From: J Nelson <blackleyj@yahoo.com>
Date: Tue, 26 Jan 1999 17:24:02 -0800 (PST)
Subject: There were no words . . .

Summary:  Scully tries to make sense of her many losses
Spoilers:  Christmas Carol, Emily, Paper Clip, Beyond the Sea
Rating:  G
Category:  MRS, but not overt
Disclaimer:  The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to
Fox and Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.  No monetary gain is being
made from this piece.  Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Archive:  Please, with name attached
Comments:  I wrote this before I saw Christmas Carol and Emily. 
Scully in the 5th Season intrigued me and I just needed to get this out.
Feedback:  Feel free to comment

There were no words . . .
By J. Nelson
e-mail:  blackleyj@yahoo.com

There were no words to convey how she felt.  Only feelings, sorrowful
and heart rending.  Dark and murky emotions that swirled deep inside
of her and snatched at her soul, threatening to steal away all that
she was, leaving her empty, worthless, and alone.

Isolated, adrift in a sea of turmoil with no compass to guide her
course and bring her safely home.  But her home was no more.  Just a
shantytown now that left her hope dressed in rags and exposed to the
elements, poverty stricken and hungry.  Expectation for an existence
not unlike what other people hoped for; love, security, immortality. 
Not life forever, but the immortality anticipated through offspring. 
Expected and assumed, with only a fleeting acknowledgement given to
their miraculous being.

Denied these miracles, reeling from the loss of what could be what was
never going to be Dana Scully considered another day of life.  A life
viewed by outsiders as demanding and fulfilling.  And living a lie was
demanding, but never fulfilling.  Living a lie to avoid confronting a
life devoid of tangible happiness.  Living a lie to avoid facing the
truth, the truth of Fox Mulder.  If Mulder knew the lie Scully lived,
a lie, which she suspected he suspected, his quest would turn on her,
focus on her and then she would drown in his persistent and tenacious
quest.

He was relentless, akin to a dog with bone, hanging on and never
letting go.  And if Mulder wrapped his interest around her loss,
Scully was afraid she would never find her own way back.  She wanted
and needed to get her bearings, chart her own course and then maybe
the sight of her home would be seen on the horizon.  But Scully had to
return via her own route and not by Mulder's design.

And not because she didn't love him.  She did, as a friend, a partner,
a brother and something else.  The something else wasn't a new
feeling, but known about and felt for a long time.  A feeling that up
until now, Scully had only taken out of its box and examined every now
and then, careful to wrap it back up in its cotton batting, putting
the lid back on snugly and storing it in the deep recesses of her
heart.  Like an heirloom from a dear elderly aunt, Scully kept it
locked away, hidden under layers of chiffon and silk that made up her
heart's desires, daring only to look at it when no one else was around
to peer at her deepest secret.  A secret, that if let out, could never
be a secret again.  It could threaten to become the truth that Mulder
would include in his never ending search for his sister, his father's
murderer, her sister's murderer and those that had created Emily and
then destroyed her.  A truth that Scully dared not look at lest it
remind her of that creation and destruction.  An abrupt death, which
came on the heels of an existence that, was sudden, unexpected, but
unwittingly longed for.  An existence that along with her secret could
shelter Scully in the truth, love and trust of Fox Mulder; eternal and
everlasting.

If Emily had lived, Scully knew her secret would have manifested
itself.  She knew one day she would carelessly leave the box out on
her bureau, forgetting to put the lid back on properly, and Mulder
would happen upon it and being to scrutinize.  Respectful of her
feelings, but curious enough to search for clues, he would pay closer
than the usual attention to her theories, then her moods, and
eventually her wants and desires.  And then he would see her yearning
for more than what they had; a family that included him.  But would he
want to be part of that?  And if he were, then it would no longer be
necessary to seek out his grand truths, only essential to pursue their
truth, love and a future.  A future that Dana Scully feared Fox Mulder
was not capable of giving any woman let alone her.  A future that Dana
Scully feared Fox Mulder was capable of giving her.

Scully pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. 
The soft glow of her digital clock read 5:58 a.m., two minutes before
the blare of the alarm would sound.  How many countless mornings had
she done just the same thing, woken up before the alarm was to go off?
 Most days it was much earlier than 6:00 a.m., so this morning Scully
smiled as she contemplated her day.  And not just because she had
actually slept for more than three hours, but because Mulder wasn't
scheduled to be in the office that day.  Once upon a time his absence
would have been sorely felt, but her life wasn't about happily ever
afters now, and it was a relief that he wouldn't be in.  An
alleviation because he wouldn't be near her, listening to her,
silently trying to comfort her with his eyes.  Those eyes, astute and
soulful that spoke of confidence, familiarity and something else that
she was reluctant to name.

