TITLE: Making Other Plans (1 of 1)
AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer
E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where. Fine for Spooky's
archive.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013, Chris Carter, and to the
X-Files. All other characters are mine.
SPOILER WARNING: Brand X
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT: S
CLASSIFICATION: Post ep, MSR
SUMMARY: Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans -
John Lennon.
COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at:
http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm Maintained by the
wonderful Jennifer with the help of the very clever baby Enzo. Thanks always
to the talented and generous Kestabrook for her beta help and her
friendship.
Making Other Plans
By Michelle Kiefer

We spend too much damn time in hospitals. I stand in the doorway of Mulder's
hospital room and try to count the admissions from this year alone. It seems
ironic that while Mulder seems to have become more cautious recently, he has
gotten hurt or sick more often. He looks pale, his skin almost waxy. His
breathing is still labored; indeed, he was on oxygen until last night. I
move quietly into the room, trying not to wake him. This illness has wrung
him out, sapping his strength so much that a trip to the bathroom leaves him
winded. Still, he is much improved over a few days ago when we almost lost
him.
I long to take his hand in mine, but I'm afraid my touch will wake him. I
want to take a minute and study him, drink in each feature. My eyes follow
the line of his jaw, the little pillow of his chin and I remember planting
kisses there like seeds in a garden. My fingers itch to trace the arch of
his eyebrows, to ease the tiny lines at the corner of each eye. Despite his
boyish looks, I can see evidence of Mulder's nearly forty years on the
planet, and I find it somehow touching to have been witness to his aging. I
know I've aged as well; our history is written on our faces and it's
strangely comforting.
In spite of my attempts not to disturb him, Mulder wakes and studies my face
with hooded eyes. I lift my self-imposed ban on touching and take his hand,
happily noting that his nails are no longer blue. He takes the opportunity
to pull me onto the bed.
"I thought you were going back to the hotel for some sleep," he scolds in a
hoarse whisper. "You still look exhausted."
"You're almost as big a bully as my brother, Bill," I tease.
"There is no need to be insulting, Scully," he croaks, and grins at me as
his hand massages my thigh. "C'mere."
I glance at the door to see if anyone is watching before leaning down to
kiss him. The changes in our relationship are still so new, virgin territory
for which we haven't got a map. How ironic to be this awkward after having
been mistaken for a couple for so many years. Part of me wants to keep the
personal aspects of our relationship completely private, and another part of
me couldn't give a damn what anyone thinks. Maybe I should put a notice in
the office newsletter, "Special Agent Dana Scully is sleeping with her
partner of seven years. Anybody have a problem with that?"
I slide my mouth over Mulder's and taste the lime jello he had at lunch. He
returns the kiss with a force that surprises me. Lips that days ago were
gasping for breath and tinged with blue now feel soft and warm under mine. I
try in vain to block out the memory of the horrible sound Mulder made as he
tried to suck air into lungs filled with larvae. Breaking off the kiss, I
lay my head on his chest, face turned so he cannot see the tears in my eyes.
Mulder's fingers draw little circles on my back.
"It's okay, it's all over," he whispers.
All over. This time. What happens next time; how much can his body take?
Under my ear, Mulder's chest wheezes like a deflating bagpipe. Mulder shifts
me so I am stretched out next to him and keeps an arm around me as we lie
together on his hospital bed. I must be more tired than I thought, because I
soon fall asleep with my hand resting on his chest, feeling the rise and
fall, rise and fall.
-=-=-=-=-=--
Why the hell didn't Mulder use the wheelchair? The stubborn idiot is going
to make us miss our flight. We make our painfully slow way through the
airport, Mulder leaning on Scully; myself bumping along with all our
carry-on luggage. Mulder's face is ashen, and I can tell that Scully is
worried. He was discharged this morning, and she hoped he could rest at the
hotel for a day or so before flying home, but this flight was the only one
with available seats. At least the plane isn't completely booked, so Mulder
may have a chance to lie down.
