TITLE: Watercolors II: Shared Secrets
AUTHOR: Flynn
CLASSIFICATION: MSR, A; Impedocles post-ep
DATE: August 19, 2001
E-MAIL: flyn121@yahoo.com 
ARCHIVING: Unlike Surferboy, I was taught to share my toys.
Please keep author and headers attached, and let me know where to
visit. 
WEBSITE: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn/
FEEDBACK: Almost as good as caffeine in the morning, and FAR
more addictive. 
RATING: PG for adult language and themes. 
SPOILERS: Momento Mori, Duane Barry, One Breath, EnAmi,
Per Manum, 
TINH, 3 Words, Triangle. 

DISCLAIMER: Archetypes belong to Carter. Besides, you know
what they say about the sincerest form of flattery, right?

Scribbler's note: This is a follow-up to Watercolors. If you haven't
read that one, you might not get this one. Don't worry, it's short.

Special kudos to Christine-the-wonder-aunt/editor. Thanks for
making time for me in your busy day, sweet thing.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Watercolors II: Shared Secrets
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I don't remember getting to her apartment. All the night-time trips
I've made over the years, the miles and the landmarks run together
in a blur. Before I'm really aware of being anywhere, I'm at her
door. I don't know what to do. I'm not prepared. Should I knock?
Ring the doorbell? Pull out my cellphone and call her? We have had
some of our most profound discussions that way. But that seems
dumb right now. That's not why I'm here. I mean, we *are* going
to talk. But I hope - no, more than that. I pray to a God I'm
beginning to wonder about that we're going to do a lot more than
that. That we're going to reconnect. Find who we are with one
another. I raise a bunched fist to the door. It hangs there,
undecided. Knock. Don't knock. Shit or get off the pot, G-man. 

I knock.

God, it's a long time before I hear her footsteps on the bare wood
floor of her living room. I have no idea how long it's been since we
hung up. I don't know how long it took me to get here. There are
just too damn many things I don't know. My breath catches in my
throat when I hear the chain rattle. She's there, with just this door
between us. Only it's not that simple, is it? There are so many
things between us now. So many things that have gone unsaid for
too long. Too damn long. God, I think my heart is going to
explode, it's beating so hard. I can feel my pulse in my eyes. 

What will she do? That thought burns through my brain as the door
swings open. How will she look? I just left her a little while ago. I
know how she looked then. How will she look *now?*

I'm not prepared for what I find. She's crying. Rather, she's *been*
crying, though she's trying really hard not to now. Jesus, I don't
think I've seen her look like this since the morning Penny Northern
died. Red, teary eyes. Tight white lines parenthesizing her mouth.
Her chin is quivering.

I'm not sure what I had planned when I set out. More tea, maybe.
Sitting on the couch, holding hands as we discuss just what we've
been to each other. What we're to become. Again, I'm not
prepared for what happens. As soon as I'm in and the door is
locked, she turns and quietly steps into my arms. No hesitation. No
hedging. Not a single watercolor in sight - just the clear, strong,
startling colors that make up my partner. I don't have to think
about it. I bundle her up close and hold her. Hold her. I'm holding
Scully. She's holding me. My nose is in her hair and hers is pressed
against my throat. This is good. This is right. One arm is around my
neck, the other tucked around my ribcage. She's got me high and
low. She's bulkier than I remember .... than I think I remember ....
no, I do remember. She wouldn't be doing this if the whole thing
was just a phantom of my misguided imagination. Of course she's
bulkier. She's pregnant. She's pregnant.

God, she's pregnant and it's mine. It's mine.

At least, I think it's mine. The IVF didn't work. Or rather, that
prick Parenti *said* it didn't work. Would he have lied about it?
Why? How else could it have happened? Well, there *was* an
episode or two of unprotected sex not long after our little failed
science project, *if* my memory is to be trusted, so I suppose good
old Mother Nature really could be having the last laugh about the
whole thing. But what if that isn't it? I have to consider the darker
alternatives. Scully went away with that bastard Spender. There
was a sizeable hunk of time there that is *still* a big empty spot for
her. Did he do something to her in those hours? Did he engineer
some sort of interference with the chip? Scully said he'd made such
claims on their little field trip. Had he done something? Or had the
chip merely fulfilled some heretofore unknown objective, that being
to return her to full health? *Full* health, in every meaning of the word?