Scully was hesitant to christen this emotion, because once she had
done so, it would come to fruition and breathe on its own and then it
would veer out of her control.  And that's what her life was about. 
She had felt the need to have order in her life since she was a small
child.  Her numerous books lined up neatly on the bookshelf and her
dolls lovingly displayed on her bed.  This compulsion for orderliness
had spilled over into her days at college and then had found a
companionable home in her chosen profession, forensic pathology. 
There she found regimented order where she could revel in its ability
to answer an age-old question, what was the cause of death?  Scully
had brought her training, her solid belief in science and its reliable
answers with her to the FBI, ready to prove herself.

What she didn't expect was teaching FBI recruits at Quantico.  A noble
profession, but not one where she thought she could shine.  And then
came her assignment to debunk Fox Mulder and the X-Files.  She had
expected to find the Bureau renegade easy to handle, a few reports on
his not by the book behavior, and she would be recognized as an up and
comer, and moved on to a better assignment.  But time and unforeseen
occurrence befall us all, and Scully found herself drawn to Mulder and
swept up in his pursuit of the truth and those that dared to keep it
from him.

They had conspired to keep the truth from her, the details of her
abduction and her sister Melissa's murder.  Then it was no longer
Mulder's Holy Grail; it was Dana Scully's crusade for justice.  Hope
and justice denied soon could make a heart grow sick, and if Mulder's
had been ailing since the abduction of his sister Samantha, Scully's
was near comatose after Emily's demise.  A heart so close to the end,
she thought it might have had a near-death experience.

This is where she sat, on the edge of emotional death, teetering
towards madness because of her craving for a child and a life.  Scully
knew that this want could be assuaged by one act on her part.  If she
told Mulder her secret desire there would be relief and happiness and
fulfillment.  But at what cost?  Would this be of Mulder's making,
this contentment, this gratification, and this satisfaction of her
dearest wish?  It would, and again she would have no hold on her life.
 But if she did confess all, she'd be happy, delighted and content. 
Mulder would be the first to want to adopt a child, maybe even search
out a way to have one of their own.  Were these not the very things
she wanted?  Although they were everything she wanted at that very
moment, and would want for all the next moments in her life, would
they be Mulder's pot of gold at the end of the rainbow or hers?

Was she insensitive, denying Mulder these rewards?  Maybe. Were they
his secret desires?  Yes.  Scully only had to look into Mulder's eyes
when he directed his gaze at her, and see in them his promise to her
to keep her safe, concealed from the waves that battered her shore,
blanketed in his respect for her, and warmed by his love and desire.

 Scully rose from her bed and readied herself for work.  An hour later
she was in Mulder's office.  When she worked on an X-File assignment,
she wrote many of her reports in the darkness of this basement office,
at the table by Mulder's desk, her own desk on the third floor in a
well lit, spacious office.  In the dimness of this room she felt
secure, enveloped in the reassurance it afforded, Mulder's room.  It
was Mulder's presence that Scully sensed, even when he was off chasing
some would be alien, and it was Mulder's presence that Scully felt
while she silently tapped out her report, bemused by yet another wild
goose chase she had faithfully accompanied him on.  His presence could
be soothing and calming, a balm to her chafed soul.  But of late it
was like the bitter winter air, causing chilblains and threatening to
draw the heat out of her core.

Careful and ordered control had veered recklessly out of Scully's life
when she had been diagnosed with cancer the previous year.  Death's
icy tentacles had reached out for her, beckoning her to enter into its
eternal sleep, but she had been mercifully dragged back from its grasp
by the never-ending battle of Fox Mulder.  Even now, Scully firmly
believed it was Mulder's faith in the truth that induced her
remission.  On the heels of that last minute call from the Governor,
clarity reigned in Scully's mind.  She had the precise feeling that
she was loved and cherished by this campaigner of the truth, and that
it was only a matter of time when she and Mulder would realize that
love.

Her mother had often told her that life wasn't fair, and just when she
thought they would stop skirting their truth and finally join life's
dance, Scully learned of Emily's existence and her barrenness.  And
once she had that knowledge, the sanctuary that she had found in
Mulder's seeming readiness to pursue a more permanent pairing was
demolished by her wrath at the injustice of it all and her despair
over her beautiful little girl's death.

