From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 20 Oct 2001 16:31:16 -0000 Subject: Across the Stars by KatyBlue by KatyBlue Source: direct Reply To: katy2blue@aol.com TITLE: Across the Stars AUTHOR: KatyBlue SPOILERS: the cancer arc. If you haven't seen that yet, you're not an x-phile. RATING: PG-13 DISCLAIMER: Do I wish they were mine! Alas, they are not. Thanks CC and Co. for the inspiration. You may take my money but you may not have my mind. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To all those who have ever sent words of encouragement to my in-box ... Thank you for your infinite bestowal of good karma. I found this story on my hard drive, written long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away. So I dusted it off and sent it out into cyberspace to fend for itself. Hearken yourself back to season four... In retrospect to the cancerarc and my writing during that period, this one's a bit over the top on the angst -- best to skip it if you don't like that sort of thing. NOTES: The poetry of William Meredith, Wendell Barry, Pascal, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Wordsworth and Alfred, Lord Tennyson, is used without permission but with much reverence. MY WEBSITE: IT'S GONE! xoom/nbci finally made good on their promises of deletion. Don't worry -- there's another where that one came from. Bookmark my new location...!! http://www.geocities.com/katyblue_shadesofblue E-MAIL: katy2blue@aol.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Part (1/1) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Spared by a car- or airplane-crash or cured of malignancy, people look around with new eyes at a newly praiseworthy world, blinking eyes like these. For I've been brought back again from the fine silt, the mud where our atoms lie down for long naps. And I've also been pardoned miraculously for years by the lava of chance which runs down the world's gullies, silting us back. Here I am, brought back, set up, not yet happened away. ~William Meredith~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Scully remember coming home from the hospital that day. A new lease on life. A tentative hold on grace. She remembered her mother's face, so strained by long days of fear but so full of this as yet short-lived hope. How she kept putting a hand across her mouth as if to hold back whatever was in danger of coming forth. As if she too felt the precarious nature of this clemency and dared not challenge its stay with words. Scully had never been so aware of the fragile state of a body and she was a woman who had spent the better part of her life learning everything she was able about the subtle nuances of this earthly entity. Right now, hers hovered somewhere between life and sudden pardon from death. She felt each cell as if it were a transient, solitary being, disconnected from the rest. Holding herself inward as if she were air trapped within her own lungs. Waiting for the other shoe to fall. And she had never felt so sick in all her life. Barely able to control her bodily functions again, yet so weary she could not use any one of them regardless. Laying her head against the cool glass of the car window, she rested weakly against it. Waiting for her mother to stop the vehicle and slow this motion roller coaster beneath her hot eyelids. When she did so, she turned to Scully, fluttering erratically like a bird in frenzied flight. Reaching for her daughter's hand. For her overnight bag. For her again. Stopping just short of clutching. "Dana...Honey..." The words rushed out of her. "Are you sure you don't want to come home? Please think about it..." Her voice caught on these words. Her hand flew up to her mouth again to stop this sign of fear. Of disbelief. "This is your first day out of the hospital," she pleaded. "Mom," Scully answered gently. She left it there for a minute. This was enough of an effort. She swallowed. An even larger effort, believe it or not. Swallowing was like choking down a brick. Finally, she gathered the strength to pick her head up from the window. To hold it straight on her shoulders and finish the sentence. "This is my home...Please..." Damn. She hadn't wanted her answer to come out as a plea, which it was. Or as an affront, which it also was. But she needed to be in her own home. It may be no more than a rented apartment, but somehow, this space was her own. Her sanctuary from the world. Holding no more than a mix of her possessions, it was somehow more than this collection. Her mother pressed back her argument with her tears and nodded succinctly, as if convincing herself that this was the right choice. She squeezed Scully's hand. Scully could feel the thinness of her own skin. Her mother's fingers pushing against the bones and the all too surface roping of blood vessels. Her whole hand felt as if it would shatter under the pressure. As if her brittle, icy fingers might snap. Her mother's hand, lifting Scully's to perch against her cheek, was hot. "It's okay," she rushed on. Fear and hope still mixed there in her voice. In her stance. For herself. For her daughter. Scully's arm moved slowly to assist in an escape, pushing against a door that felt like two tons of steel against her lean shoulder. Trying to escape this clinging need. Her mother leapt out of the car and around to her side in the period of time that it took to blink. Firmly, she took Scully's arm, assisting her in gaining her feet, as if she were a toddler. Scully let her -- this was her mother. Besides that, she wasn't sure she had the strength to do it herself. She was surprised by Maggie Scully's strength, even as she worried about her having to half-carry her daughter into her apartment. She shouldn't have to do this, Scully thought. She should have asked someone stronger. And even as she thought this, she heard her brother Bill's words, like a tiny, nagging voice in her head. Unpleasant. Repeated ad nauseum. "Where is he, Dana?" Mulder. She confessed to herself that she didn't know. What Bill would never understand is that she didn't expect to. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The approach of a man's life out of the past is history, and the approach of time out of the future is mystery. Their meeting is the present, and it is consciousness, the only time life is alive. The endless wonder of the meeting is what causes the mind, in its inward liberty of a frozen morning, to turn back and question and remember. The world is full of places. Why is it that I am here? ~Wendell Berry~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her mother spent the evening. She would have spent the night, if she'd had any say in it. But Scully had enough of family. Of the press of people around her. She'd endured her mother's fussing all day. She desired her solitude. From the car, her mother retrieved a large thermos of chicken soup that she'd made, especially for her. Surely mixed with tears of joy after the news was received, though it was capable of being salty on its own. Busying herself in the kitchen, she warmed it for Scully. In this last gesture, Scully didn't argue. She felt her body sinking into the couch and let it do so. A pillow is a soft thing. Whoever invented the pillow should get a prize. She could feel the bones of her pelvis pressing hard against the frame beneath the cushions of the couch. She did not think it possible to shed so much weight, so much flesh, in so short a time. She knew her cells had been burned with chemicals of a slow, incipient poison. Her body bombarded with deadly radiation, all seemingly for naught. Her stomach had been wracked with nausea and her eyes bloodshot with the force of the expulsion. She shivered, eternally cold. The back of her neck was still sore from the press of metal re- implanted there. Her hands were chapped from her mother rubbing them slowly and incessantly between hers as she prayed. This barely functioning joining of body parts was now hers to keep. She remembered Bill's voice again. His words at the foreign idea of the implant. "How can you let him talk you into that, Dana? That is such hogwash. Such bullshit!" he said violently. Bill was never shy about expressing his opinions. His epithets had only grown nastier as they gained momentum. Their mother, standing near, was helpless to stop him. At some point, her brother's words had lost the benign metaphor of farm animals and changed into something altogether uglier. She was glad that Mulder was not there to listen. Glad that he would not have to pay visit to the dysfunction of her own family. Certainly, he had endured enough with his own. Her mother brought her the soup. Still fussing. Tucking a towel carefully into the collar of her oversized sweatshirt. Helping Scully to sit up. She was ready to feed her, but Scully took the spoon firmly from her hand, allowing her only to settle the bowl carefully on a tray in her lap. Each mouthful was a great effort. She managed exactly ten before she was so exhausted she could barely lift the spoon again or keep her eyes open. God help her. Somewhere in there, her mother placed a hand against the back of her neck to help hold her head up. She was frustrated by her own weakness. "I just need to rest for a bit, Mom," she said instead. And though the wound over Mulder's contribution to her miracle was small, her mother's hand, resting there, seemed to be searing the tiny scar with needles of pain. "The soup's good, Mom." "It's just like I used to make you kids when you were little." Her mother's voice was tremulous. She didn't add, 'when you were sick,' but Scully heard this. She smiled, because she remembered how Melissa liked it best of all. Her favorite; chicken noodle, which she could smell from rooms away, lifting her nose and sniffing the air like a basset hound. "I remember..." she murmured fondly. "...Remember how Melissa used to beg you to make it even when we weren't sick, Mom?" She was smiling as she sunk back into the pillows, realizing her mistake only when she heard her mother bite back a sob. "Oh, Dana...my sweet, little girl," Her mother's murmurs barely made sense as she gathered Scully to her in a hug, crying outright now. The shattered edges of her own struggle through life showing up with Scully's own new lease. Scullys let her mother hold her until she stopped crying. In the end, Scully was holding her. It worried her that she'd barely shed a tear during this time. "God's will," she heard her mother murmuring. "It's God's will..." This seemed to be a comfort to her. Scully let her keep it even as she winced at the sentiment. Scully knew that Mulder imagined her blind in respect to her religion. In fact, he imagined her doubly blind -- by science and religion. And though science had taught her to doubt what she could not prove, there was another part of her which stubbornly held onto a conviction that everything happens for a reason. This was not to say, however, that she was so blinded by faith that she could not also see past the rigid doctrines and mindless rhetoric of the church in order to determine a faith that was wholly her own. To believe in a God of her own creation -- a strange and distinct amalgam of the rote and Mulder's contribution of the fantastic. And to her, 'God's will' was an ugly saying. A phrase bereft of control or meaning. The human will is strong, in and of itself. Tenacious. Persistent. She placed her faith in her willpower. In her very human connection to life. At some point in all this, she had decided to live. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I see the terrifying spaces of the universe that enclose me, and I find myself attached to a corner of this vast expanse, without knowing why I am more in this place than in another, nor why this little time that is given me to live is assigned me at this point more than another out of all the eternity that has preceded me and out of all that will follow me. ~Thoughts on Religion, Pascal~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There was a soft knocking on the door that woke her. Her mother had been sent to her own home earlier in the evening, with much prodding and promises. She did not want to leave Scully. "Will Fox be coming over?" she'd asked. Her mother didn't understand the extent of her relationship with Mulder. The explanation didn't come to her lips. She allowed this deception in order to protect herself. It was cowardly, she knew. But necessary, when confronted with the eternal hopes of a mother. "No, Mom." she said, but went no further. If her mother knew how little Mulder and she interacted on a personal level, it would break her heart. Scully frowned, sure that the knocking was her mother finally returning. Perhaps deciding that her allowance had not been wise and checking up to make sure her daughter was okay. Maybe she'd tried to call and Scully had been so deep in sleep she didn't hear the phone. That would have worried her. In the darkened apartment, she couldn't see the face of her wristwatch and so was unsure of the time. Standing took a superhuman effort. She worked at it slowly. Movement by muscle group movement. She was aware that she probably shouldn't be alone this night. That it would have been wiser to go to her mother's or to let her mother remain here. Maybe this was the common sense police, here to arrest her for being so stubbornly independent. She turned lights on as she proceeded and swore she could feel the heat from the bulbs burn her skin. When she opened the door, it was Mulder. She stared at him. "Jesus, Mulder. What time is it?" she blurted unkindly. He was startled by this and looked quickly down at his watch. "It's only eight o'clock," he murmured, eyes flying up to meet hers. "I'm sorry, Scully...I didn't realize you'd be sleeping..." He faltered uncertainly in the doorway. She hadn't seen him since the news broke. Since he'd stopped in to congratulate her, standing hesitantly at the side of her sterile hospital bed. Mulder had shuffled nervously on his feet, no doubt sensing Bill directly behind him. Unnerved by her brother and having only recently returned to the hospital from some errand he wasn't going to share with the group, Mulder seemed eager to leave on another. Or maybe just uncomfortable in the presence of what was left of her family. He squeezed her hand and gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek under the glare of her brother and the looming, benevolent countenance of her mother's priest. Scully saw him move subtly away from her mother when she reached out to rub his back. She kept the smile on her face during his mumbled excuses of letting her get some rest as he escaped the discomfort of this death room, so full now of life. She had made it safe for him to leave her again. She ignored Bill's 'I told you so' glare. Her brother was telling her nothing with his look. He didn't understand. Nor, she confessed, did she fully understand her allowances herself. Mulder peered around her now, checking to see if she was alone. Probably ready to bolt if she wasn't. "Come in, Mulder," she said wearily, stepping back carefully from the door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll, And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live. ~Samuel Taylor Coleridge~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Walking was an effort. Walking was, in fact, a minor miracle, she reminded herself. She was halfway to the couch before she realized her thirst and moved toward the kitchen instead. She had to stop on the way there, holding her place in the doorway, waiting for a sudden sensation of dizziness to leave her before she continued. Reaching into her cupboard for a glass, she noted that her arm was sore when she lifted it up, having been violated by any number of needles and I.V. tubes. It was a shaking hand that finally closed around a glass and brought its heavy weight down to the counter top. Even then, she set it down too hard. Mulder would think she was angry with him. So she called out in reassurance, trying to brighten her tone. "Would you like anything to drink, Mulder?" Her voice was scratchy. Feeble in volume. She was hoping that it carried to the living room. "No...no, I'm