From: Kbxf@aol.com
Date: Sat, 8 Jul 2000 10:58:03 EDT
Subject: NEW: He Walks Down the Road (1/3) by KatyBlue
Source: xff


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TITLE: He Walks Down the Road (1/3)
AUTHOR: KatyBlue
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Season seven.  (this is not a post requiem but 
more likely an alternate universe ;) though it will spoil requiem 
for anyone who's trying not to)
DISCLAIMER: I wish these characters did not belong solely 
to CC and 1013 productions.  I'd like just a little piece 
of Mulder, please and thank you.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To Meredith, as always.  The best 
beta a girl could ever hope for.  Also, a big thanks to Toniann, 
for her patience with my long-winded e-mails and for reading 
the rough drafts and always sending back good suggestions.  
A special thanks to Laine, who may not know why I'm thanking 
her but I'll just say it's for friendship at times when cyberspace 
can feel as big and lonely as real life sometimes can.  And to 
those who read my stories...you're the real reason behind my
posting.  This one is about as close as I come to feel good 
schmoopy fic so please, turn those flashlights off and enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part (1/1)



He walks down the road.  A dirt road.  And the dust rises 
in little clouds under his feet.  

Somehow, he arrived here.  From somewhere.  But he doesn't 
yet know where or what he is.  He's not sure who or why he 
is.  He knows only one word right now.  And so he speaks it 
aloud, to this deserted stretch of gravel.  As if it's the 
first word he's ever spoken.  He can barely get it past the 
rough patch of his throat.  "Scully."

He doesn't know what this means.

The dust rising from his stumbling footfalls begins to 
choke him and the soles of his feet hurt.  He's wearing 
clothing, but his feet are bare.  He stops in the fresh 
grass at the side of this quiet road and stares down at 
human toes, marveling at the soft feel of the blades of 
grass crushed beneath them.  He notices cows grazing 
in a pasture across from him as he sinks slowly to 
his knees.  Barbed wire is holding them in.  

Leaning forward carefully, he twists his hands into the 
greenery as if this will tether him to the earth.  And he dry 
heaves until he thinks his lungs are about to turn inside 
out.  Relearning the contours of his own throat all over 
again in this pastoral setting; the acid wash of bile moving 
upward, the diaphragmatic contractions closing his 
esophagus, the final helpless, dry choking swallow of his 
own fear after each wave.  Surviving it all and figuring out 
how to breathe again afterward.  

His head pounds out a familiar, accompanying ache.  
He rests and endures this uneven rush of pressure 
through human blood vessels.

After what seems an age, a pickup truck rolls down the 
road.  Has he time traveled?  It's of a dusty red metal, 
half road, half truck.  The style is 1950s.  He had a 
matchbox car like that as a kid.  He knows this with a 
passing flash of insight.  This is a memory, he thinks.  
Hold onto it.

The truck sees him.  Or rather, its occupant does, and it 
coasts over to the side of the road, idling in place as the 
passenger within hesitates.  Not sure, maybe, whether 
someone on the side of the road on their hands and knees 
is what is considered 'wise to approach'.

Eventually, an old man climbs out of the cab.  Likewise 
human.  Earth bound by the years, but looking like he's holding 
on with no more than a few tenacious and brittle bones he isn't 
letting go of yet.  He's wearing a pair of jeans, same color as 
the road, but underneath that, some shade of blue.  His 
baseball cap is as brown as the dirt with no other discernable 
color whatsoever.  He's chewing tobacco and he spits it out just 
shy of Mulder's direction as he moves warily closer.  It hits the 
dirt with a splat and raises up a puff of dust.  His flannel shirt 
sports stains from the times his aim was poor.  

The vision of this eructated stream of brown juice causes a 
fresh wave of heaves, so Mulder doesn't take notice of the 
rest of the old man's cautious approach.  He is suddenly 
just there, looming over him.  Possessing the most non-
threatening and innocuously geriatric presence one can 
imagine.  Still, somehow, Mulder manages to find this 
menacing.

The old man half yells, in a thin, reedy voice.  "Whatcha 
doin' out here, pukin' in my road?  Are you drunk, boy?"

At this unexpected address, Mulder looks down at his hands.  
His body.  Reassuring himself that they are those of a man 
and not a boy.  As if for a terrible second, he was fearful 
he was a child again.  A leap backward to an even more 
uncertain place than this.

No, he is a man.  The same man he was before...before... 
before what?

"Scully."  He tries out his word.

"What the heck...?"  The farmer is puzzled.  "You talkin' 
to me son?  'Cause that's just gibberish."

He wonders, as the old man stands over his wretchedness, 
if he'll help him to his feet.  Or if he just stopped to take 
a gander, as they say, and will drive off and leave him 
here when he's done.  He'd better speak now or he might 
wait a long while for another ride.

His voice is unused to being exercised.  The words are 
squeezed over atrophied vocal chords when he finally 
manages to force them out.  He forms his lips around the 
sounds with difficulty.  "Help... me..."  He runs out of 
breath halfway through and wheezes the second word.

He sounds like someone from outer space.

The old man stands there, scratching his head at the 
request.   "If you're looking for help, I ain't sure I got 
time for a drunk ass on the side of the road.  It's milkin' 
time and Bessy's already leadin' the herd toward the 
barn..."  His voice is not exactly unkind, but the man is 
obviously not too sure about Mulder's strange predicament 
and therefore remains necessarily wary.

Mulder looks in the direction the old man's pointing, 
though it's an effort.  There's a black and white cow 
walking purposefully forward.  The others are picking up 
their heads from the grass.  Herd mentality.  The matriarch 
is moving.  They follow.  Dumb beasts.

Another wave of lethargy and vileness hits him and his 
throat constricts around it.  He hears himself whimper as 
bile comes up and out his nose this time, along with a thick,
unidentified viscous substance.  The old man is backing 
away.  He knows this because he watches his feet.  

