E-mail: flyn121@yahoo.com
URL: www.geocities.com/cratkinsonflynn
Date: April 13, 2001
Archive: Yes, please just let me know
Feedback: Good karma
Spoilers: Per Manum, DeadAlive, and Three Words.
Rating: PG-13 (language, Mulderbation)
Classification: Post-ep, A, V
Keywords: MSR, Mulder POV
Disclaimer: CC has them and all the headaches that go
with it. I have a cat and a simple little obsession.
Which do you think is the happier?

Summary: Some dark thoughts in a darker night.

Notes: After the initial sting wore off, I found
myself lauding the writers for this unexpected twist.
For once, they didn't play it safe. S7 offered some
choice opportunities for new things, and each and
every one was dropped. Three Words offered Mulder the
chance to dom something fresh and new, and DD played
it with satisfying bite.

In short: this fan was not disappointed. After all,
Carter has to take it away before he can give it back,
right?

Thanks to Christine. Weird, how we both came up with
such similar pieces on the same night. Hmm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Solamente
by Flynn
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I must love torturing myself. I must. Why else why I
keep doing it?

God, I’ve gotten good at it, too.

It’s quiet here now. The evening shift has come on.
People must be getting use to the idea of an immortal
man in their midst, because I’m getting fewer
visitors.

Yep, damn few visitors.

Physical therapy. Big burly guy got me out of bed and
sat me up in a chair while the nurses changed my bed.
I didn’t last long - fell asleep and damn near
slithered onto the floor like a damn snake. Luckily he
noticed, or my ass would have had another crack in it.

The dietician, a hideously perky woman with small tits
and big hair, came in and lectured me on the problems
we might have restarting my intestinal tract. Cramps.
Bloating. Gas. Oh, baby, talk to me some more. Gruel,
broth, protein-Jell-O .... oh, you know what I like.

And don’t forget the sadist they call Ron, a
weasely-looking guy with the letters RN stamped on his
ID badge and the catchphrase “heartless motherfucker”
emblazoned on his soul. He’s the guy who took the
catheter out a couple days ago. Ron will not be
getting a card this year.

Then the string of nurses and nursing assistants,
waking me up to take my vitals, encouraging me to use
the can, offering food I didn’t want and denying me
what I did. Hey, it’s my gut - why the hell can’t I
start off with a burger if that’s what I want?
Whatever happened to the adage, the customer is always
right?

And then there were the phlebotomists coming in to
draw blood at regular intervals. After the IV came
out, this had to be done the old-fashioned way, and
let me tell you, after a while it began to get on my
nerves. Whoever believes vampires don’t exist has
clearly never had a protracted hospitalization. Give
me a few wooden stakes and I’d take care of the lot of
them - do myself and every other poor sap in this
place the favor to end all favors.

Okay, so maybe I’d spare that cute red-head.

Red hair. Jesus, I miss Scully.

I don’t know what’s going on. I mean, she’s done her
damnedest to fill me in, but so far it’s like trying
to connect all the stars in the sky with kite string.
Lots of lines, lots of starting and stopping and
back-tracking .... but very little sense to be made
from the patterns forming around me. I was dead? Been
there, done that. No, this time was different - I
wasn’t found clinging to life and revived through
prayer or magic or maybe just good old luck. No, this
time there was a funeral. A real funeral. Mourners in
black. A coffin. A headstone. Okay, so I knew about
that one. How could I not? I’d been prepared. How
could I possibly tell my partner .... my lover ....
that I had a terminal disease? No way was I going to
put her through the hell I went through a few years
back. Does that sound selfish? I don’t mean for it to
be. Actually I was only thinking of her.

Okay, if it’s selfish then it’s selfish, and there
isn’t a fucking thing anyone can do about it. I’m
human. Sue me.

I was dead, and now I’m not. How did the line go in
that stupid movie? Something about being mostly dead.
He was only mostly dead. *I* was mostly dead. Shit.
Life imitates art in the most grotesque ways
sometimes.

And as bizarre, as totally incomprehensible and
unbelievable as *that* little chapter of my life is, I
got the kicker the day after I woke up. That was three
days ago.

