From: juliettt@aol.com (Juliettt) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New Story: "In the Length of One Breath" Date: 6 Aug 1995 17:50:49 -0400 ((Is it my imagination, or are the posts becoming rather scarce again? No matter. Here's my contribution to try to liven things up a bit. . . .)) "In the Length of One Breath" by Juliettt@aol.com (August 5, 1995) Here's another short one, folks. I was driving in my car the other day and flipped on the radio to catch the tail end of the Phil Collins song quoted here and thought how perfect it was for a "One Breath" story; thus the idea for this story was born -- it just sort of wrote itself. If I seem to be *obsessed* with "One Breath," it appears to be a common ailment, and I cheerfully plead guilty to believing that it is far and away *the* best _X-Files_ episode so far. We will sorely miss Morgan and Wong. I have also always wanted to do something with the living will-signing scene that we do not get to see. And so here it is. This story picks up right after Melissa Scully leaves Mulder's apartment and attempts to fill in some of the "gaps" in the action we see. I don't claim to know what Morgan and Wong and Carter think happened during the unfilmed parts; this is mere speculation -- one way it *might* have happened. Oh, and of *course* Fox Mulder and Dana Scully and Margaret and Melissa Scully and Walter Skinner and Mr. X and the premise behind the X-Files belong to The Mighty Chris Carter and Ten-Thirteen Productions and FOX Broadcasting and the song is "Against All Odds" by Phil Collins, and I'm using them all with a great deal of love but absolutely no permission and no offense is intended . And nobody will make any money off of this. I promise. Well, except for the news servers. . . . Here it is, folks. Hope you like it. Kudos once more to Glen Morgan and James Wong. I can't say enough about this episode. Well, *I* don't think I can say enough about it -- after this you may have your own opinion. . . . ************************************* "In the Length of One Breath" by Juliettt@aol.com ************************************* Mulder just sat there at his table for awhile after Melissa had left. His mind was churning. He looked at the gun in his hand, then at the clock on the wall. Nearly eight o'clock. In less than twenty minutes he would be a murderer, or he would be dead. Perhaps both. A dead murderer. He laughed sardonically. He already felt dead. Scully was gone -- his best friend. The only friend he'd ever really had. He clenched the gun in his fist, appreciating the heavy weight of it, the cool, lethal heft in his hand. They would pay for this. He had let Cancerman off the hook in a moment of irrationality -- or rationality? It was no matter. He would face off against whatever government or military goons showed up at his apartment, and he would enjoy it. Even if he died he would enjoy the looks on their faces when they realized they had been set up. Just as he had been set up so often. What if *this* was a set up? He didn't care. "My fault," he thought. "Mine. I called her in on the Duane Barry case, and she wasn't even my partner. She wasn't even an active Field Agent. I should have just left her to teach at Quantico where it was safe." Suddenly he remembered the day they had made out their living wills. They had gone to an Agency-sponsored seminar and had sat next to one another in silence. At the end they had walked up to the table at the front and had each taken one of the envelopes and had returned to their basement office, still silent. They sat for a long time without speaking and then, in a hesitant voice -- "Mulder?" "Yeah, Scully?" "Will you -- witness mine?" He lifted his head and looked at her. Something was forged in that moment, something even deeper than the partnership and friendship that had existed mere moments before. "Yes. I will. If you'll witness mine." And so they had spent a quiet hour reading and writing and revising, and finally she had walked over to his desk with the sheaf of papers in her hand. He looked up. "I -- Scully, would you read this over before I make the final copy? You're a doctor -- I don't know all the particulars." "Sure. And I'd like you to read over mine." He half-smiled when he realized that she, too, had waited before copying all of the information into the blanks and boxes on the will form. They settled back and read. He was somewhat surprised at the detail into which she had gone. Not only had she given specific instructions as per her life support, but she had gone into highly technical terms regarding the duration and termination of an assisted existence. He was somewhat frightened at the prospect; he had read too many horror stories of coma-like states from which patients recovered to be quite so definitive about this. But then, he admitted wryly, he was approaching it from an admittedly more credulous point of view. And then he realized that no matter what happened to him, Scully would be there. And if she weren't. . . . But she would be. And she would know if there was anything to be done. He decided to leave his will exactly as it was. They exchanged papers and filled out the formal copies. Then he looked up and hesitated. She was watching him, both a bit nervous about the final step. Finally he got up and walked over to her desk. He laid his form down on the surface and signed it, then handed the pen to her. Slowly she took it, paused a second, then carefully signed her name: Dana