"Journeys"

She had not made the four-hour drive in two weeks. Every Saturday since December, she had dragged herself out of bed at 6 am, arrived in Raleigh before noon, eaten supper at the Corner Café at 6:30, and departed for home at 7. Last weekend, she was forced to work overtime with Doggett on a serial murder case, and felt terribly guilty that she had missed her routine. Today- Saturday, February 24th, however, she is on the I-295 about 2 and a half hours away from her destination. She drives in silence, eyes transfixed on the white and yellow lines, hands clenched on the wheel, her brow creased. On the seat beside her is a bag of topsoil, a trowel, tiny windflower bulbs, and the lavender envelope with the pictures. These journeys are special to her-they give her long moments alone with her thoughts.

The week after the funeral was, of course, the most difficult, because she wasn't working. Skinner and, surprisingly, Kersh as well insisted that she take the rest of the month off. She agreed initially, and her mother moved in with her to help with cooking and cleaning and fracturing the unbearable silence that had descended upon her life. Eventually the arrangement began to wear on her nerves due to Maggie's constant nagging. Dana, you really shouldn't sleep for more than 8 hours at a time- it isn't healthy…Dana, are you remembering to take your vitamins?...Dana, you aren't eating enough. You should be eating twice as much for the baby's sake…She politely asked her mother to leave after three days, and promised that she would take care of herself and call every evening. With Maggie gone, the deafening quiet swallowed her whole. She turned on the television full volume to combat the silent void and flipped on every light in the apartment to frighten the darkness away. The only tactic that seemed to work was sleep, so she crawled into her bed, pulled the down comforter over her head, and lost herself in nothingness. Before the sleep came, she always prayed that she wouldn't dream. The dream- the nightmare- always came.

She wakes up in her bed and instinctively moves a hand to her abdomen and touches something wet. She gasps and scrambles to sit up and switch on the lamp. Her stomach is flat and soaked in blood. "Oh my God my baby! Where is my baby? Who took my baby?" She stumbles out of bed and races down the hall wailing, but the hallway never ends. It goes on and on forever. "Scully? Scully where are you?" It's Mulder's voice, but she can't see him. "Mulder I'm here! I'm HERE! Help me Mulder please someone took our baby! "It's ok Scully. I'll find the baby." "But Mulder, our baby doesn't know you! He won't come to you! You can't help me Mulder, you can't help me."

After the dreams ended, she would wake up screaming and bathed in sweat. Her hands would fly to her stomach, and she would breathe out a sigh of relief when she grasped the firm roundness. When the same dream returned for a fourth visit, she knew she had to do something. She needed work to free her mind from the wreck of her life; but first and most importantly, she needed to find a way to ensure that her baby would somehow know his father. For the remainder of that first week, she forced herself out of bed so that she might achieve her goal. First, she went to the store and purchased a scrap book; then she tore her apartment to pieces searching for pictures of him, newspaper clippings that might contain a quote from him, articles he'd published under various pseudonyms, gifts he'd given her, and items that reminded her of him- including a handful of sunflower seeds. But it wasn't enough. She wanted her child to know his father's history and how it had shaped him into the man he became. So she drove to Martha's Vineyard and took photographs of his old house and also managed to photograph the summer home at Quonachontaug. When she returned to Washington, she scoured his apartment for pictures of Teena and Bill and Samantha, and fortunately discovered several family photos taken before Samantha's disappearance. After she assembled the memory book, she still felt that something was missing. All of the pictures of Mulder seemed stiff somehow; they didn't capture his energy, his babblings about nothing, his laugh, his playful glare. She pondered over where she could find some candid shots of him, and then realized the answer instantly: his best friends- the Gunmen.

She banged her fist on the heavy metal door that looked like it belonged on the outside of a submarine. After a few seconds, the seven locks clicked and the two chains swished aside. The door slowly cracked open to reveal a sleepy, bed-headed Beyers in blue pajamas. She spoke immediately.

"I'm sorry. I know it's late. I probably should have called…"

"No, no it's fine Scully. Please, come on in."

He stepped aside and ushered her into to the Gunmen's lair. His eyes were filled with compassion, and he stared at her awkwardly for a moment before speaking again.

"How are you holding up?" he asked quietly

At his question, she felt her eyes begin to glisten with unshed tears, and she quickly blinked and looked away.

"Um, I don't know. Just keeping busy, I guess… I like to pretend it helps."

Beyers sniffed and nodded wordlessly.

"Hey, who's here?" Frohike called as he opened the door from one of the back rooms with Langly following close behind him. They froze when they saw her.

"Hi Scully. It's good to see you," Frohike said softly.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" Langly added.

"Well actually, I have a favor to ask. You and Mulder are…were…friends for a long time. I was just wondering if maybe you had any pictures of him, especially candid shots of the four of you just… goofing around, you know, having fun…"

"I'm sure we do. The filing cabinet against the wall there is full of old pictures and things we've discarded over the years and haven't wanted to throw away. You can look through it now if you want, and you're welcome to anything you find," Frohike replied.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. It means a lot. I'm making a scrapbook of Mulder's life."

"That's great Scully… What a special way to honor his memory," Beyers said.

"Um, well…the scrapbook…it's not for me exactly. I want-it's important to me- that my child know what his father's life was like."

The three men gaped at her in stunned silence, looking both shocked and confused.

"I'm about four months pregnant now," she said quietly.

Beyers was the first to recover. "Did…did Mulder know?"

