From: mountainphile <mountainphile@yahoo.com>
To: <xfilesnc17ff@yahoogroups.com>
Subject: [XFNC17ff] NEW:  Signs Of Life  (1/6), sequel to "Waiting In Motion" by 
mountaiphile
Date: Wednesday, October 10, 2001 12:47 PM

TITLE:  Signs Of Life
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in parts
EMAIL:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
CATEGORY:  MSR, story, sequel to "Waiting In Motion"
SUMMARY:  A frantic ride into the night leads Scully to
witness the greatest miracle of her life...

SPOILERS & COMMENTS:  This story is the third in the
"Miraculous Series."  The first story, "Miraculous
Manifestation," unfolds one month after the events of "all
things" and marks the beginning of physical intimacy between
Mulder and Scully.  The second, "Waiting In Motion,"
continues from the very next morning, introduces a casefile
and deepens their relationship.  "Signs Of Life" takes place
during the earlier events of "DeadAlive" and, as Scully
races to see Mulder's exhumed body, relates her memories of
the past year since his disappearance and burial.  I've
opted not to overburden "Signs Of Life" with lengthy
backstory, allowing the text to bring out details of
previous plot.  Though it can stand on its own, the reader
will have a much greater appreciation for the intricacies
within if there is a passing familiarity with the first two
stories in the series.

ARCHIVE:  Always an honor, but please tell me where so I can
visit. If possible, link directly to my website.
DISCLAIMER:  All things XF are the sole property of Chris
Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions.  With no compensation
except pleasure, I just explore what's been overlooked.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:  My gratitude to the ladies of Musea for
their beta and constant encouragement, and to Mish for the
final perusal.  Thank you all!

************

Signs Of Life (1/6)
by mountainphile


Life, Scully believes, is not meant to be a solitary
journey.

While each individual's path is defined by free will and a
measure of faith, so is it fraught with choices, with
obstacles that shape and determine a future.  Nearly a year
ago in a crisis of self-examination she shared her thoughts
on the subject with Mulder.

"What if the signs we encounter in life are distorted, maybe
even deceptive... and we need someone else to help us
validate them?  What if that other person is so necessary to
the balance that we're hampered in our ability to truly
understand the meaning behind certain events in our lives
until that special connection is made?"

"Then the true challenge," he'd mused, "is in the choosing -
- or finding -- of that one person."

She trusted his words that night.  She hid them within her
heart and then, with eyes wide open, took an extraordinary
leap of faith, choosing to step beside him on that singular
path.  A path from which, she discovered later, there was no
detour or turning aside... even when the road was darkest
and she found herself inexplicably alone.

************

Scully's apartment
Early spring 2001


The water in the tub is hotter than usual.  Steam drifts low
and heavy through the small room, like a fogbank at morning,
shrouding the rosy opulence of Scully's body and filling her
lungs with moisture.  Once again the heat and sensation
reminds her of a distant place, a precious connection, when
the passage of time languished and she learned that miracles
really do exist.

Mulder joined her on that moonlit April night at the rich
man's estate.  Together they shed hesitancy and inhibition,
dropping doubts like garments at the stony edge of a hot
spring.  Unencumbered, honest in their nakedness and intent,
they touched skin to skin and became lovers.

How ironic, she thinks, that an impulsive investigation gone
awry provided the impetus not only for consummation, but
also for coaxing their trust in one another to a higher
level.  Opening herself to Mulder sexually, she felt the
protective barriers of secrecy and restraint soften with
each subsequent union.  He insisted long ago that she was
his complement; he needed her beside him in order to be a
whole person.  More than partners, much closer than friends.

He moved with such earnestness over her, into her, when they
finally made love, his eyes watchful, monitoring her
response to his touches.  Always mindful of not just the
physical, but of her emotional comfort as well, drawing her
gently from her self-imposed shell.  Openness seemed to come
more easily for him, with his mystic's faith and drive for
truth.  In her case, it took a magical hot spring, a storm,
and a long weekend of Mulder-persuasion until she trusted
him enough to believe it, too.