Holding her feels good, far better than anything else I can think of
at the moment, but it's not getting us any closer to that talk we
need to have. I give us both a little more time - time to absorb
what's real, what's tangible, what seems too damned good to be
true - and then I gently draw back and search her face. She tries to
smile as she looks up at me, but her eyes are brimming. Ah,
dammit. I shake my head, then bend and kiss her. Her cheeks. Her
closed eyes, wet with tears. Those softer-than-soft lips. She kisses
me back, too. "Scully," I breathe. We rub faces just like two big,
wet Siamese cats. "Scully. God, Scully."

She's crying again. I can feel her body shaking. Or is she laughing?
I can't tell. One of her hands plays through my hair while the other
one settles low on my waist - I can feel its warmth through my
shirt. "I thought you didn't want it .... I thought you didn't care ....
I was so foolish, it never occurred to me ...."

I shush her. Not want it? How could she think that? It's been killing
me, wondering if she'd gotten so cozy with Agent Dogface that she
might not have room for me in her life. I shake my head, and when I
manage to speak, my voice is thin and whiny. "I didn't know.
Believe me, I didn't .... I couldn't .... I thought it had all been a
dream. I thought I'd invented this .... I remember the in vitro, but
after that it just fades ...." 

Clearly I am not proficient at reading this new, hormonal Scully,
because it takes me a full minute to realize she's not laughing.
There are no histrionics, of course - not with this woman. Soft
hiccups, shaky breaths. "You were gone .... Jesus, Mulder, you
were dead .... and then even after you came back to me, you still
weren't there .... you were so distant, so God-damned angry, and I
didn't know how to get through to you ...."

I close my eyes hard against the crush of guilt and hold her a little
tighter. Will I ever stop putting her through hell? Dead or alive, it
seems to make no difference. "I was scared," I whisper, turning my
face so I can breathe the warm, clean scent of her hair. "I was lost
and angry, and I was scared shitless. You were so different ....
everything had changed .... you didn't seem to need me anymore. I
thought you'd found what you were looking for and I tried, I really
tried, to be happy for you, but it made me miserable knowing I
wouldn't get to see it with you .... I'm sorry, Scully, I didn't mean -
" 

Without warning the hand tightens in my hair, and I barely manage
to stifle a yelp of protest. "God, sometimes you can be such an
idiot." She's whispering now so I can't tell if there's an edge to her
words. She draws herself away and looks at me. Oh yeah, I'm in
trouble. No problem seeing the reproach in those eyes. Her hand
tugs on my hair for emphasis as she speaks. "Why? And how? How
could I exclude you from anything when this was exactly what we
wanted? How could you think ...? God dammit, Mulder ...."

I gape at her helplessly. As lame as it sounds sometimes - and
brother, if it were a horse, I'd have to shoot it - the truth is still the
truth. "Scully, I DIDN'T REMEMBER. I still don't know if
everything I THINK happened really did. All the things you and
Skinner told me, and your reports .... shit, everything since last
spring .... EVERYTHING'S lost in a fog .... all the details are
blurred or washed out - they're just gone and I can't distinguish
anything but goddamn shapes ...." I cast about for a clearer
explanation, but before I can get anything more out, I see her
expression change, disbelief slowly becoming realization. That's
right, Scully. We don't need words for some things, do we? You
know what it's like not to be able to remember, to want it and need
it but at the same time to be afraid of the nightmares you know
you'll find if you look too hard. You know because you've been
where I am right now. 

Her eyes don't waver from mine. "You couldn't remember," she
murmurs, as if the full meaning of the words are just now sinking
in. She strokes my hair. "Can you now?"

I hold her gaze. "It's becoming clearer." I stop and search for
words. "But it .... it's like I'm just waking up. Things are confused.
I can't tell what's real and what's a dream. In a way so much has
changed .... but at the same time nothing has."

