Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999 14:27:15 EST
Subject: REV: Don't Be Afraid to Close Your Eyes - Side B
Source: revision

Category:    V
Rating:      PG-13 (some language)
Keywords:    None
Spoilers:    Emily
Summary:     Suspend disbelief.  Frohike.  Scully.   
   

Introduction to Side B:  Another experiment.  Every story has varying   
sides or different ways to present it.  This is what happens when you   
write a version that you think might not work out, and then you try   
to approach it from another angle, using different characters and   
presentation.           
 
These stories are about Scully's coping with the loss of Emily. 
 
Side A is a more 'traditional' XF fanfic.  Side B is a bit different.    
<g> More notes follow the story. 
            
 
 
Don't Be Afraid to Close Your Eyes - Side B 
by Martha 
marthalgm@yahoo.com
 
January 17, 1998 
Lone Gunmen Headquarters 
2:03 am 
 
Well, this was certainly one of the quieter parties that I've ever   
thrown, but with all the blow-ups we've had over the past couple of   
weeks, a relatively tame celebration was called for.  We decided to   
have a belated New Year's Eve party since we all missed it the first   
go around.  With confetti, champagne, the countdown, the works.  Just   
me, Langly, and Byers.  And Mulder and Scully.  And their friend   
Danny from the office.  And Becca and some girl lawyer friend.  I   
think that Becca was trying to fix her up with someone, and Mulder   
and Danny sort of monopolized her time.  No matter;  it's not like I   
wouldn't be considered dead-last in a beauty pageant with the rest of   
these guys. 
 
I come out of the bathroom, and I'm hearing sounds like someone is   
trying to clean up the party mess.  I round the corner, and there   
stands Agent Scully with a trash bag in one hand and several empty   
cans of Pepsi in the other.   
 
"Scully, I thought that you left with everyone else." 
 
"Well, it just looked like you could use a hand cleaning up."  She   
flashed me that smile that I first caught a glimpse of when Mulder   
initially brought her here several years back.  "I don't have to work   
tomorrow so . . ." 
 
She continues to roam the offices, picking up the empty soda cans and   
the loose kernels of popcorn that were thrown at the TV while we were   
watching "Independence Day".  Gather a room full of techno-geeks, FBI   
agents who know weaponry and the latest alien theories, lawyers, and   
all-around movie buffs with a pseudo sci fi film and let the MST3King   
begin.  And we still missed some really good lines because we were   
rolling on the floor so much. 
 
But Scully had been quiet this evening.  I'm not surprised.  What   
with the cancer and the remission and the Emily situation, she should   
be in some padded cell by now.  I know that I could be.  I'm   
wondering if it's too late to make my New Years wish to be that   
Scully finally gets what she wants and begins to realize some true   
happiness in her life.  Maybe I should give Mulder a few slaps upside   
the head - it has always been quite clear to the rest of us that the   
two should end up together.   
 
"Scully, it's getting late.  You should really head on home."  I find   
her coat that has been draped across the back of one of the chairs.    
"Come on, I'll walk you to your car." 
 
Half-teasingly, she added, "You know, Frohike, I never did get a kiss   
from you at midnight." 
 
I was hoping that she hadn't noticed.  I deliberately allowed Becca   
to fuss over me to avoid that awkward moment.  Scully had gotten a   
very tender hug from Mulder, but we were all waiting for him to take   
it one step further.  The idiot didn't.  She then went on to Byers   
who did peck her cheek, after his lip-lock with Becca.  Scully even   
got a bear hug from Langly.  But me . . .  No, I simply didn't trust   
myself in this company.  Or with her.   
 
I watch her walk over towards me, and I have to concentrate on my   
breathing just so I don't start breaking out in hives.  She gives me   
this little smile, a sweet small smile like she knows some dark   
secret and is just about to tell me when . .  
 
She puts a hand on my shoulder and leans in, as if to kiss my cheek.    
But I am not prepared for this kiss on the lips.   
 
I swear that the world just did a double-spin on its axis.  All of a   
sudden, my eyes hurt, my breathing stops, and my toes curl.  Cliché,   
I know, but it's all true.   
 
