From: "J. Teesil" Date: Thu, 30 May 2002 00:07:12 -0500 Subject: Miracles by J. Teesil Source: direct TITLE: Miracles AUTHOR: J. Teesil RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: S/R/A Scully/Mulder SPOILERS: None KEYWORDS: SUMMARY: The events in "All Things" got Scully thinking, but will move her to action? DISCLAIMER: The last thing I said while viewing the last episode of the show was "I love Chris Carter," and I know that nothing really happens if he doesn't authorize its release. FEEDBACK: jteesil@hotmail.com - Be gentle, this is my first time. I debated for a long time about whether to end it at the dotted line. I'd love to know if you think I did the right thing in leaving in the rest. ARCHIVE: Yes, but please let me know first! She hadn't meant to yell at him on the way out of the office. A week, maybe a lifetime of emotion had been weighing on her all day. Before lunch she was already counting the minutes until the end of the day. When Mulder put down the phone at 4:58 and gave her that kid-in-a-candy-shop grin, she hadn't even let him get out the words. "God, Mulder, its no wonder you don't have a life!" had been the finale of her tirade and she slammed the door of the X-files office on her way out. She slammed the door of her car, too, and the door of her building, and the door of her apartment, the whole way screaming in her mind that he had no respect for her personal life. He expected her to follow him to the ends of the earth with no notice, just assuming that she didn't have anything better to do. Standing alone in her apartment, with the quiet after the slam settling around her, she realized that she, in fact, did not have anything better to do. The quiet followed her as she changed from her suit to jeans. Her stomach had long ago been trained to expect late nights and the call to eat an evening meal was still hours away. She sifted through a short stack of computer-addressed mail, setting a new issue of Forensic Quarterly on the coffee table. It landed next to a pristine copy of Martha Stewart Living and a worn out edition of the Handbook of Toxicologic Pathology, Volume 2. She wondered how long the two had sat there, side-by-side. How many times had she looked at the beautiful home on the cover of the magazine and still picked up the textbook? How many times had she put science ahead of art? How many times had she chosen her career over her life? Why, all of a sudden, didn't it seem like a very good choice? She shoved all three of them on the floor before falling back into the couch and letting it all go. The years she had lost poured from her eyes. The pressure in her chest moved to her face and her nose threatened to run. She cried for every child she had never borne, for every relationship she had ended, for every date she couldn't make, for every night she wasn't there to meet someone's eyes across a crowded room. She sobbed for every time she'd refused to get caught up in the moment. She was even regretting her decision to roll her eyes at all of Mulder's innuendos and offers when she heard a knock at the door. She grabbed a napkin from the table to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. She tossed in the trash before standing tip toed to peer through the small peephole out into the hall. She was rewarded with a fish-eye view of Fox Mulder, peering back with one eye closed as if he could stare right through the door at her. "At least it's not the lone gunmen," she thought as she undid the locks. She looked as deflated as he had felt when she left the office earlier. It wasn't one of those Truth-with-a-capital-T kind of cases, but it had sounded so interesting at the time. Though he hadn't really needed her medical knowledge on it, once he was sure she wasn't going, he couldn't exactly remembered what seemed so interesting about it. "Peace offering," he said holding out his arms to reveal a six-pack of beer and a brown paper bag that held two pints of Ben-and-Jerry's. He hadn't meant it as a hug, but she took one anyway, holding him until the cold of the ice cream crept through her white dress shirt. "Chocolate fudge brownie?" she asked, stepping away and reaching for the bag. "And Cherry Garcia," he said, "the frozen yogurt kind, just in case you weren't mad enough for the full strength version." He sat the bag and the bottles on the table and went after spoons. "I thought you were going to..."she asked, taking the top off of real ice cream. "Dubuque," he finished for her, "um, I just weighed my choices and decided that a nun with a strange gift for meteorology just wasn't as puzzling as why my normally incredibly stable and astute partner didn't take one cheap shot at me all day and instead chose to unload her whole clip into my chest on her way out the door." He offered her a spoon and pulled one of the beers out of its cardboard holster. "Further investigation has left me suspecting a murder/suicide," he added with a crooked grin. "I see," she said contemplating a spoonful of chocolate and brownie bits, "sounds like you've got a suspect. Motive?" "Oh, dozens. The tough part here is going to be narrowing it down to the correct one." "Well, Mulder, not everything has just one cause." "Good point, Scully, good point. Still, most crimes have one overriding issue, even if it looks like the straw that broke the camel's back." "Perhaps. So what are you focusing on?" "No leads yet." "No chance she was just thoroughly annoyed at her inconsiderate, over-zealous partner?" "That might explain the homicide, but the rest..." "Guilt over the killing?" she offered. "Well, he was brilliant, handsome, charming, invaluable to his department." "Don't forget genuinely humble." "That, too,' he agreed. "You're right, not much of a motive for suicide," she deadpanned. "You're really gonna make me work for this one, aren't you, Scully?" "Mulder, it's not that simple." "Scully, I know you. I know your moods. This is not a run-of-the-mill funk. Something's really bothering you, even if you don't know exactly what it is." "Mulder, I