From: Liz Owens Date: 26 Dec 1999 05:47:46 GMT Subject: Still Time (1/1) by Liz Owens TITLE: Still Time AUTHOR: Liz Owens E-MAIL ADDRESS: cantwaltz@aol.com FEEDBACK: Proudly hung on the refrigerator DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer and the usual atxc haunts. Anywhere else, just let me know where it's going and leave my name and such attached. SPOILER WARNING: "Tithonus," "Redux II" and "Sleepless" RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: V KEYWORDS: S, Post-Ep. SUMMARY: Scully sees time slip away. DISCLAIMER: No, Mulder and Scully aren't mine--they belong to CC, the fine folks at Fox, and 1013 Productions. "Never for money, always for love...." But I'd love to know what goes through Scully's mind in times of great crisis. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Inspired by the font Still Time, which is by Larabie Fonts and is available at http://www.larabiefonts.com. My everlasting thanks to Jori for playing Ebert and making those late night writing sessions so enjoyable. You can visit my other stories at http://members.aol.com/cantwaltz. Still Time "So little done, so much to do." -Cecil Rhodes And so it comes to this. A flash of light as a curtain is thrown back. A flowing trench coat. A single gunshot. Images, sounds, feelings. And pain. So much pain. She senses more than feels her knees buckle, her body flowing down the wall like the blood that blossoms, unexpected, on her abdomen. Her head buzzes as her heart begins to pump erratically. Her doctor's mind knows that the blood in her mouth, the warm stickiness on her belly, is the least of it. It is the internal injuries that will kill her. In two or three or five minutes, she will be the photographer's latest prize. "Oh, God. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no...." There are frantic hands at her wound, as if by applying pressure he can make the injury disappear. Erase his mistake, make the world the same place it was thirty seconds ago. Ritter's fingers, tacky from her blood, press against her throat, searching for the pulse that she can feel pounding against his hand, even as she realizes that it becomes more thready with each heartbeat. The room grows dimmer, the outline of Fellig beside her less distinct. And even though she has not closed her eyes, she begins to see other images, remember other times and places. All of which lead to this day, this second, when her life ends on a dirty floor behind a dusty curtain, the air reeking of developer and blood. Her blood. She thinks again: And so it comes to this. She remembers her father, his face florid with anger, standing over her and lecturing her like a child who had been caught playing with matches. "Jesus Christ, Dana. You're going to get yourself killed! What are you thinking about?" "Dad, I--" She looked to her mother for support, but, for once, Margaret Scully had no softening words to offer. She paced silently behind her husband, her hands folding and unfolding nervously. She struggled to continue. "I thought you'd be proud of me, Dad. That I had found a way to serve-" "Bullshit," Bill Scully said succinctly. "Where in God's name did you come up with this idea? It sounds like your sister, except that she's never tried to shoulder responsibility a day in her life." "Bill," Maggie said sharply. Dana knew what her mother meant--leave Melissa out of this; she's not here to defend herself and her choices. He shot a look at his wife, then turned back to Dana, his anger tightly leashed. "Can you at least give us an explanation? All we've heard from you since you were a little girl is how you wanted to be a doctor. What the hell good is that M.D. going to do you at the FBI? You might as well have skipped going to medical school at all." "Not if I want to work in forensics, Dad," she tried to explain. "And I think I can make a name for myself. I can make a difference." "And you can't do that someplace where people aren't going to try to shoot you?" he asked quietly. It was a dangerous quiet, and she knew it. She knew what he wanted her to say. Yes, Daddy, you're right. I was silly to think of it. I know you what you and Mom expect of me. I am the good daughter, the dutiful daughter. And I will do exactly.... "No." She didn't know who was more surprised, her father or herself. "No, I can't," she said more strongly. "Dad, this will give me the opportunity to learn, to teach, to write. And I can still save lives. Just not in the way you and Mom always thought I would." Her father threw up his hands. "Maggie, you talk to her. Maybe she'll listen to you." Her mother sat down beside her and took her hands, the struggle to find the right words clear on her face. "Honey," she said finally, "your