From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 12 Apr 2001 07:40:32 -0000
Subject: Finding Hope in A Decaying World by vampyregirlie
Source: direct

Reply To: vampyregirlie@aol.com


Title: Finding Hope in A Decaying World
Author: vampyregirlie (aka Kari)
Rated: G or PG--depending on your sensibility
Feedback: Would greatly appreciate it. Please send to:
vampyregirlie@aol.com
Archive:  Anywhere please, just let me know.
Timeline: Post-"Three Words"
Category: MSR
Spoilers: "One Breath" story arc, itsy-bitsy one for
"Pilot" & season 7 opener, & all season 8 myth-arc eps
up through "Three Words"
Disclaimer:  Mulder, Scully, et cetera, belong to
Chris Carter & Co., 1013 Productions, Twentieth
Century Fox, et cetera, et cetera.  Please don't sue. 
I'm making absolutely no money off of this.  I'm
simply a bored and obsessive chronic insomniac, and a
die-hard 'shipper with an over-active imagination, a
lot of time on my hands, and a love of writing.  My
muse made me do it. 
Author's note:  This takes place post- "Three Words." 
Up through this episode, Mulder has no reason to
suspect that Scully's baby isn't his, so I'm writing
this under the assumption that Mulder just assumes
that the in vitro worked after all.  If you disagree,
kill me.
Summary:  Just a little post-eppie sumthin-sumthin to
keep me (and you) satisfied until next week's episode. 
Nothin' but fluff, and maybe it shines a little light
on Mulder's jerk-like attitude in "Three Words."  And
maybe it'll satisfy some of you 'shippers out there,
like me, who were disappointed by the lack of
'shippiness in "Three Words."

*  *  *

Finding Hope in A Decaying World
by vampyregirlie (aka Kari)

His uneasy sleep is haunted with ghosts of a
not-so-distant past.  He rolls over awkwardly on the
leather of the old couch, now sticky with cold sweat. 
In his troubled dreams, he sees light glaring in his
soar eyes.

His body aches.  His joints are stiff, and his limbs
frozen.  He cries out for the one person who can save
him.  Scully.  His Scully.  But his voice seems to
fade into the darkness, becoming lost in the hollow
void of his pain.

He fades in and out, waking to sudden throbs of
searing pain; the kind of pain that cripples, sending
your mind plummeting into blackness in a desperate
attempt at escape.  And then--nothing.

Darkness.  Deafening, blinding darkness.  The
unconscious sensation of floating in a dark void,
asleep yet in a state of perpetual consciousness. 
Terrifying images of countless shows about being
buried alive play through his eidetic memory, like bad
reruns on the Sci-Fi Channel late at night.  "The
Twilight Zone," "Tales from the Crypt," "Ripley's
Believe It Or Not," a story he read years ago by Edgar
Alan Poe.  In his mind, being buried alive was almost
worse than being burned alive.

He feels paralyzed.  He feels as if an invisible
weight is being settled upon his chest, smothering
him.  He's suffocating!  Scully, help me!

He awakes suddenly to the sound of his own voice.  He
rubs his face sleepily like a child, red-rimmed and
blood-shot eyes focusing on the reddish glow of his
fish tank.  He's in his darkened apartment, alone and
afraid.  Scully isn't rushing to his side, pushing a
glass of water to his parched lips, offering comfort
in the form of soothing words and gentle touches.  He
longs for her, needs her like he needs air, like he
needed her when he was strapped to that metal table .
. . naked, tortured, every shred of dignity stripped
from him as he held on to the one memory that could
bring him comfort, the one thing they couldn't take
away from him.

Fox Mulder shivered in the dark, his eyes focusing on
the prints framed neatly on his walls, dimly lit by
the fish tank and the glow of the halogen street lamp
outside his single window.  After bringing him home a
couple of days ago, Scully had opened the blinds to
allow the sunlight in.  Fresh sunlight, plenty of
rest, and nutritious foods was Dr. Scully's
prescription.

"If you're up to it, we can go to the park next
Sunday, have a picnic, just you and me . . ." 

He had nodded listlessly, sensing her desperation to
coax some sort of sign of emotion from him, but him
incapable of humoring her.  He could not respond to
her forced cheerfulness.  He had bit his tongue to
keep a sarcastic remark from slipping, something
bitter like, "Sure, there's certainly no chance of
getting abducted by aliens in the park . . ." or  "Who
cares that invasion could begin any day now?  Let's go
to the park!"

Mulder's eyes drifted over the coffee table, which had
recently been polished, his desk that was
enigmatically organized, and papers filed away.  Below
his VCR, those tapes that weren't his were re-wound
and alphabetized neatly.