Now she feels only the deep, inconsolable ache of
bereavement.  A mere three months have passed since his
funeral and she realizes that her own future, beyond the
impending birth of their baby, is uncharted and unknown.

Others in her life have adjusted to his absence.  She
reflects upon how deeply she's felt the loss, how sharp and
damaging the devastation that scars her heart.  With his
passing, the barriers once again loom high, newly fortified
to safeguard her cache of emotion.  She struggles to keep
these feelings private, as she's done so many times through
trauma and heartache.

She shifts her hip against the curved enamel of the bathtub
and closes her eyes.  It lulls her, this soft lapping of the
water at her shoulders and across her chest.  Comforting,
like the casual embrace of a lover.  Her fingers ripple
beneath the surface and stroke her submerged belly, firm
with the smoothness of a ripe melon.  She shelters a new
miracle of life.  Perhaps the heat is working its magic to
soothe this tiny being to sleep.

It's a precarious operation, gaining her feet and climbing
from the slippery tub, but she's careful, like she is with
everything precious to her.  First one leg, then the other,
toes gripping the cotton nubs of a foam-backed rug.  At this
stage of pregnancy the new shower is without a doubt the
safer choice, but standing upright within a frosted-glass
stall brings little comfort to the soul.  Moving slowly so
as not to disturb the child, she pats herself dry and slips
on a thin nightgown that hangs from the end of the bed.

Her body begs for rest and she shuts tired eyes to the
darkness.  Like clockwork, the baby twitches as she lies
back beneath the sheets.  Miraculous conception
notwithstanding, he seems to take delight in waking as soon
as she tries to disengage from the lonely passage of another
day.

Stepping back hasn't been easy.  She's disturbed that the
limitations of this pregnancy make her less of a presence at
the office.  Long hours, which were formerly spent on the
job working cases, checking leads, dissecting corpses,
compiling field reports, are shrunken into smaller pockets
of time.  Slim ankles swell and her lower back twinges,
unaccustomed to the increasing heaviness of her belly,
making autopsies the exception, rather than the rule.  After
years on the non-stop investigative treadmill of the X-
Files, lethargy -- no matter how justified -- feels indolent
and somehow shameful.

With a sigh, she stretches out an arm and snaps on the lamp
beside her bed, squinting in the soft light.  Warm milk
could either help or hinder.  She knows that between the
baby's thrusting limbs and the additional fluid her bladder
will protest long before the L-tryptophan takes effect.

On the way to the kitchen, she passes Mulder's picture by
the telephone.  His presence, contained in a simple
snapshot, is balm to her soul.  Taken just weeks before they
flew to Oregon for their last case together, he's giving the
camera an enigmatic smile meant only for her.  Eyes tender,
dark hair tousled, jacket collar turned up over his neck
against the cold.  For a reason she can't fathom, his image
lends comfort and restores her perspective during those odd,
ghostly moments when reality and fantasy mesh and blur.

More than once she's heard his key scrape within the lock of
the front door, and late one night she detected his low
snore in the bed beside her.  Not long after the funeral,
she discovered an oxford shirt in her closet, still pungent
with the odor of his skin and aftershave.  She inhaled his
scent, knowing with a pang that this precious reminder would
soon dissipate from the cloth like so much smoke in the
wind.

She's seen indistinct images of Mulder, sometimes when she's
awake, other times while asleep, within the misty boundaries
of her dreams.  It happens at odd, unexpected moments when,
for the space of several heartbeats, his transparent and
wraith-like form shimmers before her.  Or while dreaming,
she hears his call and sees his indistinct form, always out
of her reach.  What triggers such occurrences?  Is it merely
the self-protective, coping mechanism of a mind reeling from
irreconcilable loss, of a psyche worn down by grief?

The phone erupts near her elbow with a loud jarring ring and
the baby lurches.  She hates the way her nerves jangle,
ragged from mourning and little sleep.  Though Doggett is
attentive to her present condition and Skinner would gladly
cover her shortcomings, the fact still remains that Alvin
Kersh makes few allowances for weakness and mediocre
performance.  And right now, the limited workload and her
unborn child are the only things that sustain her.