"Damned if you're gonna be pukin' in my truck, young 
fella."  The feet disappear from view.  "You just stay there 
a spell.  Hang tight.  I'm gonna go call the sheriff to 
come out and pick you up."

The old man climbs into the truck and is gone in a haze of 
wafting dust from the spinning tires of his exit.  Mulder 
coughs in its wake.  The cloud finally passes on the breeze.

Deserted.  

There are birds chirping in the trees that line this side 
of the road.  He can hear the unnatural accompaniment of 
the cow named Bessy and the herd's cowbells clunking along 
and growing distant to the symphony.  Crickets are chirping 
somewhere in the grass his fists are clenched so tightly 
around.

He thinks of nothing.  He merely experiences what is around 
him.  Dangerously close to unconsciousness.  He can't even 
begin to imagine where he came from or what he's doing 
here.

And he's not sure where he's going.

"Scully."  He says it again.  He leans forward far enough 
that his forehead touches the coolness of grass.  This word 
seems easy to speak where all others perplex him.  The 
greenery tickles against his skin.  The bruising from his 
weight resting heavily upon it brings a more pleasant smell 
rising up into his nostrils than the bile that is burning 
in his nasal passages.

It seems an age before the wail of a siren sounds in his 
ears.  Frightening him back from his stupor.  Familiar but 
forgotten lights and sounds strobe up to him in the bright 
sunshine of the day.  When he turns his head slightly, he's 
able to watch an officer get slowly out of the cruiser and 
stride toward him, cocky in tall black riding boots, but 
his approach even more cautious than the old man's.  He 
pushes his hat more firmly down onto his head.  His hand 
itches at his gun, just waiting for a sudden move to call 
its draw. 

Mulder can barely keep his eyes open, so there's not much 
chance of that worry happening.  He wonders where he got 
the energy to walk down this road in the first place and 
how far he actually traveled before he ended the journey 
here on his knees.

"Put your hands where I can see them, sir," The sheriff 
calls out.

His fists don't want to unclench from the grass.  The 
neural connections seem missing, or at least delayed.  It's 
an effort, this unloosening of his fingers.  As difficult 
as the slow creep forward of his arms until they lay 
stretched out somewhere in front of him.  The trembling 
that begins in his body alarms him.  His lips press against 
the crushed grass now.  He tries to think of something to 
say, but still the one word is all that's there.  He has no 
energy for more and he knows this one makes no sense 
so he keeps it to himself this time.

The officer reaches out and roughly pats him down.  When 
Mulder tries to move, he barks "Stay where you are!" and 
presses a warning hand into his back.  In another second, 
he's sure that the man is going to wrench his hands behind 
his back and slap some handcuffs on him.  

His terror is mounting.  He knows it's out of proportion to 
the situation but he doesn't know why.  The thought of this 
man rending violence against him becomes unthinkable.  A 
black hole of fear.

Before, Mulder might have come up fighting.  Now, he rolls 
over like a dog onto his back, submitting.  The cop is 
already reacting, jumping out of the way, hand moving to 
his gun.  Mulder's throat constricts again, but this time over 
rough heaving sobs that are forcing themselves out despite 
his effort to contain them.  "Help me," he pleads.  This 
is, after all, another human being.  "Help me," he repeats 
in his dry, almost unrecognizable rasp.

"Jeez-us,"  The cop pulls out his radio.  "Request 
assistance...I need an ambulance out on Deerfield Road.   
Caucasian male, in some kind of distress..."  He moves 
back a few more steps from Mulder but keeps his eyes 
trained on him.

"Sending an ambulance out, darlin'," a voice chirps back, 
small town friendly engaged in a shockingly informal 
dispatch with her boss.  Bright in the wash of all the 
adrenaline pumping uncertainly through both parties.  
"What seems to be the problem?  Y'all okay out there, 
John?"

The sheriff sighs and begins to relax.  "Yup.  I'm alright, 
Gladys.  Crazy Al was right, the ol' coot.  Some guy, just 
laying out here by the side of the road."  He peers around 
at the bushes now, searching for the perpetrators of this 
unknown crime.  "Don't see nothin' but this guy.  He's 
either drunk or someone dumped him."  

Leaning over, he squints down at Mulder, who can't seem to 
move.  "But I don't see no injuries on him."  He leans even 
closer, maybe thinking he should take a better look.  
Mulder wants to sink back into the grass to get away.  Too 
close.  Too much.  He feels vulnerable on his back, weak 
points exposed.  "What's goin' on, buddy?" the sheriff 
shouts as if Mulder might be deaf.  "Are you injured?"

He tries to answer.  But he just says "Scully," finally and 
the man scowls and looks confused.

He puts his hand onto Mulder's chest and pins him where 
he's already frozen in place with his own fear.  "Just lie 
still.  Ambulance is on its way.  How'd you get here, 
buddy?"

His lack of ability to answer only earns him disgust this 
time.  The sheriff must notice his trembling because he 
returns to his car and retrieves a blanket.  Before 
spreading it over Mulder, he goes through his pockets but 
comes up empty-handed in this search for identification 
while Mulder can't move for the fear.  Finally he moves 
back to the cruiser and sits down on the passenger seat 
of his car.  With the door gaping open, he watches warily 
from close by.  As if anything might still be possible.  

The birds and crickets start singing again, but the 
cowbells are long gone.  

At one point, the sheriff calmly begins eating a sandwich 
that he picks up off his dashboard.  It must be lunchtime, 
Mulder concludes.  And though all sense of time seems 
lacking for him, he begins to recognize its mark across the 
minutes.  He recognizes the sun high in the sky, moving in 
infinitesimal degrees.

He lies in the dirt and the grass.  And he's not sure he 
feels either substrate.