She looks at me for a moment without replying. Then her hand slips
out of my hair and she slowly turns, carefully pulling herself free.
My arms fall to my sides and I watch her walk away. She doesn't
go far - just to the cupboard for a glass, and the sink for water. I
can only wait. She drinks and then stands there, unmoving,
presenting me with that unbelievable profile. "I had a dream too,"
she says quietly, without turning. "No. Not a dream. A nightmare. I
found you lying on the ground like yesterday's trash. It was winter
and you were ...." A shudder grips her and her voice breaks. "You
were gone. Just gone." She sighs as her head dips, and her voice
trembles ever so slightly as she fights a losing battle with her tears.
"There were so many things I wanted to tell you. All those years we
spent together, talking and arguing and driving each other crazy,
and I never once took the time ...." A long pause as she bites her
lips, trying to stop their trembling. Then she squares her shoulders.
"We put you on a plane and brought you home. Mom helped me
pick out a suit and tie .... a casket .... and I watched them put you in
the ground." The water glass comes to rest on the curve of her
belly as she stares at the wall before her. "I wouldn't permit an
autopsy. I couldn't. You'd been through enough. Just an external
exam. Even that seemed a violation. Besides, I knew the results
before it was even complete .... I'd seen the others who'd been
returned ...." She sighs again. When she speaks, her tone is even
softer, and infinitely sad. "Do you know what it's like to bury half
of yourself, Mulder?"

I have an idea, I want to say. I know the emptiness of having the
best part of me stolen away. I know what it's like to hear your
voice crying out desperately to me for help. To stand there beside
your grieving mother and read your grave marker. To cling to
irrational hope because to give up on that would be the same as
giving up on breathing. But to lay my heart in the cold ground with
you? That would be too final. I don't think I'm meant to have that
kind of closure. Not in this life.

"I got you back before I had to do that," I say very quietly. She
turns and looks at me then, and the sorrow and doubt and hope I
see in her eyes just about kill me all over again. I take a step toward
her. Just one. I know what she's thinking. I swear I can see it in her
eyes. *You're standing there looking at me, but for how long?
When will I turn around to say something to you and find you're
gone again? Someplace else I can't follow?* I shake my head as I
look at her imploringly. I have to make her understand. My
priorities have changed. My life is no longer just about the X-files.
It's her. It's me. It's that little person she's carrying right this
instant. I struggle for a minute with the words. "For years, Scully,
I've had the work .... and I've had you. It's taken me too damned
long to figure it out, but of the two, I know what's most
important." 

She stands there, unmoving, her expression still downcast. "Is that
a promise, Mulder?" God, she sounds tired. I know it's not just
because of the late hour. She is tired. I've done it to her. Shit, so
much has happened to this woman because of me. I want a chance
to make it up to her. I *need* to make it up to her. She buried me
last winter and moved on because she had no choice, but now I'm
giving her one. I'm back. I'm not going anywhere. Certainly not
without her.

I nod very slowly and take another step forward. "Promise." A few
paces separate us. Six white square linoleum tiles. My arms ache to
hold her. My hands want to touch that strange, round belly again. I
want to love the child growing inside her. Even if it turns out that it
isn't mine, if by some hideous turn of fate it was actually put there
by Cancerman or one of his associates or even that ratshit Krycek, I
will still love it because it will be hers. 

It's uncanny, really, how she reads my mind sometimes. Her chin
quivers as she turns away again and sets the glass gently on the
counter. "You might be getting more than you bargained for," she
murmurs, and I feel a shiver of premonition. She has something to
tell me and she knows I'm not going to like it. She knows it for a
fact because *she* doesn't like it. I take a step forward and reach
out to touch her shoulder. She glances at me, and I see something
in her eyes that I've rarely ever seen. Fear. My own alarm doubles.
Scully, afraid? Anxiety, sure - I've seen that plenty of times.
Annoyance, anger, fury .... even laughter. I've seen them. Hell, I've
been the cause of them from time to time. This .... this is new, and it
is terrifying.

"Do you ...." she starts and trails off. I take her hand and grip it
hard. I don't dare even try to speak. The pain in my chest is almost
unbearable, but I can't let it show. This isn't just about me any
longer. This is precisely why I came here in the first place. Not to
soothe and not to be comforted. To talk. To address the issues
we've both so adroitly avoided. Where we've been, where we're
going .... exactly what happened to get us where we are right now.

She draws a deep breath and tries again. "Do you remember waking
up in the hospital?"

I nod slowly. I'm afraid that if I make any sudden movements,
she'll bolt like a frightened animal. "You were holding my hand."

She nods almost imperceptibly. "And what you said when I stood
up that first time ...."