As he stood up on shaky legs, it occurred to him for
the first time since coming home a week ago that he
shouldn't have an apartment at all after being dead
for so long.  Scully must have kept up with the rent,
he realized as he pulled a spotless glass out of the
recently organized cabinet, filling it to the brim
with cool tap water.

He downed the glass and sat it carelessly in the
scrubbed sink.

His indifference and insensitivity towards Scully the
last few days plagued his tired mind.

How much time had she spent in his apartment when he
was gone?  Mourning for him?  He had a clear mental
picture of her in his mind, curled up in his bed, her
red hair mussed, her tears soaking into his pillow
case as she cried for him, clutching desperately at
his sheets or one of his baseball shirts.  Maybe she's
even wearing his favorite flannel pajama bottoms and
gray tee-shirt.

Then he could picture her in faded sweats, her hair
pulled back in a little ponytail, lovely freckles
showing, down on her hands and knees scrubbing his
nasty bathroom floor.  When cleaning his closet, had
she found a box of photos and cried?  Had she wept
before hesitantly taking his good suits to the dry
cleaners, wanting instead to allow the last remnants
of the scent of his cologne and skin to linger on the
expensive fabric for just a little longer?  How many
nights had she spent in his bed, comforted by the
scent of his soap and shampoo?  How long had it taken
for her to finally give in and change the sheets?  And
most importantly, what had it been like to go through
her pregnancy alone?

These thoughts literally crippled him with guilt.

As Mulder walked back to his living room, ignoring his
bedroom, and opting instead for the habitual comfort
of his old couch, he recalled the first time Scully
had been taken away from him.  The waiting, the
hopelessness.  The inability to do anything other than
vent anger.  It had almost killed him.  Actually, he
had contemplated suicide more than once, and had
openly invited death.  But luckily, she had only been
gone for a matter of days both times.

He, on the other had, had been gone for half a year. 
And Scully had been forced to deal with a pregnancy
alone, to boot.  Thus explaining the exhaustion
written in her face--the new lines formed around her
eyes, the permanent dark circles under her eyes, all
evidence of sleepless nights of praying and mourning
and worrying, topped off with hormones and the stress
of a difficult pregnancy.

And after the initial relief of discovering him alive,
she had been forced to deal with his thoughtless
indifference.

Mulder recalled quite clearly the drive home from the
hospital after his recovery.  The ride was passed in
an awkward silence as he had stared out the window,
the world seeming a strange place to him--the same,
yet somehow surreal.  He knew that he should be happy
to be alive and healthy again, and to be with Scully,
especially after learning about her--their--miracle.

But he couldn't bring himself to feel joy, no matter
how much he knew he should, and how much his
indifference was hurting Scully.  On the ride home, he
pondered his own reaction to her pregnancy.  At the
hospital, after awakening for the second time, she had
placed her hand on top of his, and then placed his
hand on the prominent swell of her belly.

He should have felt joy.  He should have been
ecstatic.  After all, he was the one who told her to
never give up on a miracle.  Instead, as he felt the
fetus shift beneath his timid touch, he felt a strange
sense of unreality, as if he were dreaming.  And for a
moment, he had panicked, fearing that he was still
aboard the alien vessel, and that it was all a dream.

But Scully had smiled at him tenderly, assuring him
that it was not a dream.  He was real, and she was
real, and so was this baby.  If she was disappointed
or hurt by his reaction, she didn't show it.  Instead,
she kissed his forehead, squeezed his hand and told
him to get some sleep.

"Yes, ma'am, Dr. Scully," he mumbled before falling
back to sleep again.

When he awoke again, he was sure that it had all been
a dream.  But as soon as he saw Scully curled up on a
cot placed next to his bed, the swell of her very
pregnant belly was obvious beneath the protective hand
that curled instinctively above the rise and fall of
her stomach.

When they arrived at her apartment, they said nothing
as Scully helped him out of the car on shaky legs.  He
could see the conflicting emotions on her face as she
shut the door behind them--happiness that he was back
and healthy, worry over his emotional state and his
indifference to her own emotional state, the need to
take him into her arms, and the need to give him some
space.

Scully's arms twitched at her sides, wanting to feel
him in her arms once again--to once again reassure
herself that he was really standing in front of her
couch, his once-healthy skin still grayish-looking and
scarred, his hair sticking up at odd angles.  Before,
that particular boyish quality of his appearance made
her adore him.  Now it made him seem lost and confused
as he looked around oddly, as if her apartment were
alien to him.  As if he hadn't been here thousands of
times--raided her refrigerator, slept in her bed, made
love with her on the rug in front of the fireplace.

On the contrary, his once-bright eyes were haunted, as
if he were reliving a distant childhood memory.  As he
sat down, his eyes fell on her stomach.  He opened his
mouth as if to say something, but immediately fell
silent, looking past her.

