh or cry; the only answer that truly
made sense -- the one she knew Mulder would have favored from
the very beginning -- was, naturally, the most unbelievable.
The next day, armed with the bloody, torn blouse, the two
bullets that had passed through her and left neither entrance
nor exit wounds, along with a glowing ultrasound report for the
fetus, she informed Skinner of her instantaneous recovery. Once,
she thought, he might have had her committed if she'd voiced the
idea that a pre-born baby possessed the gift of healing. But
apparently, after seeing one of his agents spirited away on an
unidentified flying object, believing in the strange and
improbable wasn't as difficult for him anymore.
They agreed to tell no one, save Mulder after his return, but
she suspected neither of them was foolish enough to believe that
sinister forces would remain ignorant.
That their child would be born with a price on its head was the
fearful certainty that haunted Scully's nights from then on.
Nights like this one, when the dark was blacker than usual and
Mulder's gutteral whimpers behind her were reminders of the
threat to a tiny life.
The threat was a real one, she was sure. At some point They --
though she'd long since given up trying to guess which They it
would be -- would want the child.
You can't be abducted twice and the father of your child once
and expect your offspring to be any less valuable, she thought
dryly. Even if They were unaware of the ability she suspected
this tiny person possessed, They would never pass up a chance
that something useful to Them was there.
A tremor raced through her body as she thought of the huge
responsibility protecting this child would be. With a jerk,
Mulder's feet began to shuffle back and forth in the bed, as if
he were running from the shadows she'd been imagining. He
clutched her tighter and his breath huffed and puffed in her
hair.
"Shhhh," she shushed him and took his hand resting at the top
of her abdomen's swell. Drawing it down, she pressed it beneath
her own to the heaviest part of her belly. Whether sensing the
needs of its parents or merely trying to find a more comfortable
position in an increasingly tight quarantine, the baby bumped
the spot underneath their hands.
And bumped it and bumped it.
Mulder had calmed with the rhythmic movements, so Scully had to
stifle a chuckle as she sympathized with their unborn child,
already banging its head against a wall over its father. She
knew exactly where the tendency came from.
She sighed and began to rock the three of them as Mulder's
breathing evened out and his feet lay still. In his sleep, his
fingers tangled with her own, and together they held the future.
Their future, she amended as the fuzzy curtain of sleep began to
draw closed. There was no going back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A volley of gunfire jolted Scully from a dreamless sleep. Her
heartbeat stutter-stepped into a sprint as she pressed herself
against Mulder and tried to determine the origin of the
shooting. She chanced a look over her shoulder.
Still asleep, his head pulled in turtle-like under the covers.
The shots rang out again, only this time she recognized them
for what they really were. Someone knocking on her door in the
dead of night during a snowstorm did nothing to slow the
pounding in her chest.
Easing from under the leadened weight of Mulder's arm, she
slipped her hand under her pillow and pulled out her gun. The
cold steel had been a better security blanket these last few
months than anything soft and stuffed. Quickly she donned the
terry-cloth robe that used to swallow her but now barely met
across her expansive girth. The shadows retreated slightly as
she moved toward the living room, where the blinding white of
the snow through window blinds left open sent a little light to
illuminate her path. Still, she stopped to fumble at the table
behind the couch, striking a match. A soft glow and a whiff of
vanilla came from the candle she lit.
She shook out the match and moved to the door, wincing as
another series of knocks sounded right in front of her. At this
point, she didn't give a damn who it was -- if they woke Mulder,
she was going to kill them.
Scully balanced her baby-heavy frame on the balls of her feet
as she peered through the door's peephole. The red brilliance
of the building's exit sign, powered by back-up batteries,
reflected off the shiny pate in front of her.
Skinner.
Her paranoia too far gone to reign in now, she kept her gun in
her hand as she unlocked the door and opened it.
"Sir?"
Skinner glanced down the hall, then stepped into the apartment,
shutting and locking the door behind him. He turned to look
down at her. Standing in bare feet and wearing only a robe, she
felt smaller next to him than she ever had pre-pregnancy. He
was dressed for warmth and stealth in black jeans and Gortex and
melting snow trickled down the waterproof material, dripping
onto her non-waterproof carpet. He registered no shock to see
her weapon by her side as he unzipped his jacket just enough to
reholster his own gun.
"Sir, what are you doing here? It's the middle of the night.
The roads must be covered with ice...." By the glow of the
candle flickering in the lens of his glasses, Scully saw his
creased brow, the clench of his jaw as his mouth opened and
closed as if he didn't know how to begin. "What's wrong?"
Even as the question tumbled from her mouth, she knew.