I search back through my memories of that day. Things are cloudy,
as they always are when a hospital stay and the requisite drugs are
involved. But I do remember. "I said, 'Tell me I had something to
do with this.'"

Another tiny nod. She's gone pale, and I can see her pulse
practically hammering in her throat. I'm almost surprised I can't
hear it. "And I didn't say anything ...."

It hurts, thinking of that day. Seeing her push herself to her feet like
.... like I don't know what .... well, like a pregnant woman .... the
shock and the joy and a dozen other emotions I've never felt before
that instant just about overwhelming my feeble body .... I'd stared,
mouth agape, eyes probably bulging out of my face; and she saw,
she knew the instant she looked at me precisely what I was
thinking. I remember how her own expression had fairly crumpled,
the animated joy in her eyes being replaced with the blank distance I
could still read no matter how much time had passed, because for
me it simply *hadn't.* That's when it started for me, I realize:
distancing myself from everything and everyone, especially her. The
horrible feeling of loss, of detachment, as if all the tethers holding
me to my reality were suddenly gone and I was adrift in an endless
black sea. It hadn't helped, learning how my place in her life had
been filled so easily by some guy named Dogbreath. Above
reproach? Since when is *anyone* above reproach? Not even
Scully was at that moment - yet she expected me to accept this guy
with open arms on little more than the fact that he hadn't gotten her
killed yet?

She's expecting a response. I don't know what to say. I look down
at the knot of white fingers between us. "No, you didn't say much
at all," I manage at last, finding my voice only with great effort. My
throat is sandpaper raw, and I feel like I've been sprayed in the eyes
with a slow-acting acid. Is this it, I think to myself. Is this where
she tells me I'm not really a concerned party? That she succeeded
some other way, maybe even with an anonymous "contribution"
after my own miserable failure? Or that Spender had taken her and
drugged her just so he could get himself an heir to all that blood
money of his?

No, I tell myself savagely - that can't have happened. Not even HE
could be so vile. And even if she hadn't been going through her
own hell after I .... well, after Oregon, and I know full well that she
had, she wouldn't have resorted to Russian roulette with some
unknown man jacking off in a sterile cup. She wouldn't do that to
me. She wouldn't do that to *us.*

I've often wondered how someone who has seen the evidence of
ESP, who has witnessed its power time and time again, could
continue to deny its existence. "I didn't try again," she says, her
eyes locked on our intertwined fingers. "I didn't have to. Mulder ....
if it's not yours, then I don't know whose it could be." She
swallows hard and her voice drops even more, so low I can barely
catch her words. "Or *what* it could be."

I just stand there for a moment, staring at her and trying to absorb
her words. It takes a minute for everything to sink in, for me to
realize exactly what she means.

Jesus. She's been living with this for .... how long? To hell with
paternity. She doesn't know just what is growing inside her own
body. No wonder she's frightened. The sandpaper in my throat
coalesces into a rock the size of my fist, and I almost choke on it as
I force it down. "I know you, Scully," I whisper. "You're speaking
as an expectant parent. Where's the scientist? Where are your
facts? I *know* you. You've had .... it .... checked out. Surely you
know *something.*"

She looks at me then, and I see anger stir. It's just a spark, but it
goes a long way to banish her fear. *Atta girl, Scully,* I silently
cheer. "Of course I have," she almost snaps. "And therein lies a
new and twisted tale. All those years we were so intent on trusting
each other and no one else. Well, I found myself in a position where
I HAD to trust someone. As it turned out, I put my faith in the
wrong people, and I DIDN'T trust who I should have."

I hold her gaze. "Tell me," I say quietly. "Tell me everything." 

Her free hand comes up and settles on her belly, and I see her eyes
grow distant again. She asks if I remember a case years ago
involving a Duffy Haskell. I listen with mounting apprehension as
she outlines the story he put to her: the experiences of his wife, a
barren woman suddenly pregnant who did not survive delivery. A
woman whose tale was strikingly similar to my partner's in so many
ways: cancer, remission, a pregnancy that defied all scientific logic.
A second woman who sought Scully out, a woman who was also
barren but who happened to be forty weeks pregnant. Scully's
efforts to get them both to safety, and the men who first aided and
then confounded those efforts. 

