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Title: Memory's Grace II: Strange Fire Summary: A continuation of Memory's Grace, from Scully's perspective. Author's Note: I was incredibly flattered and surprised by the wonderful feedback and call for sequels that followed my post of Memory's Grace. I'm very grateful to all of you who took time out to read and respond to the story. So here we go with the continuation, this time through the eyes of the other half of our dynamic duo. I thought that "Strange Fire" by the Indigo Girls was the perfect song to complement this story, although all you Indigo Girls fans out there know that it's about something quite different entirely ;) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this installment of Memory's Grace. "I come with a softer answer to the questions that lie in your path. I want to harbor you from the anger, find a refuge from the wrath." -Indigo Girls, "Strange Fire" "Melissa! Billy! Hey, wait up you guys!" Branches scrape against my bare arms as I traipse through the forest on the heels of my sister and brother. Crunching leaves and delicate twigs alert me of the approaching autumn, but I pay no heed. I had finally convinced my mother to let me go along with Billy to the tree fort he built in the woods, and there was no way a little cold wind was going to stop me now. My ears register the sounds of footsteps in front of me, and I can just make out Melissa's voice. Sure that I am heading in the right direction, I quicken my pace, breaking into a full run now; leaves slapping against me from either side. By the time I reach the tree, Bill and Charlie are already in the treehouse, and Melissa has already climbed up three-quarters of the way. I bite my lip and assess the flimsy rope ladder hanging down from the treehouse entrance. Melissa is at the top now, holding the end of the ladder down for safety. "Come ON, Dana. Climb up." Her exasperated voice fills my stomach with even more butterflies than before. I look up at her with an anxiety-stricken expression and am met by an impatient one. "Dana, let's go." She sighs. "Are you just going to stand there all day?" I watch with regret as the ladder is quickly hoisted up into the treehouse. When it is halfway up the trunk I try to grab it, jumping up as hard and tall as I can, but my fingers just barely graze the rope. Laughter and the sounds of a baseball game on the radio float down through the wood slats, and I step away from the tree; the September woods more ominous now than they ever have been. Twenty-five years later, Melissa is dead. Bill is at sea or away eleven months out of the year, and Charlie is busy with a family of his own. I've done a lot of tree climbing in my life, a lot of wobbly ropes conquered. But I still get scared. My gaze falls from the dusk covered trees outside the window, to the cold candle in wait before me. With a flick of a wrist, the scene is set. The wick accepts the flame dutifully; the end of the match left only with a black scorch mark to remember where the heat had once been. I stand over the candle for a moment, resting my arms on the dining room table, and look into the light, warmth spreading through my cheeks. Raising my head up to greet the eyes of the man seated across from me, a smile tugs at my lips. "Happy Thanksgiving, Mulder." He raises his eyes to mine, brimming with some kind of primordial sadness. I bite my lip and lower myself back into my seat, knowing that I have to resign myself to the fact that there is almost nothing I can do to appease him. "Did you speak with your mom?" He lowers his eyes and fiddles with the end of the tablecloth. In the candle's glow, the sharp angles of his face are heightened. I want to reach out and smooth away the furrow of his brow, but my hand lays at my side like a weight. "No, " he finally manages. "She wasn't there." He tightens his jaw, and closes his eyes. I cringe and run a hand through my hair. Damn it, why did nothing prepare me for moments like this?! College, medical school, books upon books of knowledge, and yet nothing to guide me through the comforting of a friend. I sigh, and make another attempt at conversation. "You feeling any better than before?" Mulder opens his eyes again and looks at me thoughtfully, tilting his head and lowering his eyebrows slightly. "I think so, " he replies after a pause. "Good." I nod my head. "I hate to see you upset, Mulder, I really do." He half-smiles and reaches a hand across the table. Gratefully, yet somewhat hesitantly, I accept it. My thoughts travel back to Georgetown Medical Center, my hospital room. Mulder is there, holding my hand through it all, as if that alone would pull me through it. In many ways, though, it was the only thing that did. The light filters in through the curtains and Mulder is seated beside me. The room smells antiseptic, a harsh clean to wipe away the reality of illness. He's wearing the tie that I gave him for his birthday. In memory his voice is hollow. "I knew that you would talk me out of it if I was making a mistake" His voice once again carries me out of my reverie. "Scully? Are you alright?" He quickly lifts himself out of his seat and walks around the table to perch himself in the chair beside mine. His hands float over my arms, too apprehensive to land. Turning slowly towards him, I see the fear in his eyes, rivaling that of my own. Mulder pauses and swallows, as if in nervous preparation. "Dana?" I breathe in quickly and shake my head. "I'm s-sorry. I'm fine. Really." He nods, and relaxes into his chair. I am eternally grateful to him that he didn't press the issue. Mulder has never pressed that issue, unlike my brother. I think back to the events of Thanksgiving dinner after Mulder left and sigh. Closing my eyes, I rest my head in my left hand and turn to look at my partner. "Dinner was...eventful, to say the least." Mulder tilts his head so that it is aligned with mine. "That's right, I forgot to ask you how that went. Were your relatives blown away by your oh-so-eloquent partner?" A smile plays across his lips, and I can't help but follow suit. "Quite." I reply. "In fact, Bill never stopped raving about you." Mulder sits up straight again and scowls. "Uh oh. What's the damage?" "Mulder..." "No, really, Scully. Your brother has had some choice names for me in the past, but he's always been right about it." I lift my head up and look at Mulder. "He said... Well, he was just a little upset that you couldn't stay, that's all." What I tell him is the truth--but not the whole truth. No matter how deceiving it feels, I've learned to keep some things from Mulder. I backtrack in my mind to earlier this evening; stepping into my apartment, minus Mulder. The tension was palpable, as burning and obvious as the blush that crept up my cheeks. As soon as I reached the table again, and began to explain away Mulder's actions ("Oh, his mother lives in...um...Massachusetts, and he's very...stressed. Uh, more green beans anyone...?"), Bill pulled me into the connecting room, shutting the door once we were safely inside. His words come back to me now and the sting is still fresh within me. "Why are you wasting your time with him, Dana?..Time and time again, when you need him, he just walks out the door...You almost died because of him...I love you, Dana, and I don't want to see you get hurt