"Agent Scully, it's time."
She took a step back. "What are you talking about?"
"I think you know." His voice was low and hard, the best
indication of fear for this man.
Seven years of allusions, of scraps of hints, of riddles and
dancing around the obvious were quite enough, thank you. She
could get that line from Mulder anytime, but she didn't have to
be strung along by Skinner. "Would you stop being so damn
cryptic and tell me what the hell you're doing here?"
"I received word a short time ago that a plan has been set into
motion--"
"What? Wait a min--"
"--a plan to come here and take you. You and the baby."
"Sir, please stop a second." She stepped closer and raised her
hand, grabbed for his sleeve to stop the rush of words. He ran
roughshod over her demands and rummaged in his bulky jacket
rather than look her in the eye.
"You and Mulder have to leave now. I've already arranged
everything -- transportation to a safe house--"
"Stop."
"--supplies, and here... these are your new I.D.s." His voice
shook a little, the hoarseness of his loud whisper cracking.
Pulling a clear Ziplock bag filled with papers and cards from
inside his sweater, he turned it over and over in his hands.
"There's even a birth cert--"
"I said STOP!"
He looked at her then. "Scully, there's no time to waste."
"I'm not going anywhere or doing anything until you answer some
questions." Satisfied that she had his attention, she demanded,
"Who told you about this plan?"
Skinner pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose
and sighed. "I don't know... I don't know, but my best guess is
Krycek.
"Since Krycek has controlled these...things in my blood, he's
gotten his kicks sending me surprise reminders on my Palm
Pilot." Barking a short laugh, he shook his head. "He's bold
enough even to identify himself -- just another way of thumbing
his nose in my face, I suppose. This last message didn't have
that identification, so there's the chance it's not him. I
almost wish it was. Otherwise, I have no clue who exactly is
responsible."
"What was the message?"
His gaze slipped, coming to rest on her most prominent feature
these days. The chill of the room couldn't have matched the ice
running through her veins at that moment, and she shivered.
"Scully...." He reached for her but she stepped back again.
Pressing her weaponless hand to the side of her belly, she
silently asked for and received from within the reminder of her
and Mulder's future.
"Tell me."
"'Time for the incubator to disappear. The contents are ripe
for harvest.'"
"God...." Those bastards.
Harvest.
Merchandise.
Human life meant nothing to Them, something she learned years
ago but which had just been driven home once again. Her eyes
burned at the intrusion of salty tears. She put her hand to her
brow, trying to make sense of it all, to somehow massage her
brain into accepting what Skinner was saying. They were going
to disappear, to become a different family. Would it be one
more normal than their real one?
It would have to be.
And that made her want to cry all the more. When she told
Mulder she wanted normal, she meant their brand, not whatever
passed for normal for the people Skinner held in his hands.
Did it have to be this complicated?
"There was no definite timetable, so we have to assume every
minute counts. You've got to pack a few things and get out of
here." His voice had turned gentle, as careful as the hands he
rested on her shoulders. He began to turn her toward the
bedroom. "Go wake up Mulder."
"Mulder's already awake."
They both jumped at Mulder's introduction.
Scully didn't need to ask how long he'd been standing there. He
looked rumpled and weary, his pajama bottoms wrinkled and barely
clinging to hips still far too lean, his hair spiking this way
and that. One side of his face bore creases from his pillow.
Tired though his body appeared, his eyes flashed with fear as he
looked from Scully to Skinner and back again.
His eyelids clenched shut and his head bowed, looking to her
like a defeated man. She whispered his name.
He came to her, even as Skinner stepped away, his expression
one of embarrassment as Mulder wrapped his arms around her from
behind.
She supposed it should bother her that their superior was
seeing them in such a state of undress, her hands locked around
Mulder's forearms as they rested against her chest. Her sense
of professionalism probably should have risen up and demanded
that Mulder stop pressing kisses in her hair, and certainly her
dignity ought to have protested the way he nuzzled her ear and
rocked her from side to side. But she was tired of playing by
someone else's rules. Maybe it all came down to that.
Tilting her head back, Scully smiled softly into those sad eyes
she knew so well, and then she faced Skinner again. "Mulder and
I need to discuss this. Alone."
She knew he would have protested had she given him the chance,
so she turned and slipped her hand into Mulder's, leading him
through the dark.
The door clicked shut behind them. As Scully stood at the foot
of the bed, Mulder moved to her bedside table and lit the trio
of candles there. His stiff gait next took him to the closet
where he tugged at the red satchel sitting in the corner. She'd
made sure the maternity bag wasn't very heavy, in case she had
to carry it to the hospital herself. Still, she saw his arm
shake under the strain of lifting it onto the bed.