It's another age before the ambulance finally arrives.  
Mulder remembers more words while he and the sheriff wait.  
They come to him because of the trees he stares at during 
time's unhurried passage here.  Boondocks.  Middle of 
nowhere.  East Bumfuck.  Strange, curious descriptions for 
where he is.  Someone opened an odd dictionary in his head.  

A large vehicle comes screaming up into his musings in 
the same rushing fury as the cruiser.  Its wailing siren 
invades the quiet sanctuary of the country afternoon road 
and silences the birds again.  

Mulder recognizes the panic as it begins to pull at him, 
evenly matched by the apparent paralysis of his limbs and 
further tempered by his inability to feel.  He lies there, 
helpless and thinks "Scully," though he's still not quite 
sure yet what this means.  But it seems to be his mantra.  

There's a glimmer now, at the edge of his faltering 
consciousness.  A returning recognition of the sights and 
events surrounding him that is bringing it all back, 
visceral and earthly.  Pleasure and pain.

There is dirt in his mouth.  He can taste it.  He turns his 
head and tries to spit the gravel off his tongue but fails.  
He can smell the fresh leafy grass and wants to chew on it 
like the cows were doing across the way in order to quench 
the thirst raging silently but forcefully in his throat.  Instead, 
he feels bile rising again, burning its way out through 
already sorely abused nasal passages.  

And, oh god, he's dreamed of this return but can't remember 
the dream.  Certainly, it must have been more pleasant than 
this?

Two paramedics kneel by him.  "Is this how you found him, 
John?" asks one.  The other is encouraging him to take a 
deep breath.

"Yup.  Just layin' there.  Well, actually, he was kinda' 
kneeling when I first came up.  Puking his guts out."  The 
sheriff puts down the sandwich and returns to the more 
serious business of his job by looming over Mulder along 
with the paramedics.

"What's your name, sir?" One asks.  Too close.  Too 
much.  The panic rises again and tugs on strings attached 
to his limbs.  His arm jerks when the man grasps it to take 
his pulse.  He almost manages to pull it away and their 
faces tighten.

He tries to speak.  "Scully," he says.  Like an idiot.  A 
simpleton.  He knows how to speak this one word well, as 
if he's practiced it many times.  As if it's his unerring plea 
for help.  It makes him feel better to say it.

"That your name?"  When Mulder can't seem to form his lips 
around an answer, the man puts a hand onto his shoulder, 
holding him in place.  "It's okay," he promises.  "Just lie still."

"Doesn't sound like a name to me." the sheriff snaps out.  
But Mulder feels himself nodding slowly, though he's 
uncertain if this is indeed a name.  It's coming, though.  
It's coming back.  

The man shines a light in his eye.  Too much.  Too bright.  
Mulder turns his head and closes his eyes.  One of the two 
lifts his lip, pushing at the tender tissue there for some 
unknown purpose.  Pinching the skin on his arm.  Peering 
intently at his nail beds.  "This guy is seriously 
dehydrated.  I'm getting an I.V. started right away." 

The sudden prick of the needle seems familiar.  Endurable.  
He feels the cold liquid travelling into him and sighs.

He wants to escape it, despite the relief.

The other man is rattling off incomprehensible code.  
"B.P.'s low.  We better get him there stat.  I don't want 
anymore D.O.A.'s this week."  

He should know what all this means, but he doesn't.

"D.O.A.?" the sheriff yells from close by.  "The guy was 
sitting up and puking no more than fifteen minutes ago.  He 
certainly didn't look about to drop dead then.  Probably 
just dead drunk...alcohol poisoning or somethin'."

"That's still serious, John," one of the paramedics 
patiently informs him.

Mulder has a terrible moment when they strap him to the 
gurney.  He can finally move, given this incentive.  It's a 
jerky, painful, but nonetheless violent struggle for the 
effort.  He hears himself choke out a sob again.  He fights 
the forces that try to hold him down.  He can't endure the 
feel of the restraints pinning him.  

He's delivered into the terrifying grip of an incomprehensible,
nameless fear.

The men get a little too excited by this unexpected turn of 
events.  All three of them end up serving in some muscle to 
subdue him, going a little overboard with the threat to 
their own safety and escalating his terror tenfold.  

With another prick of the needle it's finally all floating 
away...

Far away....

He is gone again.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
end part (1/3) please continue reading in part (2/3)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TITLE: He Walks Down the Road (2/3)
AUTHOR: KatyBlue
DISCLAIMER: See Part (1/3) for various excuses...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part (2/3)


She receives the call in the dead of night, as she's always 
expected to.  It's four o'clock in the morning when the 
shrill scream of the phone makes her sit bolt upright, 
heart pounding and breath racing in and out.

She reaches for its place of honor beside her bed, though 
her answer holds nothing but trepidation.  "Scully."  She 
no longer expects to hear his voice on the other end of the 
line.  That hope is long gone.  She no longer expects any 
form of good news from late night phone calls.  She knows 
better.

"Scully?"

It's Byers.  He sounds out of breath, as if he's been 
running.  As out of breath as he was on that day in the 
hospital.  Even though he'd only been standing there 
motionless, having done no more than won the unpleasant 
privilege of being the one who told her Mulder was gone.  She 
remembers the stiff formality of his stance.  The sorrow in 
his eyes.  Tonight, has he been chosen again?  The short 
end of the straw once more for another harbinger of doom?  

She can't speak.  She can barely breathe.  She's dreamed 
this moment a thousand times over.  In each dream, the 
moment never ends well and somehow also never manages to 
finish.  She calls these dreams nightmares.  She wonders if 
her face, in this darkness, is as awful as it must have 
been on the day of his original missive.  When his 
answering expression showed her just how terrifying her 
reaction must have been.

Scully prides herself on her control.

So this time she decides not to answer at all just yet.

"Scully..."  The breathlessness gets worse.  "I think we 
really found him this time."

