From: fialka@t-online.de (Fialka) Date: Mon, 24 Jul 2000 00:29:29 +0100 Subject: NEW: Gathering Half the Deep by Fialka (1/1) Source: xff Title: Gathering Half the Deep Author: Fialka Rating: PG Category: S, A Summary: Where there is a will, there is not always a way. Spoilers: Post Requiem. Heavy angst. Consider yourself warned. Archive: Auto-archives, Gossamer OK. Others please write for permission, though I generally give it. Disclaimer: If they were mine, this would never be happening. First Posting: July 3, 2000 Note: Although this story shares some elements with my Playground Series ('Seesaw' and 'Swings and Roundabouts'), it should NOT be read as a continuation of those stories. No one yet knows what November may bring... Machete!Beta by Yes Virginia. Additional Live!Beta by Dasha K and M. Sebasky. Many thanks to all. =============================== GATHERING HALF THE DEEP by Fialka She can pinpoint the exact moment her life shudders to a standstill. It isn't the moment she puts her cross around his neck and sends him off without a goodbye. It isn't the Gunmen gathered around her hospital bed, stuttering their way through the awful news that Mulder has disappeared. It isn't Skinner, come later to confirm it. It's long after, almost five months after. ------------- The meeting is boring, routine, the sort of task Mulder always hated. It's her task now as the nominal head of the X-Files. She views it as keeping his seat warm. She reads off her necessary set of figures -- cases solved, amount over budget. Since Mulder disappeared, she's concentrated on one case and one alone. Even her expenditures are woefully low. The eyes around the table aren't looking for numbers. They're looking for signs of breakdown, stress fractures, pressure cookers about to explode. Her serenity confounds them, frightens them. They know she and Mulder were close. If they knew exactly how close... She lays a hand over her abdomen, the gesture hidden by the table. She hasn't felt the baby move, but soon. Soon her long coats and untucked shirts won't be enough to hide the evidence. Her secret will have to be told, or she will have to disappear until the baby is born. She hasn't yet decided which option she prefers. Scully isn't sure exactly when she conceived, just as she isn't sure how her infertility suddenly reversed itself. She worries less about the how now that amniocentesis has yielded its carefully guarded result. The baby is 100% human. Hers and Mulder's. They've made a child, just like any other couple. Not a true miracle perhaps, but certainly a wonder. For the when, she likes to think it's just after the genie case, the night they christened Mulder's couch. That wasn't the first time they made love, but it was the first time she'd taken the lead from start to finish, yanking his jeans to his ankles and getting right down to business, the first time she'd completely opened to him, let his passion sweep her to some place outside herself. It was the first time she came with him inside her. The only time she's ever whispered the word 'love'. She hears someone say, "Perhaps it would be better if Agent Mulder's disappearance were handled by another unit." The statement startles her from her musings. They are all looking at her, seven divisional heads and Skinner. She suddenly feels herself on the hot seat, back in the interrogation chamber of a dozen professional conduct reviews. "I believe Agent Scully is the most capable agent in this particular instance," Skinner answers in his most neutral voice. "She's familiar with the circumstances in a first-hand capacity. Without that experience the search for Agent Mulder is likely to fail." Skinner waves any further objections away, and the meeting continues. It's in the middle of the analysis of projected resource allocation that the thing that's been keeping her afloat tears loose and she begins to drown. ------------- Skinner would be the first to admit that his feelings for Dana Scully have always defied explanation. She is not his sister, not his lover, not his comrade-in-arms. And yet she is all of these things to him, and more. Since she told him she was pregnant, he's been watching her. Scully is under a phenomenal amount of pressure, of course. They all are. Mulder is nowhere to be found and if what Skinner saw is what he thinks he saw, he won't be found until whoever has him is done. What's amazing is how well she's handling it all. Physically, he's noticed a slight blurring of the sharp line of her chin, but that's all. She's still agile, still light on her feet. Still clinging to hope. Her determination keeps the rest of the search team going. It's not that they believe they will find Mulder alive, it's that no one wants to see Scully