"It's a good thing you've already packed this bag for the
hospital. Do you want to add a few more changes of clothes for
yourself, maybe for after the baby comes?" He began pulling
open dresser drawers.
"Mulder..." Her voice trailed off, trampled by his frantic
searching through stacks of underwear and socks.
"Where's that bla--" He was back digging in the closet again,
this time pulling out her rolling black suitcase. "Here it is.
I'll shove some stuff in here." Pausing to look at her, he
asked, "What about baby things? You have more clothes besides
what's in the hospital bag?"
Her head was beginning to spin. Too many questions for this
time of night. Why did babies and threats always come in the
wee hours of the morning?
"I...I haven't... Mom gave me a few things of Matthew's,
but...." As she gestured toward the paper bag in the corner, he
brushed past her and began to rummage through its contents.
"Mulder, stop!"
The order came out more harshly than she meant, but it had the
desired effect. Mulder dropped the stack of onesies back in the
bag and turned to face her. Confusion colored his features.
"We need to discuss this."
"Discuss what, Scully?" His tone was incredulous. "It seems
simple enough to me. They want you and the baby. I'm not going
to sit by and let that happen, so we're leaving. We'll run as
far away as we can, go underground with Skinner's false
identities, whatever."
He moved toward her. His eyes were pleading. "I told you once
before, I'm not going to lose you."
A sympathetic murmur escaped her lips, but she shook her head.
"Mulder, you're improving every day, but there's still residual
muscle atrophy in your legs. Your stamina is still very low.
Being on the run, under who knows what conditions -- that can't
be good for you."
"I can do this," he asserted, his voice stronger than the rest
of him.
"Maybe I can't." She got his attention with that one. Dana
Scully actually admitting weakness -- film at eleven. "This
baby will be here in a few weeks. Where will we be then?
Driving at night, in some hole-in-the-wall motel during the day?
Hiding in a cabin? What if Skinner can't find a doctor, are you
going to deliver the baby?"
If the situation hadn't been so serious, she might have laughed
at how quickly his complexion faded to green. He stammered, "I,
I think I could, if you... talked me through it."
"Maybe," she shook her head, "but if something goes wrong, I
can't talk you through a Cesarean."
"We can--"
"Do you know what happens when a woman's uterus fails to shrink
after birth? She can bleed to death in a matter of minutes."
First green, now his face was white. She pointed out, "Leaving
is not without its own risks."
"What are you saying, Scully?"
Her chin jutted out in the Scully trait of assertion. "I'm
saying I think it's time we took our lives back."
All those nights spent lying awake and alone in her bed, trying
to face what her life had become and where she wanted it to go,
boiled to the surface and bubbled over. She'd had enough of
being cast as the victim. She wasn't a victim; she was a
survivor, and it was time to take a stand.
"I'm tired of my life not being my own, of having CGB Spender
or Krycek or, or whoever is out there pulling my strings. They
wanted me for testing, so they took me -- twice. I was given a
child and had her snatched away. The cancer, the chip... My
God, someone flips a switch somewhere and my mind is not my own."
"I'm sorry." He slumped onto the side of the bed. Resting his
elbows on his legs, he cradled his head in his hands.
"No, dammit!" she shouted. Both the baby and Mulder flinched.
"I don't want you to be sorry. Mulder, your life has been
manipulated and controlled since you were a child. You haven't
come out of this any less unscathed."
When he didn't move, she stood in front of him. Bracing
herself on the side of the bed, she knelt at his feet, nearly
toppling over in the process. The skin of his forearms was warm
as she ran her hands from elbows to wrists.
"Don't you remember what you said to me in Bellefleur?"
No response. She ducked her head to better see his face and
whispered, "You said there's so much more than this, that it has
to end." Finally he met her gaze; she prayed it was as full of
hope as she intended. "Maybe this child is our chance to shut
one door and open a new one."
"You mean quit the X-Files, leave the Bureau?"
"How would you feel about that?"
Silence settled around them for a moment, and then he gently
moved her back and stood. Scully pushed herself up with a grunt
and sat on the side of the bed as Mulder crossed to stare at the
closed window blinds.
When he spoke, his voice was sure. "I took on the X-Files as a
means to search for Samantha. She's gone. I've accepted that."
"I remember. You told Harold Piller that you both had to let
go."
He turned to face her and nodded. "So maybe it is time I let
go of that chapter." Their earlier positions reversed and he
tried to kneel in front of her. The weakness in his legs made
the trip to the floor a sudden one, and she reached out to
steady him. One hand stroked her hair back from her forehead,
and then he took both of her hands in his. "But what about you?