I can't believe that she is still standing in front of me, as if   
waiting for more.  And I can't believe that I'm even thinking of   
carrying it any further.  A full, rich fantasy life is one thing, but   
if Mulder or the guys should find out about this, I'm dead.  Or worse   
yet, if I have made the wrong interpretation, Scully will do away   
with me quickly enough.  But she is still standing in front of me,   
staring at me with those goddamn gorgeous eyes.  They are not full of   
pity or sadness, but rather they seem tired.  Her hand moves from my   
shoulder to the back of my neck, and I can feel her try to pull me   
towards her.  My first instinct is to fall into those lips, and I   
follow willingly, until I realize that this is Special Agent Dana   
Scully of the FBI and that I am only Melvin Frohike, whose ego will   
allow for the possibility of this moment but whose conscience can not   
accept this gesture.  I keep looking into those eyes, and I keep   
waiting for her to realize just who she is with, but she seems   
determined to believe that I am someone else.  I can't do this - I   
just can't.   
 
Screw this; of course I can.   
 
I take the gift that has been presented before me.  Her other arm   
encircles my neck, and I wrap my arms around her.  Damn, she's tiny.    
I grope from her back to the side of her waist and can not feel an   
extra ounce of flesh.  The cancer, which once ravaged her body, may   
have gone into remission but this woman needs to eat more.  Nothing   
wrong with those breasts though.  She arches her back some and   
presses into my chest, and I am just hanging on for dear life.   
 
Scully is the first to withdraw from this tongue-tango and the   
crystallizing blue of those staring eyes is leading me to believe   
that she has finally come to her senses - until I hear those words   
from her mouth that before were only spoken in some dark mirage, "Is   
there somewhere a bit more private in this place?" 
 
I must have imagined this - she didn't say that.  Oh, but she did.    
And my mind races to that small room in the back where, on occasion,   
one or more of the guys have bunked out, but there is no way that I   
would subject Dana Scully to those surroundings.  She deserves   
better, and if by some chance things go wrong, I would rather not   
have to walk back in here for the rest of my life regretting what   
almost would have been.   "Not really," I find myself saying, "let me   
take you somewhere nice." 
 
I find my jacket and help her with her coat.  What is running through   
this woman's mind?  And what the *hell* am I doing encouraging her?   
 
There is no way that I am taking her back to my place.  I should just   
drive her straight home and leave and then make my own way back to   
DC.  She'll come to her senses soon enough or see the absurdity in   
this.  Or maybe I'll chicken out before then, pull off on the side of   
the road, say 'good night' and get the hell out of there.  I'd freeze   
my butt and other certain parts of my anatomy getting back home, but   
it would be no less than what I deserve for even thinking to this   
point. 
 
I walk her to her car and ask for her keys.  The drive is silent.    
After about ten minutes on the road, I take the Annapolis exit from   
the Beltway.  She turns halfway to me and begins a 'how did you know'   
train of thought and then stops.  'Of course he knows where I live,'   
she continues;  'he's been there before.'  And now I am even *more*   
determined not to intrude on what I vaguely remember as a decent   
night spent reminiscing about a possibly dead friend.   
 
I eye the upcoming exit signs, looking for one with an offer of   
refuge to wait for a ride home, when she makes the following   
suggestion, "There are several motels at the next exit."  My stomach   
just started doing the macarena.  I know it did.  How much longer do   
we continue with this before one of us wises up and backs out? 
       
I pull up to a motel just off of the main road and park in front of   
the office.  Scully undoes her seatbelt before I can turn off the   
engine.  "I'll get the room," she says as she slides out the door.    
"My treat." 
 
Her treat?!?  Who the fuck is she kidding - *her* treat indeed.   
 
I can see her signing in.  She's paying with cash.  Smart girl.  No   
credit card receipts, no reminders at the end of the month when you   
get your bill and look at it and go, "Where was I?  Oh, yeah, the   
night I screwed Frohike.  Whatever.  What was I thinking?"   
 
She is smiling as the glass door closes behind her, and she is   
showing off the key on her way back to the car.  "Two Twenty Three,"   
she remarks as she effortlessly slides back inside the car, "my   
birthday."  Luck?  Fate?  Who fucking cares at this point?  I follow   
the room signs and park near the back of the building, next to the   
staircase. 
 