fall. Skinner is not the only one who's succumbed to her reticent charm. The entire team admires her strength, but only he is certain of its source. Because of that source, he's immediately concerned when she interrupts the meeting and asks for a moment to speak with him alone. He gestures to the hall, but she shakes her head, and instead he ushers the others out. They leave with looks ranging from curiosity to assumed knowledge. There's no secret that since Mulder disappeared he's been attentive to Scully in a way that goes beyond the boundary of their professional relationship. He's asked to be informed each time she leaves or re-enters the building. He's been known to show up at all-day brainstorming sessions casually bearing lunch. He's made more trips to the basement in the last four months than he has in the last seven years. It's been remarked upon. It's been attributed to guilt. The assessment is not half wrong. "What is it, Scully?" he asks, as soon as the door closes. "I need--" She stops, licking her pale lips, "I need you to take me to the hospital." His mind makes the awful, unthinkable connection, even before he shoves the table away and sees the blood. ---------- Skinner will never forget that walk through the fifth floor hallway, both of them staring straight ahead as if nothing is wrong. As if it's normal for him to walk with an arm around one of his agents, normal for her to be swimming in his overcoat. She will not allow herself to be carried out, not by him, not by the paramedics she refused to let him call. She counters his protest that movement can only make the situation worse with the assertion that it's already too late. She's the doctor, it's her body and what's more, if he doesn't give in and help, she's stubborn enough to try to drive to the hospital alone. Sheer will gets her to the car, though by the end her teeth are clenched in pain and he is almost dragging her through the parking garage. Putting her into the car, the coat falls open and he sees that the small stain he saw in his office has now spread all the way down her thighs. "Is this normal?" he asks, panicked. "Should there be this much blood?" "No," she answers, her eyes squeezing shut as another cramp takes her. Skinner puts the passenger seat back and quickly buckles her in. She's grey now, her skin cold and clammy. She's going into shock. "Stay with me, Scully," he keeps repeating, maneuvering the car through traffic as fast as he's able. He reaches for her hand, squeezing her fingers, waiting for a response. Each time it's weaker until finally there's no response at all. ---------- She wakes to a hollow wind blowing through her soul. She's alone in her body now. The doctor comes and she listens to him mouthing the usual platitudes and reassurance, as if she isn't a doctor herself, as if he doesn't know she can see right through him. The nurses come and go, but she keeps her eyes averted and lets them do what they need to do, as unresponsive as if she's still unconscious. Her chart lies in its holder at the foot of the bed. She could read it if she could muster the strength to sit up, but it hardly seems worth the effort. It's not going to tell her why she miscarried so late or why she lost that much blood. Science has failed her so often these last years, proving nothing or offering proof without comfort. She longs for a priest to massage her soul with the balm of prayer, but she lost her faith the night she lost control and shot an unarmed suspect. She doesn't ask for absolution any more. She thinks that maybe this her penance for that officially overlooked act. Maybe God has forsaken her, or she has forsaken Him. Either way, it doesn't matter. She's paid her debt. It's all over now. She's like the old man she met in New York, the one who claimed to be immortal. She doesn't want to be here anymore. ---------- He watches Scully through the window of her ICU cubicle, working up the courage to enter. Scully can't see him -- she's lying flat on her back, hands clasped at her waist, staring at the ceiling. The respirator that eased her breathing right after the surgery has been replaced by a simple oxygen line. There's still an IV trailing nutrients into a shunt in her wrist, still the tiny electrodes measuring pulse, temperature, respiration, still a blood pressure cuff attached to her upper arm. She looks half-dead but her doctor has assured him she'll be fine. They'll transfer her to a private room this afternoon. The doctor doesn't have a clue what happened. Miscarriage of a first-time pregnancy is sadly common for a woman Scully's age, though it doesn't usually happen this far along. The doctor, thinking Skinner is the father, has assured him that she's still young enough