know what the problem is. It's the solution that's evasive." "So, what is it?" "Choices. A hundred million choices I've made over the last... who knows how long. And pathways. How did I get here? Where am I headed? Who's in control?" "Too vague." "What!?!" "Too vague. Scully, I don't believe for one second that you just cried your eyes out over what make of car you drive or who cuts your hair." She didn't answer that with words. She just pinched up her brow and gave her eyes a half-roll. "Laugh if you have to, Scully, but this is not about a million choices. It's about one or two, or maybe even three." "Okay, Sherlock, which three?" "If I knew that, we wouldn't need to investigate." "Sorry, Mulder. You're right. I confess. It's my long distance carrier and that spot I can't seem to get out of my bathroom sink." "Okay, fine. It's about choices. About a million, trillion, choices. Well, Scully, you'd be the first person to tell me that you can't change the past. So let's just make this about the choices you have today. And who's in control?" he was challenging her, "Take control, Scully. Choose to tell me what's going on." "How can I, Mulder," she asked, "When I'm not sure myself?" "Back to basic investigation. What were you thinking of right before I got here?" It took her a second to recall. She remembered Martha Stewart and toxicology, her empty life, her empty womb, her empty arms. Letting all those chances slip away. Chances to what? She blushed when it came to her, that last thought. All the times I didn't sleep with Mulder. She stood up, "Like I said, choices." "Do we have to revisit the vague issue?" "Okay, okay. Men I didn't have sex with," she said throwing up her arms and stepping into the kitchenette. "I knew this was gonna be more interesting than that nun," he said with a snap of his fingers, "Which ones?" "All of them." "Even Ted in accounting and Bob at the parking ramp?" "Okay, not ALL of them. Maybe just the ones who offered." "Oh come on, Scully. Most men are offering pretty much all the time," he said, walking towards her. "God knows you usually are." It was a reflex, to throw it back at him, not a conscious decision. She felt as if he had tapped her on the knee and she managed to kick her self in the head. He was not a foot away when he processed what she had said. "Oh." She tried to back out of it, "Uh, Mulder, don't... It was just a..." He shut her up with a kiss, and not the polite kind they had shared at the turn of the millennium. "No, it wasn't," he whispered, keeping his face within inches of hers, "Choose to be honest with me, Scully. Take control." "This is not control, Mulder," she said, ducking around him, "this is totally out of control." "Why?" "Why what?" "Why is it out of control? Who says you can't choose this?" "I say, Mulder. We work together. We're partners. It would be too complicated." "We recently tried to have a baby. Do you think that would have been simple? Scully, you're calling it out of control because you aren't used to getting what you want. Feel this one, Scully. Don't think," he said sliding his arms around her from behind. He kissed her neck, "does this feel wrong to you?" "Mulder, we can't just...I can't just do this and..." she fought to keep a clear head. "Scully, you have followed me to the bottom of the world on nothing but trust. Please trust that I'm not going hurt you, not going to use you. Not like this. I couldn't." "Mulder, I need something more than that..." He let go of her then, and with a few strides, he was at the door. "I love you, Dana Scully. Really, truly, with all of my being." He reached for the doorknob with a noticeable tremble. "I'll see you Monday." He was afraid for a moment that she was going to let him leave, that he had gambled and lost big. He didn't hear her steps across the kitchen floor in stocking feet. His heart was in this throat before he felt her hand on his sleeve. He turned around and looked at her with a naked face, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. "What?" he asked. "Don't go," she said with tears running down her cheeks, "Don't ever go." He held on to her with all his strength then. "Wild horses couldn't tear me away. Aliens, maybe, but I'll always come back to you. Always." Hours later they lay naked in the dark. He was exploring the expanses of her skin with his fingertips. "I'm sorry, Scully." "For what, Mulder?" "He would have been so beautiful," he said caressing her abdomen. "We both knew it would have taken a miracle." "I know. But I always thought you believed in miracles" They lay there several moments without speaking. Then Scully said simply, "I do, Mulder." "Maybe," he pondered, "we were trying for the wrong miracle." "What do you mean?" she asked. He pulled himself up to look her in the eye. "I'm not a religious scholar, but it is my understanding that God reserves immaculate conceptions for very special occasions." His eyes danced between her red lips and her soft blue eyes. "Maybe we should have been looking for a more everyday kind of miracle," he said before kissing her softly. "Sex," she said, "is not a miracle." "It is if you do it right," he chided, "I used to think it would be if we did it at all." "Maybe," she said, teasing, "I hope I haven't used up all my miracles on this." "Scully, if anyone I know is entitled to more than one miracle, it's you," he said. "Really? Do you think you're up for another one?" "Tonight?" "Well, I have heard that even a miracle can use a hand." "Oh, no. I had to use my hand the first time we tried for a miracle." "Mulder?!" "What?" She inhaled slowly, "I'm sorry I killed you earlier." "It's okay," he assured her, and added in his best Cary Elwes voice, "'Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a little while'" She rolled her eyes, "I'll never understand why men have to quote movies all the time." "Hey, don't knock it. There's some great wisdom in film. Like that little thing I showed you about a half an hour ago." "Mulder!" "I love you, Scully" "I love you, too, Mulder."