again..." Consciously, I know he was speaking of Mulder. But it feels so personal that I can't move past the shame that I still feel now, almost two hours later. Perhaps it's because he can't seem to trust me to choose my battles, or perhaps it's because he doesn't seem to think that I can fight them alone. At any rate, this is about more than just Mulder, and I kick myself mentally for having brought him into it at all. Taking another deep breath, I change the subject as quickly as possible. "Well, anyway. Would you like something to eat or drink? God knows I've got plenty of it after that dinner today." Mulder raises an eyebrow. "You cooked all that?" "Yes! Why do you find that surprising?" "I don't know, I just never actually saw you make anything besides coffee--and you don't even make coffee that well." He is full-on smiling at this point, and I laugh with him. It feels like a new experience, and I'm glad for it. I absentmindedly finger the cross that lies against the nape of my neck. Before my mind can process it, Mulder has reached out and lifted the cross from my hands, running his fingers over the gold, occasionally grazing my neck. A thoughtful expression passes over his face, erasing the lightness of the previous moment. "Three months..." I lower my eyes; the onset of a subject that I didn't want brought up forcing me into awkwardness. Frustration racks me as Mulder speaks. I just don't remember. "It just all felt a little too familiar, I guess, " he says, his attention focused on the necklace he is fiddling with. Before he can finish, I cut him off. The cross is yanked out of his grasp when I push my chair out from the table and stand, walking over to the window. "I'm not Samantha, Mulder." An astonished pause hangs between us. I turn my head back to look at Mulder; his mouth is hanging slightly open. "Scully, I didn't mean-" "I'm not nine years old. I don't - I'm an FBI agent for God's sake, I can take care of myself." The minute the words escape my mouth I am sorry for them. Biting my lip, I wait for Mulder's reaction. He shifts his weight and tugs the end of his sweater. Looking from one side of me to the other in an attempt to avoid my eyes, he makes a motion to speak, but nothing comes. Guilt wells within me for hurting him, but I don't apologize for what I said. I meant it - but not for Mulder. "I think - I think I should go." I throw my arms out in frustration as he reaches for his jacket. "Mulder! No, now come on. You can't just run out when a situation doesn't suit you!" "I didn't mean to interfere. I didn't." I sigh, exasperated. "You're not interfering in anything, Mulder, now will you please sit down!" He clasps his jacket tighter, almost violently. "I didn't come here to be treated like a liability!" Unconsciously, I take a step back teetering on my heel. I raise a hand to my temple and seat myself slowly in a nearby chair. "You're right. I'm sorry." He sighs loudly and tosses his jacket on the couch, crouching before me. He rests his hands on my knees and turns his face up to meet mine. "Don't be. I'm just scared." His voice is barely audible. "Of what?" I can feel his breath, warm with his heavy whisper. "I don't know how to save you, Scully, and it scares me." Damn it, Dana Scully, you will not cry. You will NOT. "Mulder - Fox-that's not your cross to bear." He looks up at me with a look of heartache mixed with determination, but he doesn't say anything. We sit still for a moment; me slumped in a chair, Mulder crouched beside me. My eyes avert themselves stealthily, the tugging in my gut resuming. "Come on, Mulder. It's Thanksgiving. Don't do this to yourself today of all days." Secretly, though, I am glad that he has chosen to come to me tonight, arms open wide. I am glad that we argued, and I am glad that he is here now, that familiar look of stony contemplation across his face. He's being honest with me now. Any mistrust or division between us seems faraway from here. The dim glow of the candle bathes us, and the low light brushes aside the facades to illuminate the truth. I reach out my hand and touch the side of his cheek. "I'm back now, remember. I'm not going anywhere for a very long time." Unconsciously, he bends his head into my hand, brushing his skin against my palm. Shifting his eyes upward to meet mine, he smiles. "Well then, we should celebrate." Slowly, he rises to a standing position and walks around the table until we are both in the places that we began at. Noticing the bottle of wine left over from dinner that is sitting on the kitchen counter, he jogs over and retrieves it, along with two plastic glasses from the cabinet above it. After a quick perusal, he grabs the bottle opener from its hasty resting-place on the toaster. Returning to his seat once again, he sets the bottle on the table, placing one glass in front of me. I chuckle. "Mulder, I DO have wine glasses, you know." He shrugs and throws me a half-smile. "Yeah, I know, but these will do. Besides, they're the only things in your kitchen I can find." In a moment, he has the bottle open, and slowly pours the red liquid into my cup, repeating the gesture in his own. The candle, still burning, bridges the gap between us. The light it exudes flickers over Mulder's face as he raises his glass above it, arm outstretched towards me. He inhales and pauses. "The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple." I smile. "Oscar Wilde." I think for a moment, and then raise my own glass. "The best use of life is to spend it for something that outlasts life." Mulder nods. "William James." He smiles thoughtfully. At once, we clink our glasses, the plastic emitting a small clacking noise. I take a sip of my wine and set my glass down, my eyes still tracking Mulder's. The candlelight is slowly fading away. Shadows jump and dance about the table. Mulder seats himself again and bends across it, slowly closing the distance between us. Still looking at me, he carefully blows out the candle, and we both let our eyes follow the smoke on its ascension heavenward. I'm not so scared any more. -end- Okay all, it's up to you: should there be a Memory's Grace III? Please send feedback and let me know what you think. Thanks! --Laika |
Archivist's note: stories 3-5 are not Thanksgiving related, but I hate to break up a family.