to bear a healthy child. They can try again in a few months. He's probably given the same message to his patient. Scully's expression doesn't help him find the courage to face her. It's a look he's seen on others over the years. Victims of accidents, of the most awful crimes. Survivors who have lost everything but their lives. Skinner enters the cubicle and Scully immediately makes the effort to sit up. He walks to her side and presses the control to raise the head of the bed. If she's going to insist on this pretense of strength, at least let her have some support. "Sir," she greets him, formal and reserved. She lets her head fall back against the pillows, an admission of weakness that he's sure is costing her a good portion of her pride. "Scully, I'm so sorry." It's all that he can think of to say. Trite, inadequate words, but the sentiment behind them is heartfelt. She closes her eyes, opens them again and nods. He can't help but remember the last time he stood by her side in this hospital, joy and heartbreak alternating on her face, holding her hand while she tried not to cry. He would hold her hand again, but he can tell by the blank cast to her features that she would not welcome the gesture. Her tears will come later, in private. "Is there someone I could call?" he asks. "Your mother?" A woman needs another woman in such a situation and he seems to remember that unlike most people he knows, Scully's family has always been close. He shifts uncomfortably as she hesitates. There's something in her face he can't read, a new tension to her jaw. "I never told her I was pregnant," she answers, finally. "I thought ... no, please don't." There's a dull finality to her voice that scares him. It's the sound of defeat, of hopelessness. He's never heard that tone from her before. She turns her face away, staring at her own heartbeat. "I'll find him, Scully," he swears. He will find Mulder for her, no matter what he has to do, even if it means selling the last piece of his pockmarked soul. ---------- "You have to eat," the nurse says firmly, putting Scully's dinner back on her table. "I did," she answers. It is not a lie. She's had a bite of this, a few spoonfuls of that. She can't do better, though they keep telling her she should. The food is so bad and her appetite so non-existent it's all she can do to even manage that much. "You have to eat to regain your strength," the nurse insists. She wheels the table over and raises Scully's bed to a sitting position. "If you won't feed yourself then I'll do it for you." Two stubborn women eye each other. The nurse has it all on her -- height, weight, health and authority. Scully picks up her knife and fork. The nurse watches her slowly cut a thin slice of what is supposed to be liver and put it in her mouth. She chews the rubbery flesh until it's soft enough to swallow, and tries not to notice that it tastes like rancid blood. "Good," smiles the nurse, leaving Scully to finish her meal. She manages two or three more tiny slices before her throat closes up and she can eat no more. ---------- It's cruel to put women who've suffered miscarriages on a floor that allows people with infants to visit, but Scully's life is full of cruel little jokes. Like the one that allowed her to get pregnant in the first place. Like the one that snatched Mulder away as soon as she dared speak about love. Scully watches the shadows change outside her window, trying not to hear the cries of the baby next door, hungry for its mother's breast. Her own breasts have already begun to soften and shrink as her body re-absorbs the evidence. "It's for the best," she tells Skinner the second day. "A child of ours would never have been safe." "God has His reasons," she tells him on the third, her voice flat and disconnected. On the fourth she keeps her eyes closed and feigns sleep until he goes away. ---------- On the fifth day a dark older woman accosts Skinner as he arrives for his evening visit. He's been coming every day, sometimes twice a day, since Scully was first admitted. Sometimes she makes herself sit up and acknowledge his presence, sometimes she's asleep, or pretends to be. When Scully is asleep he pulls a chair up to her bedside and sits with her for his self-allotted fifteen minutes. When she's awake he doesn't stay much longer, but at those times he stands, shifting from foot to foot, making both of them feel awkward. She never asks about her partner and Skinner never offers information. They both know there isn't any information to offer. He senses his presence is a trial to her, an extra effort to make requiring an energy she doesn't really have. Still, he cannot stay away. He comes for Mulder, because Mulder would have come at odd intervals two, three, four