TITLE:  Apathy
AUTHOR: Flynn
E-MAIL ADDRESS: flyn121@yahoo.com
Website: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn
CLASSIFICATION: SAR
KEYWORDS: ScullyAngst! 
CATEGORY: DAL, Requiem post-ep
DATE: August 31, 2000
DISTRIBUTION: Xemplary, Ephemeral, Spooky, Gossamer, yes;
anywhere else, just ask. I share. 
SPOILER WARNING: Slight for Requiem, SUZ, Conduit, The Blessing
Way, and  . The Great Escape?!
RATING: PG
FEEDBACK: If you like it, just lemme know. 
DISCLAIMER: My last name is not Carter, yada yada yada.

SUMMARY: Mulder's back, but he's not the same. Will anything ever be
again?


Whopping big thanks to Christine. Words fail me, and anyone who knows
me knows how rarely that happens.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Apathy
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Mulder's watching me.

He doesn't say anything, but I know he's there. Well, as 'there' as he ever
is now. He's like a ghost: pale and for the most part silent; as insubstantial
as a passing thought. Sometimes I have to remind myself that he's back,
that he's really here. Because it's like he's lost part of himself, and that
lack, that loss, is breaking my heart.

It's been difficult for everyone, I realize. I know it just seems so much
worse to me because my hormones are constantly in flux. It's been a week
since his release from the hospital - this after a month spent there, hooked
up to every conceivable piece of medical equipment and enduring every
medical test I could think to order. A week since he took up residence in
my apartment. On my couch. He spends a lot of time sleeping. Not
surprising, really. His appetite isn't much yet; all he really seems interested
in is ice cream. Normally this is not a food product to be found in my
freezer, but my own condition being what it is, I'm afraid the cravings have
started. Rocky Road is my current passion. Mulder doesn't seem to care,
just so it's cold and there's a lot of it.

I wonder what happened to him. He hasn't said. Hell, he hasn't said much
of anything. *Hey, Scully.* That was the first thing out of his mouth, after
three months' absence. The longest three months of my entire life.

Three months. Just like my own  . incident.

Not long before he turned up in an Oregon hospital - much as I myself had
mysteriously appeared here in Washington - I'd been summoned to my
obstetricians's office and handed a medical decree. Blood pressure was
edging up, iron levels were beginning to drop. Take it easy, or it'd be
complete bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy. Work was okay, as
long as it can be accomplished at home. No standing for four and five
hours at a time performing autopsies. No trekking around the Eastern
seaboard, investigating any and all rumored UFO sightings over the
Western states. This long-distance investigating was what I was reduced to
- because mine is considered a high-risk pregnancy, the bastard had already
forbidden me to fly.

Might as well have cut my feet off. Work was all I could do. This hunt -
this hope - was all I had.

And then came the 3 a.m. phone call from Frohike. A John Doe showing
up in a hospital in Portland, one matching Mulder's description, right down
to the gunshot scars on the left shoulder. All five of them, Skinner and
Doggett and the Gunmen together, could barely keep me from getting on
the first plane bound for the coast. I understand now why the Gunmen
were especially adamant about keeping me here. I knew it then, but at the
time I hated them. They were Mulder's friends, and then they were mine;
more than friends, they'd become my support system through the hell of
the past few months. Now they were stealing my joy, cutting my legs out
from under me so that they could be the first to see Mulder.

My rage was short-lived, as are most of my moods these days. Frohike
stayed on the airphone with me for practically the entire flight. I think he
needed that anchor as much as I did. They all admire Mulder, he and Byers
and Langely; they all practically worship him, but Frohike was hardest hit
by his disappearance. I remember him showing up on my doorstep that
terrible time when Mulder had been killed, or so we believed, full of Scotch
and sorrow, and in so much pain that the alcohol didn't really ever stand a
chance. A seed was planted between us that night, I think. Yeah, Melvin
can be irritating at times, and puerile, and *incredibly* raunchy - but he
also has the biggest heart of any person I've ever known, and I thank God
for him. He kept me sane that night. Through him, and through that
ever-present cell phone, I was there with them when they got to the
hospital and finally, unequivocally, identified Mulder.

