New Story:GOOD ADVICE 
by Pam Gamble
eksphyl@yahoo.com

OK-so I said Milagro was perfect and I had nothing to
add. And I still mean that. There were just some
things I couldn't overlook. But if you don't want to
read this --your call!

Milagro Post-ep, Mulder POV, MSR(not blatant, but COME
ON!!)



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It's the same outfit.

I know. I've had nightmares for months, and it's the
same damn outfit.

I mean, I *know* it isn't. But she's lying in my
floor, looking almost exactly the way she did when
they took her from me.

Except then she was lying in my hallway. And the
pristine ivory of her blouse wasn't covered in sticky
red blood.

Scully's consistent fashion sense and her recent
penchant for black are the ludicrous contents of my
mind at this moment. They have put up a police line
inside my brain. No thought of her death may enter. I
won't even entertain them. I summarily send them all
to burn in hell, or my basement, whichever is most
convenient.


My breathing is shallow and I am vaguely aware that I
never feel terror when I am the one in danger. This
reaction comes from my worst fear, one I've felt too
many times lately.

I begin to feel her neck for a pulse, stopping when I
realize it would mean feeling her blood, warm beneath
my fingers.  Instead, I
gently touch her wrist. 

Just as my heart begins to beat again in perfect time
with hers--for there is no other reason for it to
beat--her body lurches upward, eyes wide.

Her hands leap to my face, and at first I think she is
confused, thinks I am her attacker. Then I think she
is trying to escape, to warn me or protect me, any one
of the things she does so well that I never
acknowledge.

I seek to comfort her, provide her relief through an
expression of my own. She is still struggling, and I
start to tell her that he is gone, that no one is here
with us. A million meaningless words she can piece
together and pretend to feel safe.

Then I realize she isn't doing any of those things.
She's reaching for me, to hold me. To hold her. Fear
clenches her tiny hands around my shoulders, and I
feel her sobs before I hear them.

I lean down into her arms, pulling her up and into
mine.

I know she would never believe me, but with each sob I
feel what she feels. Each gasp and cry transmits an
image--our own little psychic slideshow.

I do my best to absorb them all, just as my sweatshirt
absorbs her tears. To blot the images from her memory
so they won't inhabit her nightmares every night for
the rest of her life.



I know that her greatest fear is vulnerability. I know
that she is terrified that this man got into her mind.
Took away her perception of reality and replaced it
with a killer she didn't believe in.

He took away the strength of her beliefs. Made her
doubt herself. I want to kill him for that. But as
professionally foolish as it may be, that
son-of-a-bitch has all the time in the world to run. I
have something more important to do right now.

I wonder briefly why he didn't finish the job this
time. I'd like to think we're just insanely lucky, but
that's not true. 

He couldn't remove her heart because half of it is
mine. It's what allows me to feel her when she's not
here. It's the gentle pulse of my world that tells me
she's okay. It's cessation would be the loudest,
darkest silence. And then I would *know*.

When Padgett's parting words float through my mind, I
am reminded that at the time I'd thought him deranged.



Half of her heart has belonged to me for a long time
now. How could I not notice when she gave me the other
half as well?

I close my eyes on my own blindness, suppressing the
urge to call her 'baby' as I rock her gently in my
arms. She hardly seems to notice as I sit up, moving
one arm under her knees to bring her with me. She
shifts onto my lap, still holding my neck but not as
fiercely as before. Her upper body lays against my
chest, the damp spots lifting smears of blood from
hers, until I am covered in the faint pink evidence of
her pain. I receive an odd thrill from the fact that
her life-affirming tears far outnumber the drops of
blood.

I know I should check to see if she's still bleeding.
I know she is in no condition to care for herself
right now. But I don't want to let her go.

"Scully, I need to see if you're okay," I whisper into
her hair. She nods, whether reassurance or persmission
I'm not sure until she leans away from me and begins
to unbutton her blouse. She is crying quietly now, no
sound except for the occasional hitch of breath. I'm
afraid she's slipping into shock. I realize then that
I have no idea how much blood she's lost and that I
should be taking her to the hospital.