"No. I found out the day you took me to the hospital. I wanted very much to tell you then, but I hope you'll understand why I couldn't."

Beyers moved toward her hesitantly at first, then embraced her firmly. "A baby Scully…what a miracle…I think that's wonderful."

She began to sob then. The tears had been trapped inside for days since she began her quest, and it was time for them to reemerge. She wasn't sure exactly why she wept other than it was a much needed outward expression of the empty ache that swelled from the pit of her stomach. Beyers tightened his arms around her when her tears came, and she thought she felt him shudder with a sob of his own. Langly and Frohike moved in silently and also wrapped their arms around her, forming a group embrace.

When she was ready to depart the offices of The Lone Gunmen with four new photographs of Mulder in hand, the three took turns hugging her once more.

"You've got friends here Scully. Don't forget that," Frohike said.

"Yeah. You know, you can come over and hangout whenever you want. We play D & D every Friday night. And whenever you need babysitters, you can totally call us," Langly said. Beyers smiled and nodded.

"Thank you," she murmured. And she smiled for the first time in months.

A delicate knock in her abdomen breaks her from her reverie, and she realizes that she is smiling. She removes one hand from the steering wheel and rests it in the lee of her swollen belly. Just two months ago, she was barely showing at all, and now it seems that her body has transformed into soft roundness overnight. She is surprised that she likes the way she looks. Her skin seems brighter and pinker, and the slight fullness in her face gives her a healthier glow. What would you say if you saw me now?

She turns off the interstate onto Rock Quarry Road and drives past the familiar iron gates of Raleigh National Cemetery. She parks off the gravel drive, gathers the precious items from the passenger seat, and walks with filled arms up the hill. The weather is surprisingly warm for February; the snow has melted and the ground has begun to thaw. The cool, distilled sunlight passes dreamily through the boughs of the ancient oaks. Mr. Silver, the elderly groundskeeper, gathers the brown flowers and cracked vases from long forgotten graves. He turns when he hears her approach and gives her a congenial, albeit toothy, grin.

"Well hello there Miss Scully. How ya doin today?"

"I'm just fine, thank you, Mr. Silver. And yourself?"

"I don't know how much longer these old knees can take bendin over likes this, but other than that, I got no complaints. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Yes sir, it is."

She smiles and continues her way up the winding path and wonders if he thinks she has lost her mind; she knows he can hear her when she talks to Mulder. Maybe he understands.

She carefully settles herself to her knees on the freshly cut grass in front of the headstone and places the array of objects beside her. She reaches first for the trowel, topsoil, and windflower bulbs; and as she scoops into the partially frozen earth, she speaks.

"Hi Mulder, it's me. I brought you flowers today. They're called windflowers, and they're going to be gold and violet. I'm planting them now so they'll be ready to bloom in May. I'm so sorry that I couldn't visit last week. I was working on this murder case with Doggett. I like him- I really do. Well, I have a great deal of respect for him at least. He's another skeptic though, so he'd probably drive you crazy. Anyway, let's so- what do I have to tell you today?... Um, it was my birthday yesterday. Mom took me out to dinner at Depalma's and bought me a new watch… I can't believe I'm 37! God that's old, isn't it? Three more years and then I'm 40. I don't feel old.

I'm doing much better now, I think. I have work to get me out of bed everyday, and the nightmares finally stopped- but you always visit my dreams. Most of the time nothing happens-I just see flashes of your soft eyes and crooked smile…A few days ago though, something kind of strange happened. I picked up the phone to call my mother and I swear- I swear to God- I heard your voice whisper- 'Let everything happen to you- beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don't let yourself lose me.' Maybe…it was a dream. I don't know."

She feels the tears gather in her eyes, and she lets them spill over and bathe her cheeks. She draws a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's hard Mulder. It's just so damn hard…I wanted this so badly- to be a mother. And my wish has been granted, my prayers answered, but now I don't have you. I wanted this with you…I'm scared…I'm so afraid of doing this by myself."

She rubs her dirty palms on her jeans and wipes the back of her hand across her cheek before she continues.

"I still have your apartment. Everyone thinks I'm crazy. Mom keeps nagging me to sell it so that I can have more money to spend on the baby, but I can't…Honestly, I still go there often, even though I moved the fish to my place. It is exactly how you left it; I haven't cleaned or moved anything. The dirty dishes are still piled high in the sink, the laundry hamper is overflowing, the sheets on the bed probably haven't been changed in over a year, the Nicks t-shirt is still rumpled on the floor beside the bed…Sometimes I sleep in your bed. It's like you're so close then…I can smell you everywhere. In the mornings when I reach that stage of partial wakefulness, I think….for just a moment…that you're right there next to me. That all I have to do is simply turn over to see your peaceful face still in the land of dreams…It's worth a painful night to have those fleeting moments of ignorance. I live for those moments…

Well, your windflowers are planted. They're really going to look pretty in a few months…maybe I'll bring the baby then. Oh- I almost forgot…"

She opens the lavender envelope and removes the grainy black and white photos.

"I thought you'd want to keep the latest pictures. I got these last week- so the baby's 27 weeks old here. He weighs 2 pounds and he's 14 inches tall. He can open and close his eyes now. I hope he has your eyes…"

She props the pictures against the headstone and pushes the earth back to secure them against the wind.

"I have to go now. I love you, Mulder. See you next week..."

She kisses two of her fingers and presses them against his name carved in the stone. She eases herself to her feet and the tears don't stop as she walks down the winding path, silhouetted by the glow of the falling sunlight.