Reaching Author: Gatorgurl Rating: PG Keywords: D/Sc Archive: SHODDS, OBSDS, XFMU sites okay. Everyone else please ask. Category: Story Spoilers: None really, sequel to "Timing", is set in that universe (Early season 8 then AU, I suppose) Feedback: Please at gatorgurl94@yahoo.com Disclaimer: Whatever. Not mine. Property of FOX and Chris Carter. Author's notes: Thanks go out to Maximana for her wonderful beta. I gather what few personal belongings I have, settle them neatly into the small box I brought from home. I can feel him watching me; can feel his regret bore down on me like a weight. I know he doesn't believe me when I say this is just maternity leave, a temporary leave of absence. I pull out the bag of toiletries I have kept on hand for the past seven years and consider how useful it has proven before dumping it into the box. I am about to slide the drawer shut when I notice it. His nameplate glares angrily at me from the bottom of the drawer. I suppose it deserves better. I pick it up; consider taking it with me, but end up setting it back down. There should always be a piece of Fox Mulder here. I ease the drawer back, feeling like I am closing a door, sensing there is no window opening in its place. He's gone back to work, or something that resembles it. I can tell by the hushed shuffling of paper that he's waiting for goodbye. I move to his side, the cardboard box nestled awkwardly at my side. He stands. "Thank you." I extend my hand. "For everything." We shake hands like strangers trying to give a good impression, each squeezing too hard. He doesn't look at me and I try not to look at him. We watch each other's shoulders, our handshake becoming embarrassingly long. Finally, I pull my hand away. "Good-bye, Agent Doggett." "Good-bye, Agent Scully." This is where I am supposed to make my exit, yet my feet feel rooted to the ground. I am not prepared, though I thought would be. The moment has arrived, yet I find myself unable to surrender. How can I abandon what I have spent so many years helping to create? My body is heavy, the gravity of this place demanding I remain. I close my eyes, knowing I have to turn my back on the past. I take a deep breath, chance a long look at the basement, finally ending my inspection on Doggett's perplexed face. He regards me curiously. "Is there something wrong, Agent Scully?" I shake my head, fiddling with the placement of my box. I look away from him, my eyes settling on the silver buckle of his belt. It is time to go, Dana. The flap of his jacket swishes back as he slips his hand into his pocket. The box is inexplicably heavy. I adjust it once more, shifting it onto my other hip. The room is suddenly small, the air dense and stale. I feel its energy all around me, its pull imploring me to remain. "Dana." His hand rests on my shoulder, slides down my arm to my fingertips. His touch is light and cool. He takes the tips of my fingers in his hand. I quickly pull away. I drive, not knowing how I made it to the car. Not knowing how I managed to pull away from him. Not understanding why I needed to in the first place. I drive carelessly, drunk with emotion and the lack of midday traffic, concerned with nothing more than arriving at my only refuge, the only place that is truly my own. I shut the door of my apartment, leaning against it as if I can keep the world out. I suck in heaping gulps of air. I press my body against the hard wood. I struggle to catch my breath, my gulps growing deeper and deeper until I'm not just swallowing air, but also swallowing tears. I lie in bed, propped up by a bevy of pillows, feeling stranded on an island of down. I shift onto my side, then my back, stretch my arms and legs, but there is no comfort. I tug my hair into a haphazard ponytail; breathe in deep. Push down into the pillows. Nothing seems to please. I close my eyes and try to sleep. Only to be kept awake by the silence of my empty home. It magnifies every sound; suddenly there is danger everywhere. I flick the bedroom light on and drag myself out of bed. I waddle through my apartment, checking windows, locking doors. I should have invested more in people, in my family and friends (what friends?). I could use someone to talk to now. I never noticed before, how utterly alone I am in all of this. I suppose John is to blame for that. Before him, I didn't need anyone. I had a crusade; I was happy keeping company with Mulder's ghost. I guarded my grief selfishly, used it as my shield to keep everyone at bay. I didn't need allies; I only needed answers. I didn't care who I hurt. He had to change that with his thoughtfulness, his loyalty, and his empathy. For all my complaint, I enjoyed his company, enjoyed being with him, engulfed in his confidence, buoyed up by his strength, his will. It is nice to have someone to share the details with, someone who understands where you are coming from, where you've been. Someone willing to follow you wherever it is you might be going. I never realized how it would feel to have someone carry me for a change. It meant more to me than I was ever able to show him, more than I was ever able to admit to myself. I walk past the mantle clock. It's late now, nearly three am. I rub my belly; it's too late to be awake,too late for so many things. I make my way to bed. I double check the windows one more time, relock all the doors, peek into all the corners. I leave every light burning just in case. I slip into my bedroom, throw the deadbolt I had installed. I've spent years fortifying my heart, why not my home? I crawl into bed, settle into my pile of pillows. I only recline; I can't even lie down. I never realized how much I would miss the simple act of lying down. I pluck a book from my nightstand and try to lose myself in it, but the baby is restless. Maybe, it senses my discomfort, my longing. I wonder if the baby misses John. Misses his voice, his presence as much as I do. I can confess how much I miss him now…now that there is no one to confess it to. Mother is abuzz with enthusiasm, perfectly aglow with the