She shivers suddenly and her grip on my hand tightens to the point
of pain. "They drugged me, Mulder, but I know what I heard. What
that woman gave birth to .... it couldn't have been human." She
speaks with quiet conviction, and I know without doubt that what
she's relating is not the product of some drug-induced
hallucination. 

We're silent for a long while. Her hand moves and slides over her
belly, and I wonder if she's comforting the form within or trying to
reassure herself that it isn't what she fears. No, I tell myself harshly,
we can't think like that. That way lies madness. 

"Scully," I say, drawing her attention back to me, away from the
sinkhole of dark fears she's visited God knows how many times in
the past eight months. She's had enough darkness. We both have.
"Listen to me. You've checked it out, right? Trust your skills as an
investigator. You've had the sonograms. The amnios."

She nods slowly. "Two. One at the army hospital last fall. I couldn't
trust the results, of course. I had the procedure repeated a few
months ago, with my new doctor." There's a brief pause and her
grip shifts a little on my hand as her thumb gently strokes mine.
"Graduated in the top ten percentile from Johns Hopkins back in
1976. Married with two children. Oh, and she was cited for
jaywalking in San Francisco in 1989." The shadow of a smile draw
at her eyes as she adds, "Frohike was very thorough."

I nod, unable to take up the feeble joke just now. "And this second
amnio revealed ...."

She's motionless for a moment, just long enough to scare the hell
out of me. "It showed the same thing the sonograms do." Abruptly
her gaze falls again, and she gives her head a little shake. "I won't
believe it until I see it with my own eyes. When I can see it and hold
it, then it'll be real. Until that happens, I can't take anything for granted."

So much is conveyed with that sentence. She has every right to hate
me - she knows that as well as I do. But she doesn't. Slowly I reach
out with my own hand, the one that isn't tangled with hers, and
gently stroke the curve of her abdomen just below her breasts. It's
warm and unyielding. I look at her solemnly. "I know," I whisper.
"But I want you to. There IS one thing you can accept as the
gospel truth, Scully."

She looks at me, unblinking. "What is it?"

I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. There are some
things I don't want to remember. Not ever. As a psychologist, I
know how important it will be to my recovery that I regain those
memories, that I recall as much as I can about what happened to me.

As a victim, I have no interest in doing so.

But there are things I do remember. Good things. I remember a
baseball lesson. I remember a fat-free ice cream cone and a minor
wrestling match over it. I remember a hospital bed and flowers from
from Skinner and a story straight out of the Wizard of Oz. 

I told her something that day, something I've thought to myself
time and time again over the intervening years but never had the
courage to repeat. Be careful what you wish for, the expression
goes, and I *was* careful. It doesn't matter anymore, all our
cautious admissions and clandestine affections for each other. I
understand her trepidation, but I cannot live my life like that
anymore. We've already missed out on so much. I want more.
Much, much more. 

I hold her gaze as I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss her open
palm. "Do you remember that day in Florida?"

Her eyes are misting up again. "Bermuda .... the air ambulance ...."
Her fingers caress my lips. "I was so afraid I'd lost you that day."

I nod. "I know. You never left me alone. Not once. Not in the
ambulance, or the hospital." She blinks, and a tear falls silently
down the side of her face. I catch it on my fingertip and gently
brush it away. "After the others left, and you told me to close my
eyes .... I said something to you." 

A smile jerks at her eyes at the shared memory. "I remember. I
thought it was just the narcotics."

I smile too. "They didn't MAKE me say it, Scully, they ALLOWED
me to. Nothing has changed since then. What I said .... I still do.
Now more than ever." I look down at the swell beneath my hand. "I
know you're afraid. God knows I am, too. But you don't have to
go through it alone. Not now. If what I think happened really did
happen ...."

A pretty color suddenly sets her cheeks aglow. "It did, Mulder.
Trust me on this."

".... then this is where I belong. It's where I want to be. With you.
With him. Or her." Her smile widens just a little. So does mine. "I
think the phrase is, 'for better or for worse.' I'm here, Scully. I'm
not leaving."

We just stare at each other for a moment. This time it's she who
moves first, sliding her arms around me and laying her head on my
shoulder and holding me fast. There are no sobs now - just a slow,
steady sigh. I draw her up close and we rock each other slowly, in
time to music that only the two of us can hear.

This is right. This is good.

I've come home. And I'm not leaving again. 


~~~~~
end
~~~~~


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