Title: Rebirth III: The Call
Author: Meredith
Classification: V,A, UST
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Yes. Takes place during "Kitsunegari." You won't
understand this unless you've seen or read about the episode.
Summary: Desperate to rebuild the foundation of their
relationship on more solid ground, Scully takes a chance --
and renews a promise made to herself.
Disclaimer: No one mentioned here is remotely mine. No
copyright infringement is intended, and I will never profit
from this ongoing adventure. I do, however, apologize for
quoting excellent poetry without the author's permission,
however.
Author's Note: This is the third installment of post-episode
vignettes that track the emotional mindset of Dana Scully during
the 5th season -- regarding life after cancer and her complex
relationship with Mulder. These are all stand-alone stories.
Thanks: To Miki and Medina for the wonderful insight
and editing, and to my fellow bird-herders for harmonious
agreement. Thank god! :-)
Feedback: Craved and eagerly answered. Hit reply or send to
meredith40@juno.com or meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hear me.
We survive by hearing.
We discover each other
our small silences peel open
like roses
we explore the layers of our fears
will he will I will they will I not?
-Janice Mirikitani
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A call in the hours before daybreak has a brutal urgency.
The ring is cold. Foreboding. It shocks you from the dark
of dreams prematurely, leaving tendrils of fear and dread
in your sleep-fogged mind. A call in the black of morning
has the faint echo of death.
"Agent Scully?"
"Mmm... Yes?"
"This the Bureau Switchboard. Please hold for Assistant
Director Skinner."
I was instantly awake, panic dripping down my spine like
ice water. Mulder?
"Agent Scully. A U.S. Marshal will be arriving at your
residence in approximately 15 minutes. He will pick you up
first and then Agent Mulder, and escort you both to the
Lorton Federal Prison for an emergency briefing. We have...
a situation." Skinner's voice was broken glass cutting
through my panic.
"Sir?"
"Robert Modell has escaped from prison."
******
Fifteen minutes. Barely enough time to quickly wash and
dress, much less contemplate the utter implausibility of
the situation.
Modell?
Pusher was in a coma. With a terminal brain tumor in his
frontal lobe and a bullet from Mulder's gun in his cortex.
By all rights, he should be a vegetable. He should be dead.
God knows I wished he were.
Escaped?
It was unreal. My mind spun frantically as I threw on a
comfortable suit and crawled into the depths of my closet
looking for a sturdy pair of shoes. Skinner had said that
the Marshal would brief us on the way. Until he arrived, my
imagination was free to create its own nightmares. It did.
Mulder. God. We weren't ready for this. Notwithstanding the
fact I had buried my daughter 3 days ago, we were not prepared
for this. Not by a longshot.
Modell remained an unspoken topic between us. Since we
agreed in that somber hospital room that he shouldn't claim
any more of our time, we had rarely mentioned his name.
Not even when the lawyers called to take our depositions.
Not even then.
It was an open wound only just beginning to heal, however
improperly; ignored merely by virtue of the other gaping wounds
we were nursing. Modell had been a jagged cut, vicious at the
time, but had since been overshadowed by lacerations far
deeper and more excruciating.
But the wound had begun to fester once again.
God. Not now.
I had only slipped on my coat when an urgent knock at the
door announced the Marshal's arrival. I was ready and armed,
my outward composure intact, when I opened the door.
Inside, I couldn't have been less prepared.
******
Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of facts and statements,
summarized witness accounts, and three short cel phone calls
to the prison facility. Briefing triage by the most talkative
Justice Department officer I've ever met. How he could spew
forth information while driving 75 miles an hour was an absolute
miracle. And I only felt mildly carsick each time he swerved to
avoid potholes. I just needed a minute with my partner, one damn
minute alone to ground ourselves, to make that connection. To
reassure him that we could face this challenge. To reassure myself.
But we were never given the chance. Being named co-ASACs
necessitated that our only hurried conversation be planning
the logistics of the operation. By putting us second in
command only to him, Skinner was demonstrating a tremendous
trust in us. And handing us a burden just as immense.
Under my surreptitious scrutiny, Mulder's face seemed
determined, cold. His normally olive skin a bit pale. Our eyes
met several times as we planned the manhunt, but he was in that
mode -- internalizing, steeling for the chase. His hazel gaze
flickered over me once, twice, during the officer's rapid-fire
briefing, but looks couldn't, wouldn't, save us today.
As soon as we arrived at Lorton we were told that Skinner
had started the briefing without us. Our presence was urgently
required in the gymnasium. Time was of the absolute essence.
We were thrown into battle with our armor only half-donned.
Which is why I had to grab him when I did, before we were sent
into the field. What he had said to the group of Marshals made
my pulse catch, putting words to my hidden nightmare. According
to standard profiling measures, Modell would most probably pick up
where he had left off.