I thought you wanted justice. For Melissa, for Emily... God,
Scully, for yourself. You're telling me you want to give up?"
"No. No. I just want what you found." She shrugged her
shoulders and gave him a wistful smile. "Freedom."
"Mulder, that night after Harold walked away, you said, 'I'm
free.' I didn't believe it at first, but I watched you the next
few months. You were different -- unburdened. And I was
jealous. There was a peace in you, something I'd never seen
before and certainly hadn't found for myself."
She squeezed his hands in earnest. "I want that freedom,
Mulder. And in the months you were gone, while I looked
everywhere I could think to, while this little one got bigger
and bigger," their joined hands moved to rest on either side of
her stomach as she continued, "I became more determined to have
it. I would search for you until I found you and I would never
give up. I would have this baby who wasn't supposed to be -- but
IS. And no one was going to stand in my way."
He raised one finger and swiped a surprise tear from her cheek.
"I always knew you were stubborn." Sniffling through quiet
laughter, she brought her hands to his cheeks and pulled him to
her. Their lips met once, twice and then their foreheads rested
against each other.
She shook her head, her hair rustling his. "We can run,
Mulder, but you know They have always been and always will be
one step ahead."
"Wouldn't be much of a life, would it?"
"No, it wouldn't."
"So we leave the Bureau and we stay here. Then what?"
"We live each day as it comes." The assertive chin was back,
she knew, but it helped compensate for feeling vulnerable in
bare feet. "We do our damnedest to protect ourselves and our
child, but no matter what, we go forward. And we're grateful
for however much time we have together."
"Do we get a house in the country and a minivan?" He grinned
carefully, as if those muscles, too, were stiff from disuse.
"I've always wanted a dog."
"Let's not go crazy, Mulder," she answered dryly. He
snickered. "There are things to work out, of course -- jobs,
security. We'll get with the boys and let them set up something
for us in that area. It'll work out; they're just details."
Mulder's hands were still molded around the curves of her
belly, and he startled when a ripple of movement flowed from one
side to the other. For good measure, a swift kick landed just
behind her belly button.
"I think it's unanimous. The pod person has spoken."
They shared a smile and sat for another moment feeling elbows
and feet trying to punch their way out. Finally Scully
straightened her shoulders and spoke.
"We'd better go tell Skinner."
Mulder struggled for a bit to stand, until Scully hooked one
arm under his shoulder and gave a tug as he pushed off the bed.
She turned to open the door, but Mulder caught her by her robe's
belt. Her body melted into his. Wrapping his arms around her
and cradling her head against his chest, he purred into her
hair. This was all the shelter she needed.
He whispered, "Let's go," and reached around her to open the
door. They made their way carefully down the hall and found
Skinner pacing the length of the living room. His steps were so
deliberate, Scully glanced down to see if he'd walked a trench
in her carpet. At their entrance, he swung around to face them
and his mouth dropped open before he bellowed. "Agents, you're
not even dressed! Where are your bags?"
She inclined her head toward the couch and moved to settle in
one corner of it, expecting the men to follow her. Mulder sat
to her right, but Skinner remained standing, his hands on his
hips and his feet set apart. He looked expectantly from one to
the other, but it was Scully who broke the silence.
"Sir, we have something to tell you."
~~~~~~~~~~
The snick of the deadbolt sliding into place sounded harsh in
the stillness of the downstairs. Scully's fingers danced over
the keypad by the door, and a low hum signaled the activation of
the Gunmen's souped-up alarm system. When they first installed
it, she thought she would never become accustomed to the
constant sound. Now she was convinced it was soporific, as
peacefully as they all slept.
Moving through the living room and into the kitchen, she toed
off her sneakers. Mud from after this morning's rainstorm
stained the left one, so she pitched them both into the tiny
laundry alcove by the back door. She checked the locks and
switched on the floodlight outside.
They'd had to put up thickly lined curtains on the bedroom
windows overlooking the backyard. The light's bright beams made
the night look like high noon. It was fortunate that their
nearest neighbor was at least half a mile away.
Her stomach protested the late hour and no nourishment since a
cup of yogurt from the morgue refrigerator and a stale Twinkie
she found in her locker. She opened their refrigerator and
stared at the contents. The leftovers from the pizza Mulder
must have had for dinner didn't look at all appealing. Nor did
the only other choices on the bare shelves. She was hungry, but
not desperate enough for strained beets or mushy chicken.
