I See You PART I

I See You PART II

All night you dreamed about dreaming. About waking up from wonderful dreams that turned out not to be true. So when you opened your eyes there on your couch, you thought that, perhaps, I too was a dream. I'm already awake, watching you from the chair as you stretch plaintively, moaning slightly at your discomfort and burying your face in the dusty cushions of the couch, your red hair rumpled and tangled around your head. When you turn back towards me again you expect to see an empty chair, but I am still there. Slowly, you blinking, not believing, expecting the dream to end again, just another dream within a dream.

Even when I reach out and touch your face and whisper, "Good morning, Scully," you still doubt the reality. Blue eyes wide open you reach up and take my hand, stroking the back gently with your fingertips. It is not until you feel the warmth of my skin as you caress my hand that you know you aren't dreaming and a slow, curious smile spreads across your face, first on you lips, then in your ever changing blue eyes, where there is joy, but that bit of sorrow hangs around, lingering just behind the grin.

"It's really you isn't it. I wasn't dreaming."

"You dreamed, but this isn't a dream."

You laugh a little, very weakly, but it's there, just as you remembered it as you smile widens and your cheeks raise, causing your eyes to squint slightly. Stiffly, you sit up, supporting your upper body with your arms as you go, still not sure you're not going to pass out. You're shaky and can't seem to stop smiling. Shifting, you sit completely upright, facing me, cross-legged on the couch. I watch your manicured but unpainted toes wiggle under your knees in excitement as you wait for me to speak.

"You said you'd tell me in the morning."

I had hoped that you would forget, but it had remained in your mind through every dream. You wanted to know if he was all right. What happened to him? Did he remember anything? Did the scars still hurt? Did he blame you? I should have known that you would remember.

"There's not much more to tell, Scully. I don't remember much of anything, except pain, and dreams about you searching for me."

"Do you… Does it still hurt? I mean, are you still in any kind of pain?"

"Not much, Scully, nothing a little Tylenol won't fix."

But it was much more. I wanted to tell you about the fear that enveloped me. About the fact that I was afraid to leave you. About the constant throb of my insides. About the daggers that shot through me with nearly every step. About wanting to crawl out my skin that screamed out every time it touched anything. About all the nightmares that had filled those terrifying months. About the dreams of you and a baby and a normal happy life that we could never have because of this. Never.

But you know me to well to believe my lie and I tremble as your clinical eye examines my wounds in the daylight. You can see that it goes far beyond the wonders of Tylenol, but you know I won't listen anyway.

So you look away, first at the ceiling, then at the rug, and then towards the kitchen.  You chastise yourself for thinking of food at a time like this. But inside you the baby and your stomach is growling and snarling at your, threatening to heighten their protests if you don't obey their every whim. You eyes return to me as I stare at your swollen stomach, and together we laugh as a low gurgling emanates from it.

"Mulder, are you hungry?"

"I think I could eat something."

You lead me into your kitchen, lovingly forcing me down into a chair when I attempt to take over and make breakfast for you. You shake your head vehemently and ask me what I want for breakfast.

"Just some cereal will be fine."

I watch as you reach up in the cupboard to pull out a box of health-food type cereal. You have to rise up on your toes to reach the cereal, and when you reach upward, your shirt lifts slightly, baring the thinnest strip of pale smooth skin just above your pants line. You can just barely grab the box with your fingertips and let out a little sigh as you bring it down to the counter. Reaching to the left, into another cupboard you quickly pull out two bowl and set them down on the counter with a little ding. Using your pink-polished, manicured nails, you quickly break the seal on the box of cereal and open it, and pour some in each bowl.

The delicate fingers quickly move up to your face to tuck a lock of your fiery red hair behind your ear when you turn to ask me if I want milk in my cereal, and then after I say yes they reach towards the fridge as you approach it. Next one slides down your thigh to your knee as you bend over to examine the contents of the fridge, while the other curves around behind you to rest on your lower back, which has been sore ever since you began to show. Your body strains against your clothes, which are pulled tight because of your crouch. Your white dress shirt is pure white at the seems, but a pale beige where it is stretched tightly over your skin, and fully pressed, probably starched.

At last you spot the milk, way back at the back behind the orange juice and the left over spaghetti and a bowl of salad. Now you squat down further, your low-riding pants slipping down to reveal an expanse of white creamy skin above the dark gray fabric. You take the orange juice carton out and set it on the floor next to you and then reach in for your original objective. There is a shuffle of plastic and glass and then the half-gallon carton appears. With you other hand you pick up the orange juice and rise up, struggling slightly.

Once you are upright, you stand still for a moment to regain your balance. Tucking the carton of milk against your body with the arm that's holding the orange juice, you are free to use your other hand to rub your forehead. When you realize that I'm watching you very closely you turn your eyes to me and grin widely, trying to allay my fears. After all, I'm the one who bore all the scars, wasn't I?

"Scully, let me help you with that," I prompt, not sure what is was I was going to help you with.

"I'm fine, I just stood up a little too fast. My head just wasn't ready for all this excitement in one day, I guess."

This mundane activity is helping. Diffusing the shock. Get the cereal, the bowls, the milk. Pour the cereal and milk and take them to the table. All so normal. Not part of your life at all. You allow yourself to detach as you go through the normal breakfast-making (in this case cereal-pouring) tasks. There was no history behind us being here. Just you and me having breakfast together.

"Scully."

"Hmmm… Yes?"