fine." He had materialized in the kitchen doorway, hanging back. She continued in her task, refusing to ask for his help. Funny how helpless a hospital stay makes one. All minimal needs are taken care of. Every muscle allowed to quietly atrophy in policy-enforced lassitude. Her biggest expedition had been a twice daily trip to the bathroom, supported by her I.V. pole, which had become more of an event than it should have been. Practically a marathon. She moved to the refrigerator, carrying the glass. Once there, with the door open, she realized that she had to set it down, unable to lift the bottle out and pour the water while still holding the glass -- it was just too much of an effort. She hoped that the task was not taking her as long as it seemed to, with Mulder still hovering there in the doorway. Great. Get rid of one babysitter, get another. She pulled at the bottle in the door, but the tug was not quite enough. Alarmed at her lack of strength, she closed thin fingers around the neck and gave it a yank, determined that it would not defeat her. Lifting it with effort, as if it was a fifty pound weight instead of two, she carried it to the counter where she'd set down the glass. Resting there, she fumbled with the screw cap, which had never been opened. It defeated her. She was on the verge of tears when Mulder was suddenly there beside her, reaching out without a word and opening the bottle with a fast, easy twist, pouring the water quickly and replacing it in the refrigerator. Not speaking at all during this. He must have known how dangerous that would be. He changed the subject. "It must feel great to be out of the hospital, hmmm?" He was looking through her refrigerator. He pulled out a carton of juice, retrieved a second glass, and poured himself a generous amount in about the time that it took her to maneuver her own hand closed around her glass. She was so thirsty. She lifted the glass to her lips. She tried to slow herself once she started but it was a small glass. The liquid was soothing as it slid down her throat. Cold. She shivered when she set the empty glass down. "More, Scully?" Mulder asked. When she glanced at him, he looked worried. It annoyed her. "I'm fine," she snapped. There. she'd hurt him. But she couldn't be moved by his fragile ego. Her life right now was about her. She shouldn't have to be coddling Mulder tonight. She deserved a night off from that. She moved past him toward the living room, hoping that he wasn't watching her as she moved across the vast expanse of space. Knowing that he was right behind her, thinking he could catch her if her legs gave out and she fell. "Why didn't you stay at your mother's?" he asked gently. She had a sudden thought and turned on him. "Did she call you, Mulder? Did she ask you to check up on me?" "No!" he insisted. This was all his own worry and he was laying a fierce claim to it. Protective of his stake. And then he said, "I just wanted to see you, Scully. I'm sorry I couldn't stay at the hospital..." As she was pondering how best to answer these loaded statements, the nausea hit her, quickly followed by frustration. She'd thought this indignity was gone. But the doctors had warned her it might persist for a bit. Abruptly, she changed her direction and headed towards the bathroom. Mulder was still following as her pace actually managed to pick up. Damn him. She didn't have the liberty of arguing him away. He was too close to get the door shut between them. She leaned over the toilet and threw up the water with a groan. Mulder, behind her, was distressed as expected. She ignored his worried questions for the moment, fired at her with a rapidity that she didn't have the energy or willpower to answer. With a sigh, she reached out to flush the vile mess away with a curse she rarely used. Her fingers searched for the toilet paper but Mulder was already there, offering a wadded up piece into her hand. She blotted it against her mouth. She could feel his other hand, rubbing tentatively up and down her back. God, she didn't want him to see her like this. So weak. So frail. She was his partner. He needed to depend upon her strength. His face was suddenly looming in her peripheral vision. "It's okay, Scully." She didn't know why he felt the need to reassure her right now. She knew that it was both okay and not okay for her. And he was surely lying to himself. She doubted this was okay in the least with him. She turned away from him to the sink. Running the warm water and rinsing her mouth. Swallowing a few more sips from a cupped hand because she was still thirsty and because she knew that she should in order to fight off dehydration. She would not go back to the hospital. "Mulder, there's a prescription in my overnight bag by the bed. Could you get it?" Mulder was sent away with this quiet request. One of the momentary miracle cures of modern medicine would hopefully settle her stomach and stop the nausea. He left quickly to do her bidding. She felt relief when he was gone. Standing, she stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like a walking corpse. And she was someone who knew what that looked like. She grimaced. Not a forty-eight hour corpse, she decided. Not quite twenty-four. More like dead for about twelve hours. What was she doing? I'm alive, she reminded herself. Alive. It was no small miracle. And it was a miracle. Whatever the size, and hers alone. She knew that it would take her a while to believe in it. To assimilate this miracle of her life. But she wanted to believe. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars:Those stars, that glide behind them or between Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen. ~Samuel Taylor Coleridge~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mulder was suddenly there again, with her water glass. He filled it up from the tap and then seemed unsure. He started to hand her the bottle of pills and then, remembering her incompetence with the water, he set down the glass. "How many do you need?" She sighed. "Just one." He shook it out into his hand. Or maybe it was his hands that were shaking. His fingers closed around one pill and pressed it into hers. She would rather he not see her like this. She knew this was mostly vanity. But Scully, the walking corpse, would rather that absolutely no one, including Mulder, see her looking this bad. Including herself. People shouldn't be subjected to this sight. "You shouldn't be alone, Scully," he lectured. "You shouldn't have felt the need to come over, Mulder." she lectured back. "You're my co-worker, not my caretaker." He looked hurt by this simple truth. She knew she should apologize but the words failed her. What would she say? In her mind, saying 'I'm sorry' would be analogous to saying that he was her caretaker and she refused to give him that power. She was responsible for herself. She was the only one who could pull herself back into the land of the living, despite what superhuman effort it seemed to be requiring of her. She had always had trouble taking hold of those hands held out to her. Mulder followed her shuffle back into the living room. And though she wanted to go lay down on her bed and sleep, to escape this wretched convalescence, she chose the couch instead. At least until she could get rid of Mulder. If she fell asleep while he was still here, she'd probably find him there in the morning. And she didn't want that. She wanted to be left alone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And now I see with eye serene the very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, a traveler between life and death: The reason firm, the temperate will, endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned to warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright with something of an angel-light. ~William Wordsworth~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ He sat next to her, all movement. His left leg was jumping with a nervous energy. His hands were folding and unfolding on his thigh. That muscle in his jaw was tensing and relaxing. Tensing and relaxing. He was on the verge of speaking but at her look, his lips, which were opening, slammed shut. Just watching him exhausted her. She closed her eyes. "Scully..." With a sigh, she opened them. "Mulder..." she prodded gently, waiting for the flood. There was nothing, really, that he needed to say to her. He had already, in his own limited way, expressed his joy that she would live. It was an awkward subject at best. She hadn't expected an inane proclamation of 'Gee, I'm glad that you're not going to die, Scully'. And everything dies so that would have been something of a misstatement. 'I'm so happy you're alive' seemed like more of an understatement somehow. They weren't working on a case, their safest topic of conversation. This left only the prospect of small talk. "Your mom was here?" "Yes," she answered. "Supper." She was limiting herself. Talking was, not to be redundant, an effort. "What's the plan for tomorrow?" "Well, I'm not quite up for going in to work, Mulder," she said dryly. The emotion that passed over his face surprised her. He'd taken this as an accusation. His response -- she swore he was about to cry. His face twisted and then straightened itself back out, fighting the urge. He took a deep breath, staring at his hands. Wretchedly bruised by her callous words. She was shocked by this. "Mulder, I didn't mean anything by that," she stated. He nodded, still not looking at her. She didn't blame him. She wouldn't want to look at herself right now either. All bones and skin, pale as a ghost of herself. Though she knew her life itself was a form of beauty -- she did believe this. "I..." he started to say, and then stopped, biting his lip. He spread both his hands out, palms facing upward, and then threaded his fingers together, meshing the two into one. He folded them around each other and Scully was reminded of that childhood game. This is the church, this is the steeple... Open the doors... But there was no church to Mulder's creation. There were just two hands, pressing tightly around one another like a hard knot of skin and bone and fear. A manifestation of his inner struggle to speak some sentiment of words. A struggle that he seemed to be losing. And there were just two people in this room. She tried to help. She laid a hand carefully around both of his. Tentative, as she always was, with the courage required to touch him. She was startled once again by the blue of her veins, resting so shallow beneath the paleness of her skin. This gesture of concern didn't seem to help him much. In fact, it released something in Mulder. She almost jumped when he choked on a sob. Somehow, they passed from the state of two solitary souls sitting vigil beside each other