The grocery store tomorrow, she thought, and waved the
refrigerator door closed with a sigh.
Making sure all lights but the one over the stove were off,
Scully took the narrow back stairs, carefully closing the door
separating them from the kitchen.
The door at the top of the stairs was closed as usual, but it
swung open silently. When she pushed it shut again, the seams
of the door blended in with the dark wood panels of the wall,
and it became invisible. The stairs, and their location just
outside the smaller bedroom, had been Frohike's idea. If
necessary, it provided a means of escape from someone coming up
the front stairs, and hopefully the hidden doors would go
undiscovered until they could get away. It had already worked
beautifully for them once.
Only two lights burned upstairs. From her vantage point across
the hall, Scully could see the brightness from the desk lamp
spilling over the stacks of files and papers cluttering Mulder's
office. The closer his deadline, the bigger the mess. He must
be overdue, she chuckled to herself.
A softer glow came from the room on her right. Peeking around
the corner, she found Mulder where he was almost every night at
this time.
If he heard her, he gave no indication, but continued to rock
their daughter. The rocking chair had been a gift from a
sheepish Frohike, who Scully was surprised to learn was nearly
as talented with wood as technical gadgetry. The wooden dowels
and slats fit together so perfectly the chair never creaked.
Scully was able hear Hannah sucking her bottle when Mulder
paused to turn a page.
His voice was low and slumberous. Scully could imagine the
baby blinking slowly, sleepy but fighting to stay awake. The
feeling was mutual and Scully yawned. Very quietly, she slid to
the floor, wrapped her arms around her bent legs, and leaned her
head on the door facing to listen.
"Daisy began to cry," read Mulder. "Brown Cow said, 'Why are
you crying, Daisy?'
"Daisy said, 'I am a cow. But I cannot moo.'
"'Oh come now,' said Brown Cow. 'All cows can moo. You can
moo, too. I will show you how.'
"'Open your mouth, like this,' said Brown Cow. 'Let the sound
come out, like this -- moo. That is how a cow moos.'
"'Now you try it,' she said to Daisy."
A soft wet pop came from Hannah's direction, and Scully knew
Mulder had pulled the nipple from the baby's mouth. She heard
the rustle of Pampers and looked around to find Hannah staring
wide-eyed at her from over Mulder's shoulder. As he patted her
back, he continued reading.
"Daisy opened her mouth. Out came a sound. It was not a
goat's sound..." Mulder stopped and leaned his head back to look
at Hannah. "Remind me to tell you the El Chupacabra story
tomorrow night, huh?"
Scully shook her head and dropped her forehead to rest on her
knees.
"It was not a dog's sound. It was not a rooster's sound."
He paused. "It was a big, big 'MOO.'"
Hannah whimpered at his protracted sound effects, and he
shushed her. "Goat, Dog, and Rooster all said, 'Good for
Daisy!' Now Daisy moos. She moos all day long. And she moos
as she dances under the yellow moon."
When all was quiet for a few moments, Scully eased herself up,
intending to kiss her daughter good night. Mulder's next words
turned her around and pushed her down the hall to her own
bedroom.
"You know, this story would have been much better if some of
these cows were exsanguinated."
Baby peals of laughter trailed Scully and she smiled to
herself.
Hannah was definitely her father's daughter.
THE END
Author's notes: "Requiem" killed my muse. It wasn't that I
didn't love the episode -- it had *spooning* in it. Did anyone
really think I wouldn't love it? g But suddenly all my little
MSR desires had been met, and though I wanted to write, I
couldn't think of a thing to say. Luckily my friend Laney
didn't have that problem. This story was what she wanted to
see, and she came up with the outline. I only wrote it. ; ) So
Laney, I hope this is what you had in mind, and thank you for
filling in when my muse went AWOL. : )
The book Mulder is reading to Hannah is called "Emily's Moo"
and is by Tibor Gergely. Yes, the cow's name is really Emily
and not Daisy, but I didn't quite think a cow named Emily would
be appropriate, you know? g Anyway, it was one of my favorite
books as a little girl, and I still get all sniffly when Emily
lies down and cries because she can't moo. :::sniff:::
MAJOR thanks and hugs to my crack beta team: Meredith, Jill
Selby, Jesemie's Evil Twin, and Jean Robinson. Any typos,
unwieldy sentences, or excessive schmoop are my responsibility,
not theirs. They warned me; sometimes I didn't listen. ; )
Thanks also to Jordan for a guest appearance on punctuation.
Feedback will be loved and spooned at: scullysfan@aol.com
My other stories can be found at:
http://members.aol.com/scullysfan/myfic.html