From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 19 May 2001 22:23:15 -0000 Subject: A Safe Place by Ana Hawkman Source: direct Reply To: anahwakman@hotmail.com Author: Ana Hawkman Title: A Safe Place Rating: PG-13 (um, well, yeah. no sex.) Category: S(tory, not slash), MSR Disclaimer: All characters and references belong to Fox and 1013 Productions. Feedback: anahawkman@hotmail.com... please! Archiving: Anywhere, just tell me so I can visit. Spoilers: Finale, but nothing you wouldn't pick up in the trailer (unless you're just plain DUMB.) And even then, I'm guessing. I was unsure of what to do with myself. I never imagined that in the last week or so of my pregnancy I'd be going into hiding with a woman I barely knew, wrapped in endless chaos. Plagued by an indefeatable opponet, I thought to myself, honestly, that I would never live a normal life. Something deep in my chest told me so. We'd arrived at a safe place a bit outside of the city around three am. Our hiding spot was the basement of an abandoned building, although it wasn't at all what I'd expected it to be. Someone had obviously been there before, collecting supplies and cleaning up the area. The room we were staying in was small, warm and dry... much better conditions than I'd been expected to face. There was a large brass bed along one wall, and a divider... six cots on the other side. There were and infinite number of blankets and clothes of all sorts in a large bureau on one wall, a small table along the opposite; six chairs, two armchairs and a couch. There was a sturdy hutch next to the bureau, filled with mismatched plates, mugs, and pots; a fat wood stove in the center of the room. There was a fairly large supply room off to the side, filled with an endless quantity of canned foods and bottled water. I began to get the feeling that this place was our new home. Monica was humming to herself as she unpacked the few belongings she'd brought with her next to one of the cots. When she was finished creating her own little space in the room, she set to work making up all of the cots with feathered pillows and warm quilts. I pulled myself from the armchair I'd slumped into to help her, but she only smiled up at me brightly. "Agent Scully, you just sit and rest... you 've been through so much, and I imagine that the baby could use some rest, too." Her voice was so kind, so genuinely caring, I could see why Doggett would be friends with her. I ignored her gentle order, kneeling across from her and unfolding blankets; I felt like I needed to help. I needed to work. If I didn't, I would spend time thinking about things I was unable to change. The room was almost cozy... it would have felt like a home if Mulder had been there. I wanted my partner as a little girl might, needing his presence to comfort and soothe me as it always did. ________________________________ I wake up sometime later on the bed. I am on top of the blankets, so I assume I haven't been here for long. I check my watch. Five am. We've been down here for almost two hours. I can hear my partner's familiar voice, hushed, from across the room. Footsteps. He appears before me with the duffel bag he used to use on cases. Setting it down next to the bed, he placed a mug of warm milk into my hands. "Drink that, Scully," he says quietly. I can tell from the tone of his voice that he is horribly worried, though more about me now than the colonization. I sip the milk. "Where is Billy Miles?" "We lost him about an hour back... this place should be safe, Scully, it's like a bomb shelter. And it's out of the way." He brings a hand to absently touch my hair, and I lean into his touch. "When did you have time to go back?" I inquire, still sipping at the milk. "It was in and out... I only had about two minutes to grab some stuff; I would have gotten more, but..." He trails off, troubled. I set the empty mug onto the unfinished wooden nightstand as he lifts his bag onto the bed. "I tried to go just for practical things, but I um..." He holds up framed photographs... one of his sister, one of Emily, and one of the two of us. I touch them carefully, feeling with horrible feeling of premenition that they are the only photographs I will see for a long time. "You don't have pajamas, do you?" He asks this not jokingly, but rather with a sad tone in his voice that lets me know he is blaming himself. He pulls out one of his trademark t-shirts, bringing his hands to my shirt, pushing it gently from my shoulders. His eyes remain diverted, and I can tell he's uncomfortable with this. His warm, gentle hands once skimmed over my body with a knowing and a confidence that amazed me each time. Now, as he touches me, he strains for detachment. His soft hazel eyes, staring down at the comforter, glow in the light of the gas lamps which have been lit all over the room. He barely touches my skin as he reaches for my tank top, pulling it carefully over my head... focusing on his hands. I wonder if the sight of our baby inside of me disturbs him that much... for a man who has spent his entire life hunting scary, gorry extraterrestrial beings, if the miracle of our child is too much for him to bear. I take one of his hands in mine, and place it on my stomach. I want him to *feel* the life inside of me, not be afraid of it. "I'm still me, Mulder," I choke out. "I look different, but Scully's still here..." I speak of myself in the third person, becoming concious of it only after I do so. I can feel his hand tremble slightly against the thin fabric of my tank, but hold it fast against the life inside of me. His eyes meet mine, sad. I press his hand harder into my skin, resisting. "I'll hurt you," he murmurs. "You couldn't if you tried," I whisper, forcing him to meet my eyes. I miss the times when he would cover my lips with his, wrapping my body in his warmth. "Mulder, if you don't wan't to do this, don't you *dare* feel obligated to follow me around. This is my wish, not yours." "I told you, Scully, I'm just not sure where I fit in. I mean, what the hell am I? You're my soul mate, you *know* that. But what is this kid gonna call me? Uncle Mulder?" His hand softens against my stomach, stroking it lightly, tentatively. I remember a time when he touched me there, just as gently, yet touching *me* and not a life to which he feels little connection yet. He would never admit that, but I can feel tears well up in my eyes and I struggle to hold them back. "Daddy," I declare quietly, yet my voice is unbelievibly strong. His eyes shoot up to mine, and I meet them, unwavering; his lips open to speak but no sound escapes. "How could you doubt that, Mulder?" Tears well up in my eyes, and I look down at my hands. His lips press against my own, passionate, yet gentle... the kiss an apology, a desparate search for solace, a needy thing that I gratefully accept. The kiss is not unlike the ones we'd shared before his dissapearance. His lips cling to mine before eventually pulling away, and he looks into my eyes, striaght to my soul. He doesn't look away as his fingers creep to the hem of my tank, pulling it gently over my head. Next come my khakis, and I'm glad there is a curtain and a divider between us and the rest of the room. His hands fall to my hips as he takes in my pregnant body in awe. He still seems shocked by it, a bit scared... but no longer horrified. He presses his ear agaisnt my collar bone, his hands drifting to my swollen middle, his silky hair brushing my chin... I revel in his touch; I've been so starved of it this past year. "I'm sorry, Scully." His voice is so gentle, more so than it has been lately. I bury my hand in his hair, holding him to me, forgiving him of everything. I tell him so. Eventually he pulls back, digging one of the scarce items from his bag. He pulls an old cotton t-shirt over my head, smoothing my hair back. The fabric smells of him, and if I had any doubts that he was an alien replacement, they dissolve at his gentle touch. An alien being, no matter how much like Mulder it would be, could never replicate his tenderness. His thoughtfulness... the love in his touch. It might be able to bleed his blood, but it would never caress my skin, my soul with the reverance and knowing that this man does. Things like that, even if the memories are installed in a perfectly funtional alien brain, could not be replicated. I love this shirt. I love all of his shirts, actually; I used to sleep with them or in them during his absence. I think he knows this, for the smell in them is fading. I don't regret that, though, begause as he tucks me into bed, I can smell and touch the real thing. He strips down to his boxers, crawling under the blankets, spooning warm agianst my back. His arm comes around my waist, touching my stomach and the baby inside. He presses his lips against my ear and whispers me to sleep as he did before his dissapearance. With his strength wrapped around me and his quiet voice in my ear, I allow myself to forget.