I remember waking. I remember the sounds of the
monitors, the feel of fingers clutching at my hand. I
knew who it was. I could practically feel her eyes on
me. I didn’t know at the time what had happened, of
course, I just knew I’d done it to her again. I’d put
her in the position of watchdog, of waiting to see if
her world was going to continue more or less
unchanged, or if it was going to alter in
heart-breaking ways. I’ve been there. In New York,
back in ’99. Oh yeah, I know how bad it is. It isn’t
just the fear and anger and loss, although by
themselves they make life hell on earth. It’s the
uncertainty. It’s the not knowing if you’ll be able to
find a reason to continue breathing if your partner is
taken away from you.

Every time I wake up now, I find myself looking over
at the empty chair. That first night was the hardest,
I think, because the next time I woke up, I was alone.
She’d finally decided to sleep some way other than
folded over the side of my sickbed. It pissed me off
that she wasn’t there. I wanted her there. It may have
been the middle of the night, but she was supposed to
be there, dammit. It’s how we’ve always worked. When
one is sick or injured, the other suffers right along
with them. I was lonely and miserable. My nose itched
and my cheeks felt like some sick bastard has gone
apeshit with a harpoon inside my mouth. And I smelled.
Not an in-the-hospital, really-sick smell, but a
something-is-horribly-wrong smell. I wanted to take a
shower. I wanted to stretch my arms and legs, get up
and go for a run, maybe catch a game on the tube ....
but I couldn’t so much as raise my hands to hit the
button that would summon the nurse. So I just lay
there, smelly and itchy and miserable, and felt sorry
for myself.

How was I to know that my true suffering had not even
begun?

For years I’ve had two things going for me. Well,
other than a higher than average intelligence
quotient, which doesn’t really amount to jack in this
world. I have two tangibles to my name: my partner,
and my work. I was laid up in the hospital and would
be for some undetermined length of time, so clearly
the work thing was going on hiatus for a while. But my
partner? She was all I had. She was all I wanted. I
needed to see her, to talk to her and touch her and
kiss her and tease one of those slow-moving smiles out
of her. I needed her to kiss me and touch me and make
me laugh out loud, just like she had the night before
that troll with no mouth plopped himself in my office
and bled and drooled all over my desk.

And she was coming back. I knew she was, because she
always had. She’d smile and she’d touch my face with
those soft little hands of hers, then bend over me and
kiss me. So what that my limbs were dead weight and I
wouldn’t be able to touch her back? So what that my
brain seemed to have forgotten how to communicate with
its constituents? So what that I smelled more than a
little like a cadaver in high summer? Scully was
coming back, and things would be A-okay.

Then she walked in, and all my hastily-rehearsed
greetings and off-color one-liners faded away like
smoke in the wind. Gone, and she didn’t miss them
because she didn’t even know they had been there in
the first place.

For the record, the noise you may or may not have
heard that day was the sound of my heart shattering.

She’s pregnant.

My partner is pregnant.

Of course she noticed my reaction. It may have been a
while since she’s had to call upon that particular
talent, but she can still read me. And I can read her.

There was something she wasn’t saying.

We’d tried. We had. It hadn’t been long after her
return from Africa and my return from a playing
Frankenstein for that motherfucker Spender. I’d told
her about the vial. I was sorry I’d kept that
particular morsel of truth away from her, but again, I
had my reasons. So they were selfish reasons - I was
also thinking of her. How could I add another sorrow
to her already considerable burden?

She’d asked me and I’d said yes. Except that it wasn’t
really a matter of asking and accepting, because if
memory serves, we didn’t exchange that many words. She
came down to the office after yet another consult with
yet another professed fertility expert. This one had
told her the words she wanted so badly to hear: <It’s
worth a try.> She stood there in front of my desk,
looking at her hands, or at the pencil holder, or the
blotter, or the photos behind me - hell, anywhere but
at *me.* Her feet shuffled. Her hair fell in a curtain
over her face. She pushed it aside as she said she was
going to make the attempt, but that she couldn’t do it
alone. She needed help.

And *then* she looked at me.

I couldn’t believe it. Okay, the proposal was a shock
in and of itself .... but what I saw in her statement
hit me even harder. She was terrified. Of success, of
failure, I couldn’t say which. Afraid I’d reject her,
or afraid I’d take her up on the deal. Maybe a little
of both. Afraid of needing. Afraid of changing the
status quo between us, which until that moment had
always been an unvoiced Hands Off But No One Else Gets
You, Either.