I think I aged a year in that single week. No doctor would release a
comatose patient to make a coast-to-coast flight, myself included. So they
waited. I don't think they left his side during that whole time. When he
showed signs of coming out of it, Frohike held that phone to his ear so I
could talk to him. He said Mulder smiled as soon as he heard my voice.

A.D. Skinner, bless his shiny head, actually chartered a jet to bring them
home.

Nothing was going to keep me from meeting them. Skinner was in the
loop, of course, and had in fact played an active part in the investigation,
almost as active as Doggett. They picked me up at my apartment and drove
me out to the airport. I suppose they figured I'd take a cab if they left me
to my own devices.

They were right.

We didn't say very much on the drive. I was too keyed-up to carry on
anything like a sensible conversation, and so I didn't even try. Doggett
either didn't have much to say on the subject, or he'd finally learned a thing
or two about my temper and decided to keep his nose out of it. And
Skinner? I knew what he was going through. He blamed himself. Still. He
hadn't ever said very much about what happened that night, not a whole lot
more than what he'd revealed to me there in the hospital. For me, the past
three months had been frustrating and heart-breaking; but for him, the guilt
had never lifted.

I vaguely remember Skinner taking my hand and giving it a squeeze as the
jet landed. His fingers were as shaky as my own.

We took Mulder to the hospital here in Georgetown. They were ready for
him, of course; everything had been arranged. I rode in the ambulance with
him. With Mulder. Was this how he felt when he saw me for the first time?
Had he been full of rage and hope and terror, not knowing how long it
would be before he could touch and in return *be* touched? I had it better
than he did, actually: though he was all but unconscious upon landing, he
came around a little on the way in, just enough to respond when I told him
to squeeze my hand. Just enough to whisper the word, "Tired."

I did the standard neuro checks right there in the ambulance - I might have
been an emotional wreck, but I'm still a doctor. His toes moved when I
tickled the soles of his feet; his pupils reacted normally to my penlight. I
think that's when I realized he was really there, that this wasn't just another
hideous, hopeful dream: when I looked into his eyes. His beautiful eyes.
Gray-no-green-no-hazel. But Jesus, he was so pale. And he'd gotten thin.
He's never exactly been Hulk Hogan, even at the best of times. Well, a
little recoup time in the hospital, then some quality time with the mother of
his child, and he'd come around.

Only he hasn't. He's been here a week now. He sucks down ice cream like
it's going out of style, and he watches TV; he talks to me a little, and
answers appropriately when I ask him something. "Yes, I know where I
am. This is your apartment. You're holding up three fingers. The
president? Mr. Rogers." At that he grins a little, and I feel a spark of hope.
But he isn't *him*. He isn't Mulder. You're in there somewhere, I want to
say. Hell, I want to shake him until his teeth rattle - but I can't. I can't rush
him. He'll come back to me; I just have to be patient.

I'm tired of being patient. I want my friend back. I want my lover back. I
want back the man who balances me. Yin to my yang. Light to my
shadows. I've been in those shadows for too long. We both have.

I talk to him all the time. I talk to him about work, or what the boys are up
to. I'm sick of the sound of my own voice. Sometimes he falls asleep
listening to me. He still hasn't said anything about what happened to him,
or show any curiosity about our living arrangements. He took the news of
my pregnancy - of his child - with more of that unnerving stillness. A
strained smile as he carefully avoided my gaze. A polite response in his
calm, dead tone: <I thought I'd noticed something different about you.
Congratulations. I'm happy for you.>

My heart is breaking.

Sometimes he lets me touch him. Usually he avoids it. I don't know why,
and it hurts me when he gently recoils from me. I examined him while he
was in Georgetown Memorial; I know that, except for some minor
abrasions and the weight loss, and that weird blood chemistry we've seen
in purported abductees, he doesn't appear to have been harmed. He hasn't
acquired any more scars. We found no evidence of implants. This aversion
to physical contact is unsettling. It isn't like him. He's always invented
reasons for me to touch him, and vice versa, ever since the first year of our
partnership. Innocent touches - a hand on my back; the unconscious
leanings when he's shaken or overwhelmed or just plain tired; the
occasional and totally playful invitation to dance, or play baseball.

