From: PatDet@aol.com Date: Sat, 16 Dec 2000 19:28:06 EST Subject: Revision of "She Knew it Would be Warm" Source: revision Title: She Knew It Would Be Warm Author: patdet@aol.com Rating: PG Classification: Scully and Skinner Spoiler: Requiem Synopsis: Scully is moved at the Lone Gunman's lair. At first she thought that it was payment for consuming the god-awful tofu/zucchini/salsa pizza that Langly had coaxed from the few unmildewed products that he'd found in the fridge. He'd tossed it together on a piece of cardboard and had thrown it in the microwave there. What had she been thinking, eating two pieces? What had she been thinking eating one? She was sure that the stirrings would be followed by an em- barrassing stomach gurgle, although she doubted that anyone would notice. Skinner was in front of her and to her left, his white shirtsleeves rolled up, his hands on his hips, his upper body leaning over the map spread across the table in front of them. Langly was standing opposite them, his lean hips pressed against the side of the table, and he was fin- ishing the last piece of pizza and was gesturing at some- thing, adamant, little bits of tofu popping out of his mouth and landing near South Dakota as he made his points. Fro- hike had wearily draped his upper body over the end of the table, over Illinois and parts of Missouri. He was slowly banging his forehead on a point just south of St. Joseph, his fists pounding at the sides of his chest. "No no no no no," he was chanting, hammering St. Louis with one hand and a little town just south of Keokuk, Iowa with the other. "You're not listening! No no no no....." She needed an anti-acid. She caught Byers' eye. He was next to Langly, long arms crossed. He rolled his eyes and made a feeble attempt at disarmament, injecting soothing syllables between the "nos" and the bits of flying tofu. And in the middle of this, her stomach flip-flopped again. She grimaced, waiting for it to pass. But it didn't. And it didn't. And still it didn't go away, and alarmed, she wondered what was wrong, and then in a burst of cognizance, of joy, of self-congratulation, of con- nection with the universe, she knew. It was the baby, and it was making its presence known. Her eyes shot open wide and she put her hand to her stomach and her mouth formed a ridiculous little "o," a face she probably hadn't made since she was seven. Her heart raced. The baby. God, it was the baby. She was a doctor and she had the diploma and the initials behind her name to prove it, and she knew intellectually, knew clinically that she would feel it kick one day, but she was surprised now, standing in the shadows of the Lone Gun- man's lair, standing there near the map table watching the plotting and gridding and searching for Mulder, at how vis- ceral her response to the kicking was, how untutored, and how unphysician-like. How amazing it was... She must have made a sound, some little thing, some gasp or moan or something that didn't sound like regular F.B.I-issue Agent Dana Scully, because Walter Skinner's head turned like a shot, as if he were Secret Service and she was the presi- dent and he needed to throw himself in front of something deadly and was willing to do so with no reservation whatso- ever. As he searched her face it was obvious to her that he recognized that she wasn't herself. And she could now feel her cheeks reddening. She blinked up at him. He half- turned from the table, his eyes locked on her face. "Scully?" It hurt to hear the concern in his voice, to see it in the lines of his face, because this was, for once in their dark, preposterous, windmill-tilting little lives, something good and pure, something that smacked of normalcy. Her mouth opened, but she couldn't form words, and she looked up at him and noted the gap in his shirt collar and idly wondered if he'd been eating. "I ... I feel ..." Overwhelmed with joy, she couldn't con- tinue. She shook her head. He closed the gap between them, bringing his left hand to hover protectively in front of her, the furrows in his fore- head dark and deep. "Scully? Are you all right?" he said, fear and fatigue reducing his usually strong voice to a load of gravel being sloppily delivered. It was there in front of her - his hand - clean, strong, big, and the baby was kicking and she felt he needed to know that, needed to have some of the lines that had etched them- selves into his face in the last five months be erased. So she took it. She took his hand and pulled it towards her and opened his fingers so that she could put his hand on her belly. But first there was a brief and gentle tug of war as Skinner realized what Scully was doing. His hand at first moved to- wards her willingly. It was coming to save her and hold her up and keep her from harm, to do the kind of job that it was used to doing, and then suddenly it was commandeered for a different purpose altogether, and too late, he realized that and fought it. She pulled against the resistance, looking down as she guided his hand to where it needed to be. She knew it would be warm. And it was. Her face wreathed in a rare smile, both of her hands over his, she looked up at him and her regret was immediate. Skinner was nailed to the floor, his mouth open, his face white, and as she watched that face, emotions surfaced and played across it the way that the wind makes phantom footsteps in a field of wheat. Guilt, she saw. Most of all, guilt. This should be Mulder, his face said. Mulder should be doing this. What is this life we live? she saw. What chance will this child have? Guilt, she saw again. Sorrow. Something else. Something else there that she couldn't define. And anger with no out- let. She saw these things surface and submerge and surface and she fought against them, fought against getting caught in that whirlpool. she wanted to shout.