She feels her heart plummet.  Not this.  Not again.  She 
feels the familiar rushing response of each time these 
false hopes have been raised.  Until the point she'd 
finally insisted that they stop telling her altogether and 
the phrase 'John Doe' became taboo in their interactions.  
Until she no longer even allowed herself to look at the 
descriptions lest she become fixated on the latest 
'Caucasian male, 6'0', brown hair, green eyes' and insist 
on flying to Anchorage, Alaska or some other faraway 
location to see for herself yet another stranger.  That's 
their job now.

She begins to cry.

As if through some wonderful mother-infant connection, her 
child emits her own gusty wails into the night.  Rising in 
volume from her crib against the wall.  Delaying Byer's 
inevitable statement, Scully crosses the room and picks her 
up, cradling the baby on one shoulder and the phone on the 
other.  She's beginning to gain skill at this feat.

"Tell me, Byers."  Her voice has finally hardened, 
unforgiving of his message, whatever it may be.  She 
strains to hear him over the tight, slowing cry of the 
baby.

"West Virginia," he says.  "Scully...We've got a positive 
I.D. on this one.  Frohike faxed photos down there and it 
came back as him."

She can't speak around the tightness in her throat but she 
gets the question out, despite her disbelief.  "Is 
he...okay?"  She hates the tremor in her tone.

Byers' answer is reluctant.  "We know he's in the hospital 
there.  But that's about all we know of his condition."

She snaps out one word.  "Where?"

He tells her.  The phone falls to its cradle only to be 
snatched up a second later.  She listens for the dial tone 
before her fingers begin to fly.  Making reservations with 
surly phone attendants who feel as if they've been hit by a 
fast moving train by the time she's done with them.  

She drops the receiver like a dead weight when that's 
finished and only then remembers the baby resting quietly 
now in her arms.  It's such a natural extension of her body 
that she'd almost forgotten about her when the crying 
ceased.  She cradles her close and kisses the silky top of 
her head.  Then she lifts the receiver once more and dials 
a familiar number.  The phone rings only twice before it's 
picked up on the other end with the same urgency with 
which she lifted hers.

Her voice barely makes it past her constricted throat.

"Mom?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her mother sits beside her on the plane, bouncing the baby 
on her knee and trying to get her to focus outside the 
window a thousand miles down.  Scully sighs and decides 
not to inform her mother that this developmental milestone 
has not yet arrived.  She reaches over to run a finger down 
the soft cheek, still amazed each day that this child exists.  
Her mother has dressed her in a much too frilly pink lace 
dress for the ride and Scully scowls a bit at this.

"I'm sorry you don't agree with me, Dana," Maggie Scully
says quietly.  They'd stopped some time ago, in the middle 
of this argument, but her mother thinks she's started it again 
with the scowl.  She also believes in keeping family 
business private.  They were never allowed to raise their 
voices in public.  So the conversation is carried forward 
in undertones.

"I don't see why you couldn't have stayed behind with her, 
Mom."  Her voice must be a touch too loud because her 
mother shushes her automatically.  

Her answering tone is even lower than the last response.  "For 
goodness sake Dana, you're a doctor.  What are you going to 
do?  Send the milk via express mail?"

She sighs and closes her eyes.  Her mother is right.  The 
reasons she chose to breastfeed were based on her medical 
knowledge, but sometimes it's inconvenient, and it seems 
especially so now.

And she still doesn't believe she'll be there long.

"You shouldn't get your hopes up, Dana," her mother's voice 
is soft.  Contradicting her last statement and intensifying her 
daughter's fears.

"Mom!" she can't help the rising protest in her voice, 
despite her own multitude of doubts.  "It's a positive I.D.  
The doctor's are hopeful he'll pull through.  What more do 
you need?"  But even given her words, she doesn't truly 
believe it herself.  She's nervous and her hands are 
clenched in her lap, her legs restless.  Her temper 
precarious.  It's why she has her mother hold the baby.  
It's why Scully feels like getting out the little plastic 
bag in the pocket in front of her and heaving up the tiny 
meal she just forced herself to eat.

This plane ride with her mother and daughter is an 
impossible endurance.  She doesn't have the energy 
for either of them right now.  

She remembers the endless nights without sleep after 
Mulder was gone.  How she'd sometimes just get in her 
car and drive aimlessly, going nowhere.  How it had felt 
good just to be moving.  How, as long as she kept herself
moving forward, she could hold the anxiety at bay and 
feel as if she were traveling toward something through 
the impossible gloom and darkness around her.

The movement now doesn't help, despite the fact that the 
plane is going very fast and that he may even be there 
at the end of this trip.

Too long a wait.

Her mother has quieted.  She's rocking the baby to sleep 
but she spares a hand to squeeze tightly to her daughter's 
fragile grip against fear.  Her eyes reflect Scully's 
disbelief back at her.

Too good to be true.

It's been a long wait.  And, as with all things, hope 
eventually loosens its tenacious hold one dark night and 
slips away, leaving one to adjust to the relative peace of 
the here and now, expecting nothing more of life than 
what is already there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully is the first to arrive in West Virginia with her 
small entourage.  She knows others will follow but right 
now, it's just the three of them, standing outside the room 
with his doctor.  Her mother is rocking back and forth with 
the baby crying in her arms but Scully can't keep her focus 
on either.

"Dana, just go in!"  And there's anguish in Maggie Scully's
voice at her daughter's lengthy, unexplainable delay outside 
the room.  Talking with his doctor about vital statistics and 
medications tried instead of just entering.

Her mother knows she's afraid to believe.

Scully pushes open the door.  Behind her, she hears her 
mother distract the doctor from entering with her.

At first glimpse, she's convinced it isn't him. 

On second glance, she recognizes every familiar line and 
contour of his long and sorely missed body.