Scully drove home in the solitude of her car, watching as the lights
of the city gave off an ethereal glow.  The sight of the trees on the
boulevard sped by, their spindly branches devoid of leaves reminding
her of her own life, desolate and fruitless.  Come the spring those
branches would burst forth with the blessed renewal of life but Scully
would not.  How fair was this, how could this happen to her?  She
silently screamed against the unjustness of her fate ever mindful that
the answers were unattainable, apparently squirreled away in the deep
hollow of a governmental intrigue.  An intrigue that Mulder tirelessly
explored, naively hoping that he could crack their code, eagerly
anticipating the divulgence of all their dirty little secrets.  His
boyish enthusiasm was disarming and would often undermine her best
intentions at by the book investigations.  This same enthusiasm had
fueled her desire to discover the truths that had been kept from the
both of them.

Scully pulled her car carefully into its parking stall, turned off the
engine and extinguished the lights.  She leaned her forehead against
the steering wheel, grasping it, clinging to what little control she
had left.  If only she could tell Mulder how she felt, impart to him
how the hurt had hollowed out a crevice in her heart, fearful that it
would never be filled again.  If only she could confront her fear of
losing her precious control and allow herself to be cradled in the
tranquility of Mulder's love.  If only.

She let go of the steering wheel and looked in the rearview mirror. 
The only thing she could see behind her was regret and longing.  The
mirror reflected back to her the agony of her loss and her utter
despair.  If she could see tangible evidence of these emotions, then
she knew Mulder could also.  He often left her to chase down a lead
for her own protection, but she knew that this time Mulder had left to
avoid her anguish that was relentlessly tearing down the lines of
communication they had meticulously constructed during their
partnership.

Scully left her vehicle and deliberately made her way to her apartment
building. She entered the quietude of her suite, slowly pushed the
door shut and reached over to turn on the hall light.  The darkness
disappeared, but only from the alcove, and not from her thoughts or
her being.  She shrugged off her coat, letting it fall to the floor,
and slipped off her shoes, carelessly pushing them to the side.  She
then climbed onto her couch, huddling into one corner, and wrapped her
arms tensely around her knees.  Visions of chubby hands wrapping
themselves tightly around her neck, soft whisper-like kisses shimmying
over her cheeks, blonde wisps of hair tickling her nose, ran rampant
through her mind, choking her throat with unshed tears.  Thoughts of
Mulder, his hand gently stroking her face, murmuring pledges of
devotion and adoration, encasing Emily's small hand in his large one,
full of promise, for a reality that would be forever denied, bombarded
her.  The fissures were starting to appear in her plastered up walls,
small at first, but rapidly lengthening and expanding, creating deep
caverns.

Scully slowly let her head fall to her knees, closing her eyes, and
welcoming the respite.  Her tears were hot and burned her eyes as they
fell furiously to her balled up hands.  Control dictated silent sobs,
but as her battlement shattered around her, her sobs wrenched free
from her essence, tumultuous and plaintive.  It was then, and only
then, that Scully absolved herself and grieved, for the loss of her
beloved child, for what was not to be, and her enlightenment that she
indeed did love Mulder and would always.  Her pain flowed from her
through her tears, cleansing her of the grief, diminishing it, tamping
it down into her heart, burrowing it into the deep recesses of her
memory.

Time seemed to have stopped as Scully lifted her head, realizing it
was darker than when she had arrived home.  The moon shone through her
window, radiating a soft glow that cast shadows on the hardwood
flooring.  Scully wiped her tears from her face with the back of her
hand, hiccuping while she reached for a tissue on the end table.  The
dull cottony feeling of exhaustion enveloped her, and she slowly rose
from the couch and quietly made her way to her bedroom.

Once she was ready for bed, Scully set her alarm clock, turned off the
bedside light, and laid her head on the pillow, pulling the comforter
up and over her shoulders.  The loneliness of her life lulled her into
the blissful respite of sleep, where her dreams would materialize,
where she would once again hold her daughter's hand while Mulder held
the other, confident in their love for one another, complete, a
family.  And before she drifted off into that never-never land of her
fondest wishes and desires, she knew that one day they would be her
reality, of her own doing.  She knew she was one day closer to her
dreams, one hesitant step forward in revealing all to Mulder.  One
day, and one more day after that, and one more sleepless night after
that, and then she would acquire her longed for miracles.  One day.

J. Nelson