prospect of helping me through this. She walks ahead of me, plucking yet another baby sleeper from the rack. Blue's Clues, she laughs. Blue whom? I smile and nod. No use trying to understand. She plops it into the cart. I push the cart slowly behind her. I watch the other shoppers, making eye contact with another pregnant woman. She smiles kindly; we are all part of the same club. This motherhood thing is strange. Not at all how I envisioned it would be. Not that a woman like me is supposed to fantasize about something so suburban, so mundane. In my version of events, there was no doubt and no fear. Motherhood was a choice made on my terms, approached in the manner with which everything else in my life had been so far: thoughtfully, thoroughly, and objectively. In my ersion, I was whole and secure, complete. Even if was alone, it would be enough not just for myself but for my baby as well. So much for best-laid plans, in this most important task, I failed myself completely. I let my emotion, get the better of me. Convinced myself I needed this, this was my last chance. I ignored the reality of my situation, the complexity of my own life. I plunged into the process without thought to the future. As with everything in my personal life, I made poor choices and irrational decisions, turned my back the one man who might have saved me from myself. I press my hand to my belly. How could I have been so selfish, so short sighted? How could I choose this life of fear and doubt for my child? How I could I bring him into this fight knowing our odds? I stand in the crowded aisle at Babies R Us, my mother hovering over me with yet another baby blanket, couples, grandparents, children bustling past us, and realize I have no one to blame but myself for my fear, my doubt, and my loneliness. I have been a fool. The baby kicks. I can feel him, swimming inside me. I caress my belly; coo soothing words to my unborn baby. I try to ignore the questions, knowing I will never really know the answers. I made sure of that by pretending I could afford to trust that mine was a pregnancy like any other. I will ever know with any certainty if the forces that conspired against us for so long intervened in this pregnancy. I will never know if this child is truly my own. I stare at the pile of baby items littering my floor. There is so much to do. It is getting late. How much more can I procrastinate? How much longer can I tamp down my fears? Soon, I will have to face the reality of my situation. I close my eyes, tears trickling down my face. There is so much more to be done. So much more I will have to face, alone. I touch my stomach, whispering my baby's name. He responds, somersaulting in my womb, his feet tickling my ribs. I can't help but smile, wonder and glee well up in my heart. I glance about my empty bedroom, wishing I could share the moment. It's only then that I realize how much I miss having a confidant. I slide down into the pile of pillows. I think about John. He had a confidence only experience brings. He had traveled this road already. Held his wife's hand in the delivery room, changed diapers, baby proofed his home, watched first steps, firsts of all kinds. He knew how to reassure me, how to assuage my fears. He gave me all the support I needed; he understood the miracle. I could hear it in his voice, whenever he dared speak of his son. He knew the joy, understood the responsibility, the pain. He had cried over his son when he was born. Later, he cried over his grave. I think back to all of the thoughtless comments I ever made, the way I flaunted the importance of my child and am consumed with remorse. The baby squirms inside me. I press my hand to my stomach, wipe my face with the sleeve of my pajamas. I think of Mulder, more than likely the father of this baby, however irresponsible of me that might be. Seven years chasing ghosts, battling the odds together, why did he go? Why not stay and fight this battle with me? Didn't he realize the price I'd have to pay? The baby swims inside me, his body pressing against my ribs. Maybe I am fooling myself. What is it really I'm holding onto? Why pretend what we had was more than it was? He's gone. Left of his own free will, as he was often apt to do. I should have never expected there to be more. After seven years and a lukewarm one- night stand, I should have known better. I take a deep breath, fighting back more tears. I did know better; I just didn't want to believe. The tears keep falling, faster and with more bitterness as I realize that John would never have left me. He would never have deserted me when I needed him most, abandoning the tangible in search of something abstract. The baby kicks against my hand. Is it trying to reassure me? I rub my belly. The tears eventually ease. The baby’s kicking slows. I hum a tune; it stills. I cook breakfast for us, my mother and I. I know I'm not doing a very good job of it. They say practice makes perfect. I suppose from now on I will have plenty of time to practice. I plop runny scrambled eggs onto her plate. She smiles courteously. "They look wonderful, Dana." I toss her a dirty look as I hunker down into my chair. "Not much longer," she laughs. "I certainly hope not." I stab at my eggs irritably. It's humiliating. Why do they try and pretend it's not? The doctor probes inside me; I swallow my complaint, my discomfort. After some moments, I feel her hand vanish, hear the familiar slap of latex being pried off. "Everything looks fine, Dana." Does it? She must see the skepticism in my eyes. "Your baby is perfectly normal, Dana." She touches me with her cold hand. This is all wrong. This is not how it is supposed to be. "What's wrong, honey? Did everything go all right?" She asks, quickly glancing at me. I stare out the window. "Keep your eyes on the road, Mom." "Dana..." "Everything is normal, on schedule. Everything is just perfect." "Honey..." "What?" I snap. "What do you want to hear?" "I'm only trying to help." She stumbles over the words. I feel small for having hurt her, for having