He's always been tactile. And before his disappearance, the touching had
become quite  . well, I *am* pregnant.

I want him back.

With my patient camped out in the living room and sleeping at all hours of
the day and night, I finally broke down and asked Frohike to install a small
TV in my bedroom. I'm not a big fan of the one-eyed idiot, as my dad used
to call it; but with my ability to work extremely limited and a roommate
who makes it difficult to do anything productive around the house, I've
taken to watching it more often. A lot of science programs. And the boys
are good about sending over fresh supplies of videos.

I'm lying in bed now, watching some stupid movie. God, Escape from
Planet of the Apes. I've made the circuit of channels five times, and I can't
find anything that catches my attention. It's one in the afternoon. I'm a
little blue anyway, and the state of the cable system is doing nothing to
change that. And I've noticed that it's getting more and more difficult to
find a comfortable resting place. I've taken to wearing leggings, the size of
which do not bear discussion, and a T-shirt of Mulder's. The T-shirt thing
is a habit I got into long before I started to show. Now it's just second
nature. And now that he's back, in whatever form he is at present, I have
access to shirts that actually smell like him again.

The thought makes me tear up unexpectedly. I know he's watching me
from the shadows of the hallway, and has been for a few minutes. He's
quiet as always, and I'm not sure exactly how I know he's there. I guess it
goes back to that connection we've developed through the years, one
which I still categorically deny, at least for the sake of argument. I don't
believe in telepathy, psychokinesis, or empathic contact. Still, how did that
line go from that movie? Just because you don't believe in it doesn't mean
it isn't true. I've seen enough with Mulder to know, there's more than a
little truth in that statement.

Another tear slides down the side of my face, and I sniff a little as I wipe it
away. God-damn hormones. Here I am, lying on my bed like a small
beached whale, watching a movie about a pregnant Chimpanzee. One that
talks, no less. And I'm crying. The movie isn't that good. I wish I had the
energy to get up and put in a video. Shawshank Redemption, maybe. Hell,
why not Julia Childe? I'm as big as a house now; why not just blow it and
get really fat?

Lost as I am in this miasma of self-pity, I'm barely aware of the door
opening very slowly. I feel him more than anything. So much for not
believing. He's close now. What is he doing? I close my eyes for a moment.
<God, I've missed you,> I want to say. <Talk to me. Tell me what you're
thinking. Tell me what you're feeling. Tell me why I can't touch you
without hurting you.> But I don't say anything. I just lie there on my side,
pillows propped against my back and wedged between my knees, staring at
the flickering TV on my dresser. I hate this movie. I wish I'd left it on
CNN. So what that the lawyers were rehashing some old court case. It
couldn't be any worse than this.

I hear him move closer, and despite my hormone-driven funk, I can't help
but feel a tiny surge of hope. This is new. He hasn't approached me at all,
let alone in what is so clearly my own personal territory. I feel the bed
jounce a little as he leans on it, slowly going down on all fours and making
his way around the bed to sit on the floor just beside me. Our faces are
almost level. If I reached out my hand, I could touch his shoulder. I don't
make that effort. I don't want to hurt him. I ache to touch him, to feel him,
but I won't hurt him. I refuse to. He's been through enough.

He's staring at the TV. We watch for a few minutes, and when Kim Hunter
utters that totally forgettable line, *Because I loathe bananas,* I actually
hear him snicker. He turns and gives me a sidelong look. "Scully, why are
you watching this? You *hate* this sort of movie."

Okay, that gets my attention. For a minute there he almost sounded like  .
like Mulder. I try to smile as I look at him. "Just trying to see how the
other half lives," I reply, wiping again at the ever-present tear gliding down
my cheek.