times a day. He comes because if he doesn't no one else will and he can't stand the idea of Scully lying here alone. He comes, but he isn't Mulder. He thinks Mulder would know how to share her tears, how to distract her with conversation, or stroke her to sleep. Mulder would know how to keep Scully interested in life. Skinner doesn't. The nurses presume Scully is his lover, that the baby was his. He's seen the accusation in their eyes each time he hurries past their station. Do something. Hold her. He wishes that he could. He stops short as a well-dressed woman steps out from behind the desk, halting right in front of him. "Ms. Scully is not eating," she begins, without so much as an introduction. "She can't replenish her red cell count without iron and she's not getting it. She's losing weight and her blood pressure is still dangerously low." Skinner doesn't have a ready response to that. "Surely you could give her some vitamin shots to help?" "She's not *eating*," the woman repeats impatiently. "We've been feeding her intravenously for the last four days, but it's not enough. And she continues to refuse counseling. She says I couldn't possibly understand her situation." An ironic little smile jerks at the corner of Skinner's mouth. "In this particular case, she's probably right." "I'm recommending that she be transferred to the psychiatric ward until she's able to care for herself." "No," he answers sharply. "Absolutely not. You can't do that." He'll have to take her out of the field with that on her record, and the work is all she has left. "You're going to lose her if you don't do something," the counselor snaps back. "Or talk her into doing something for herself." He looks away, embarrassed. Short of finding Mulder, he doesn't know what he can do. When it comes to grief, Skinner is helpless. "Please," he says, "Give her some time. She'll get through this." The counselor eyes him again, then leans Scully's chart on the high station desk and scribbles some notes. She puts it in place and marches past him without another look. ---------- Scully wakes from a cloudy doze to find someone lightly slapping her face. Not Mulder, she thinks, and closes her eyes again. Not Mulder is all she needs to know. She reaches to brush the hand away, and feels the naso-gastric tube taped to her cheek. For a moment, she'd forgotten. It's an ugly feeling, to be conscious with that thing inside her. The mere thought brings back vague memories of being umbilicised through the throat, a half-frozen fetus floating in her placental sac of ice. She'd like to pull the tube out, but they'd only tie her hands to the bed and put it back again. "There we are," the tall nurse says, smiling as she puts down her tray. "Good morning." Don't you ever have a shift off, Scully wants to scream, but the tube makes it so difficult to speak that it's not worth the effort. She suffers through the indignity of being turned and positioned, trying not to moan and squirm as the formula dumps itself heavily into her stomach. "Shh now," the nurse murmurs when she finishes, stroking Scully's forehead. Scully waits, shivering and sweating, for the nausea to go away. "You know, it doesn't have to be like this," the nurse is saying. Her hands are unexpectedly kind, bringing the blankets up around Scully's shoulders and tucking them carefully around her. "It's your choice." "I know." Her words are air, barely shaped into sound. The nurse searches her face, clearly disturbed. "Your man is outside," she says at last, gathering up her things. "I'll send him in." "No. Please." She doesn't want Skinner to see her like this, hair plastered to her head with sweat and the green tube hanging out of her nose. The nurse comes back and leans over her. "I know you feel like you've been slammed into a brick wall," she says, her whisper almost as rough as Scully's. "I've been there myself. But don't forget that he lost someone too." Yes, Scully thinks, closing her eyes as the woman holds the door open for Skinner to enter. He lost someone. And I forgave him. And that's the best that I can do. ---------- Margaret Scully is as small as her daughter, and just as formidable a presence. She glares at him with Scully's eyes and demands to know why it's taken six days for anyone to call. "She's, ah, she requested that no one be informed," Skinner stutters. Scully's mother is not that much older than he is, yet she makes him feel like chastised child nervously toeing a crack in the kitchen floor. "What's wrong, what's happened to her?" He hears the unspoken 'now' ending the question and has a small flash of insight. This woman has had enough dire phone calls directing her to enough hospitals, logged enough hours sitting beside daughters