lashed out at her. I lean back into the seat; watch shadows dance across the dashboard. My anger has nothing to do with her. "Dana." Mom grabs my wrist, her voice full of worry. I unclench my fists slowly. My fingernails are bloody. It takes all of my powers of persuasion, as crude as they are these days, to convince her to go. I all but push her out the door. I can't stand her concerned gaze on me, her careful words and forced smiles. Maybe it's hormonal. I don't know, but I just can't deal with her. Her worry is too consuming, her need for reassurance too great. How can I reassure her of anything when I am sure of absolutely nothing? He sounds reluctant, but I know he will come. It is not his nature to be cruel or unreliable. I lean against the wall with the phone cradled to my chest until the automatic operator stops advising me to hang up and dial again. "What's wrong, Agent Scully?" He says as soon I open the door. "Don't," I admonish him, sniffling. "Don't do that." He stands in my doorway, confused. I step back, gesture for him to come inside. He nods, stepping past me. I close the door behind me. He stands beside the coffee table, obviously uncomfortable, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat, waiting. I reprimand myself again for having behaved so stupidly, for having let my ego and my pride get in the way of what I knew was right. What I had known was right from the first time he held me. "So, what is this about?" I ease awkwardly into the couch. I hate that I have no grace. If anything, that is what this situation requires. He waits as I adjust pillows behind me. "I wanted to talk to you." I tell him, shoving the last pillow beneath me. "Agent Scully..." "Don't." He regards me with curious, wounded eyes. "Please don't pretend. I need you to not pretend." I can see he is offended, hurt. He never pretended; I was the one in always in denial. "I should go," he says, gesturing towards the door his hand still in his pocket. "I was wrong," I blurt out as he starts for the door. "What?" He is clearly taken aback. What more I can say? Shouldn't that be enough? Do I really have to explain it? "I was wrong...about everything." He turns to face me, but doesn't stray far from the door. He shakes his head, a sad smile flitting across his lips. "I don't want to play this game with you. I won't be your consolation prize." "That isn't what this is." "It is what it will always be to me." "I didn't realize you thought so little of me." I want to stand to turn away from him, but can't. Sometimes there is no dignity in being a woman. Beached on my sofa, trapped under his gaze, I struggle not to let emotion get the better of me. "That isn't fair." He protests. "No, I suppose it isn't. What does fairness have to do with anything anyway?" He frowns, all of the anger and frustration evaporating from his face replaced by something that looks to close to pity. "Don't be bitter. It doesn't suit you." He waits for me to say more. I reward him with a long silence. He starts for the door again. I can see he means to go. It isn’t a bluff or a power play. Nothing with him ever is. "Wait. This isn't how I wanted it to be." I sigh. "What do you want, Dana?" There it is again. I hear it. Pity? Resignation? Is that who I have become? I rub a spot of dirt on the arm of my couch. What do I want? Why did I call him? Why did I drag him here? Am I just settling? Grabbing what is closest to me out of fear? Or am I reaching out for something more? Something beyond the narrow life I've constructed for myself? Casting aside the prejudices of my past in order to have a future? "Dana?" He sounds so tired. He takes a deep breath; runs his hands through his hair. “It’s really late and…” "I was afraid," I blurt out before he can say anything more. He is surprised, but it’s still clear he needs something more. I swallow the ball of barbed wire in my throat, not knowing how I will find the words. I blink back tears; attempt to hide them by covering my eyes with my hand. I feel like I am drowning in a sea of emotion. Didn’t my father always say to never swim out too far into unfamiliar waters? I suck in a sob. The words are not coming. I am sinking deeper. It seems nothing can keep me afloat. Then suddenly, he is beside me, his warm hand covering mine. “I don’t want to have to do this,” he says quietly. “But I have to know.” I take one last deep breath, gathering all my strength. This is it. It’s time to stop drifting. This is the final sprint to something solid, to something real. "I was afraid,” I stumble over the words. How can I say what I need to? His touch disappears; I am forced to look at him. He wipes my cheek with his thumb. “Hey,” he smiles, “It’s just me.” And just like that, I am free. “I was afraid of what acknowledging my feelings for you meant. Afraid of letting Mulder go, afraid of hoping for more-afraid of maybe getting it." He regards me softly, acknowledging my admission with a slight squeeze of my hand then stands and moves to the door. Cold sweat begins to bead along my hairline. He's leaving. Panic swells up inside me. It’s not as if I haven’t given him a million reasons to walk away. “John?” Instead, he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the coat rack, pulls his wallet out from his back pocket, and removes his weapon from its holster. He sets them both on the coffee table. "What are you doing?" "It’s late." “I don’t understand…” He undoes his tie, pulls it free. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “Don’t you?” I can’t tamp down my smile because I think maybe I finally do. I understand that he has always known what I was not willing to admit, that the past is past and he that he won’t hold it against me. I finally understand that the only truths that really matters are the truths you find in your own heart. I manage to stand, though not without something of a struggle, and go to him. I caress his face, my hands sliding down his neck to the top button of his shirt. “I suppose I do.” He offers me his hand and this time I take it.