Trying to kill Mulder.
Part of my job is to protect my partner. It's become more
than my job. My life was given back to me, and in turn so was
his. I will fight for him to live as strongly, if not stronger,
as I will fight for myself.
So it was fundamental that I express my fear.
Was I brusque? Harsh? I had no choice. Twenty-five officers
were about to begin the hunt; I had 30 seconds to catch Mulder's
attention -- to distill 2 years worth of emotional turmoil into
a statement he would listen to. It was my only stolen moment,
and I had to hit the heart of the matter.
"Should you be leading this investigation?"
He refused to answer.
******
By 10 am, I had almost convinced myself that I had been
overreacting in my early morning worries. Modell had actually
called - and Mulder had hung up on him. My relief was
palpable. He cracked terse jokes at the surreal crime scene.
The same black humor of those in danger of drowning - the only
life preserver in the sea of despair. A dry witticism to tell
me he was still tethered, still alive. I clung to it.
But the security was fleeting. I'm not sure when he began to
drift away - was it when we found the two police officers
mysteriously alive in that warehouse? Or after his conversation
with Modell?
Damn his instinct.
Mulder's uncanny abilities have often saved me, saved him,
and just as often nearly killed us both. His innate divining rod
leads him to the answer - he merely has to follow it to see where it
takes him. He can't put his gut instincts into words, so I am
usually left behind until he wanders his way into danger.
This is our cycle - the pattern we are destined to repeat
endlessly until we learn better. But circular paths are difficult
to see when you are trapped in them, unable to divine your way
out.
I have to give him some credit, though. He did call me
immediately upon finding our quarry. But it was already too late.
I'll never know who was fully in control of Mulder's thoughts -
my partner or Modell - from that moment on.
I had to doubt he was right. Skinner made the correct choice,
however much it pained me to back him up. I had to play
conservative. Mulder's safety was more important than his
pride - or mine.
But he shut me out, refusing to understand why I did what I
had to. Damn him. I was only questioning his *actions*. Why
did he so doubt my faith in *him*?
And why, after I had rationalized my decision to back Skinner,
did I begin to doubt myself?
******
Ten calls between 7 and 8 pm.
Modell was finally dead, and I couldn't reach my partner.
Had he been here in Modell's room when it happened? Did he
even know the ordeal was over? Did he still believe Pusher
hadn't been playing us for fools?
I walked slowly down the hospital hallway, aching for the chance
to crawl home and straight into a hot bath. Instead, I was
startled by the ringing of my phone, its noise shrill even
through the muffle of my coat pocket.
There was to be no rest for the weary.
"Agent Scully?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"This is Linda Bowman. Agent Scully, I'm sorry to bother
you, but I'm not sure who else to call. I've done something,
but I'm afraid it might have been the wrong decision..."
"Done what?"
"I agreed to meet your partner."
I was aghast. Dumbfounded. What the hell was going on?
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"He called me about 20 minutes ago, and said he wanted to talk.
To apologize for accusing me of those horrible acts. To try and
figure out who might have killed Nathan. He said he was wrong to
blame me, that that man Modell had somehow tricked his mind."
"I'm still not following you, Mrs. Bowman..."
"I'm sorry, I'm probably not making much sense. After I agreed
to meet him at a property that I'm representing, I realized
that I shouldn't go there alone. Agent Scully... I was hoping
you would meet me there. I overheard your supervisor say that
Agent Mulder is not even officially on duty. I'm not positive he
really meant all those things he said to me. He scares me a
little. I would feel much better if you were there... I think
you should come, Agent Scully. I think you should be there."
Her words echoed in my head, softly, sweetly, as if she was
standing next to me, whispering in my ear, her hand on my
shoulder. I should be there. Of course. It made perfect sense.
"Where are you meeting him?"
"214 Channel Avenue. In about 15 minutes."
"I'll be there."
*****
It took me 13 minutes.
The only reason I know this is because as I sat at the
stoplight of Water and Schulman, a parked car on my right
suddenly blared into my consciousness, its alarm screaming
like a 20th century banshee. My head snapped painfully to the
right, straining to see what had broken my strangely intense
concentration. The driver, muttering curses under his breath,
had forgotten he had set the alarm. He fumbled with the keys,
silenced the siren, and let himself gracelessly into the Camry.
And then I remembered that I didn't remember.
How I had gotten there. How fast I had driven. What streets
I had taken.
Only that at 8:15 pm, Linda Bowman had called me.
Fuck.
Mulder was right.
******
Mulder's car was in the darkened parking lot, next to Linda
Bowman's vehicle. I quickly unholstered my gun and felt her hood.
Cold. His was warm, nearly hot to the touch. I made my way through
the door and into the warehouse, not knowing what I might find and
too scared to dwell on the possibilities. There was simply no time.
