ECLIPSE
Chapter Four
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Scully's Apartment
Washington, D.C.
February 11, 2000
He is amazed that the creation of life makes him immeasurably sad.
He should be exhilarated by the IVF attempts, but life has inured him to
pain and he has learned the hard way never to get his hopes too high.
Instead of feeling anticipation and hope, he has come away from the second
attempt depressed, fatalistic.
Opening the door with a nudge of his hand, he watches Scully as she slowly
enters her apartment. Each movement is careful, her body tense but her
hands limp at her side.
"Can I get you anything?" he asks as he walks toward her kitchen.
He hears the soft squeak of her rubber-soled boots against the wood floor.
"A glass of water would be great, thanks." The next sound is the rustling
of fabric, and he guesses she is now sitting on the sofa. He draws the tap
into a chilly glass then takes the water to her.
Following the direction of her gaze, Mulder tries to decipher what holds her
attention, then he looks at her face. Her eyes have glazed over. She is
retreating into herself. He knows he should pull her out of this, but feels
a selfish consolation that she is silent and unobservant. Right now he just
can't manage a conversation.
Scully is fiercely protective of her furniture, even after the abuse it has
handled over the years, so he procures a coaster for the water glass. The
thud of contact seems to startle her out of her reverie and she glances up
at him, murmuring, "Thank you."
He nods his reply. After a pause, he murmurs, "You should be lying down,
Scully. Let me get you a pillow for your hips." She mirrors his nod and
he retreats to her bedroom, grateful to be out of the room so he can gather
his thoughts.
When he turns on the overhead light, the waxy reddish smudge on the paint
above the headboard is visible -- a permanent memento of the night last week
when they'd made love for the second time. They'd been naked within thirty
seconds of entering her apartment. As she rode him, her smooth belly
stretching as her back arched, he'd lifted a finger to her lips and rubbed
the red waxy lipstick away. A few moments later, he braced his hands
against her wall as she climaxed, her power nearly lifting him off the bed.
The wall now bears a blood red scar from his hands grasping for purchase,
the skin of his palms threatening to tear with the strain.
In the dim light, he glances down at his palms, examining their lines,
jagged like broken glass. Lines for heart, head, life and fate. This is
all he knows about palmistry, and he thinks he might like to explore it
further. Maybe it could reveal his future, or the secrets she keeps from
him.
She is secretive today, her body tense and barricaded in the living room.
The bedroom is too full of memories, so he grabs the pillow and retreats
without a second glance at the smudge above her bed.
When he returns to the living room, he finds Scully half-sitting on the
sofa, eyes closed and body draped akimbo along the back like a Titian
portrait. He stands next to the couch for nearly a minute before she
appears to register his presence, then she tries to smile when she opens her
eyes. It is mirthless, resembling a grimace.
She reaches for the pillow and stands, then unbuttons her pants to ease the
restrictive binding. "Should I get you some pajamas?" he asks, but she
shakes her head. Were she to speak, he knows she would just parrot, 'I'm
fine.'
As she leans forward to smooth her clothing, her half-unbuttoned shirt gapes
open, revealing the curve of a breast. It is opaque milk; the strawberry
blister he'd left there last week has faded.
He has to turn away, and does not know if she has noticed what he saw.
Blood-red desire floods him, throwing his cells into an uproar of chaos.
The doctor told them an hour ago, just as he did last month, that they
should refrain from sexual activity for at least twenty-four hours until the
embryos have an opportunity to adhere to her uterus. Mulder thinks he
should leave, because he can't possibly make it through the next day here
without wanting to devour her skin. He clenches his fists, nails etching
new lines onto his palms, and wills away his arousal. Seven years of
working alongside her have given him a doctorate in suppressed desire.
Another rustle of movement, then he knows she is back on the sofa, her hips
elevated as Dr. Parenti has instructed. Once all his blood has returned to
normal flow patterns, he turns back to face her and finds his predictions
are met. The pose is strange: her belly tilts upward, the quilt over it
giving the impression of the latter months of pregnancy. Yet with her eyes
closed and face slack, she resembles a corpse.
"Scully," he says, alarm creeping into his voice.
She opens her eyes and looks at him, startled, her eyebrows raised and deep
wrinkles on her forehead. He shifts on his feet, unsettled. She raises
herself on one elbow and says, "Mulder," her tone asking him to come there.
He takes a deep breath. He knows what she wants.
Ten seconds later, he is sitting on the sofa, her head in his lap. The
position seems to relax her, but he wonders if she can feel his tense thigh
muscles or hear his hitched breath.
"It's okay, Mulder. I won't break," she whispers. The crescent shape of
her lashes flutter but her eyes remained closed. She is always so strong,
so vital, and to see her face pale and weary frightens him more than he
cares to admit. What if this fails? he wonders, brushing a trembling hand
through the cascade of red hair spilled across his denim-clad thighs. How
will they deal with it?