We had to stop a couple of times so he could sit for a minute and catch his
breath. Scully's carry-on bag is stuffed with medications and inhalers. The
pulmonary specialist thinks Mulder will make a full recovery, but Mulder's
lungs took quite a beating, and he won't be at full capacity for a long
time. Mulder is overcome with a coughing jag so severe that Scully jerks her
head at a bench along the concourse, and we stumble toward it like a parody
of the Sons of Liberty. Scully pushes Mulder down onto the bench and roots
around in her bag until she locates an inhaler. A few puffs and the coughing
subsides, but Mulder looks even paler than he did before, and I curse myself
again for not insisting he use one of the wheelchairs parked near the
terminal door.
Our flight will be boarding in a few minutes, and we still have half the
length of the concourse to travel. Mulder really could use a few more
minutes of rest, but we need to move along. I watch the silent by-play
between them; Scully searches his face with concern; he nods slightly
indicating that he can walk again. I used to find their unspoken
communication unnerving, like having people converse in a language I didn't
understand. Looks would pass between them, and sometimes I wondered if they
were making silent chrome dome jokes. Mulder pushes himself off the bench
with some effort, and we make our way to the gate. We're the last passengers
to be seated, and I have to scramble to find room in the overhead
compartment for the bags. Scully keeps the case with Mulder's meds under her
seat. I wonder if I should have sprung for first class as I eye the cramped
coach seats.
Scully speaks quietly to one of the flight attendants who is both alarmed at
Mulder's frail appearance and impressed by Scully's FBI credentials. The
tall young woman asks a couple of passengers to move their seats so Mulder
can lie down. Scully and Mulder have the center section of four seats, and I
sit across the aisle from them. The flight attendant bustles around trying
to make Mulder more comfortable, raising the armrests of the now vacant
seats out of the way and producing pillow and blankets. Apparently a good
looking man who became ill in the line of duty is quite exciting. I glance
over to see that Mulder is stretched out over three of the seats, his head
resting on Scully's lap, and I stifle a chuckle. The flight attendant has
noticed as well, and disappointment is plain on her face. I wonder if she'd
be interested in hearing about my gunshot wound received while trying to
right an injustice. I rarely get into the field these days, and it has been
years since I've traveled with both of my agents.
Rumors have always coursed through the office about the exact nature of
their relationship. My position was that it was no one's business but their
own, as long as they were professional and discreet. I tell myself that I
have more pressing matters to attend to than how my agents spend their
private time, yet, if I was honest, I would admit to some curiosity. I
always felt their relationship transcended base sexuality; they seemed at
once closer and more detached than lovers. I've witnessed moments between
them of such painful awkwardness that I felt my own gut twist. I remember
times when the air between them seemed to snap with electricity. In all that
time, I could never say that they had crossed the line.
Something now has definitely changed. I can't put my finger on what it is or
when it happened, but the atmosphere has been altered. In the days after
they had arrived to help on the Morley case, the two of them had barely
touched in my presence. They were efficient, cooperative, and businesslike,
and still the air that surrounded them seemed sexually charged. I suppose
the real tip off was yesterday afternoon when I arrived at the hospital to
find Scully, head resting on Mulder's shoulder, asleep in his hospital bed.
An arm around her, his eyes had signaled amusement as he raised a finger to
his lips as if to say, "Be quiet, don't wake her." The bastard didn't even
look embarrassed. I shook my head as I walked back down the corridor.
I am not built for coach seating. My knees are jammed up against the ugly
plaid material of the seat in front of me. Just when I think it can't get
tighter here, the hefty gentleman in that seat decides to take a little nap
and reclines the seat back. His head is almost in my mouth, and I can
practically taste his hair gel. If I could reach my weapon, I'd shoot him. I
look over to see that Scully has closed her eyes, and I wonder if she has
slept more than a few hours since Mulder became ill. Her fingers stroke
through his hair, gently smoothing it from his forehead. I can't see his
face, but I bet he's blissful. I'd be blissful if Scully would run her
fingers through my hair. Hell, I'd be blissful if I had hair.