K. Scully. She reached for her own form and signed it. He took the pen back from her and stood staring at her signature for a moment. What did this mean? It meant that she was cognizant of the very real danger in which they both placed themselves day after day. She had never filled out a living will before, even though she had been in the FBI for several years. It meant that under the terms she had specified she did not want to live on artificial support. It meant that, God forbid, should that day ever come when her living will would be opened and read and applied, she trusted him to uphold it. She could have called her mother or father to witness it, or a friend from Legal. But she had chosen him. Because he was her partner and her friend. He took a deep breath and signed the will and then, after they had dropped the forms off at Personnel, took her out to dinner. Neither of them ever spoke of it again. Now, remembering, he sighed a little. Maybe he had never formally "informed" her of the dangers involved in working on the X-Files, but she had known. She was the most brilliant woman he had ever known, and one of the best agents. She had known and she had prepared herself. And he had thought that he had prepared himself. He was wrong. He had been prepared for his own death, but never for hers. When she had been taken, he had thought that was the worst. It had been. Until she had been returned and his spirits, buoyed up even by the sight of that pale, pale face, had soared, then plummeted when the doctors had informed them that she had fallen below the standards of her living will. That very will he had stood over her in their office and signed. He cursed that day. Without the will he could have bought time, a little more time, a day or two more. Perhaps it would have been enough to discover what was wrong with her and save her life. Perhaps. <*She's not dead*.> No, she wasn't dead. Not yet. At least, she had still been alive when Melissa Scully had come looking for him. Suddenly he realized just what a sacrifice she had made. Her baby sister, whom she loved, was dying, was perhaps breathing her last breath as she drove in search of Dana's partner, who had refused to answer any of her phone calls. It was important to her that he be there -- important enough to risk missing saying goodbye. Suddenly the apartment was closing in on him. Death -- death was approaching, whether the death of his body at the hands of the intruders or the death of his soul at his own hands. But Scully -- perhaps Scully was still alive. A choice: Revenge? Or -- or whatever it was that they had -- partnership, friendship, unconditional love? He took a deep breath and chose. And fled the apartment. ***** When he reached her curtained-off portion of the ICU he peeked in. The head nurse at the desk had told him that she was still alive, but so shaky that anything could happen even in the brief moment it took him to walk down the hallway. He breathed a sigh of relief. The monitor was still beeping, every *beep* and jump of the thin green line that was her life registering a living heart, though a weak one. He sank to a chair beside her bed and took her hand. Margaret and Melissa Scully had looked up when he appeared in the "doorway," relief and gratitude in their eyes. Mrs. Scully had given his hand a quick squeeze as she passed him on the way out. Melissa had only looked at him. But that one look spoke volumes. His eyes sought her face. It was so pale, even against the white sheets, that it looked almost grey. Her eyes were closed, her lashes still against her cheeks. He had watched her sleep sometimes on long road trips or during the occasional times they had had to share a hotel room or a quarantine chamber, had watched her deep breathing as she slept, the fluttering of her lashes telling him when she dreamed. Never had they been completely motionless. The thought that she would never open her eyes again, never give him one of her amused glances at his outrageous theories or her flash of humor at his jokes or one of her own or her look of affection and trust or even what he had come to think of as The Look paralyzed him with fear and sorrow and regret. "I feel, Scully, that you believe you're not ready to go -- and you've always had the strength of your beliefs. I don't know if my being here," his voice nearly cracked, "will help -- bring you back. But *I'm here*." He settled back against the chair and watched. And waited. Hours later he was awakened by a hand shaking his shoulder. "Fox. Fox. . . ." "What?" He jumped and turned immediately to the bed. "Scully. . . ." "No -- no change, Fox." But somehow even that hated name was more bearable to him than "Mulder" in a voice so like hers, from lips that weren't hers. He nodded slowly, then came to himself and stood up, his leg and back muscles protesting from the long night spent in a cramped position. "Mrs. Scully -- I'm sorry. Have a seat." She shook her head and smiled a little. "No, Fox. I'm okay -- I just came to tell you -- you should go home now and rest." He shook his own head. "I'm fine. . . ." "Fox, it's almost eight o'clock." His head jerked up. "In the morning. You've been here nearly twelve hours." "Oh . . . I. . . ." Suddenly he realized that Margaret Scully might want some time alone with her daughter before. . . . "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'll go. . . ." "Fox." She reached out a hand to him. "Thank you for coming. You're a good friend. Dana -- was