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Title: Memory's Grace III: Keeper of my Heart Summary: Third part of the Memory's Grace series, set at Christmastime of same year. Author's Notes: Hi all! Thanks for coming back for more of the Memory's Grace series. I've moved the time frame to the December after the Thanksgiving meal. This occurs in the post-Redux 2 world (MOTW's notwithstanding), but it all takes place Before Christmas Carol. I've decided to continue on with the series, and I hope you enjoy Memory's Grace III as much as I and II. Thanks to everyone who has responded to MG I and II. You are the reason that I have continued with this series, and the reason that I have enjoyed it so much. "Could you lift me through my love and anger? My arms are burning, but Apparently, I need a tree. Or so I've been told. Scully informed me of my dearth of an evergreen with an inordinate amount of excitement this morning. This, of course, was followed by an offer to accompany me to pick one up. I had thought that I'd simply be swinging by the K-Mart and finding an inexpensive fake one. By the horrified expression that passed over Scully's face, I resigned myself to the notion that my planned scenario was not an option. Sitting here on my couch three hours later, I'm still picking pine needles out of my skin. Scully is huddled next to the bare, askew tree attempting to untangle a ball of Christmas lights as I lounge on the couch, reeking of pine. The damn thing might be tilting, but it took us an hour to pick it out and even more time just to get it up and standing. Scully insisted on grabbing it by the heaviest section and hoisting it into the stand, which resulted in a nasty spill and some choice words emanating from her general direction. From that point on, the task of setting up the tree was placed squarely on my shoulders. Flashbacks of "No, no, a little to the left...there--no, no more to right...Mulder, the RIGHT...try turning it so you don't get that horrible bare spot showing...shut up, Mulder, I HAVE done this before..." come rushing back to me, and I lean back against the leather of the sofa, emitting a sigh that echoes the pain shooting up my back. Scully's head snaps up. "You okay?" I rub the back of my neck thoughtfully. "Seems like a waste, really. I mean, you spend all this time getting a live tree, when, in actuality, it's already dead. Right there in the holder." She drops the as-of-yet-untangled cord and pushes a hair out of her eyes. "Jeez, Mulder, it's a tree." I smile down at her, in spite of myself. The last time that she was here with me, Michael Krischtgau was also. My apartment looked different then; it looks different now. Somehow, even though the surroundings may stay the same, the emotions that they conjure changes the entire way you look at them. Scully looks quite a bit altered to me now. A slight blush creeps up on my cheeks, defying my exterior and interior sense of what some might call denial. I choose not to term it in that fashion, however; the fact that I keep my feelings tucked away is a defense mechanism. I hide my cards until the time comes to play them. Ever since Thanksgiving, though, I've had an open hand. Besides the kiss that we shared after the candle was extinguished, there still hasn't been an open declaration of feelings; no fanfare or fireworks. But I think we both realize that things have changed, that we've both changed. I don't question it. I just take what she gives, I give what I can, and I move on from there. And now here we are, assembling a Christmas tree together. As Scully continues to unravel the twisted cord, I slide from the couch and seat myself beside a box of ornaments that my mother sent. Picking each one from the tissue paper, I hold them up for Scully's approval. "You all packed for the trip tomorrow?" I say, breaking the silence. She shrugs. "I think so. I'll only be at Bill's house for a few days, so there isn't very much to bring. That reminds me, I have to call Mom about what time I'm picking her up tomorrow morning." "Oh. I was actually hoping that I might, um, be able to take you to airport. You know, see you off." I wait for her reaction with some uncertainty. Scully's eyes glow at the prospect. "That would be wonderful, Mulder. Thank you." She holds up a straightened cord for me to see. "Ta da! It's not so tough. You just have to know where to pull." I smile. "You always were the problem-solver." Setting aside the ornament box, I sprawl out on the carpet in front of her, propping my head up on my hand. "San Diego, eh? Trading Christmas trees for palm trees?" "Hell yes!" She laughs. "Actually, I can't wait to go. I haven't seen Bill's new house yet - though, if it's anything like the base housing that we had as kids, it's probably not much to see. They probably have barely any space left, what with the new nursery and all..." Her voice trails off for a moment. "I told you, didn't I?" she continues after a moment. "Bill's wife, Tara, is pregnant. I have a little niece or nephew on the way." She isn't doing a very good job of concealing her disappointment with cheerfulness. Awkwardness hangs between us like a weight; like an iron curtain separating us from each other. I want to say "I understand" but I hold my tongue. I don't understand. I KNOW, but I don't UNDERSTAND. I can't pretend to be able to fathom the depth of emotions of a woman who can never have children. I can't fake the ache of watching another readying herself for a moment that will never come for me. That belongs to Scully, and I don't dare cheapen it by spouting a lie like "I understand." So in lieu of that cliched formality, I lean over and place a small kiss on her lips. I pull away and she is smiling a contented smile that is rare, if it ever graces her face at all. Still clutching the cord, she holds up one end for me to take. I accept it dutifully, and we both stand, silently; we begin to string the lights from the top and work our way down. Slowly, carefully, not a bulb out of place. The three of us - Scully, her mother, and myself - arrive at the terminal at 6: 00 a.m., and it's already packed. Christmas travelers tug their luggage behind them, children nap in strollers, voices sound intermittently over the loud-speaker, announcing the arrival and departure of plane after plane; state upon country upon continent, all merging at Dulles Airport. My focus, however, is residing on the redhead beside me, yawning and tapping her foot impatiently. Smiling despite myself, I reach over and place my palm over her hand. My instinct is to ease her head against my shoulder and let her fall asleep there, but my brain simply will not process the necessary neurotransmitters for my hands and arms to allow me to complete this movement. I've vowed to take things slowly in this relationship, and my mind won't let my heart betray me. Sometimes I think my synapses are smarter than I am. Scully looks up at me, a weary smile to match her sleepy eyes. I wonder to myself how the always-prepared Agent Scully allowed herself to get less than a good night's sleep before this trip. My thoughts are broken by the sound of a woman's voice over the intercom. "Flight 1568, Washington DC to San Diego now boarding at Gate 7." Scully sighed and hoisted herself up into a standing position. I follow suit, lifting her carry-on bag and placing it on her shoulder. She looks up at me and smiles, gently running a hand down my arm. "Almost ready, Dana?" her mother asks, with a quick glance in my direction. I fight the urge to laugh. "Yeah, Mom. Almost. Why don't you go get the seats and I'll join you in a minute, okay?" Scully replied. Mrs. Scully kept her eyes and her demure, "how adorable" smile fixed on me. I return the smile, groggily. "Okay, dear." Once her mother is gone, Scully pulls me into a hug. Wrapping my arms around her waist, I bury my nose in her hair, entranced with the warmth she exuded. "I'll miss you." My coat muffles her voice. "The week will go by in no time at all. Be sure to bring back plenty of pictures for me." She pulls away, a grin on her face. "Oh, I will. We'll have a nice, boring slide show when I get back." Leaning down, I kiss the top of her forehead. "It's a date then. Slides, my place." Scully bites her lip, and rises up slightly on her toes. Before I know it, she has placed her lips on mine; warmth to warmth, face to face. Too quickly, it is over. "Last call for Flight 1568 