She moves forward, on air or ground.  The way seems light.  
As if there is no validity anymore to the theory of gravity.  
No substance to oxygen.  It is dreamlike, this approach.  
With flashes of something resembling a nightmare 
interlocking an insidious, invasive grip on the tentative 
fluttering return of hope.

He's so still.

She lowers herself to the very edge of the bed, maintaining 
a precarious vigil to his unnatural sleep.  But it feels 
comfortable.  She's been here before.  When she reaches 
forward, her fingers grace his flesh and she can't stop the 
sob that finally erupts from her, noisy and unthinkable.  
It shames her.  She squeezes her eyes shut and chokes it 
back down.  She whispers his name.  Her mantra.  "Mulder."  
Connecting it to the sight of his body calms her.

She lays her hand over his heart.

She doesn't expect him to waken from his drug-induced haze 
at the sound of her voice.  And he doesn't.  His beauty 
remains in a slumberous, unexplained unconsciousness.  

She doesn't expect a kiss to change this either.  Her life 
is not a fairy tale.  But she cannot deny herself this 
small pleasure.

She leans forward, feeling just a bit as if she is violating 
him somehow.  After all, he hasn't experienced the trials 
and tribulations of her body delivering a new life into the 
world with the knowledge that it was of equal part his own.  
Wherever he was, no doubt he was unaware that he was 
also inside her, growing.  The most intimate of all joining 
between two people was missed in its entirety on his part.

He missed too, through this process of growing life, how 
she nurtured her love for him into a slow and cherished 
blossoming.  He didn't hear her, through the hours of her 
labor, whispering his name for comfort.  He wasn't there 
when finally, through reluctant but necessary DNA testing, 
she learned this miracle child was indeed truly theirs 
alone.  An apparently normal, healthy, human child.  

And even through the death of her hope for his return, this 
fully expressed love somehow, miraculously, survived.

When he'd disappeared, Scully was still denying even the 
physical turn their bodies had taken to each other as only 
a fluke in desire's undiscerning eye.

Mulder is unaware of the opening of her heart that occurred 
afterwards, during his absence.

She leans her forehead against his and lets her lips touch 
down gently.  She holds this position.  Feeling the 
reassurance of his breath moving in and out.  His life, 
still there and resting somewhere within.

And she waits.

And waits.

She will wait forever, if necessary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully loses track of time after only a few days in this 
hospital room, catching catnaps when she can and being 
woken by her daughter's hunger, and then only when her 
mother reminds her of it by putting the fussing baby into 
her arms.  They are both very patient with her inattention.

Sometimes, when neither is in the room, she lies on the 
bed while Mulder sleeps heavily on and begins to fill him in 
on some of what he missed.  She feels a little foolish, but 
she makes sure that no one else is around when she does 
this.  She smoothes the hair away from his forehead and 
kisses his closed eyes.  She adjusts the lines and tubes 
going into and coming out of his body to make sure he's 
comfortable.

She feels him.  

He's heading back.

It seems an age before he finally regains consciousness.  
It is, in actuality, only days.  He's had a number of 
visitors he doesn't know about.  Her mother tells her that 
she finds Frohike's stare unnerving, and that both Langly 
and Mulder need a haircut.  She listens to the reassuring 
normalcy of their complaints about the coffee and the 
cafeteria food as she quietly monitors Mulder's condition.  
Her mother plays cards with Byers.  The FBI's presence 
arrives in the form of Walter Skinner and then leaves them 
in relative peace with the promise of Mulder's position 
back when he recovers.  

The doctors still don't know if he will fully recover.

She orders every test she can.  They all read, for the most 
part, normal.  This doesn't reassure her.  She's checked 
the back of his neck with dread and fear for an implant 
similar to her own any number of times, and each time feels 
relief when it's not there.  She presses her fingers in 
wonder to the small gold cross that returned with him, but 
leaves it resting around his neck.  Thinking it somehow 
protected him and may still.

Sometimes, he stirs under her fingers.

Trying to wake.

Coming back.

She holds her breath and hopes for it.

She expects it now.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
end part (2/3) please continue reading in part (3/3)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TITLE: He Walks Down the Road (3/3)
AUTHOR: KatyBlue
DISCLAIMER: See Part (1/3) for any and all excuses...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Part (3/3)


He opens his eyes one morning as far as he can.  It's only 
halfway but he's heard the voices.  He knows these voices.  
They've been murmuring for days.  He wants to see them now.

He sees her first.  

He connects the face to the voice to the feeling and, 
finally, to the name.  He speaks the familiar word that has 
carried him through all this.  "Scully."

This is not his voice, he thinks with some horror, but it 
is.  And something else is off in this picture.  There's a 
baby resting on Scully's lap.  She's holding it and seems 
startled by his sudden attention.  She turns away, to 
someone across the room.  "Can you take her, Mom?"  
And her voice sounds a little different as well.  Or maybe 
it's only the request she makes that is confusing him.

He watches in bewilderment as she hands the baby away 
and turns back to him.  Impossible expressions rush across 
her face in a torrent of emotion.  This is not her usual mask 
and he's overwhelmed by what she is directing at him.

He closes his eyes for a second, hiding.  But the 
claustrophobia is there, even within his own body.

He opens them again and Scully has picked up his hand 
and is holding it.  She smiles through tears that are tracking 
quietly down her cheeks.  He counts them.  One.  Two.  
Three.  He doesn't understand any of it.  He tries to speak 
his confusion.  

But he knows some of what happened.  He is remembering 
with a terrible certainty that he was gone.  

"How long?"  And his voice is the same sick croak it was a 
second ago on her name.  The same horrible, unpracticed 
rasp it was after eating the dirt of that road.  He sounds 
like a frog.  A nightmarish image hits him then of a frog, 
splayed out on a table, held down by pins.  Or is it himself 
he's imagining?  He is confused by the image.  Unused to this 
medium of thought and reason.  He knows it's been a long 
time.  He doesn't need to ask how long.  He knows he's been
used for purposes unknown.  And with this knowledge, his 
terror is heightening.  "Whose baby, Scully?"