In a few minutes her chest is rising and falling in even intervals, her body
at rest. He studies her face, mentally mapping the new lines that seem to
have appeared overnight. Having a child is supposed to be a joyous
occasion, a way of celebrating love by creating new life. Somehow, they've
managed to do it backwards, and he can't help the feeling of regret that
burns like acid in his chest.
Scully sighs in her sleep, the soft sound hovering in the air like a
melancholy note. His mouth set in a firm line, he touches her too-pale
skin, his fingertips kissing the random freckles that dot her nose. He will
do whatever it takes to make this work. For her, for himself.
"I promise," he whispers, laying his head against the back of the couch and
closing his eyes. "I promise."
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Scully's Apartment
Washington, D.C.
February 26, 2000
She remembers the day Grandma Scully died. Her father, his face wet with
tears, speaking to her mother in hushed, urgent tones. At eight, she
thought Ahab was the strongest man in the world, and to see him weep
frightened her. She ran upstairs and climbed into the window seat, pulling
the faded green drapes closed behind her. Her secret place, where
everything was still right with the world and grown men didn't cry.
How she longs for that sanctuary now.
Too many blows have been dealt in the past few weeks. Mrs. Mulder's
suicide, the truth about Samantha. When she heard from Dr. Parenti that the
second attempt had failed, she was more resigned than surprised. Deaths are
rumored to come in threes.
Four days have gone by since that news. Four days of pretense and generic
conversations. Mulder passed the time with a pale, blank face, his presence
almost ghostlike. Only his eyes were alive, dark with the pain he kept to
himself.
Her own emotions laid closer to the surface. She was afraid to speak to
him, fearful of unleashing something she's incapable of dealing with. It
won't take more than a scratchy-voiced Mulder to break through her fragile
shield, and she is more than grateful when the weekend arrives.
On Saturday morning she decides to turn out her closets. Piles of discarded
clothes, sorted by season, litter her bedroom floor, awaiting transport to
St. John's. Several cartons sit on her dining room table, rescued from the
dusty oblivion of the top shelf in her hall closet. If the third procedure
is successful, she will not be climbing ladders or lifting cartons from high
shelves.
If.
So much of her future depends on a two letter word.
By seven that evening she is nearly finished. Only one carton remains, and
she wipes away the filmy gray coating the corrugated top before opening it.
Inside, a splash of tissue-wrapped scarlet encased in plastic greets her
eyes, and she smiles for the first time in days as she lifts it out of the
box. Carrying it over to the couch, she settles herself among the cushions
before unsealing the plastic.
The kimono is still in perfect condition. Even after thirty years the rich,
vibrant color hasn't faded. She touches one of the tiny gold butterflies
that dance across the silk, remembering the look on her father's face when
he gave it to her. 'There isn't another one like it in all the world. This
is special, Dana, like you.' Smiling, she sets it aside and reaches back
into the bag.
This time she removes a gold obi and a small wooden box which contains a
pair of butterfly hair ornaments. She fingers the sash, remembering the
first time she wore it. She had felt so grown up. So beautiful. It had
been a sad day when she'd no longer been able to wear the kimono and her
mother packed it away. 'You mustn't be selfish. One day you'll have a
little girl. Think how much she'll love wearing this.'
Was that a promise, Mom?
Blowing out a shaky breath, she carefully refolds the outfit, wrapping the
items in tissue before replacing them in the plastic and setting the package
on the coffee table. It will go back into the carton, closed away in the
upper recesses of her hall closet. Waiting...
A tentative tapping startles her. Blinking back her almost-tears, she walks
to the door and peers through the peephole, somehow unsurprised to see
Mulder there. She pushes back the bolt and opens the door, dread mixing
with delight as she prepares to greet him.
"Hey." He rocks back on his heels, hands thrust into the pockets of his
unfastened leather jacket. "Is this a bad time?" he asks, his smile
tentative.
"Bad time?" She forces herself to keep her hands by her side, tamping down
the urge to check her face for stray tears.
Mulder reaches out a finger and touches her cheek. "New makeup?" He
examines his fingertip, eyeing the film coating the skin with narrowed eyes.
"It seems to be composed of minute fibers, dander, and...pollen." He casts
her a questioning look. "Am I close?"
The breath whooshes out of her, and she raises an eyebrow at the spurious
cheer in his tone. "It's dust," she confirms laconically. She moves back
to allow him to enter and bolts the door behind him. Turning, she leans
back against the wood and watches as he shrugs out of the jacket and drapes
it over the back of a chair. His movements are jerky, awkward, almost
fumbling. Without the cover of his glib tongue he reminds her of a teenager
on a blind date. It would be almost amusing under different circumstances.
But not now.
His eyes dart around the room, looking at the opened carton, the bags of
clothing by the door, everywhere but at her. "I'm sorry. Probably should
have called first, but I needed to talk to you," he mutters at last, the
words so low she barely hears them.