to San Diego" blasts from behind us. Scully pulls back. "I'd better get going. I'll see you when I get back." I nod. She begins to walk away, my gaze never leaving her back. "Hey, Dana!" I call when she is just about to enter the terminal. She hands over her ticket to the man in front of her and turns around to face me. "Mulder?" "I love you." A smile spreads across her face; her eyes, her cheeks, her whole body alight with this smile. Lifting her bag onto her shoulder once more, she heads into the hallway to board the plane. Once she is out of my view, I turn and walk towards the nearby windows to watch her plane take off. It may be taking her away from me, but I've never felt closer to her. When I return to my apartment, dawn is streaming through the windows, but it still seems too dark. Reluctantly, I plug in the extension cord that connects the tree lights. A warm glow fills the room, and I sit in front of the tree, comforted by the strange company that it allows. My eye catches on a small piece of paper taped to a "My First Christmas, 1961" ornament. Inspecting it more closely, I can see that it has the words "FOX: Read me!" scrawled on the front of it. Removing it from the ornament gently, I open it with an anticipation rivaling that of any child on Christmas morning. Mulder, I love you, Fox. I can't wait to get back to DC. Thinking of you, There's a gift for you underneath the tree. Don't open until Christmas! I fold the note back into its original position and press it against my chest. I curl up beside the tree, drinking in the pine scent, reveling in the warmth of the light it exudes and the new light within me. Finally, I drift off to sleep, still clutching the note in my hand. The shrill shriek of the phone beckons me from my slumber. Glancing at my watch, I see that it's already noon. I rub my eyes and run a hand through my hair as the phone continues ringing. Reaching over groggily, I lift the receiver. "Hello?" "Mr. Mulder?" The woman's voice is not familiar to me. I raise myself into a seated position and press the phone closer to my ear. "Yes, this is Agent Mulder." "This is Tara Scully, Dana's sister-in-law." Her voice is quaking with fear; I can hear a commotion in the background. "Is something wrong?" "Well, I...I remembered Dana mentioning you, and I thought I should call and let you know." "Let me know what?" My stomach turns in anticipatory horror. "Dana's plane went down three hours ago, somewhere over Nevada." The End |
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Title: Memory's Grace IV: By Their Bedsides Waiting |Spoilers: One Breath |Disclaimer: The X-Files, Mulder, and Scully belong to 1013 Productions, Fox, and Chris Carter. No infringement is intended and no money has been made from the use of these characters. 'February' and 'Mortal City' belong to Dar Williams Summary: Fourth part of the Memory's Grace series; a continuation of events at the end of part three Author's Note: Okay, well, at this point the title 'Memory's Grace' really has no meaning any more, though it did have relevance in the first and second parts. Part 4, does, of course, deal with the aftermath of the plane crash. There is MAJOR angst ahead, folks! This story does warrant a romance categorization, but really it's about Mulder and his feelings towards Scully and himself. Of all the Memory's Grace stories, I'm most proud of this one. The most difficult thing about writing this story was honestly portraying the hospital scene at the beginning. I have never been in a plane crash, so I don't know how things are arranged at hospitals where the injured are treated. I've done my best to make it as realistic as possible, however, so I hope that I have done reality justice. I've based the ICU on the one that I visited my father in a few years ago, so hopefully it will ring with some amount of truth. As always, let me know what you think of MG4! I lovelovelove feedback! : ) Please send any and all feedback "I hear 1,000 hearts beating at the hospital, and 1,000 hearts by their bedsides waiting, saying 'That's my love in the white gown'. We are not lost in the mortal city..." -Dar Williams, 'Mortal City' I see her in a dream. A tumultuous sleep conjures in my mind a cavalcade of images, too real to be anything but a yield of my overburdened psyche. The tunnel is long, dark; I crawl through the narrow passage hoping to find a light at the other end, but I am met by only more tunnels. The wreckage I am wading through grazes my waist, scrapes my elbows, and produces a burning bile in my throat. The ever-present flash of red hair drives me further, and the anguished voice fills the tunnel and echoes in my ears... "Mulder! Mulder, help me!" She is within reach, her pale hand close enough for me to touch. I reach my arm out in desperation, grazing the tips of her fingers. But she falls away, disappears. The voice remains, though. "Mulder...Mulder...Mulder..." "Mr. Mulder? Mr. Mulder?" In an instant I am thrown from my dream. Looking upwards to find the origin of the voice, a flight attendant is standing over me. She is shaking my shoulder gently. "Mr. Mulder, you asked me to wake you before we landed. We're almost ready to touch down now." She plasters a smile on her face and strolls away. I buckle my belt around me and slump back against the seat. It's been seven hours since I received the call. Somehow, it just doesn't seem real. The plane crash...Dana and her mother on board...It seems as though it is simply another of my waking dreams - real enough to make me feel the danger, but not enough to make me feel the consequences. I don't feel the plane glide in on the tarmac. I don't feel the halting jolts of the masses around me at the luggage carousel. I don't feel the bumpy highway beneath me in the taxicab on the way to the hospital. I keep my eyes straight ahead; I don't feel anything anymore. Electric double doors slide open to allow me entrance into the hospital lobby. Inside, I am surprised to find a relative calm. The room is packed with people, but most are escorting bandaged or limping people around. Nurses are taking down rapid notes or running to attend to patients. Behind me, a television blasts CNN, which reports of "a plane crash outside of Las Vegas, Nevada today following a botched emergency landin....many were injured, but there are few deaths to report." I can only hope that the announcer is speaking the truth. To my right, a sign hangs over the entrance to a hallway, reading "FAMILY of PASSENGERS ONLY!" Immediately, I squeeze through the crowd toward the entrance. Flashing my badge to the officer standing guard, I enter hazily into the makeshift emergency room. Updates are being posted on a nearby board, and I pick out the list with the names of the dead. There are only three names on it, and it appears to not have been updated in some time. Dana's name is not on the list. Neither is her mother's. A breath escapes me in my relief, but any happiness is short-lived. Beside the list of the dead is a list of the injured. It is arranged into three sections according to the seriousness of the injuries, with hundreds of names underneath the heading of "STABLE/OUTPATIENT". I scan the list with my finger and locate 'Scully, M' with both a sense of relief and dread. Dana's name is not with her mother's. Reluctantly, my shaking finger makes its way over to