father and I want you to be happy. We won't interfere. We'll respect whatever decision you make. We just want to be certain that you've considered what this means. If you join the Bureau now and decide to practice medicine later, you will have to start over at the beginning in terms of finding a residency. You'll be competing against people who are younger than you, who have the benefit of the latest training. It won't be easy." She squeezed her mother's hands. "Mom, I know that," she said gently. "I've thought about it for months now. But I know in my heart that it's the right thing to do." Maggie looked up at Bill, her expression pleading. He shrugged and shook his head, then walked out of the room. "I hope your heart is right, Starbuck," he said over his shoulder, his voice rough. "I know it is," she whispered to herself. "I know it is." And, after all, there would be time to be a doctor--plenty of time for her father to tell her that he was proud of her. But then, one winter night, there was no more time. Five years after his death, she was still trying to prove him wrong. To make Ahab proud, even though she would never hear him say so. And so, in trying to make him proud, it comes to this. One decision out of many. A path chosen, then another, and another. Leading her here to this dusty, dank apartment and her life spilling out onto the floor as Peyton Ritter punches 911 on his cell phone. "Come on... Come on... Dammit!" Ritter yells, jumping up from the floor and running out of the apartment. Her eyes cannot even follow him as he goes. She doesn't have the strength. She tries to find the energy that has fueled her for the last six years, from the moment she walked into a basement office and shook the hand of a man who would change her life forever. More images burst in her mind, sharp and vivid, like they were playing out before her now. A young, handsome man, his voice dripping with distrust: "I was under the impression that you were sent to spy on me." An inauspicious beginning to a rocky path. One that she might once have been able to walk away from. When the X-Files were closed down the first time, she went back to Quantico, and she could have stayed there. But suddenly, what she had wanted so badly a few years before was strangely lacking. She didn't want to question why the work wasn't enough. But sometimes, late at night, she would be flipping through a file and see something she hadn't before. She found herself picking up the phone, then laughing at herself and replacing the receiver. A few times, though, she had given in to the impulse and dialed his number. "Mulder." Her heart ached at his dispirited tone, and she strove to keep her voice light. "So, how's that new partner? Still working out?" He chuckled. "Krycek? Yeah. I took him out, got him some new clothes. Although he doesn't look as good in a skirt as you did, Scully." She stifled a laugh and shifted the chunky cordless phone to her other ear. "Well, I'm glad you're keeping busy." "Oh, yeah. All the time. One thrill after another." He paused. "How's Quantico?" She heard what he wasn't saying--that at least she was able to pursue her dreams. "Busy," she said, non-committal. "It's a good group. Very by-the-book." "Well, that must please their instructor." She couldn't resist teasing him. "It would be nice to see a little creative thinking now and again, though." "Scully, are you feeling all right?" She leaned back into the soft sofa cushions. "Very funny, Mulder. So, what else is new?" "Not much. Still doing wiretaps. And Frohike told me to tell you hi if I talked to you. He misses you." She looked at the latest copy of "The Lone Gunmen," which lay on her coffee table next to a thick tome on forensics. "They put me on their mailing list. I got quite a kick out of the article on the conspiracy to keep science fiction programs off network television." "Their favorite shows keep getting canceled, so they figured there was something more behind it than just the law of averages." He paused again. "I bet you're glad you're away from all this, Scully. No more conspiracies, no crazy theories jammed down your throat." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Oh, yes. Nothing but gunshot wounds, electrocutions, and poisonings. Textbook cases. It's wonderful." They both knew that she was lying, but Mulder played along. "Sounds like paradise. So, Scully, any reason for calling?" "No. I just wanted to see how you were doing." And to tell you I miss you, and not to give up. You'll find that truth you're looking for, Mulder. And I hope I'm there when you do. But she said none of those things, because it wasn't the right moment. Someday there would be time for that. There was still time to tell him that he'd become important to her. And so she kept her silence, and now it comes to this. She feels her heart beating more slowly, the rush of blood in her ears slowly becoming more hushed. From what seems like an enormous distance, she hears Ritter shouting. "We need some help in here!" he yells, his voice thick with panic. But there is nothing that can help her now, as the room grows dimmer still and the pain begins to ebb. She thinks about all the conversations that she didn't want to have, but that she would have struggled through had not the opportunity been snatched away from her. Like telling Melissa about her experience with hypnosis. Trying to persuade her father that she had chosen the right path. And then there was The Talk with Mulder. It was the one discussion she actually wanted to pursue, and she didn't know how to begin The problem with The Talk was that its topic kept changing. Sometimes it was faith. Others it was trust. Occasionally, it was just about nothing important, like a few unforgettable hours spent with Eddie Van Blundht. How strange it was that the person who knew her best--better even that her own mother--didn't really know her at all. Couldn't look into her and see the feelings there.. And now, because of a green agent's itchy trigger finger, he would never know. But maybe, just maybe, she knew some of what was in his heart. She remembered a night, not so long ago. The doctor had come to give her the news that her cancer had gone into remission. She still remembered the shock and delight on her the faces of her mother and brother as his words had sunk in. She had glanced through the blinds that covered the window of her hospital room and had seen Mulder there as he overheard the doctor. His mouth had first gone slack. Then he bit his lower lip and sank down into a chair, looking for all the world like a little boy who had gotten that much-coveted Christmas gift. She tried to signal him to come in and join them, but he had just shaken his head slightly and smiled. She felt a fleeting sadness that he couldn't let go of whatever it was in him that kept him on the outside, always looking in. But then her brother had said something that made them all laugh, and they gave in to the sweetness of relief. Skinner had arrived a few minutes later, and she lost herself in the joy of the moment. After the doctor had shooed everyone from the room with the soft admonition that she rest, she moved to turn out the lights. And she saw him through the blinds, still slouched in that hard chair, his shoulders slumped. She wondered if he had fallen asleep--it was well past two in the morning. She slid her legs over the side of the bed and took hold of the cold metal pole of the IV stand, wheeling it beside her as she padded to the door, the tile cold under her bare feet. When she tugged open the door, he looked up at her, startled. "I thought you'd be asleep by now," he said quietly. "I thought you *were* asleep," she answered. He stretched. "It's been a big day. I've got a lot on my mind." He looked down and saw her bare feet. "You should be in bed, Scully," he chided. "Get some rest." "I've got a lot on my mind, too," she said. He nodded. "I can believe that." He rose and stood in front of her. "Come on, back in bed before I get a nurse. You know how much they enjoy having a doctor as a patient." She ducked her head to hide a smile. "Yes, I do." She obediently crawled into bed. To her surprise, he tucked the blankets around her with gentle hands, smoothing the fabric so that it didn't bunch around her legs. "Do I get a story now?" she teased him, and he smiled at last. "Well, I could tell you the story of the FBI agent and the lucky guess. But I promised your brother I wouldn't talk about work." He poured her a glass of water, which she accepted without thought. "When--when did you promise him that?" "Drink." When she drained the glass and handed it back to him, he continued, "When I first met him. But that isn't important right now. Lie down." "Mulder--" He sat down in the chair next to her bed and waited. Finally, she pulled the covers up to her chin and settled back on the pillow. "Better?" "Better." He got up and turned off the light. "I don't suppose you can sleep now?" "No," she said, even as a yawn split her face. He chuckled softly, then said, "I'm going home. You need your rest." "I'm sick of resting." She gestured toward the chair he'd just vacated. "Come on. Keep me company for a while, since you wouldn't celebrate with us." He sank into the chair. "I did think about smuggling in some champagne, but I think your doctor would have objected." He scooted closer and took her hand. "So, Scully...what now?" "Now?" She yawned again. "I