She looks just as terrified suddenly.  Or maybe her face is 
only mirroring his own alarm.  She pulls his hand up 
against her heart and holds it there.  Her eyes are steady 
on his.  "Ours, Mulder," she states.  "You've been gone 
over a year.  She's yours.  Mine.  I promise you.  Nothing 
more."

She's read his terrible thoughts.  

He feels himself lifting away with the impossible joy of 
this.  He squeezes his eyes tightly shut and wills it to be 
true.  

Such an odd waking.  Is it just another dream?  It seems 
like it must be.  Is he still there in those throbbing, 
cold walls?  Violated. Thoroughly desecrated.  Ripped apart 
and left alone, his only company the looming presence of 
death and the promise of more pain.

"Where am I?" he asks frantically.

"West Virginia."

Not exactly the answer he expects.  It makes it seem real.

Mrs. Scully steps forward and places the baby back into 
Scully's arms, touching his arm lightly before she turns 
away.  He watches as Scully receives the baby naturally and 
this surprises him, even as it tugs at his memory.  Balancing 
on the edge of his bed, she rests the little girl gently onto 
his chest, careful not to set the weight of her down there.  
"Mulder, meet your daughter," she barely manages to say, 
looping one arm around the baby's waist and using the other 
hand to wipe the tears suddenly springing more rapidly into 
her eyes from falling onto him.

He looks from Scully to this baby and can't believe it.  He 
wishes he could touch this child, but his arms won't obey 
his missive.  Instead, he contents himself with looking.  
The baby stares back and claps her hands together, 
uncoordinated but mesmerized by the unfamiliar sight of 
him.  "What's her name?" he whispers.

Scully looks apprehensive at this point.  He's puzzled.  
Her voice is rushing to get words out.  To make the excuses 
she seems to think are necessary to proceed this simple 
piece of information.  "I didn't know if I would ever see 
you again, Mulder.  I'd convinced myself I wouldn't...I was 
trying to hold onto you..."  There is misery here.  And 
sorrow.  And a terrible loss.

He never thought about that.

He's sorry for all of it.  He's sorry for what he's done to 
her.  He imagines her moving alone through this pregnancy 
and feels responsible.  He's surprised by her tears.  This 
time, his manages to lift his trembling touch up to her 
face and wipe at least one away.  She closes her eyes under 
his uncoordinated exertion and seems to savor it, but he 
can't sustain the gesture.  The hand drifts down and comes 
to rest against the baby, who fixates on it, big fingers 
almost within her unpracticed grasp.  She reaches for them.  
Scully hesitates.

"You didn't name her Fox," he groans out with an enormous 
effort.

From across the room is a sudden burst of joyful laughter.  
Even Scully is smiling.  But she sobers quickly.  "I named 
her Samantha," she murmurs reluctantly, staring down at the 
wisps of hair on the top of the tiny head and smoothing 
them.  "I'm sorry, Mulder..." she rushes on, bringing her 
eyes hesitantly back to his, as if unsure of what she'll 
see there.  "When I named her, it was a way for me to 
keep you alive.  I was lost..." her voice trails away into a 
whisper.  He realizes she doesn't know if her choice will 
make him happy or sad.  

So he tries to remember how to smile and brings the sight 
of her doing the same back to him.  "Don't be sorry, 
Scully," he whispers, afraid of breaking the concentration 
of the baby, who has gotten hold of both his finger and the 
I.V. line.  Her tug sends a sharp pain through his hand and 
he winces as Scully untangles it, murmuring her dismay at 
the spot of blood that wells up at the contact point 
between needle and flesh.  "It's okay," he whispers.  
Hypnotized by the way all ten tiny fingers close around his 
one.  The way she stares hard and drools a big dollop of 
spittle down onto his skin.  "Hi, Samantha," he murmurs.

Scully is crying again.  She pulls the baby against her 
and leans forward until her face is resting against his.  
This is not too close, or too much when she does this, 
but rather strangely calming.  She murmurs against his lips, 
her hand stroking his cheek.  "I know this is going to take 
some getting used to, Mulder."  Her tears are falling onto 
his face.  

It feels like the rain and it refreshes him.

He's already making the adjustment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His muscles have atrophied.  Small wonder.  He still has 
only marginal control over much of his body.  It annoys 
him.  The physical therapist works him relentlessly.  She 
knows he wants to get out of here.  Or maybe she just wants 
him out of here.  He's discovered, along with everyone else, 
that he's somewhat reluctant with a little thing known as 
cooperation.  He loses control when he's forced into any 
action, to the point of a blind and sometimes violent fight 
or flight response, which is unnerving to all involved.

It's almost time for his release anyway.  He sits up now 
through the day.  He can move his arms and legs.  He takes 
short walks down the hall with his ass proudly displayed 
for all to see, wheeling the I.V. pole smoothly along like 
an attending appendage.  He still has trouble keeping food 
down some days and needs all the nourishment he can get. 

But with each day that passes, he's getting stronger.

Scully rests the baby in the bed with him now.  Sometimes, 
she crawls in there too.  Because of his fear, he has 
trouble with the nurse's ministrations.  With any and all 
tests that need to be done.  Every day is a struggle for 
him to allow anyone's touch but Scully's.  And depending 
on what she's doing, even that is only endured sometimes.  
He's intolerant of and unbearable to most of the staff by 
this point.  

Scully just plain worries about the test results, reviewing 
scans and x-rays and endless bloodwork obsessively, looking 
for the anomalies that must surely be there.  So after a 
particularly awful day for both of them, she climbs in and 
rests with him for a while, sometimes with Samantha in 
between.  He can turn on his side now, and does.  He plays 
with the baby, as mesmerized as she is by the sights and 
sounds whirling around her.  