the column underneath "CRITICAL". Roughly ten names down my finger stops on 'Scully, D'. Apparently she is being treated in the Intensive Care Unit. The wind is knocked from me as my head swirls. My body has begun to work independently of my shock-ridden mind. My hand drops to my side. My mouth hangs open. And my feet tear off down the hallway towards the ICU. "Mr. Mulder! Mr. Mulder!" As I lurch through the swinging doors to the ICU waiting room, Tara Scully's voice greets me. She is waving her hand above her very pregnant frame, summoning me. Swiftly I make my way to her. Nervous strangers line the hallway on either side of me, and the noise of machinery makes me feel like the bottom of my stomach has fallen out. "Mrs. Scully, I-" She shakes her head. "Call me Tara, please." "Okay. Um, Tara, is, uh...is she okay?" Her eyes drop to the ground. "She lost a lot of blood." "What does that mean - What -" "She's in a coma, Mr. Mulder. They stabilized her a few hours ago. Bill and I got here as soon as we could." I fumble backwards slightly, woozily. My head is still spinning. Swallowing hard, I fight to maintain balance. "And Mrs. Scully?" "Oh, Margaret's pretty much okay-physically. She had a mild concussion, some broken bones, and some bruises, but they released her. She wanted to stay with Dana, but the doctors said she should rest, so Bill took her back to the hotel." Tara shakes her head. "The irony of life. The doctors figure that something must have fallen and hit them both on impact, yet Mom is fine and Dana is...." "I want to see her." "Don't we all." She gestures to the crowd around us. "They won't let anyone in." I nod, and retrieve my FBI badge from my jacket, stepping over towards the entrance. It's worth a shot. The guard waves me through without questioning me. I slip past him and into the bustling yet grave ICU. I make my way over to the nurses' station where a woman is seated with a clipboard. "Dana Katherine Scully, please." My voice shakes. "Room 15." She doesn't even look up at me. I gaze down the hallway and slowly make my down it, past room 9, room 11, room 13. I stop in front of room 15, a small room, closed off with a door, but with large glass windows in the front for observation. Dana lies within this room, and watching her is like watching myself. I feel detached from this time and place, numbness overtaking dread. I twist the doorknob and let myself in. Reluctantly, I push the door closed and step towards her bed, lowering myself into the chair next to her. She has bruises on her face, tubes in and out of her nose and mouth, and my breath catches at her beauty. "Hey Scully." I attempt a smile, as if she can see me. "Can you hear me, Scully? Boy is Skinner gonna be pissed at you when you get back." My effort for humor is met with silence. I bite my trembling lip. "C'mon, Scully. Wake up for me, Scully." This room full of beeps and machines and a distant memory of Scully grows constricting and claustrophobic. I feel like a five-year-old waiting for a monster to climb out from under the bed. Grasping Scully's hand, I press it against my cheek and close my eyes, hoping that she can force the monsters away. Fatigue catches up with me as I reenter my unlit hotel room. The initial adrenaline rush of this afternoon is subsiding. I finally left the hospital at nine p.m. at Bill Scully's not-so-subtle urging. His voice still rings in my head. "Dana doesn't need you here." I don't bother turning on any lights. Reveling in the glorious darkness, I push open the glass door that leads to the balcony. I step out onto the balcony, wind tousling my hair and clothing. I think nothing of it, but simply walk right to the edge. Five stories up, a mass of concrete and cars below me. The night provides no comfort from the events of the day. I wonder...what would happen...Glancing over the edge of the balcony, my head spins from the height. In my mind, I step right off this balcony and onto green fields, Dana beside me. We stroll away together and nothing ever makes us look back. No planes, no cancer. And all I have to do is walk away from this... ...walk right off this balcony... My foot, poked in between two of the guardrails, trembles, mirroring my stomach. The air below me is like a cushion, like a beckoning call. Hands, gripped around the chilled metal banister, betray me. They hang on for dear life, knuckles white. I dare one more look over the edge, and finally give, crumpling into fetal position. My head is pressed against the bars, and I stare out among the living and surviving below me. These bars that hold me in like the prisoner but cradle me like a child. Eventually I will go back into the room, go back to Scully's bedside, go back to DC and live my life again. But for right now, I am just staring through the bars, observing all that surrounds me from my self-made cell. Sleep is futile, and inevitably I find myself back at Dana's hospital room. Most of the commotion is dispersed, as more and more patients are moved out of the ICU and into different wards of the hospital. Scully isn't among them, though. From the window outside Dana's room, I can see Mrs. Scully, Tara, and Bill inside. Mrs. Scully is perched in a wheelchair, a heavy cast adorning her leg. Scrapes and bruises similar to those of Dana's are scattered about her worn and sleepless face. I step back from the window, readjust the bag that hangs from my shoulder, and begin to make my way back to the waiting room. As I turn to go, I hear the door creak open. Bill Scully emerges. "Mr. Mulder...you can stay." His voice is hoarse, and his clothes rumpled. Obviously he has forgone sleep and my respect for him doubles as a realization of his love for Dana washes over me like a tidal wave. "No, you should really have some time to be alone with her." He swallows and closes the door behind him. "So should you." I resist the urge to raise an eyebrow. His sudden change of heart seems suspect, but he continues. "Mom, uh, told me - about you two - so, uh, we'll leave you alone for a while." Stunned, though touched, I reach my hand out to shake his. He takes it hesitantly, but the fact that he takes it at all is tantamount to a truce. We linger awkwardly in the hallway for a moment before Bill retreats back into the room. A moment later, Tara, Bill, and Mrs. Scully come out and greet me. Mrs. Scully's face is not devoid of her mothering affection, despite her scars. I bend down and place a kiss on her cheek. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Scully." "I'm fine, Fox. It's Dana that I worry about." She takes my hand. "We're going to go get something to eat, but we'll be back. You watch out for her." "I will." Bill hands me a slip of paper with a number on it. "If anything happens, page me." I take the paper from him, but deep down I know that I won't have to use it. I nod, and they begin to make their way down the hallway, wheeling Mrs. Scully in front of them. Once they are out of view, I enter Scully's room. She looks the same as yesterday; a blessing and a curse. I remove the bag from my shoulder and place next to the chair that I sit in. "Hi, Scully. I'm back." Breathing deeply, I keep my gaze trained on her. "You know, the last time that I was in this situation, Melissa told me that I might be able to feel you. Your...spirit, or..." I sit for another few moments, too scared to move myself from my position on the chair. Eventually, I lift myself until I stand, and raise my hands above Scully's stomach. Placing my palms parallel to her body, I try my hardest to feel any flickering sense of life hovering above her. I tense my hands, desperate to catch her spirit and keep it safe for her. But I tighten my hands into fists, and let them drop to my sides. I know she is here, but I can't feel her. Frustrated, I sit again. "Well, anyway...Oh yeah-" Remembering the bag beside me, I pick it up and sit it in my lap. I pull out a tape player that I rented from the hotel and a tape that I bought the night before just for this purpose. "They say that you can hear things, so I figured you might want to hear some music." I inserted the cassette into the player. "Your favorite, Scully - 'Mortal City' by Dar Williams. We're still on for that concert in January, right?" My voice breaks, and I know that to talk anymore would be to compromise the strong front that I present for her. In actuality, I present it for myself. If I can't be brave for someone else, I'll never be brave. I don't say anything else, but press the button to begin the tape. I had already fast-forwarded it to Dana's favorite song, 'February'. Watching her stoic and unchanging face and the hospital and the present fleeting moment in the atmosphere of weeping strings and acoustic guitars, I can almost forget that none of this is solid. None of this is guaranteed to be reality one day from now, one hour from now, one minute from now. I take her hand in mine and gently rub her arm. 'First we forgot where we'd planted those bulbs last year, The nights were long and cold and scary. I place her arm back down on the bed, and stand back up. The pain is resurfacing; my numbness fading into agony like the night's adrenaline rush dwindled into weariness. Fresh fear wells up in my stomach. I don't want to leave, but I do. I have to. I shut the tape off before the song ended, and quickly rushed out. Bill and his family should be back soon. Though this will give him new reason to hate me, I simply can't stay. Pushing through the door, I hasten down the hallway and through the doors into the ICU waiting room. I collapse into a chair next to an equally worn-looking man. He turned his head towards me. "You look like you could use some coffee. I think we all could at this hour." My mind is foggy. "What?" Before I can protest, he is on his feet and retrieving me coffee in a flimsy paper cup from a nearby coffee urn. "My sister is in there. She's in pretty bad shape, but they say she'll pull through." He sighed. "She was coming to see me in Los Angeles. Christmas, you know..." He trails off as he seats himself next to me again. "Is your wife in there, your girlfriend?" He hands me the steaming cup of coffee. The hollow circle of ribs in my chest rises and falls with each empty breath. "Yes." I can't fight a sob. I drop the cup onto a nearby table and quickly leave the waiting room before this stranger can see the tears that are endlessly streaming down my red face. I just start running - through the ICU double doors, through the lobby, until I reach the early Nevada morning. There are plateaus in the distance, deep red and dry brown. My tears just keep falling and my throat catches with each sob, as if I can't get enough out to possibly comfort me. I keep waiting for this to level off, but I can't help but wonder if this uphill battle is really part of the downward slide. It was Mrs. Scully who found me, slumped in a chair in the lobby. Bill and Tara had gone to Dana's room, but Mrs. Scully wheeled herself over to my battered form and placed a hand on my hand. She looked at me through black and swollen eyes, through the specter of losing a daughter, through the eyes of one who has suffered much, and still had the strength to tell me "Dana doesn't give her love to just anyone, and she has never given up without a fight." She patted my hand again and wheeled herself away, an enigma. A puddle of brown pine needles surrounds the nearly bare tree in the hospital lobby, where I sit now, watching the dawn through glass doors. Ornaments hang limply on the tree's branches, and the dry twigs bend under their weight. With my hands in the pocket of my coat, I run my fingers over the note that I found taped to the Baby's First Christmas ornament so many days ago. Thirty-six years ago my path was just being forged, but now it is twisted and well ridden. There are bumps along the way, stops and starts of jobs, relationships, and ideals. But most importantly, there are passageways onto the roads of others, constant intertwining of the ones that I love and the ones that I hold dear. Dana's road is not ended yet. I don't just feel it, I know it. I know like a primordial instinct that I will speak to her again and hold her again. Fate has taken her from me before, but something always sees it fit to bring her back again. Perhaps God, perhaps some other unseen force, perhaps simple faith alone. Faith, that carries us through our darkest tunnels like a torch, and grace that gives us the strength to muddle through them. These are the things that Dana has given to me, and I dare not allow myself to believe that the path of my life will not always be side by side with hers. As the sun rises on Christmas morning, I wait and pray. The End |
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Title: Memory's Grace V: In Love But Not At Peace Summary: Mulder and Scully deal with the aftermath of the crash, and wonder whether things can ever truly be the same again. Continuation of events in Memory's Grace IV. Author's Note: There were a million different directions I could have gone in for this particular story, but I think that this was the right one. I tried my hardest to keep this from becoming another cliched Scully-in-a-coma stories, and I hope that I've succeeded. I've also tried to make this different from the typical Mulder/Scully romance story out there, while remaining true to the storyline. As always, I really want to hear what you think, so please let me know! Please send feedback . I'd really appreciate it! : ) Once for me, love was the boat inside of the bottle, it felt like a gondola ride When you float with the knick-knacks, and you don't hear a sound, Where the fish never lived and you don't miss the ground And the moon hangs above like a Valium pill, And I say I'll be fine, but I don't think that I will But today I've got work, and I like it that way It's a case of a still life gone cinema verite So I'll stay in my body, and you'll stay in your own It is three weeks since I sat in that Nevada hospital, give or take a couple of days. A new year has been ushered in, and my Christmas tree is still standing, dead as it may be. The ornaments have been removed, but I can't seem to find the energy or motivation to take it down. The leather of my couch is worn but comfortable as I sit here. The lamp by the couch gives off only the lowest light possible - it's three in the morning, I may as well just wait for the sun to rise. It is slightly chilly, but I don't bother to turn the heat up. My eyes can not tear themselves away from the small, wrapped box in front of me. The tag attached reads "To: Fox, From: Santa a.k.a. Dana" Lifting it from it's place on the coffee table before me, I close my eyes and think back on the events