She frowns, her throat suddenly dry. "Are...are you okay, Mulder?" Only
the tiny break in her voice betrays the anxiety she feels.
He nods, his lips pursed. "It was too quiet and I started thinking...about
the past, my life." He finally lifts his head to look at her, his eyes dark
and troubled. "You."
"Sit down, Mulder," she says gently, relieved when he complies.
Pushing away from the door, she is aware of how she must look, and tugs at
the baggy sweatshirt she is wearing. Damp hair lays like streaks of rust
against her forehead, and she pushes it away from her brow, smoothing it
back with a nervous hand. Slipping past him, she takes a seat on the couch
and tucks her legs beneath her. Heart pounding, she waits for him to speak,
unsure if she wants to hear what he has to say.
He stares straight ahead, his profile almost grim, and the silence grows
more uncomfortable as each passing second is marked by the anniversary clock
sitting on the mantel. It seems absurd to act like this, she thinks,
chewing on her lower lip. As if they were strangers instead of friends
and...lovers. Eager for an excuse to break the ice, she remembers the
kimono, and on impulse leans forward to pick it up.
"My father gave this to me," she murmurs, pulling at the seal on the bag.
He turns to look at her. "It's certainly red," he notes, his face a mixture
of curiosity and relief.
"Definitely red." Smiling, she pulls it out of the bag for the second time
and hands the garment to him. "I was six when I received this. We had just
moved again." She sighs, glancing at him through half-closed eyes.
"Definitely not a happy time in my life."
"A little Scully-geisha," he muses, examining the unfolded kimono. "You
probably drove all the little sailors crazy."
She snorts. "Not exactly." She hesitates, then reaches out to stroke the
silky fabric. "But it made me feel beautiful."
He swivels around to face her, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Go on," he
encourages, covering her hand with his much warmer one.
She flashes him a startled look then turns her head, shielding her face with
a curtain of hair. "I wore it to school that first day. It gave me
courage." Her lips curve in a rueful smile. "But it wasn't a success.
When it came time for recess I refused to play outside with the others.
Beautiful little geishas didn't do anything as prosaic as skipping rope or
playing tag," she adds, feeling the color rush into her cheeks. "The others
laughed at me."
His thumb traces over her wrist, warming her flesh with random patterns.
"So, did a handsome samurai warrior come to the rescue?"
"No, but a certain naval officer did." She trembles with awareness as his
hand slips under the cuff of her sweatshirt, tickling her skin until the
tiny hairs on her arm stand on end. "It took my dad to make me see that how
I looked wasn't as important as who I was inside."
His hand leaves her arm to cup her chin, tugging until she turns and meets
his eyes. "Your father was a special man, Scully. I wish I'd had a chance
to meet him."
"So do I," she replies, her voice husky with emotion.
His lips curl in soft smile, and he presses a quick kiss on her cheek before
releasing her. Turning away, he replaces the kimono on the discarded tissue
lying on the coffee table. "Your story reminds me of why I came here
tonight." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a yellowed piece of paper
and unfolds it with care. "I was going through some of my mother's papers
and found this," he explains, handing it to her.
It is a list of questions. Nine in all. The writing sprawls across the
paper, the letters large and ungainly, the questions both simplistic and
poignant. 'What makes the ocean look blue?' 'Where do clouds come from?'
'Why is it okay for some people to lie?' She steals a quick look at his
face. She imagines she can see him, young, intense, lonely, composing his
list after thoughtful consideration.
"That was the way I communicated with my father," he explains in a voice
devoid of emotion. "If I had a question, he encouraged me to write it down.
We would discuss it when he had more time." He laughs, the sound almost
chilling in its lack of humor. "Trouble was, he never did have time, and
all I ever had to show for the relationship were a lot of lists like the one
you're holding."
She swallows with difficulty, tasting the bitter and salt of tears clogging
her throat. "I'm sure he was trying to do his best for his family." Though
she has tried to infuse her words with comfort, they sound hollow and
lacking in conviction.
Mulder shifts restlessly, throwing his arm along the back of the couch. "I
don't want my relationship with our child to be remembered as a series of
questions scribbled on notepaper." He touches the back of her neck, his
hand warm as it slides across her nape. "I want to be there for him,
Scully. And for you." He faces her, his eyes suspiciously bright. "In
every way, no matter what it takes."
She slides across the few inches separating them to nestle close to him,
resting her cheek against his chest. "You will. I'd expect nothing less
from you."
He pulls her closer, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "I will," he echoes,
his words fierce. He presses a kiss into her hair. "You have my word on
it." She is content, for the moment. They won't fail -- they can't.
Together, they are invincible. Closing her eyes, she lets the beat of his
heart lull her to sleep.
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END (4/8)
alanna@alanna.net
all4mulder@aol.com