I think that may have been the first time she looked
at me and I didn’t see big Keep Out signs in those
baby blues of hers.

What was I supposed to say? The idea was preposterous.
I’d had a major health scare, the repercussions of
which were *still* unknown. I didn’t even like to
think of how *her* health had been affected by
everything she’d endured since meeting me. Besides, we
were partners in a dangerous game. Some things would
change if we were to go forward with this, but other
things would not change, not at all. Colonization was
still looming out on the horizon somewhere. Krycek was
still out there, as crazy and as dangerous as ever. To
say *nothing* of Spender. I couldn’t. I just .... I
couldn’t.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t do anything but
stare at her. Bless her heart, she saw something in my
eyes, maybe heard it in what I wasn’t saying, and she
backed off. Don’t rush the decision, she said as she
gathered her things and prepared to leave. Going home
..... talk to me there if you want. See you in the
morning. And then she was gone. Slick as snot.

I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. *She* couldn’t. It was
nuts. It was crazy.

She wanted a baby, and she wanted it to be mine.

Mine.

My partner wanted my baby.

Long story short: how could I refuse her? The date for
colonization was set, or so one old bastard had told
me. What if that date wasn’t for another fifty years?
What if it had been stopped somehow and we just
weren’t aware of it? After all, we weren’t the *only*
players on that field. What if the blasted headaches
that had been plaguing me since my impromptu brain
surgery weren’t stress-related, but were a clarion cry
for something really serious? What if I wasn’t around
in a couple years to help her do this, to give her the
one thing she really wanted?

What ifs will drive a man insane.

So we went for it.

And we failed. When it was all over and the last stick
in the last test didn’t turn blue, we held each other
and we cried. I cried for myself, sure, because as the
procedure advanced and I saw the chance of success
growing in the form of zygotes in that Pyrex uterus, I
had dared to hope. God, disappointment hurts.

Mostly I cried for her. She’d been denied so much.
She’d lost more than anyone should ever lose. I wanted
this for her.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not many
things I collaborate on ever turn out well. Count the
scars on my partner’s body and you’ll see just what I
mean.

Things returned to normal. We worked. We talked.
Sometimes we didn’t talk when we should have, and
other times we let our tongues fly when we really
should have been biting them. I pushed her, she pushed
me. It was the same old dysfunctional dance.

And somehow we met in the middle.

When I was a college student in England, it would have
been a gift straight from the hand of God himself, an
attractive woman I couldn’t knock up. I had one now.
Condoms? Why the hell should we bother with those?
They prevented STDs and unwanted pregnancies, neither
of which were really of paramount concern. We didn’t
need them.

My partner is infertile. My partner is pregnant.
Something does not add up.

She’s filled me in on the details of the past six-plus
months. Or at least, she’s talked about the events
leading up to me being in that hospital. That other
thing .... nothing. I heard the tension in her voice.
I’m sure I’d have seen it in her eyes and her
statement, if I’d let myself look at her. I couldn’t
look at her. I would have stared. At her face, at her
breasts .... at that belly. No, don’t go there. There
be dragons.

What the fuck had happened? Had she resorted to
donated ova? Had she procured the services of another
man for the other half of the genetic profile, or had
she relied on the old stand-by, Daddy Sperm Bank? Had
any of my .... *donation* .... remained after the
attempts at IVF? Had she .... this one really shakes
me up .... had she found someone else? I mean, really
found? If so, what the hell had I meant to her? Those
had been tears I saw in her eyes when I woke up, I
know they were. At least, I think I remember seeing
them. Maybe I’m making it all up now. Maybe time and
distance have dulled my wits. I’ve always loved her,
but what if it’s different for her?

God, this hurts. I’m torturing myself. All I have to
do is pick up the phone and call her. She’s nothing if
not brutally honest. Her only saving grace in that is
the fact that she takes no pleasure in being that way.
Go ahead, I tell myself. Reach out your hand and pick
up the phone. You’ve been doing your exercises, you
can move your limbs and even walk a little now. The
powers that be, they’re even starting you on solid
food tomorrow, just like a real adult and not a
six-foot-long infant. You can pick up the phone, dial
her number, ask the fucking question: does the Dana
Scully I love even fucking exist anymore?