of the past few weeks. The first sound that my memory registers is rushing footsteps. I had gone back to the waiting room to see how Mrs. Scully was doing when a blur of doctors and nurses caught me up in their path. My pulse raced and my stomach turned, as my inherent pessimism reared its ugly head. Following them into the ICU at a slower pace, my footsteps quickened as I saw where they were headed. Room 15. Dana's room. Panicked, I darted down the hallway just as the doctors entered the room. The women and men were huddled around Dana's bed, obstructing my view of her. I watched as they frantically jotted down notes and read meters, helpless to do anything but stand outside, my mouth agape. One of the doctors, a short, balding man with too-large glasses, emerged from the room, studiously reading the notes on his clipboard. Grabbing his forearm as he began to turn down the hallway, he looked up at me with surprise. "What's going on in there?" I demanded. "Excuse me, are you family?" "Just what the hell is wrong with her?" He furrowed his brow and yanked his arm from my grasp. "She was in coma." He pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to walk away again. I grabbed him again in horror. "She WAS in coma?" He looked exasperated and darted his eyes to scan for security guards. "Yes, sir, she was in coma. But now she's awake." Shocked, I dropped his arm and he rushed away. My knees, not ones to be left out of my body's overall sense of disbelief, failed to support me any longer. I slumped against the wall and slid down into a crouched position. I stayed there for the next forty-five minutes, either incredulous that it was true, or frightened that it was false. Cold hospital tile below me, and hard hospital wall supporting me, I listened to the hollow hospital noises around me. The cloistering sterile building that held Dana. My Dana. The sound of the words fit just right into the loneliness of my heart. Please God bring her back The door clicked open, and three doctors stepped out, breathing sighs of relief. Another one saved. Hesitantly, I stood. "Can - Can I see her?" One of the doctors, a female, turned to me, tucking her clipboard under her arm. "Sure, go ahead. We'll be moving her out of the ICU soon, though." I nodded and smiled, as a strange nervousness stirred in my stomach. With shaking fingers, I pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Audibly, I caught my breath as our eyes met. Her gaze was hollow; no joy, nor fear. She lay perfectly still, breathing steadily, albeit weakly. A nurse read monitors and took more notes. Dana didn't seem to notice. As I approached the bed, she turned her head slightly towards me. Her mouth opened ever so slightly, as if she had something to tell me. I sat again in the same chair I had before, but under far different circumstances. "Dana.I'm here Dana." She swallowed. "Mom-Is Mom a-a-alive?" I smiled. "Yes, Dana, she's alive and I'm sure she'd like to see you very much." I paused. "I've missed you so much, Dana." "Mulder, the plane - the plane crash." Carefully, I placed two fingers over her lips. "Shhh.Scully, you've just come out of a coma. You need to rest, give yourself time to get back to normal. I'm going to go get your mom, and Bill, and Tara. They're all here to see you. Try to rest, okay?" She nodded. I stood, and began to walk away, when she grabbed my hand with a surprisingly firm grip. Startled, I turned to face her. "Mulder, I re-re-remember everything. Make it st-st-stop." There was new quality to her voice. Not fear, not pain, but pure anguish. It frightened me to think of her this way. She was Agent Scully; she was tough as nails. She was my Dana. But not so much any more. And so the days passed until each one blurred into another. One day of physical therapy faded into the next day of tests, which blended in with the next day of CAT scans. Eventually, though, we returned to DC. That's how I came to find myself here, sitting in a dimly lit living room in the middle of the night, ruminating over just when and why it all went wrong. Those first days when Dana was home - those were bad. She was in pain constantly, thanks to her injuries, and her inability to return to work made her restless. We stayed mostly at her apartment, but occasionally she felt well enough to accompany me to my own apartment to pick up files or feed the fish. I drove her to her doctor's office, to her therapist's office, even to the library to pick up books. By all accounts, she was the same old Dana. I never mentioned her anguished plea at the hospital the day she awoke, chalking it up to delirium from the medication or simple stress. I never mentioned the crash to her at all. In fact, I never really thought much about it myself. I was caught up in taking care of Dana and fielding calls from Mrs. Scully, while simultaneously attempting to keep working. But when I received a phone call from Dana's therapist earlier this evening, I began to question how "fine" Dana really was. Dana was almost completely recovered from the injuries she sustained in the crash, but was still staying at my place. It made me feel more comfortable knowing that I was there if she needed me. This afternoon she had felt well enough to drive herself over to the hospital for the final round of tests. I had been at work, and wanted to accompany her when the day ended, but she refused. So I returned to my apartment, just as the phone began to ring. I picked up the phone while removing my jacket and half-heartedly responded "Yeah, hello." "Hello? Mr. Mulder?" a female voice greeted me. I quickly shook from my head a flashback to Tara Scully's call a few weeks prior. "Yes, this is Fox Mulder. Can I help you?" "Oh, hello Mr. Mulder, this is Doctor Rivera, Dana's therapist." "I'm sorry doctor, Dana's not here right now. Can I take a message?" The tone of her voice turned stern. "Actually, I was hoping that I could speak with you." I raised a hand to my forehead, grateful that she couldn't see the look of worry that darkened my face. This couldn't be good. "Well, alright. What about?" "Dana's told me that you have a background in psychology, so I'm sure you're familiar with the term 'post-traumatic stress disorder'," she replied slowly. I let out a long breath and seated myself in a nearby chair. "Yeah, I know what it means. You think Dana's suffering from it?" "There's really no question in my mind. It is a treatable condition, so there really shouldn't be much worry. I was just wondering if you'd seen - well - a change in Dana at all." She paused. "She tells me that you two are living together, so I imagine you'd be the person to talk to." I sighed, and shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I guess you could say that. Um, to tell you the truth Dr. Rivera, Dana and I haven't really talked since the crash. She never mentions it and neither do I." I stopped, almost afraid to go on. "I don't want to upset her any more than she already is." Dr. Rivera paused, and I could hear a flipping of pages in the background. "I think that you should come in for a session with Dana. She has an appointment tomorrow - I think it would do her good to be able to open up to you." She paused again and sighed. "Well, make sure she gets lots of sleep and see that her appetite keeps up. Hopefully I'll see you both tomorrow." "Right. Bye now." I hung