hooked up to life support. Maybe Scully thought she was sparing her mother from more. "She's had a miscarriage," Skinner says. Too blunt, but if he beats around the bush the words won't come. Clearly it's the last thing Maggie was expecting to hear. She actually takes a step backward. "The rest I'll let her tell you," Skinner concludes. He nods formally to the mother of his downed agent, and steps aside to let her pass. He's never been so relieved to hand over control. ------- When she wakes on the seventh day, it's to her mother's voice calling her name. She swallows, feeling the absence of rubber, and rubs a hand awkwardly over her face. The naso-gastric tube is gone. "Try this," her mother cajoles, holding a spoon to her lips. Scully lets her mother put the spoon in her mouth, lets the contents roll over her tongue. It's a thin, milky oatmeal, made with cinnamon and honey. It's the taste of her childhood, of fevers broken, of sweet comfort. She accepts another spoonful and another, until she's eaten half the bowl. "Why didn't you call me when it happened?" Maggie folds a handkerchief, gently wiping milk residue from Scully's lips. "Have we really drifted that far apart?" "Please, Mom," she rasps. "I can't--" "Oh, Dana." Her mother leans over, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I'm not mad at you. I just don't see why you always try to handle everything alone." Scully forces herself to look up. There really is no anger in her mother's face, no accusation. Only worry. And love. She closes her eyes. It's too much love. She can feel its echo inside herself, rattling in the emptiness. "The baby," Maggie asks, touching Scully's dry cheeks. "Was Mulder the father?" She can only nod. Her mother pulls her close, one hand making circles on her back. "Dana, let me call him. I know he'd want--" "He's gone, Mom. They took him. Before I even knew." She's found her voice for the importance of this explanation. She wants her mother to understand why Mulder isn't here, that this isn't his fault, that she can handle it on her own. Maggie's embrace only grows tighter. It's like being a little girl again, her mother rocking her, making circles of comfort while she remains stiff, refusing to be consoled. Scully feels so weak that she can hardly lift her arms, but suddenly she wants to hold on to someone. "Mom?" she whispers. "I don't want to be the strong one any more." "You never had to be," her mother answers, hugging Scully tight as the surface breaks and the first tears come. ---------- What the nurses could not accomplish in a week, Maggie Scully accomplishes in less than forty-eight hours. When Skinner comes back the next evening after work, Scully is bathed and dressed and sitting in the obligatory wheelchair as preparations are made for her release. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better." She looks up to where he looms in the doorway. "My mother's going to stay with me for a few days, till I'm back on my feet." Her voice still sounds frayed and he makes a shushing motion with his hand. It must be hurting her to speak. "I don't want to see you before next week, Agent Scully. Please take as much time as you need." Instinct causes him to walk over and put his hand out for her to shake. He's immediately sorry, though not sure how to take it back without looking even more foolish. He's still towering above her, staring at his outstretched hand like it belongs to someone else when she takes it in both her own. "I'm sorry to have frightened you," she says, holding onto him like a friend, not a colleague. "It was ... not an imposition." Scully swallows carefully, but she doesn't let go. "Mulder looked for his sister for twenty-seven years," she tells him, holding his gaze. "I'm not going to give him any less. We may not find him alive, but we will find the truth." He puts his other hand over hers. There's nothing he can say, absolutely nothing that will come out of his mouth without some embarrassing display of emotion. He simply nods, seeing in her eyes that the nod is enough. He wonders if they're out there tonight, plotting in some well appointed room, or if this time the old man is really going to stay dead. He wonders if they'll ever understand how indomitable Scully really is, or what kind of steel-edged determination has been forged in this room. One thing is certain, sooner or later that sword will be up against someone's throat. Scully isn't going to stand still for long. ===================== Feed Fi? fialka62@yahoo.com More candy: The real meal: The Annotated X-Files Study Guide @ << *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>= Our strength is often composed of the weakness we're damned if we're going to show. -Mignon McLaughlin