The hall clock reads one a.m.  Curious, she clears her
throat and picks up the phone.  "Dana Scully."

"Agent Scully?  This is Monica Reyes.  I'm sorry to call you
at this hour, but it's important that I speak with you."

She hasn't seen Reyes since the horrific night when Mulder's
tortured body was discovered outside Absalom's compound.
The woman's presence, though sincere and professional,
smacked of awkwardness and ill-timing.  Doggett alone
appeared to tolerate, even forgive her idiosyncrasies,
including the importunate weakness for nicotine.  Tonight on
the other end of the telephone, she speaks with her
distinctive, mildly annoying cadence.  Minute fits and
starts of thought, emphasis, and expression that, if she
were in the same room with Scully, would leach into her body
language as well.

"Agent Reyes," Scully demurs, massaging weary eyelids, "I
can't imagine what could be so important at this hour."

"Yes, I can appreciate that.  But I think you'll agree with
me when you hear why I've called."

Irritation furrows her brow.  "Where are you?"

"Still at the New Orleans office.  I just received a rather,
well... what I'd call a disarming phone message from John
Doggett.  And I felt you should know about it right away."

"From Agent Doggett?"  Her back straightens, brow furrowing
with distrust.  "Concerning what?"

Reyes hesitates and the line falls silent for a moment.  "I
want you to understand that I'm going out on a limb here.
John advised me against divulging this information to anyone
-- and especially to you."

"And I fail to see why John Doggett should be calling *you*
with information pertaining to me.  Forgive my suspicious
nature, but none of this is making sense right now."

"Oh, it will."  Scully remembers the smug, indulgent smile
Reyes wore when they met and tenses her jaw.  "I asked John
to keep me apprised of all events relating to the case we
shared several months back, searching for your partner.
Basically, it's personal interest on my part.  And in you,
specifically... I know that, under the circumstances, this
must be very hard for you, Agent Scully."

The sympathetic words prick like needles at the corners of
her eyes, drawing moisture.  "I'm handling it," she allows,
the guarded understatement almost ludicrous.

"So when he called me tonight with certain information, I
knew it was imperative that I contact you."

"Despite his advisement to the contrary?"

"You have the right to know that what's happening will have
a direct impact on you.  He didn't forbid me, if that's what
you're thinking."

Reyes pauses, allowing time for her words to sink in.  It's
easy for Scully to visualize the cigarette poised between
the agent's nervous fingers, the drag and exhalation that
follow in the interval while she prolongs the suspense.  Is
it intentional?  Such lengthy silence feels more
melodramatic than warranted.

"I realize how this must come across, Agent Scully, but in
light of the circumstances, it's the only positive thing I
could do."

Forehead resting against her hand for support, Scully
considers the precious little she's heard so far and closes
her eyes.  "I'm waiting, Agent Reyes... are you going to
tell me what he said, or shall we simply call it a night?"

"He said -- and I know this is going to sound unbelievable,
so please bear with me -- He said that he's at the Naval
Hospital in Annapolis, with Assistant Director Skinner.
They've just come back from the cemetery in Raleigh, where
Skinner insisted on... "  Reyes expels a calculated breath
before continuing.  "Where he's had Agent Mulder's body
exhumed."

Like a blind punch to the stomach, the words catch Scully
unprepared.  She gropes for the arm of the couch and eases
herself back against its cushions, her mind's eye shrinking
from the mental pictures this disclosure immediately
generates.  The desecration --  *What* the hell has been
going on behind her back all the hours she's been away from
the office?

"Agent Scully -- Dana!  Are you all right?"

"Yes... of course."

"That's not the way you sound now.  Or what I'm sensing from
you --"

The supposition is accurate, making Scully brusque with
annoyance.  "I'm fine!  Please, just tell me why this is
happening."

"Can I assume, then, that you know the latest about Billy
Miles?"

Again her sensibilities reel and she leans forward,
compressing the firm ball of her abdomen while the baby
kicks in protest.  "I've heard nothing," she confesses into
the receiver, her voice low and furious.  "Why has this
information been kept from me?"