Concentrating on her buttons, she hasn't looked at me
yet. Now her eyes meet mine, as she lets the fabric
drop from her shoulders. My fingers skim lightly over
her chest, becoming stained with her blood, turning my
fantasy into grotesque reality. But there is no new
scar, no cut, no flesh wound anywhere, only her
beautiful heartbeat beneath my hands.  

I see her blink away tears, struggling to come to
terms with all that she has seen. She's so quiet, and
when her body begins to shiver I know she's in shock.
Ripping my sweatshirt over my head I gently pull it
over hers. She pushes her hands into the sleeves like
a sleepy toddler, her face blank. The added warmth
does nothing to bring back the color that has drained
from her face, and I carefully wrap her again inside
my arms.

I say her name softly as I hold her, but she doesn't
respond. Oh, Scully, please don't go back there again.
Stay here with me. Stay here.

I try her name a little louder and she seems to hear
me, but looks toward the wall, seeking out the source
of my voice. Her fingers play with the fringe of hair
at my neck, and I hear her whispering to herself over
and over--"real, you're real"

Academically I know it's possible for even the best
agents to experience a psychotic break. To dissociate
from reality under extreme stress. But that can't
happen to my Scully. She's too strong for that.

Isn't she?

Would I really want her to be?

I pull her up and shake her a little. "Scully." Her
head turns up to mine, finally she meets my gaze. 

"Mulder?"

I nod, brushing her hair behind her ear, wanting her
to feel that I am there even if she doesn't trust her
eyes.

Her lips part on a question, closing again. Lost. She
looks so lost.

I lean my forehead against hers, purposeful proximity
to blur my view of her eyes. My hand rubs the base of
her neck, willing the blood to keep moving through her
body. "I have to take you to the hospital." My words
force themselves over the thick sadness lumped at the
back of my throat.

"Not yet," she insists, and again I know exactly what
she is thinking. Not words, but images. Sterile sheets
and tubes and cold metal probes and shining lights and
a hundred strangers between me and the place I need to
be.

Instead I pull her closer to eliminate any space
between us for now. I want to take care of her like
she takes care of me. You always take care of me,
Scully. Always. I can take care of you, too.

"I love you," I say, but no sound comes out of my
mouth.  My lips make the words, but even if she was
ready to hear them, they wouldn't make things better
right now. It wouldn't restore everything she has
lost. I say it more to reassure myself. I actually say
it a lot, in my head. And once out loud, but...I was
drugged.

Finally I feel the tears sliding down my face, as my
head begins to fill with morbid thoughts.

It's almost like he burrowed into her soul, and her
feelings have come tumbling out into mine.

"You're not dead, you're here with me," I tell her.
Her breath catches again, and she nods against my
shoulder.

"I did what he told me." Her voice, unexpected,
catches me off guard. I nod, reaching with one hand
for the phone. I'll be damned if I'm calling an
ambulance again, but I will at least call the hospital
and tell them we're on our way so they can reserve our
usual table.

I rub my other hand through her hair as I dial with
one thumb. 

"I know you did. Shhh."

"I closed my eyes. I wouldn't look at him. I closed my
eyes." 

I look down at her. She said that before. When? 

New York. When she was waking up from surgery. 

I drop the phone, focused completely on her words,
which are drifting off as her body shuts down to allow
itself to heal. Her hands make angry fists around my
t-shirt fabric. "I fought him and I fought him...and
then I just closed my eyes. And he didn't take me."

Her eyes close as she slumps against my body. "He
didn't take me." 

I am crying for her now. My body shakes her silent
one. I want it to always be that easy. That we can
just close our eyes to the things that hurt us and
they will go away. I want her to forget what it's like
to hurt at all.

"I love you," I say aloud. But only because I know she
can't hear me. That can wait.

She closed her eyes.

She believes. 

We've got time. 

the end 

Feedback would be lovely, if you're so inclined:)

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