-=-=-=-=-=--
The scope of my life is definitely smaller these days. The joy I feel over a
good topic on Oprah is positively frightening. I finished the Sunday
crossword puzzle this morning and got so excited I had to lie down for a
half an hour. If a telemarketer calls, it will just about round out the
afternoon. I've been home on medical leave since we returned from North
Carolina, and I think my apartment is smaller than it used to be. I'm
finally feeling better, though I still don't have much energy. I won't admit
that to Scully, of course. She thinks I should stay home another week and
not go back to work tomorrow, but I can't stand being cooped up here one
more day. It wouldn't be so bad if Scully would bring some files home, but
she stubbornly refuses to discuss anything work related. She won't even talk
to me about my own case--I have to wait until tomorrow at work to hear
anything about Morley Tobacco or Darryl Weaver.
I stretch out on the couch and watch the flashing images on the TV as I
mindlessly flip through the channels. Cartoon, old sitcom, cooking show,
infomercial, talk show, talk show, home shopping, talk show, weather report.
Jeez, they aren't kidding when they say ninety-seven channels and not a damn
thing on. Scully has been worried about me and watches me carefully, though
she tried not to let me catch her at it. She checks to be sure I've taken my
medication, and I swear she counts every bite I take. It has been a bad year
for me, and it has her spooked. Our evolved relationship makes this kind of
scrutiny easier for her and more irritating for me. I'll admit that my
health has taken a beating, but emotionally, I feel stronger than ever
before, in spite of the losses I've encountered. I know that having Scully
in my life has been responsible for my even keel.
The changes are still so new, and we both stumble around. Scully amazes me
with her ability to open up these days. I wonder, though, what she would
have said if she had been awake when Skinner found her asleep in my arms at
the hospital the day before we came home. The look on his face had been
priceless: embarrassment mixed with surprise and resignation. The memory of
Skinner with that "deer caught in the headlights" look is enough to boost me
out of my lethargy. I shouldn't complain about boredom too much; Scully has
tried her very best to entertain me and keep my mind off work. Over the
years, when I was hurt or sick, Scully would bring me home from the
hospital. She would fill my prescriptions, stock my kitchen with food, and
check in on me periodically, but she almost always went home to her
apartment. This time she didn't go home.
If someone had told me a year ago that Scully would be giving me backrubs
while she wore nothing but body lotion, I would have laughed my ass off.
Yet, right now, if I concentrate hard enough, I can feel her firm, warm
bottom nestled against the small of my back as she works the muscles in my
shoulders. I find myself ill equipped for happiness, yet by most standards I
seem to be happy. I'd decided a long time ago, before Scully ever walked
into my office, that a personal life was out of the question. Days spent
climbing into the minds of society's monsters made for lousy dinner
conversation. I resigned myself to a life alone. From the moment I first
shook her hand, I knew it would be a mistake to fall in love with Scully. I
guess Diana pretty much cured me of involvement with co-workers. Still,
Scully's brand of earnest intelligence is hard to resist, especially when it
is packaged so nicely.
I deluded myself for years, insisting that I only felt friendship and
affection for this woman. I told myself that I needed a friend a lot more
than I needed a lover. I allowed myself small indulgences: a touch here, a
little teasing there, a hug only when the world fell apart. Even as I lived
in fear of losing her, I told myself that I could keep my feelings under
control. I think it was the prospect of losing her to cancer that changed
things. Finally, those feelings reached a critical mass and could no longer
be denied. I admitted to myself that I was, indeed, hopelessly in love with
her, but I knew I could never tell her how I felt. I was torn between
desperately needing her and knowing she would be safer without me.
I had long since realized that my quest was no longer the core of my life.
Scully had become the center of my very existence. A wise man once said that
life was what happened to you while you were busy making other plans. I may
not have chosen my path, but I had accepted it. The idea that Scully might
love me in the same way I loved her was more than I ever wished for.
Sometimes, though, life presents you with gifts you can't even find the
words to ask for. Scully loves me. I have to keep saying the words until
they become real. She'll be home soon, bearing groceries for dinner, filling
the apartment with her presence and making it seem big again. I'll help her
with the bags and take her in my arms and try to get her to talk shop.
She'll kiss me soundly and change the subject, and I'll persuade her that
dinner can wait as I pull her into the bedroom. Later, I'll try to convince
myself that she wouldn't be better off without me. I'll remind myself that
she hasn't smiled this much in years, that she laughs out loud and actually
seems happy. Tonight, as I watch her sleep, I'll try to bury my doubts.
Maybe I can learn to trust life, just this once.
End (1 of 1)