lucky to have you." "No, ma'am," he whispered. "I was the lucky one." He gave her a brief attempt at a smile, then walked out of the hospital. Melissa was standing in the doorway. "Fox -- sorry, I mean . . ." "No." He cut her off. "What?" She paused. "You made the right decision." He stared at her, wondering how she knew -- what she *seemed* to know. Skeptical Scully with a sister who was a real-life X-File? She smiled at him. "Her aura changed while you were here, Fo --" She bit her lip, uncertain whether to continue. "It seemed to grow -- a little stronger." He nodded. "Thanks, Melissa, but I'm not going to get my hopes up. No offense." She nodded back. "None taken. You're going home?" "Yeah." "We'll call you if . . ." she trailed off. He nodded and continued down the corridor. "And Fox?" He turned his head. "Be careful." He had momentarily forgotten about the intruders. His shoulders slumped a little and he hurried to his car. When he slid in and turned on the ignition he realized that the radio was playing. He had left it on days before; last night his mind had been so preoccupied that he had not even noticed it. He reached for the knob to turn it off but the words caught his attention and he left it on as he drove. . . . you coming back to me is against the odds And that's what I've got to face. I wish I could just make you turn around Turn around and see me cry There's so much I need to say to you So many reasons why You're the only one who really knew me at all. So take a look at me now Well, there's just an empty space There's nothing left here to remind me, Just the memory of your face. . . . Savagely he grabbed the knob and turned it off and finished the drive in silence. He swung open the door and just stood there for a moment surveying the damage. Chaos. They had been here, all right. And from the looks of things Mr. X had told him the truth -- they had trashed his apartment looking for information on Scully. He doubted the enigmatical informant had set them up to execute him and had gone so far as giving them a plan for the contingency that Mulder was not there. It had been real. He had had a chance to kill the men who had hurt Scully. Who had stolen her life -- had stolen his. Perhaps his last chance to see justice done. And he had let it slip away. Words from the song on the radio flooded his mind unbidden, his photographic memory filling in the lines he had viciously cut off. The words were even more appropriate, even more poignant, than he had realized. How could I just let you walk away, Just let you leave without a trace? When I stand here taking every breath with you? You're the only one who really knew me at all. How can you just walk away from me When all I can do is watch you leave? 'Cause we shared the laughter and the pain And even shared the tears. You're the only one who really knew me at all. So take a look at me now There's just an empty space And there's nothing left here to remind me Just the memory of your face Well, take a look at me now There's just an empty space And you coming back to me is against the odds And that's what I've got to face. I wish I could just make you turn around Turn around and see me cry There's so much I need to say to you So many reasons why You're the only one who really knew me at all. So take a look at me now Well, there's just an empty space And there's nothing here to remind me, Just the memory of your face. Now take a look at me now There's just an empty space But to wait for you is all I can do And that's what I've got to face. Take a good look at me now 'Cause I'll still be standing here And you coming back to me is against all odds It's the chance I've got to take. . . . He felt his world crumbling around him. The force of his sorrow and loneliness swept over him and his knees began to buckle. He sagged against the doorway of his wrecked apartment and sobbed, looking at his empty hands. Much, much later he sat on his sofa, staring at nothing. His empty life. Dead. Useless. Alone. He had been alone almost all of his life except the past eighteen months, but he felt he had never known true loneliness until now. And then the phone began to ring. He felt his heart stop. It had been through his telephone answering machine that he had gotten Scully's last message -- the last words she would ever speak to him. The phone had also brought him word of her return. But now the phone could bring him nothing but bad news. And so he sat there and just let it ring. Until his answering machine picked it up. He hadn't known he had reset it. "Hello, this is Fox Mulder -- leave a message pl . . ." he grabbed the phone. He could not bear to hear it this way. "I'm here" -- the second time in eighteen hours he had said those words. But how different the meaning. . . . Margaret Scully's voice on the other end. Her words sent him racing to the hospital. He opened the door to her private room. Mrs. Scully looked up. "Hello, Fox." He could feel her smile although she was facing away from him. "Not Fox -- *Mulder*," she said, and then turned her face towards his. His name spoken in that wonderful voice -- her clear blue eyes on his. He felt his heart begin to beat again, a tattoo in his chest, and he released the breath he felt he had been holding since the phone rang and took a gulp of air that had never tasted so sweet. He looked at her. It flowed across his lips as heady as wine, and in the length of that one breath he knew that he would live. -30- Juliettt@mail.aol.com