In one single black moment, braced against the concrete
block wall just inside the building, I vowed I would not call
for backup or assistance. Whatever end was here would be met
by the three of us, for better or worse. Horrific visions of a
young agent immolating himself, Detective Burst lying dead on a
dingy apartment floor, and innocent hospital personnel gunned
down on sanitized tile ran rampant through my mind, flitting
as fast and furiously as the hammering of my heart.
It would end here.
I strained in the dark, desperate to hear the sounds of
my partner's footsteps, his uneven breathing, his coat
brushing against his leg. Any clue that he hadn't found
her yet, that she hadn't found him. I knew better than to
listen for his voice.
But then I heard a call that stopped my breath -- a
gunshot followed by Mulder's soul-searing scream.
"NO!"
I ran, quickly, stealthily, toward the noise and found
a haunting, twisted tableau. My partner, my Mulder, on
the ground, agonized over the prone body of Linda Bowman.
Caressing her hair, whispering, holding her in his arms.
Scorching pain ripped through my stomach. What had she convinced
him of? That she... was me?
That fucking bitch.
It all fell sickeningly into place. Why I was here, the
rules of her game. We had been blindly led back to the beginning -
our opponent removed from the equation, leaving Mulder and I
to destroy ourselves. It was excruciatingly familiar.
I approached them slowly, my weapon still drawn. She was
conscious, her eyes glittering menacingly in the darkness. I
didn't know what she had said to him, but I had to approach
cautiously. As long as she didn't speak, I was safe from her
influence.
He turned, and the look of hatred and despair in his eyes
told me all I needed to know; all I would never know if the
body on the ground were someday indeed mine.
Having to level my gun at him nearly broke my heart. We had
been here before - weapons drawn, desperately trying to
convince the other to see the truth. Why are we forced to
continually repeat this terrifying scene?
I will never forget the agony on his face, the fury he
radiated when he looked at me and saw the enemy. I had been
right earlier - looks could not, would not save us.
I will never forget.
******
I last saw Mulder 19 hours ago.
After 5 hours of fruitless statements and interviews,
last night's nightmare ended at one-thirty in the morning.
Mulder walked out of the police station quietly and almost
without being noticed. Almost. I barely caught him halfway out
the front door -- one foot in the chill of the lonely night
and the other in the stuffy, lighted lobby. He stopped as I
laid a gentle hand on his arm and looked down at me with mournful,
haunted eyes.
"I'm fine, Scully." He answered my unspoken question by
stealing my favorite answer, then walked away, letting the
door slowly swing closed.
Once I might have let the issue rest, to scab over still
infected. Respected his privacy, respected the necessary
boundaries between us. But times have changed. Which is why
I'm here.
Allen's is a dive, an old, weather-beaten bar that serves
terrible food. But it's dark, sparsely and nearly exclusively
populated by aging alcoholics, and near Mulder's apartment.
We meet here sometimes, usually to discuss cases and chases
that are firmly off the record. Often I am the party unwilling
to meet in this smoky, anachronistic setting, balking at the
subterfuge and suspicious of whatever plan he's trying to
instigate. But I always come. Tonight I hope he remembers
that last fact.
I sit at a booth in the back, where we tend to gravitate.
The Guinness bottle is cold in my warm hand, leaving damp
circles on the scarred, blackened oak table. There are old
water rings everywhere - interconnecting, bisecting each other
in an ageless pattern. Deep and shallow, light and dark. Some
might be 50 years old, some a day. Yet they twine and overlap,
ignorant of time.
The pattern scares me. Grounds me. Makes the skin of my
lower back burn.
I fear the endless circle. To live and toil and die, only
to arrive at the beginning, my heart and soul unchanged.
Untouched. Unloved. I am trying to break free from the destructive
cycle - in my own small ways, in my own tentative manner. At one
point I thought it would be easy, back when I basked in the glow
of newfound life reflected in Mulder's joyous eyes, his hand
tightly clutching mine, his lips pressed to my cheek. Back
when giddy thoughts tempted me on the damp floor of an intimate,
private forest.
But nothing in this life I've chosen is ever easy. Every
day my resolutions are harder to maintain, more difficult to
cling to. I often falter. Sometimes I fail. Occasionally I
succeed.
But no matter what, I refuse to give up. So I made the call.
I wait for him to answer.
END
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We survive by hearing.
We speak to each other.
Offering choices
to live, to dream
to extend our hands, to dance
to cringe, to quiver
to kiss, to not kiss
I dare you
dare you
-Janice Mirikitani
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear from you. Feedback craved
at meredith40@juno.com or meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com.
Other stories in this series include:
Rebirth: On a Clear Night (Detour)
Rebirth II: Soul Unbound (Emily)
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/meredith_elsewhere
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