His silence was hurting her, he knew, but he felt
unable to do anything about it.  He wanted to take her
in his arms and tell her that he loved her and was
happy about the baby and calm all her fears.

But after what he'd been through, he couldn't get past
the feeling of fear and dread that seemed to be
permanently in the forefront of his mind--fear that
"they" could take him back anytime they wanted.  Or
even worse, that they could snatch Scully out of this
very room.  Or worst case scenario--that his strange
sense of foreboding was correct and soon--very
soon--invasion was to begin, and no one could do
anything to stop it.  After years of fighting for the
truth on the X-Files, they were no closer to
preventing the coming apocalypse.  He wanted to be
happy about the baby, but how could he, when he knew
now that bringing a child into this doomed world was a
terrible, terrible idea?

When he agreed to father Scully's child, his reasons
were selfish.  Of course he would do anything to make
her happy, but he also wanted the Mulder blood line to
continue past himself.  After all, his entire family
were victims of this crusade, or whatever it is.

Now he knew there was no hope for humanity, and the
child in Scully's womb would be born to a decaying
world.

Suddenly a warm mug was placed in his cold, trembling
hands, and Scully sank down next to him.  Her hand
seemed to be permanently attached to his arm, as if
she were afraid that if she were to let go for too
long, he might vanish.  And maybe that fear wasn't too
inconceivable.

"I'm afraid to let you out of my sight," she said
softly, stroking his forehead as he sipped the warm,
tasteless liquid.  It soothed its way down his throat,
and the tastelessness didn't bother him all that much.

It was late afternoon, and the weather was cloudy,
making Scully sleepy.  She curled up against his side
on the couch, kicking the shoes off her swollen feet. 
He thought maybe he should do something nice, like rub
them for her.  Instead, he sat the mug on the coffee
table, leaned his head back and dozed.  Sometime later
that night, she led him to her bedroom and tucked him
in like she would a child.

She pulled his sweatshirt over his head and helped him
out of his jeans, tucking the covers up to his chin,
and kissing his forehead and lips lightly.  Secretly,
Mulder relished being mothered by Scully.  He also
secretly relished being in her bed again; being
surrounded by her scent and her warm blankets.

Mulder was already half asleep when she slipped out of
the room.

When he awoke to cold darkness, icy fear gripped his
heart.  In an irrational panic, he called to her
desperately.

Scully came running into the room, as fast as a
pregnant woman could.  She immediately brought the
glass of water on the night stand to his chapped lips,
sitting next to him while she took his temperature,
and calmed his racing heart.

After confirming that he was all right physically, she
hesitantly stood to leave, knowing that Mulder was not
ready to open up to her.  That's why she was surprised
when he said in a timid voice reminiscent of a scared
child, yet masculine in its throaty Mulder-ish charm:

"Scully . . . stay.  Please . . ."

His eyes pleaded with her, though he said nothing
more.

Although hurt by his indifference, she silently told
herself to be there for him.  She reminded herself
that he'd been through a lot, and she tried her
damnedest not to take it personally.

Yet his voice in that moment, so full of pain and
need, broke her heart.

Without further hesitation, she climbed into bed with
him, wrapping her arms around his warm chest,
comforted by the feeling of his heartbeat strong
against her breast.  When she felt the wetness of his
silent tears against her scalp, she cried too.

Her heart broke for him, and she shuddered against his
chest, telling him quietly that they'd get through
this together.

Still, Mulder said nothing else.

He didn't want to tell her that there was no hope left.

For the next two days, he sat around her apartment
with that haunted look on his face, saying very little
with the exception of a wisecrack remark, that Scully
had at one time found to be silently amusing.  She
supposed it was a defense mechanism.

Skinner came by to check on both of them, and so did
Scully's mother.  The pregnant woman and the dead man. 
It was a regular circus.  They could start charging
for admission.  Occasionally, she consulted with
Doggett on her cell phone, but made him promise not to
come by.  She had yet to tell Mulder that she had had
a new partner during his absence.  He was bound to
take the news badly, and Mulder had been through
enough for then.

Two days later, she reluctantly took him home to his
apartment, where he discovered that one of his fish
had died in his absence.  She had also tried to get
him to open up to her, but he remained indifferent. 
Even though he admitted to being happy for her about
the baby, he seemed distant and aloof, speaking as if
the child weren't his, or theirs, but simply "hers."

When Skinner came by, Mulder abruptly learned that he
wouldn't be reinstated with the FBI, and that Scully's
new partner would be in charge of the X-Files division
permanently.

The next couple of days were a blur as Mulder rushed
around with his typical single-minded obsessiveness,
determined to prove that invasion was beginning, and
that Doggett was working for "them."

As usual, his efforts didn't pay off, and the worst
part about the whole thing was seeing the pain and
tears in Scully's eyes as she told him the passcode
that he was seeking, knowing that he would rush off
and very likely get himself killed.  It had hurt her
more than he would admit, now that it was over.