up the phone with an almost inaudible click. Post-traumatic stress disorder. The doctor was right, it was entirely treatable. But something about it wouldn't let me believe. Why now? It seemed almost tragically ironic that, after all that we had been through - Donnie Pfaster, and abductions, and killings - it was something as mundane as a plane crash that had done the most damage. I loosened my tie and buried my head in my hands, leaning my elbows on my knees. The familiar sound of a key turning in the door caused me to break from my reverie. Scully stepped in through the doorway. "God, I forgot how stressful driving in this town can be," she said as she hung her coat up on the rack. Turning to face me, a quizzical expression crossed her face. "Fox? You okay?" I stood, walking over to where she stood. "You have an appointment with Dr. Rivera tomorrow." She nodded. "Yeah, I know." "Well, she just called, and she thinks that it might be a good idea if I came to the session with you." I placed a hand on her shoulder. She immediately jerked away. "No, Fox, I really don't think that's such a good idea." She quickly stepped through the living room and into the kitchen, attempting to busy herself making dinner. Pulling pots out from the cupboard, I could see her hands shaking. I came up behind her. "Well, the doctor thought that it might be good for us to talk this thing out." I watched her fumble at the sink, filling a pot with water. Leaning over, I took it out of her hands. "Here, I can get that." She whirled around, spilling lukewarm water all over the kitchen floor. "Damn it! I can do it myself!" Tears threatened to spill over, but Dana fought them back. I stepped back, the cuffs of my dress pants damp with water. Her voice grew lower and angrier. "I can do this myself, and I do NOT want you at my therapy session tomorrow." I sighed loudly and she glared at me. Leaning back in front of the stove I attempted again to persuade her. "Maybe the doctor is right, maybe we should talk about it." "Talk about what, there's nothing to talk about." She rushed her words, her hands trembling visibly as she tried to rip paper towels off their roll. I placed my own hands over hers, and she looked up at me, eyes full of shame at her own inability to carry out even a simple task. "Dana, it's okay, I'll get it." She dropped the towels into my hands and ran her fingers through her hair anxiously. "I'd like for you to open up to me, Dana. I -" "Would you stop! Would you stop calling me that!" she yelled. "What makes you think that you have any right to know what I am feeling about all this?" I threw the roll of paper towels forcefully onto the counter. "Well I was under the impression that we have a relationship here! Correct me if I'm wrong, but we're supposed to be in love!" My hands rested on my hips and I furrowed my brow. My patience had finally snapped. "Well, Mulder, if you love me, why don't you just leave me alone!" She stormed out of the kitchen. As she passed me, I grabbed her wrist - I wanted her to stay, to talk this out with me. But she yanked her arm out of my grasp, retreating into the bedroom. I was left in a too-quiet kitchen, in a puddle of water, wondering how much lower things could really get. The fight was hours ago. Dana still hasn't come out of the bedroom, and I still haven't cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. It's as if we're both just waiting to see what develops, waiting for each other to make the first move. The box remains sitting on the table in front of me, a glaring reminder of how things used to be. The flash of red paper caught my eye as I was sitting in the living room following our argument. It had been under the tree the entire time, since before Dana had left. It struck me then that we had never exchanged gifts; the holidays were so marked by simultaneous grief and joy that we had forgotten all about celebrating them. I pulled the box out from under the brittle branches and it has been sitting on the coffee table ever since. I can't open it now - I want to open it with Scully, but that seems unlikely at this point. Suddenly, the bedroom door swings open. Scully, engulfed in one of my sweatshirts, emerges from the doorway, but stops on a dime when she sees me. "Oh." Her voice is hollow. "I thought you were asleep." "Same here." We remain silent for the next few moments, shifting uncomfortably in our positions. Scully steps hesitantly forward, her curious gaze fixed on the coffee table. "That isn't the box that I left you, is it?" I sigh. "Yeah, it is. I never got to give you your gift, though." "Yeah, well." "I had hoped we could exchange gifts together." The conversation is as hazy as the early morning fog outside my window. A tinge of bitterness hangs in her voice. "Christmas was weeks ago. I'm going back to bed. I'll pack up my stuff tomorrow." Her words cut through me like a blade. I bite my bottom lip, and nod silently. She swallows hard and leans against the doorway. "Well?" I look up, confused. "Well what?" "Aren't you going to open it?" I fumble for words. "Well, I figured - uh -" Scully sighs. "Just open it up, okay? Just open it." She retreats back into the bedroom, leaving an empty doorway full of unanswered questions. I run my fingers over the red wrapping paper one last time before tearing at the tape. Gingerly, I remove the wrapping to reveal a small blue box with the name of a local jeweler embossed in gold on the lid. I furrow my brow and lift it, picking a small velvet box out of the casing. Carefully, I raise the top. Inside lies a silver ring, two thin bands interwoven into one strong circle. My lower lip trembles as I contemplate this symbol - two paths meshing, a cycle unbroken. This is what I had always felt for Dana. Now we seem to be living parallel to each other more and more; on the same wavelength, but never truly touching each other. I didn't choose this fate. I go to slip the ring onto my finger, but something inside it catches my eye. An inscription, tiny but legible. "It all starts here 12/25 12/25. Christmas. The morning she finally awoke. The morning it all started to go wrong. But as I slide the ring onto my finger in the semi-darkness, I realize that this can't be the way it all ends. Slowly, but determinedly, I move towards the bedroom. Dana is in bed, curled up under the blanket. I can hear her crying quietly, and the ache in my heart grows stronger. Gently, I walk to her side of the bed and kneel in front of her. She opens her eyes, brimming with tears, and pushes a hair out of her face. She begins to turn away, but I place a hand on her arm, and she stops, turning to face me again. "Dana," I whisper. My head is full of things that I want to say to her, that I should have told her long ago. "Dana, your cancer, the crash, everything painful between us and inside you and I, it's all in the past. We can get through it. I want to help you get through it, and I need you to help me get through it." I pause, lifting a hand to stroke her cheek. "It's all over, but something new can start again." I take a breath. "It all starts here." Her face softens, and her tears subside. I climb into the bed beside her and wrap my arms around her waist, as she clings to my chest. We lay in silence, waiting for the sun to rise. That is our comfort - that despite the darkness, the light finds a way. -end- |