He turns then and looks at me directly. The ghost is becoming more
substantial, it seems. Maybe the gallons of ice cream are having an effect.
God knows they're having one on me. I want desperately to just gaze back
at him, but someone's doing a dance on my bladder, one that can no longer
be ignored. I squirm a little, then sit up with a groan. "Dammit." He starts
to get up too, but I wave him away. "No, stay here. I have to pee." I see
him look around for the remote, and I realize what he's thinking. "It's not a
tape, Mulder, you can't pause it. I wouldn't want you to anyway." I kick
my legs over the far side of the bed, the side closest to the door, and groan
as I stand up. With my ever-increasing body mass, my feet seem to be
shrinking.

They're not happy about it, either.

I take care of things in the bathroom, which, with a bladder compressed to
the size of a thimble, takes very little time. I look at myself in the mirror as
I wash my hands. I haven't had makeup anywhere near my face in weeks.
My eyes are red and bleary-looking from my afternoon crying jag; and that
detested roundness that I've fought all my adult life is making an
appearance around my cheeks and jaw line. Shit, tie ropes to my belt loops
and I'm ready for the Macy's parade. They can use me for the center float.
I mutter something very un-ladylike under my breath as I return to my
bedroom. I wouldn't apologize for my choice of words, even if Mom had
been there to hear me. What could I possibly come up with that the wife of
a sailor has never heard? Screw you, Jiminy Cricket.

Mulder's still watching the movie, of course. I wonder if he remembers that
I left, or that I was even there at all. It takes me a few minutes to get
settled back in my semi-comfortable position. Plump, prop, wedge, lie
back, adjust, lie back, readjust, ad nauseam. This can go on all night long.
Is it any wonder pregnant women are at times found to be a little irritable?
It's a wonder they aren't stark raving psychotic by the time they deliver.
Oh, and then the fun's just starting!

<Don't do this,> I chide myself. <Don't look for trouble and unhappiness,
because you know you'll always find it. Look at your partner. Mulder's
here, and he isn't going anywhere. So what if he's a little more of a  .
well, a space-cadet than he might normally be. Look at him, and love him.>
I sigh as I follow my own advice. The movie holds no interest for me. I
have something infinitely better to watch.

He's staring intently at the screen, as if all the answers he's ever sought in
life are to be found somewhere amongst the actors wearing body rugs. He
needs a shave. If my hand is so damned uncomfortable to him, I hesitate to
think what a cold, sharp razor would do to his poor nerves. I wonder if I
could get the guys to purchase one of those rotary jobs, the kind they
advertise only during the holidays. It's September. Hey, if anyone can find
one this time of year  .

Evidently I am not the only one in the room with arguably telepathic
abilities. After a minute or two of quietly enduring my scrutiny, Mulder
turns and looks at me again. For a second he seems to be himself. Then he
blinks and his gaze falls. God, I can't stand it. I push myself up on one
elbow and reach out a hand. His eyes close in resigned anticipation, but I
don't touch him. "What is it?" I ask softly. "Mulder, what is it?" His eyes
still closed, he merely shakes his head. I bite my lip to stop its trembling.
Dammit, I hate crying, and yet that's all I seem to do any more. "*Talk* to
me, Mulder. Why  . why does it hurt to be touched? I want so much to
help you, but I don't know how."

To my surprise, he drops his head forward and presses his face into my
palm. "It doesn't hurt," he whispers. I don't say anything. Surely I don't
have to. I need to know more. He sighs as he opens his eyes and looks at
me.

God, what I see in them should never have to be borne by anyone. I can
barely find the words. Anguish. A cold, haunted look. It's the look a
woman has when she's been raped. My mind recoils from that parallel.
<Don't go there,> I tell myself. <Don't pursue that. Not now. Maybe not
ever.> Carefully I stroke his hair. It's longer now, and unkempt as hell. A
shave and a haircut. A hot meal. And a back rub. I silently list all the things
I want to give him. The only solace I *can* give him.

He draws in a shaky breath and holds it for a few seconds. "It doesn't
hurt," he says again. "But it's distracting. I  . I can't remember. I don't
know what happened. I don't know where I've been. It's all  . just a dark
place. I try. I try to remember. I also try not to. And when you touch me, it
reminds me that I'm  . I'm not there; and then I really want to remember.
I have to know, I have to make sure they don't  . do it again. I *need* to
know what they did to me." He looked at me, his gaze solemn. "To you."