Scully watches him as if she can't take her eyes off him.  
And this worries him, this undivided attention.  She's not 
the fiercely independent woman he left.  He took something 
away from her.  He selfishly took it with him to that 
place.  

But he thinks it might be what kept him alive.  And he 
doesn't think he can give it back.

Scully has fallen asleep beside him, dark shadows under 
her eyes drifting away under the rejuvenating power of sleep.  
The baby also sleeps, emitting tiny puffing breaths.  Her 
little butt is pushed up high in the air, her fists clenched.  
And the wrinkle of concentration on her forehead as she 
dreams is that of Scully.  He's smitten.  A nurse comes in 
and starts to speak and he puts a finger to his lips, pleading 
with his eyes for her not to wake them.

"They shouldn't be in there with you," she scolds.  But 
she smiles at the baby and leaves them alone.  She pats 
Mulder's shoulder kindly, as if she understands that he 
couldn't help it the time he pulled his arm away and leapt 
out of the bed, knocking her backward.  Yelling loudly and 
stumbling to avoid her on shaking legs, all because she'd 
startled him awake with a simple injection.

They must think him insane.  

What's new?

The one person who understands is sleeping beside him.  He 
treasures her newfound peace and, by extension, his.

When they wake, Samantha is fussy and out of sorts.  With 
a sigh, Scully picks her up.  Already used to the less 
glamorous and mundane side of motherhood, she checks her 
diaper and finds nothing.  "She's hungry," she announces, 
sliding off the bed.  "I'll be back."

He doesn't understand her modesty in front of him.  It 
discourages him.  He reaches out for her wrist as she moves 
away, but misses.  She notices this.  She stops and waits 
for him.  He's slow at even speech sometimes, but she's 
very patient.  This time, it takes him a second to get it 
out.  "Scully, stay here," is the request he dares to make.  
He adds on the word "please..." and gives her that look he 
remembers might sway her.

Secretly, he thinks she's pleased.  But she just nods and 
gives him a return look of long-suffering patience before she 
moves toward the chair by the window.  When she glances 
back at him, he pats the one by the bed instead.  "Here," 
he pleads.

She pauses, but moves back beside him and sits down 
where he's asked her to, indulging him.  When she's settled 
an already squirming Samantha onto her stomach, she holds 
her there and begins undoing the buttons on her shirt one-
handed, in an extraordinary and hypnotic display of dexterity.  
As if this is not sensory overload enough, he finds himself 
not at all prepared for the next event.  She's half hiding her 
breast from him for some reason he can't even begin to fathom 
as she raises the baby there.  He hears the wet slurping 
sounds begin as the nipple is discovered and it arouses him.

But he only lies there on his side and watches.  This isn't 
about that.  As the baby suckles, he watches in unspeakable 
wonder.  

Finally, he reaches out and lets his fingers stretch fully 
to rest there against her delicate flesh, close to the 
baby's cheek.  Letting the tips of his fingers be a part of 
this picture.  The back of his hand is warm against 
Scully's breast and he can feel the beat of her heart, 
strong and assured.  She glances over at him and 
smiles almost shyly.

He wants to go home.

He speaks finally, moved to say one word, fingers resting 
so tentatively inside their world.  "Scully."

She's uncertain, and assumes it's the beginning of an 
inquiry.  "Mulder?"

Just saying her name was enough.  His thought is complete 
with only the one word.  That was all he wanted to say.  He 
treasures the miracle of life sitting before him in two 
separate beings.  He knows that he is lucky to still have 
his own, in order to observe it.  His fingers trail upward 
to touch Scully's cheek.  She blinks slowly at him.  He 
wonders how he never saw this side of her.  He wonders 
where the other side of her went.  He wants to keep them 
both.

She says his name then, as he's said hers.  She makes it 
a statement.  "Mulder."  And she pulls his hand fiercely 
against her cheek and holds it there, pressing the back of 
it to her skin, and rubbing her palm back and forth against 
his.  It hurts a little but he doesn't let on.  Her other 
hand continues to hold onto the baby, still attached to her 
breast.  

She doesn't leave his name there alone.  She says more.  
"I've had a long time to get used to this.  I know it's 
sudden for you.  I know you've been through a lot.  But 
there's a life waiting for you and you will return to it."

He is returning every day.  Step by painful step.  He 
thinks she must know this.  But she searches for 
conviction and reassurance in this uncertain world.

"Bring it on, Scully," is what he manages to get out.  This 
pleases her.  Everyone needs a little levity sometimes.  
He's an expert at finding it, even on the darkest of days.  
What his statement brings out of her is a grin.  He grins 
back, surprised to find those muscles still working.  

She presses her palm firmly to his, leaning into his hand.  
She can't seem to stop touching him.  But he understands.  
She hasn't had long enough to get used to him being back.  
She's afraid too, that at any moment she might wake and 
find it all a dream.

It would be a lot to lose.

And so they keep moving forward.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He's finally discharged from the hospital.  He climbs 
awkwardly into a car and suffers with Scully and Mrs. 
Scully taking turns driving back from West Virginia to 
D.C., sharing the back seat with Samantha and the 
unfamiliar sight of baby things cluttering it.  Mrs. Scully's 
driving is endured with eyes closed and only because he 
can't yet coordinate steering and doesn't want Scully to 
overtax herself.  This doesn't mean he enjoys those parts 
of the trip.  He distracts himself with the novelty of 
dangling toys to amuse Samantha and catches Scully 
watching him too often.

Scully brings him to her apartment.  His fishtank is there.  
His leather chair.  A few other things he recognizes.  When 
he asks about his apartment, she starts to cry and excuses 
herself, handing the baby off to her mother.  He's unused 
to Scully being this emotional and worries about her.  Mrs. 
Scully tells him that his apartment is gone, that the rest 
of his stuff is in a storage locker somewhere, that her 
daughter is going to be just fine, and would he please call 
her Maggie or Mom instead of Mrs. Scully.  