get some sleep. Real sleep, not 'here's a little something to help you nod off, Dr. Scully' sleep. Sleep where I don't have to worry that I'm not going to wake up." His grip on her hand became painful. He didn't say anything for a minute, just slowly relaxed his fingers and shifted them so that they twined between hers. "What about after that?" he asked, his voice rough. She shifted a little against the pillow, trying to get comfortable. "I don't know. Get my strength back so I can go back to work. If we still have work to come back to, that is." "We do, as of tonight." "I don't suppose you want to tell me what happened?" She tried to keep a wheedling tone from her voice and only partially succeeded. She could tell by the half-smile he gave her. "Not right now." He leaned forward and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "Are you sure?" "Sure of what?" "That you want to come back to work." Whatever relaxation she had achieved vanished. "Why wouldn't I?" "Why *would* you?" She tried to speak, but he shook his head. "Scully, after everything that's happened, why would you put yourself back in the line of fire? What if, after all of this--" He gestured at the equipment, now unnecessary, that still cluttered the room. "-- you get shot a month from now?" She covered their linked hands with her free one. "Mulder...." She searched for the right words. "When my cancer was diagnosed, we talked about this. How the truth, whatever it may be, is in me. We still don't know what that truth is. But I am determined to know, now more than ever. And the only way I can pursue that truth is with you, Mulder." And he had accepted her statement, ducking his head to hide his emotions, which rode too close to the surface. In deference to those emotions, she didn't continue the conversation, and he had remained with her until she drifted off into the first good sleep she had had in months. And somehow, somehow...life, just being alive, had gotten in the way of her search. There was never time for the investigation into her own personal mystery, it seemed. There was always another mystery, another life hanging in the balance. But, after all, she was well now. There was still time to dig and poke methodically through the evidence at hand. And so she hadn't taken up her own cause, and now it comes to this. Dimly, she sees Fellig reach for something--another camera, perhaps. He starts to focus the lens on her, then pauses. Slowly--everything is slow now--he lowers the camera and reaches toward her. Maybe he is touching her, but if he is, she cannot feel it. There is only the sharp taste of blood in her mouth and the hitching beat of her heart. "Do you see him? Do you see him?" Fellig asks softly. She knows she should answer him, but she cannot. It is all she can do to breathe. "Don't look. Close your eyes," he urges her. Her defenses are gone. There is only now and her fading pulse. And...him. Not Fellig. Someone--something--else. She can sense him, just outside what remains of her vision. And there is still time to make a decision. She can go with her head, with the logic that has served her so faithfully for almost 35 years. Or with her heart, a heart she so often ignores because the enormity of her emotions, the power of her instincts, is more than her logical mind can deal with. And while there is still time, she has to trust not in what she can hold in her hands, but what she cannot. With what remains of her energy, she wills her eyelids to drift shut. The images dancing through her mind slow, stutter. Stop. Then, silence. And then the pain, which was almost a memory, flares back to life like an ember on paper. Her ears begin to ache from the wail of sirens. Then there is a cacophony of voices, a rattle of wheels. Suddenly hands touch her, feeling for a pulse. They hurt. Everything hurts. Ritter is talking to her, his words tripping over each other in his panic. He tells her that she will be all right, that everything is fine, that she shouldn't worry. She knows that he is talking more for himself than for her comfort. "Scully, can you hear me?" he asks, his voice close to her ear now. "Can you see me?" She hears him. She knows what he wants--some absolution. But she will not give it to him. And she will not open her eyes. "What about him?" Ritter asks the paramedics. "No pulse," a woman says. Scully hears the clatter of equipment and the separate flurry of activity around the photographer, even as they work on her. Although she wants to look, she will not open her eyes. Finally, an unfamiliar voice speaks. "He's gone," the man says. She hears Ritter's gasp and can almost smell his fear. For an instant, she feels pity for him. And now, only now, does she open her eyes.