For a moment neither of us move. When I swallow the lump in my throat,
it's so loud that I'm sure he hears it. "Is that why you've been so
withdrawn?" I ask. I can barely hear myself; it's a wonder to me he can
make out my words.

It's still no surprise when he nods. "I've been  . inward," he replies,
dropping his head into my hand again. A sigh draws his shoulders up, then
releases them. His eyes clench tight then, and I watch as he battles his
demons. His lips blanch as he presses them tightly together, and his
expression becomes even more strained. "Dammit, Scully  . I have to
remember. I have to know what they did to me. But I can't  . it's just  .
*not there.*"

I stroke his head again, then cheat and let my hand drift down the bare skin
of his neck. He shivers a little. "Listen to me," I say very softly. "Look at
me, Mulder. I know exactly how you feel. But you and I both know, this
isn't something you can rush or bully or reason with. You know better than
anyone the tricks our minds will play in order to avoid pain and fear. You
have to be patient." I can't help it, another tear is doing a Steve McQueen
down the side of my face. I don't want to abandon what contact we have,
so I let the little bastard go. "Now I know how you felt when I was gone.
If it weren't for the boys  . and this  ." I lay a hand on my round middle.

I realize his own eyes are filling now. "You're stronger than I am," he
breathes. "You, Scully, are strong. You amaze me."

My chin quivers as I give my head a shake. "Don't be so sure. United we
stand, but divided, we're both pretty damned miserable." I wince as a
muscle spasms suddenly in my back, way down by my butt. I've gotten
good at kneading out my own cramps, and I waste no time doing it now.
He starts to say something, then catches himself. I groan as I settle back
against my many pillows. He's still watching me.

And his eyes are overflowing. "I'm sorry," he whispers, laying a gentle
hand on my middle. "I didn't know, Scully. I wouldn't have gone. I
*shouldn't* have gone." He strokes me through the thin material of his
shirt. It isn't long before the tears are free-flowing, and the words he tries
to choke out between sobs are unintelligible. I lean toward him and draw
him into my chest, holding him with an arm around his head. I rock him
gently. It's strange, but as he sobs almost inconsolably, I feel my own
control return. He's so weak - I know I must be strong. For both of us.

He pushes me gently away. He needs distance, I think, and so I release him
and lie back against my pillows. To my surprise, he follows me onto the
bed. Still sobbing, he wraps himself around me, tangling his legs with mine,
his thin arms going around my middle, crushing his head to my breast and
holding me so close that it's difficult to breathe. I don't care. He can hold
me just as hard as he needs. We've been here before, in this very bed,
making a knot of flesh with our bodies for the sole purpose of giving each
other the sweetest of pleasures. Now we do it to give and draw comfort,
and, God willing, begin to heal our wounds.

He doesn't cry for long. Not like that terrible night I told him of his
mother's suicide. For a few minutes the storm is awful as it wracks him;
then it lightens bit by bit until he's quiet. Drained. He murmurs my name,
though it's muffled with his face hidden against my breast. I'm not
surprised when, a few minutes later, he begins to snore very softly.

Our limbs are still tangled. He doesn't exactly smell springtime-fresh, but
it's certainly nothing I'm going to complain about. I press my cheek to the
top of his head, stroke the tangle of hair, kiss the smooth forehead. I feel
his heartbeat against my stomach, and I wonder if the steady cadence is
something our baby can perceive yet.

It isn't exactly comfortable, lying twisted up with him like that, but again,
I'm not about to complain. I haven't been so happily uncomfortable in  .
months. Four of them, to be exact. Mulder tends to be a bit of a bed hog,
I've learned, and he always seemed to need a great deal of contact with me
during those nights we spent together  . before. This position really isn't
so extreme. I smile as I kiss his forehead. <You're back. You're here.> I
close my eyes, relishing the feel of his skin against mine, the sounds of his
breathing. His smell. His warmth. For the first time in four months, I don't
dread the thought of sleep. <You're back,> I whisper. <My friend is
home.>

~~~~~~~~~
End