I enter the room after her and turn to close and secure the door.  By   
the time I turn around, she has already shed her coat and her shoes   
and is walking my way.  I barely have time to shrug off my jacket   
when she is all over me like back in the offices.   
 
I should have just stopped thinking at this point.  I should have   
allowed what passes between a man and a woman to continue and   
progress to that climatic point.  Lord knows that I was halfway there   
already.  But I still do not understand why this is happening, and I   
am stupid enough to believe that, with this woman, it makes a   
difference. 
 
I pull back from her embrace.  "Scully . . ." I begin. 
 
She does not let me finish.  "Don't you think you can start calling   
me 'Dana'?" as she lays her head on my shoulder. 
 
Something inside of me hears that silent desperate alarm in her   
voice, and now every part of me, even my voice, has tensed.  "Agent 
Scully . . ." 
 
She lifts her head slowly from my shoulder and meets my inquiring   
gaze.  Her eyes - those tranquil blue ponds - register nothing at   
first.  I notice the unfocused vision, the blankness of the   
refraction.  Then, within seconds, her eyes slowly sharpen with the   
realization of who I am and where she is and what we were about to   
do.  A sharp intake of breath is followed by her withdrawal from my   
arms.  She backs away from me, crossing the room until her shins make   
contact with the bed where her knees buckle, and  she awkwardly sits   
down.      
 
OK, why do I feel like shit right about now? 
 
I've had worse rejections.  This time, at least, there is no   
audience.  I just don't remember that hand-squeezing-my-heart-   
until-it-bursts feeling before.  Then an even more terrifying thought   
crosses my mind:  I'm dead.  D. E. A. D.  Whether it's Mulder   
extracting revenge or Scully wiping out a bad memory or even by my   
own hand for blowing a Class-A opportunity, I am dead meat. 
 
There is only one thing that I can do - get the hell out of here as   
fast as I can.   
 
I nearly trip over her shoes as I make my way to the door.  And I   
think, 'I can't just leave her here'.  So I pick them up and lay them   
next to her feet by the bed and turn to pick up her coat.  "Come on,   
Scully;  I'll take you home." 
 
She does not answer me;  she makes no move to put on her shoes to   
leave. 
 
"Scully, I'll drive you home, get out of the car, and start walking.    
I promise.  I swear on Mulder's videotape collection that that is   
what I'll do."     
 
Did she have to start crying?  I mean, really.  Is there anything   
more helpless than a crying female?  Well, other than a guy who   
doesn't understand why said female is crying in the first place?  So   
I did the only thing that a regular guy under these circumstances   
would do - I went to the bathroom and picked up the kleenex box and   
brought it back to her.   
 
The crying jag ended almost as quickly as it had begun.  Scully   
apparently had been at this for a while - she must have been crying   
for two weeks straight and had little tears left in her.  She tried 
to be apologetic.  "I haven't been sleeping that well lately." 
 
Was that an explanation or an excuse?  But it made sense.  "Sleep 
deprivation studies do show that the test subjects will hallucinate 
or alter their personalities . . ." 
 
"Oh, Frohike.  I'm sorry about that.  About earlier, I mean.  I . . .    
I don't know. I bet you thought you died and went to heaven." 
 
"Well, I don't know about that dying part . . ."  A smile made a   
quick appearance on her face, only to be replaced by a pursing of her   
lips as if to stave off another loss of composure.  "Can't you get a   
prescription for yourself, to help you sleep if you're having so much   
trouble?" 
 
"It's not a question of trying to sleep.  It's just . . . I don't   
want to . . .  Every time I close my eyes, I see Emily . . ." 
 
And every time I close mine, I see you.  "Have you told anyone about   
this?  Your mother?  Mulder?" 
 
Scully shook her head and quietly shrugged her shoulders.   
 
I sat down on the opposite edge of the bed.  "What do you see?" 
 
"That last day.  Her last hour.  She was so small in that bed.  She'd   
gone into a coma a few hours before the end.  It was . . .   It was   
almost a relief that it was about to be over.  She'd been so sick and   
so scared.  Once, just before she lapsed, she called out for her   
mother.  I stood there paralyzed.  I wanted to answer her, to go to   
her, but I wasn't . . .   I wasn't the one.  She didn't want me.    
Emily was my daughter, but I would never get to be her mother." 
 