into another confusing impasse. Where she held him and he curled in against her chest, crying so hard that it alarmed her. She closed her arms around him and shut her eyes tight. Frightened by the depth of this weakness and disarmed by his release of it to tears. Strangely, she thought about the way the wind had been picking up when her mother had led her tottering up the walkway like a frail old woman, threatening to blow her over like a slip of so much paper. But also lifting the hair gently at the back of her neck, inviting her to dance. Her mind drifted further. Once, she had shared a midnight sky with Mulder. A deep and soothing blue. The same strange, balmy but forceful wind had been in attendance. The stars were bright, fierce pinpricks of light. And on that same night, sparse white clouds were being pulled across the sky. As if an invisible hand were tugging them forward at some impossible speed. Obscuring the stars and then revealing them again with each passing. She'd been as dizzy watching this as she was right now, comforting this man. At the time, she remembered remarking that it had looked to her almost is if the hand of God was pulling the clouds across the stars. Mulder had always disliked it when she referred to God. On that dark, cloudy night, his answering sentiment had been condescending. "I think human imagination lifts nature's works of creation to a higher level than they deserve. We see the divine in the merely ordinary, Scully," he said dispassionately. No doubt he was paraphrasing something he'd read -- something his damnably tenacious mind had worked at and then squirreled away for just such an occasion. Correcting her perception. Nature, he informed her, does nothing to imagine God. We do that all on our own. For her, his less spiritual, more realistic translation of the sight was more of a depressing, albeit enlightening, glimpse into his own nature than proof that her faith in God was misplaced. Still, it had hurt her. What had seemed infinitely vast to her that night, a feeling larger than the universe itself, suddenly became small and enclosed. Confined to a space no bigger than her own mind. Almost as small as she felt right now, holding this man against his demons. Comforting him as he sobbed openly against her breast, drawing in great heaving breaths in order to continue. Good Lord, what is it about terminal illness that demands so much strength of will for others from a body that is so weakened by its own brutal ravages? She could feel how alone they were. How very solitary in their natures that they could only turn to each other to maintain this distance. And suddenly, she was tired of it all. His body had grown still, resting into hers. At this point, she was unsure who was holding and who was being held. "Mulder, do you see anything at all miraculous in my remission?" she asked quietly, close to his ear. He struggled to gain control, wiping an arm fiercely across his eyes. Using his shirt to scrub the evidence of tears from his face. He pulled away. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said, brokenly. Afraid to meet her eyes. "It's okay, Mulder." she rubbed his arm, allowing him time to recover. He did so with no more than a few deep breaths. "I can't lose you, Scully," he stated simply and with a disturbing finality. Not answering her question. She knew that losing her would, in some twisted way, be fatal to this man. She didn't aspire to or want this type of loyalty, but she had it. "You'll never lose me, Mulder. Even if, God forbid, I die." "Don't talk about death, Scully," he said angrily. "For God's sake, you just went into remission," he accused her. "Don't talk like that!" She sighed. She knew it was not for God's sake, but for Mulder's that he didn't want her to speak these words. "What should I talk about, Mulder?" she asked. "If I mention my belief in the wonder of divine miracles, you'll be jumping down my throat within a second." "Who's talking about divinity?" he threw out darkly. "You know I don't believe that, Scully. I'm sorry, but I don't have it in me." He was scowling. "You believe it was the chip," she said quietly. Waiting for affirmation. He nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Well, I have my own suspicions in that direction, Mulder," she said finally. "If that makes you feel any better. But does an extension of that belief necessarily offend you?" Her hand pauses on his. "Even if it was the chip, might there be some reason behind this reprieve, some good that may come of it? Is a belief in that so contradictory to your convictions Mulder?" "No," he insisted. "Of course not." "Well, that's my belief in the divine, Mulder. Such as it is. I ask that you respect it." His answering look was pained. "Of course I respect it, Scully. But you can't ask me to share it." At her stern look, he relented with the barest attempt at an explanation. "I don't believe that there's good behind everything that happens..." he insisted. He stopped at her continued and patient witness. For this man, there was no pardon early in life. No opportunity to develop a belief in good, for better or worse. Reaching out, she laid a hand against his cheek. "Nor do I, Mulder. Not good in everything. But I do believe there's good in some things." He pushed his face into her palm, giving up on words. On their debate. He turned his head and pressed his lips reverently to the pulse beating in her wrist, cradling this part of her there against his face. Looking at her with everything that was in him, as he curled around her hand and startled her with his next proclamation. "What I believe in is you, Scully...You can believe in the miracles for me," he whispered raggedly. Oh, God. His lips, pressed against her wrist, were seeking something. "I will, Mulder." she promised. "I already do." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ But it's not this random life only, throwing its sensual astonishments upside down on the bloody membranes behind my eyeballs, not just me being here again, old, needier, looking for someone to need, but you, up from the clay yourself, as luck would have it, and inching over the same little segment of earth-ball, in the same little eon, to meet in a room, alive in our skins, and the whole galaxy gaping there and the centuries whining like gnats- you, to teach me to see it, to see it with you, and to offer somebody uncomprehending, impudent thanks. ~William Meredith~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Margaret Scully pulled the car into a space in front of her daughter's apartment. Bill Scully, beside her, was already reaching for the door handle. "You shouldn't have left her alone, Mom." "She was fine, darling," she insisted. "She needs to feel like she can take care of herself." He didn't listen. "She's so goddamned stubborn...what she needs is someone to hit her over the head with something called common sense." Mrs. Scully shook her head at her oldest son's exasperating and stubborn nature. "I won't always be around to take care of you kids," she murmured. A warm, strong wind was pulling at her coat. El Nino, gone loco again. She looked up and saw clouds flying impossibly fast across the sky. It made her dizzy. She had the key, and they let themselves into the apartment. If Dana was sleeping, she didn't want to wake her. Breakfast could wait until she'd gotten her rest. There was no one moving around in the apartment so she tiptoed quietly to her daughter's bedroom. The door was halfway shut and, reaching out, she pushed it open carefully. Her daughter was turned onto her side, her head resting in peaceful slumber on her pillow. Covers pulled up to her chin and tucked around her, holding them in place with tightly closed hands, just as she had as a child. Also in the bed was Fox Mulder, her partner. Asleep but facing her, head on his own pillow, covers likewise pulled around him against the cold. But his hands were closed around her daughter's hands, and his body curled protectively around her in sleep. They were drawing breath from the same shared air. Bill Jr. was right behind her, peering over her shoulder. "Jesus H. Christ," he swore. She whirled on him. "Don't take that name in vain, Bill," she whispered fiercely, pointing him toward the door they'd come in as she pulled the one behind her gently shut. "Out," she hissed. "It doesn't look like Dana needs us to make her breakfast." She sensed there would be no place for them here when the two people in the bed woke up. "We'll call her later." Bill made a noise of disgust and turned on his heel. She followed, herding Bill out. Making sure to be behind him, so he couldn't slam the doors and wake the two. Once outside, Margaret Scully looked up. And she gave herself a little smile as she watched the clouds rushing across a pale blue, but expanding promise of sky. She remembered her husband with a sudden and fierce longing. She'd been careful as she closed each door behind her, so as not to allow any disruptive noise. She didn't want to waken the two light sleepers within those walls. Or disturb the precarious nature of love that rested there between them, holding their fragile bodies so carefully together. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Though much is taken, much abides; and though we are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. ~Alfred, Lord Tennyson~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks for reading! Hey -- if CC can do flashbacks, so can I! Feedback is always treasured and appreciated, more than you can know. My abilities to respond are, however, sadly limited. So if you enjoyed this enough to tell me, thanks a heap ahead of time! I write these for my readers. I debated posting this because it's so outdated. But with a rash of vintage fics lately, I figured what the heck. I know it's a bit much on the angst, but that's how I started writing these things. I think this one is somewhere, mid-evolution, in the history of KatyBlue's xf stories. To the most wonderful editor Meredith, who no doubt believed she was the only one who would ever read this story, along with a few others she's slaved over and never seen post. You are most cherished, my editor. And an embarrassed hello to a few lost friends out there that I dearly miss; Toniann -- forgive me. Yes, I dropped the ball and miss our long, enlightening missives. JLB -- I will wait until infinity for the next story from you if that's how long it takes! A special note to all my crystalsisters -- huge hellos from the void that is my life; dearest Clarissa, laura, Kestabrook, Michelle, FabMon, Dawn and Sally, et.al. -- forgive me. Real-life has stolen me far away. And lastly, to the long lost Laine, my almost-co-writer and friend; Cap'n, oh my Cap'n...wherever you are, I hope you are well.