You turn from the counter where you're pouring tall glasses of orange juice for us to look at me. Without realizing it, as you turn, your arm sweeps across the counter, sending the two glasses shattering to the floor. Your bright blue eyes widen with shock and surprise, but for a moment you are still, staring at me. But then you jump slightly to the side and let our a little scream. Together, we look quietly down at the broken glasses and yellow-orange liquid. You draw in a very deep breath and then sigh quietly as you move instinctively for the cupboard by the fridge where the broom is kept.

Silently, you are again criticizing your behavior. When he called your name, a shiver ran up your spine and you turned expecting to see a white-sheet ghost and a prankster with a voice-duplication device laughing at you hysterically. So often in the recent past you had turned, thinking that you heard his voice, only to find empty space. Those moments had brought on hours of tears and pain.

That was why you believed it this time. You saw his ghost. He sat with you at dinner and breakfast, and sometimes at lunch if you were having a particularly hard day. He hid in the shadows in the your bedroom, and then in the unfamiliar ones here in your bosses summer home. He stood behind you and whispered in your ear, offering suggestions and criticism as you went about your work. But whenever you turned to confront him, he faded away, in voice and spirit, body and soul. How could he be alive? How could he live in his body when he came to visit you several times daily?

And now, here I was sitting in the kitchen. Grinning and joking, being stubborn as usual, and remembering everything I should, and nothing you didn't want me to. I was everything you remembered and everything you wished you didn't and I was really here. In the flesh, living, breathing, moving. Blood flowing through my veins under my scared tissues. I was sitting in the kitchen watching you make breakfast and smash glasses of orange juice on the floor.

You pull the broom out of the closet without glancing in. The coming and going of his voice and spirit kept you edgy and the broom had become almost as present in your life as he was. All too often he appeared  when you were holding a glass or a plate, or were standing next to some pottery piece. And whenever they feel with a resounding smash, you could hear him laughing, knowing that was his full intention all along. To make you laugh too.

I had come up behind you and you never noticed until I gently take the broom and the dustpan from your hands and then guide you to the table. Gratefully you sit down and breath a tiny sigh as you place your hand on your stomach and watch me clean up the little disaster. The little clear, blue-tinted shards were fairly small and were quickly brushed into the dustpan and disposed of in the garbage bin in the cupboard where the broom was. I returned the broom and dustpan and then went to the counter for some paper towels.

Your eyes follow me as I kneel down to dry up the orange juice. The cups had been full and the liquid quickly saturates the paper towels that I had taken from the roll on the counter. Without standing, I reach a long arm up to grab the roll and tear off a few more sheets to absorb the remainder of the juice. I ball up the wet, soggy, sticky rags and carry them to the garbage can. I cross the room to the sink and retrieve the damp washcloth that hangs on the tap. I use it to clean up the last of the stickiness that remains from the juice. I stand and return to the sink to wring out the rag and then rinse it out.

"Thanks, Mulder."

"It was nothing, Scully."

Wiping my damp hands on my pant legs, I walk back over and sit down at the table with you. You glance at me expectantly and for a moment, I'm puzzled as you raise an eyebrow, wondering if I will ever learn.

"The cereal, Mulder?"

"Oh, oh yeah. I completely forgot. That baby getting a little impatient in there?"

"Fine I'll just—"

"No, I'll get them, just kidding."

I get up quickly before you can and take a single step over to the counter and grab the blue ceramic bowls full of granola-something cereal.

"You got sugar, Scully?"

"Same cupboard where I got the cereal, second shelf from the bottom."

I opened the oak cabinet and pulled out the Tupperware that was full of sugar. Tucking it under one arm and carry the bowls with my other hand, I go to the table, carefully setting down each item before sitting down in my seat.

"Mulder, about—"

You are interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door. Startled, you look first at me, then rise, looking questioningly from me to the door.

"Wait here, Mulder. If it's…"

"I know."

You move quickly towards the door and then peak out through the window next it. I try to read your expression, but you hair falls over your face and I can't see how your face is curving as you take hold of the handle and open the door.

The person at the door remains on the other side of it, standing just inside the door. For a few moments you and the visitor talk in hushed tones before you reach over and take the person by the hand. A male hand.

The man who appears from behind the door is unfamiliar, dressed professionally in a suit and a long, matching trench coat, with blue eyes I can see from the kitchen. He face is creased with furrows and wrinkles and worry lines and is deeply tanned, with lips set in a concerned frown. His hand hold yours as the two of you continue to talk, one of his fingers gently caressing the smooth white skin on the back of your hand. He can feel the strong muscles and tendons that run through your hand, the veins that stick up just slightly from under the skin, the skin smoothed by apple-scented hand lotion.

Something you say causes him to turn his head and he sees me. The emotion in his eyes is a mixture of confusion and awe and disbelief. For a few moments the two of you continue to talk, the stern, concerned frown still remaining, before you gesture for him to follow you.

You flutter with nervous tension. With me and this visitor standing in the same room, you feel like two worlds are colliding. You expect an explosion, like two opposing universes meeting for a battle to the death. Two stern frowns of concern, two hands that stroke her gently and tenderly. Letting go of the man's hand, you gesture to me as you tell him, "Agent Doggett, this is Agent Mulder. Mulder, this is Agent Doggett, the man who was assigned to the X-files during your absence."

END PART II

**************I really appreciate any feedback. I know there may be a few inaccuracies, so try not to butcher me over them, K?