Scully had crawled up to the top of the bed and began hugging one of   
the pillows.  She was exhausted but was still resisting sleep.  Her   
reasoning must be if she could just keep talking, she could stay awake.   
 
"I couldn't even tell her how I felt about her.  It wasn't until the   
end . . .  Right before, I crawled into bed with her.  I got to hold   
her without thinking that she would push me away.  It would be my   
only chance to hold her like that, like she was my own.  Really my   
own." 
 
She drew in the pillow closer to her chest, rested her chin on it,   
and continued.  "You . . . Mulder would never understand.  It's not   
*quite* the same with men, I don't think.  About children, that is.    
And my mother.  She's so happy for Bill and Tara and for the baby.  I   
just couldn't drop all of this on her right now." 
 
"She doesn't know about your ovum . . ." 
 
Her head snapped up, and I faced two blue-blazoned lightning bolts.    
It didn't take Dr. Scully five seconds to realize that I had just   
opened my big fat mouth after swearing to Mulder on the promise of   
access to his subscription to 'Celebrity Skin' that I would never,   
ever, allow her to know that I knew about her barrenness.   
 
"She knows about the 'not having kids' part and about Emily being   
mine but not about the not-sleeping."  She sighed and asked, "So, how   
long have *you* known?" 
 
"Only a few days."  I am such a sorry bastard.  "Mulder asked me to   
keep a lookout on some things.  The others don't know, Scully, and   
with something so personal, I'm somewhat reluctant to tell them.    
Especially Byers.  He . . ."  I could not continue;  I knew exactly   
how he would react.              
 
Scully nodded in agreement.  Apparently, she had been told of the   
wife and child.  "I guess I shouldn't presume.  You don't have any   
children, do you, Frohike?" 
 
The only reply that I can think of is that standard guy's line, "None   
that I know of."  But there was a time . . .   
 
. . . when I faced the reality of the possibility.  And with sadness   
and some relief, I would never know.  Had I been cheated out of a   
path of an ordinary existence?  Or simply rescued for another   
purpose?   
 
My plight was insignificant compared to Scully's.  Hers involved a   
tangible child, who played and skipped and laughed and died in her   
arms.  Her three-week roller coaster ride of discovery, shock,   
compassion, anger, sorrow, and the current bereavement had now led to   
a fear of closure, as if by dealing with her fears, she would lose   
Emily all over again.   
 
She was fighting it, struggling against the sleep that she so   
desperately needed but refusing to completely surrender.  She   
clutched the pillow tighter, shivering, and began to draw the bed's   
comforter up around her.   
 
I remembered seeing some blankets in the overhead racks in the   
bathroom and went to retrieve them.  By the time I returned to the   
room, Scully had slipped down in the middle of the bed and was barely   
conscious.  I unfolded one of the blankets and gently laid it on top   
of her, pulling it up to cover her shoulders.   
 
I wrapped myself up in the remaining blanket and settled into the   
chair across the room.  Thankfully, it was a recliner.  I stare back   
at the bed and at the delicate form occupying it.   
 
Don't be afraid to close your eyes, Scully.  Close them and dream.    
Remember her.  Remember Emily.  For it is within our dreams that we   
are happiest.           
 
end 
 
******************************************* 
 
Sections of this started out as an entry to the Messenger/Time/Tercet   
Universe *before* giz submitted her "Auld Langly Syne" to the series   
(damn that woman's perfection).  <g>  So, because I hate to throw   
anything away (and if you have seen my house, like giz has, then you   
would understand this), it sat, biding its time till I could use it   
some other way.   
        
The title is shamelessly stolen from a line in "Like We've Never Had   
a Broken Heart", recorded by Tricia Yearwood and written by Pat Alger   
and Garth Brooks.  The song has *absolutely* nothing to do with this   
story, but it was a line that just begged to be used in fanfic. 
 
The stories in the Messenger/Time/Tercet Universe are brazenly   
archived by the FLO because, apparently, they have completely lost   
their minds. 
 
http://www.frohike.org/images/ParanoidOnes.htm