He doesn't really care about the apartment.  He never made 
a lot of good memories there anyway.  He worries more about 
Scully as he rests on the couch and imagines himself living 
here.  He feels a little as if he's intruding.

Before Scully's mother leaves, she puts the baby into his 
lap and teaches him how to hold her.  Scully comes back out 
and sits down beside him quietly, putting her hand on his 
back and leaning her head into his shoulder briefly, but 
concentrating on Samantha rather than him for a minute.  
He can tell she's having trouble.  His return has caused a 
maelstrom of emotions for all of them.  Scully's mother 
wraps her arms around all three at once and drops a kiss 
onto the head of each equally before she leaves them.  
She tells him at the door she's glad he's finally home.

He endures this.  The return of his humanity.

He relearns a lot of old habits.

Scully watches him like a hawk throughout this recovery 
period.  She's overprotective.  When he stands there 
staring at a toothbrush, she hands him toothpaste.  When 
he walks into the kitchen and hesitates there, she comes up 
behind him and strokes his back.  She asks him if he wants 
something to drink.

He thinks it will take him a while to feel comfortable 
here, but instead, finds himself getting used to it fairly 
quickly.

Blessedly, he doesn't remember much of what happened to 
him.  What he does remember is quickly fading but involves 
mostly snatches of strong, dark emotions that hit him at 
inopportune moments.  Fear.  Terror.  Pain.

This is what I wanted her to remember, he thinks, back when 
this happened to her.  And he hates himself for the 
pressure he put on her.  He's happy that her experience 
stayed locked up from her consciousness.  

He sleeps in Scully's bed.  With her.  It seems strange for 
less than a night.  He was already adjusting to it at the 
hospital.  He likes the feel of her there, resting under his 
hand.  He likes when she wraps herself around him and 
burrows into his back and he treasures holding her.  He's 
amazed at how patient she is with him and he's awed by 
how they are learning to make love to one another in slow 
and delicious increments.

He prefers not to sleep at night, when amorphous 
nightmares come to visit.  Instead, he contents himself 
with watching her.  Guarding her sleep and catching 
catnaps during the day.

After a particularly bad night, she creeps up gently behind 
him in the morning as he attempts to eat toast and keep it 
down because his stomach is still sensitive.  She hands him 
a piece of paper with a name and number on it as she wraps 
her arms around his neck and kisses him soundly on the 
cheek.  He stares at ink and paper and knows it takes maybe 
a fraction of a second too long for his mind to make sense 
of it.

"I got the name from the Gunmen.  Imagine that?" she muses.  
"He's a 'believer'."  And she says this last word in a tone 
reserved for the ridiculously demented, which would be 
referring to him, he presumes.  She presses her lips to his 
ear.  She's still got the touch thing going on.  He wonders 
if she'll ever stop needing to touch him.  He doesn't mind 
that she does.  He likes it.  "He's a nice guy, Mulder.  I 
went to him while you were gone.  It helped."

He thinks that the guy has his work cut out for him because 
already he doesn't like him.

"Don't worry," she whispers, tickling his ear with her 
lips.  "He's very old and very bald."

This titillates him, to have Scully whispering platitudes 
to his own human infallibility into his ear.  

He's not ready to work yet.  But he will be.  Soon.  He 
still has a job.  But he also knows the looks he's going to 
get in the bureau hallways and he'd just as soon wait a 
little while longer for those, thank you very much.

He's been returned to a family.  This fact is still taken 
out and mulled over with a touch of disbelief.  He has a 
partner who is now his lover and so much more than that.  
They have a daughter.  He marvels at all of this.  At the 
impossible miracle of it.  At Scully's willingness to share 
her own and Samantha's life so completely.  At how 
accommodating she is at including him into this strange 
and extraordinary new world of hers.  

What he has now is better than anything he ever had before.

So he pauses, often, to wonder if he's still only dreaming.  
He starts going to Scully's therapist because he figures no 
one would dream about something as boring as that.

And he starts reaching out and touching Scully more, just 
to reassure himself that she's there.

He believes, finally, in love.

After all, the proof is right here, within his simple 
grasping of Scully and the return strength of her enduring 
hold on him.  He trusts her not to let go.  He thinks he's 
making it back into his life with her help.  

And though this world of his will never be a perfect one, 
he knows now that there is beauty to be found even in 
the imperfection of the human condition.  That there is 
redemption possible even within the limits of our own 
biology.

And he thinks he might be truly living, for the very first 
time in his life.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE END


AUTHOR'S NOTES:
I beg of you, feedback?  This one is dear to my heart.  

After all the wrenching emotion of reading fic after draining
fic of Scully, alone, I needed to bring Mulder back for her.
<mops keyboard>  There is enough loneliness in this world.  

My eternal gratitude to Meredith, again.  You know why.
And please post soon!

I also convey sincere apologies about my choice of baby 
name <g>.  I swear, I mulled this over long and carefully 
and despite the unpalatable predictability of calling her 
one of the 'top five most likely names', any other that I 
tried was slightly repugnant to me.  I've just barely 
gained a handle on this 'babyfic' thing (and am losing it as 
I write this) and cute or schmoopy baby names are quite 
beyond my ability to stomach.  For a bit, I even considered 
something outrageous like 'Mbwana' or 'Kitten', but this is 
a rather serious story and I didn't want you all laughing 
uproariously during the reading (though some of you may 
have regardless).  Anyway, I'll take the cringes and the 
'oh no's!' over the choice of 'Samantha' but no flames, 
please... ;) Lastly, I'll also confess that I find something 
rather healing about the possibility of that name for this child 
(who, no doubt, CC may never bring to fruition anyway...)

Thank you for reading!  :)