As he pondered this, once again alone with his fish on
his creaky leather couch, he missed Scully.  He had
hurt her with his aloofness and indifference to her
pain.  And she thinks he doesn't care about the child.

Without further hesitation, he pulled on his clothes
from the day before, which were strewn in a trail from
the door to his couch, and slipped outside in the
middle of the night.  The cool night air felt good on
his face as he walked to his car, and for a moment, he
forgot that the world was about to come crashing down
around them.  On his way to her place, he pondered
what he'd say.  He knew that he could never truly earn
her forgiveness, but she had to know that he still
loved her.

No matter what the future had in store, their love was
a constant.

Bounding out of the car and up the steps to her
apartment, he let himself in quietly.  They never
bothered knocking anymore--they'd started letting
themselves in sometime last year after they started
making love.

He found her still awake in her bed, her laptop
struggling for room on her crowded lap.  But she
didn't seem to be making very much progress in her
report.  Instead, he could see the puffy redness in
her eyes, evidence that she'd been crying recently.

She looked up in surprise as she noticed him in her
bedroom doorway, leaning against her door frame, his
arms across his chest.  His skin was almost a healthy
color again, the scarring almost gone from his
beautiful face.

"Mulder," she said in her surprised voice.

He said nothing in reply.  Instead, he studied her
from across the room.  "When they took you away," he
began, his voice low and gravely, "it was a hell that
I lived in every day, and I was trapped there, unable
to escape . . . and I was helpless to do anything
about it.  I would've done anything to get you back,
Scully.  You were my world even then."  His voice was
almost imperceptible as he said this last sentence.

"Mulder," she whispered, fresh tears forming in her
eyes.

He brought a hand up to his lips, motioning for her to
stay silent as he crossed the room and sat at the foot
of her bed.

She obliged, silently setting her computer aside.

"I know how you felt, Scully.  I know what it must
have been like for you.  But you're so strong, Scully. 
You lived.  And you never gave up on me."

She shrugged, smiling through her tears.  "I just
couldn't bring myself to believe you were really gone. 
It's like I could somehow feel you near . . ."

He smiled and nodded, as if this made perfect sense. 
Of course it made sense.  When he first shook hands
with this woman eight years ago, something reached out
of the heavens, slapped him across his face, and said,
"This is your soul mate; the person whom you will love
and need and not be able to breathe without.  She is a
part of you, physically as well as
mentally."

Another time, about a year and a half ago, in the
hallway outside his apartment, as they held one
another tightly.  "You were my friend . . . and you
told me the truth.  You are my
constant . . . my touchstone."

And Scully's whispered response:  "And you are mine."

Mulder smiled suddenly, repeating these words as he
pulled her up into his arms, her swollen belly
pressing against him fully as he pressed his mouth to
hers gently, kissing her properly for the first time
since his resurrection.

Together in this tiny bedroom, in the present, there
were no aliens or viruses.  There was just Mulder and
Scully and a shred of irrational hope, that
nevertheless pushed its way into Mulder's
subconscious, whispering that maybe everything will be
all right after all.  Maybe there was hope in this
decaying world.

Tears mingled with tears as their lips connected, and
their hearts melded.  In Scully's arms, alien
invasions seemed like a distant threat, and Mulder
allowed himself a moment's
peace--to simply enjoy being in her arms and in her
bed, with their child pressed safely between them.

With a pleasant twinge, he realized that for the first
time, he allowed to think of her baby as his as well. 
He touched her stomach timidly, and she placed her
hand atop his.  "I'm so sorry you went through this
alone . . ." he whispered.

She touched his face, recognizing a bout of
Mulder-guilt coming on, and determined to stop it
before he wallowed in his precious guilt.  "No more
tears tonight, Mulder.  It's just us, okay?  I love
you, you know that, Spooky?"

He allowed himself a small laugh.  "And I love you,
Mrs. Spooky," he whispered, kissing her again.  She
felt so good.  He wished they could stay in this
moment forever.  She was smiling now, and it was a
beautiful sight.

As they laid back against the pillows, limbs
entangled, Mulder was comforted by the thought that if
the world ended tonight, they were at least able to
have this precious time together.

As they drifted into dreamland, for just this night,
Mulder didn't dream of imminent doom and apocalypses. 
He allowed himself to dream of an alternate future, in
which aliens didn't exist, his family was all alive
and well, and his child would grow up happy and safe .
. .

For once, Fox Mulder didn't want to believe.

*  *  *

"I think they (Mulder and Scully) mean everything to
each other.  They love each other, on a profound level
such is rarely found in life.  I think people sense
that, and that's why they love these two characters
and they love them together.  They'd do anything for
each other.  They're soul mates."

--Producer Frank Spotnitz