I have to know, but I’m afraid. That’s what’s wrong
..... I’m a God-damned coward. No wonder she’s moved
on. Sure, she may have loved me, but her life didn’t
end with my death the way mine would have with hers.
She’s stronger than I am. I’ve always known that.

Love her. Love her. Sitting on that old leather couch
of mine, so close to her that I can feel the warmth
coming off her even though we weren’t quite touching.
Listening to the sounds of her swallowing her beer, to
her muted giggles at the antics of Bill Murray, the
sounds of disgust at the Baby Ruth shtick. Okay, so
Caddyshack is a guy’s movie - that didn’t stop her
from enjoying it. Just from admitting that she did.

Touching her. Feeling her slump against me, first
shoulder-to-shoulder and then burrowed into my side
when my arm naturally found its way around her. The
feel of her breath on my face as she looked at me. The
spark of our first tentative kiss, not first ever, but
first of the evening. Certainly not the last.

Making love to her on that couch in the light of the
fish tank. The feel of her hands on my shoulders,
kneading like a cat, panting my name as she lowered
herself on my lap and the proud and upright resident
therein. The feel of her hands in my hair, on my face
and throat, touching and learning. Her wondrously
silken skin meeting mine over and over in a slow,
rolling pattern. The feel of driving slowly into her,
my body connecting and connected with hers. Kissing
her like our lives depended on it. The hair on my
chest tickling her breasts, her nipples barely
touching me, her statement moving from intent to
joyous as she undulated on me.

How I love her.

I just realized I’m touching myself. Well, why the
hell not? It isn’t like I have anything better going
on. It’s not like my personal secretary is going to
burst in and announce that we have to rearrange my
“shedule” - can’t possibly see the Prime Minister and
whack off at the same time. It’s also a lot more
tempting, to say nothing of practical, now that the
catheter is gone. It would have been kind of
embarrassing even for me, having to explain how semen
just happened to get in my catheter bag. Talk about
protein in my urine. The thought almost makes me
laugh.

Don’t laugh. Think about Scully. No, don’t think about
her. No, do. Think about her lying on your bed. Think
of her, beautiful and fertile and wanting you. Think
about holding her hips in your hands as you push into
her from behind, slowly and with great care, but also
with great intent. The smell of her body. The feel of
her on you.

My hand steps up its exertions, and it isn’t long
before I’m sweating and groaning softly. She’s under
you now, looking up at you. You’re kissing her face,
her closed eyes, those lips, and you feel her tongue
slide home .... she’s got both hands on your ass and
she’s dragging you down with her, she cries out
something that sounds like your name as her seven
inches takes your eight, you’re going deep and there’s
nothing but net, and you allow yourself a long, low
groan as you let go ....

..... yesyesyesyesyesGodyes ....

..... coming .... *now* ....

A hot, wet spurt ends the illusion. Not inside her.
Not leaving warm, clotted semen to do its thing. No
egg to receive it. My hand slows and then stops. My
belly is wet. My hand is wet. My face is wet from
sweat, and red from shame.

Fuck.

I’ve used her as my staple of erotica for I can’t
remember how long. We were lovers long before she
first slipped into my bed. I can’t keep doing this.
She isn’t mine anymore. She used to be, but that’s
changed. She’s changed.

God, I feel so betrayed.

I clean myself up with some of that courtesy tissue
they provide in hospitals, the kind that looks soft
and harmless and feels just like sandpaper. Not a lot
to clean up this time, fortunately, or I wouldn’t have
much skin left down there. Then I slump back in that
park bench they call a hospital bed, and I start to
cry.

I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve cried myself to
sleep.


I know I’ll see her tomorrow. I’ll see her and I’ll do
my damnedest to make sure she doesn’t see my
heartache. I’ll see her, and I’ll probably find myself
with a sad, irrational hope that she’ll remember, that
she *does* remember who I am and what we had ....
before. I’ll hope this, and I might even pray to a god
I’m not sure exists and who probably isn’t too sure
about me either. I’ll do it because I love her.
Because she’s the only thing I have.

Because loving her is really the only thing I can do.

~~~~
end
~~~~

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