"He's protecting you.  A.D. Skinner, I mean.  But John is,
as well, because of your pregnancy.  He said that fishermen
pulled Billy Miles from the Atlantic Ocean only yesterday.
Apparently he's been in the water for months, but during the
autopsy the pathologist detected signs of life despite
advanced tissue necrosis.  He's hooked up to monitors right
now, as we speak.  Essentially, he's alive."

"How is that possible?"

"No one's really sure -- but Skinner moved quickly with the
exhumation.  He wants verification, in case something
similar has happened to Agent Mulder."

In a miasma of shock and incredulity, Scully's brain has
already made this bizarre comparison.  She can barely mouth
the words, can scarcely breathe when she considers the
staggering possibility that now rears its head.

"Have they opened the casket yet?"

"Not when he called me.  But maybe by the time you arrive in
Annapolis, they'll know whether --"

"Thank you for calling, Agent Reyes," she says briskly,
slapping the phone back into its cradle.  Her head bows and
her breasts heave as she takes a few moments to absorb this
new information and regroup.  Mulder.  My God, she thinks in
shock -- disinterred without her knowledge and possibly, by
some miracle of science, cheating death and gaining a second
chance at life.

Speed is the next, essential order of business.  Above all,
she needs to be there when his casket is opened, to protect
his body and monitor what's done to him.  Trying Skinner
first, his line is unresponsive.  She jabs the redial as
impatience propels her to her feet and down the hall.

Short minutes later she's dressed and moving down the softly-
illuminated walkway to her parked car, her emotion held
under a tight rein.  She teeters on the edge of something
supernatural and miraculous, if what Reyes says is true.
Even so, hope and disbelief waver with each passing,
illusory second.

Fastening the seatbelt beneath her girth, she glances back
at her reflection in the rearview mirror and gasps.  Behind
her, inconceivably, Mulder's face beckons to her.  Watery
and dreamlike, he floats, a shadowy image in the glass of
the mirror.  Hot tears sting her eyes and she pinches them
shut, breathing deeply enough to salvage a modicum of self-
control.  When she dares to look up again, she's not
surprised to find herself alone in the night-darkened car.

Premonitory visions...

She remembers how seeing the images of a murdered young
woman and then of poor Harold Spuller minutes after his
death, heralded her own presupposed doom from cancer.
Mulder's words chilled her blood on that night so many years
ago.

"What is a death omen, if not a vision of our own mortality?
And who among us would most likely be able to see the dead?"

With their child growing within her womb, isn't it possible
that life, and not death, is the vital connection they now
share?  How else to explain her dreams and the visions of
him she's had over the past months, in light of present
circumstances?

As if in prayer she lifts her chin and closes her eyes,
leaning back against the cradling support of the car's
headrest.  A few tears flow unchecked and she bites her
lower lip, recognizing the need to stay strong.  It's enough
to take off the edge, to restore clarity of thought,
enabling her to confront whatever reality lies waiting for
her at the naval hospital in Annapolis.

Blotting her face on a sleeve, Scully turns the key in the
ignition, pointing the car toward an uncertain future.

************
End Part 1

Signs Of Life
by mountainphile
TITLE:  Signs Of Life (2/6)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in parts
EMAIL:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
Disclaimer and Header info in Part 1

************

Approaching Annapolis, Maryland
Early Spring 2001


The road before her seems endless -- one of the longest
rides she's ever imagined.  What she hopes to find at the
end of this frantic journey into the night is nothing short
of a miracle, but a miracle that may need her physical
presence to come to fruition.

She remembers the frozen horror, the searing pain in her
chest when the coroner declared Mulder legally dead.  Beyond
all reason and common sense she spared his body the
indignity of an autopsy, refusing to allow this last
desecration.  Even the draining of his circulatory system
was vetoed, and she hovered beside the pathologist like a
protective, corporeal spirit lest her beloved partner suffer
even more abuse after death.

Ruthless determination and medical credentials secured her
entrance into the mortuary.  Overriding Skinner's objection,
she aided the mortician in the gentle cleansing of Mulder's
body, the combing of his hair, in the selection of his
burial garments.  She could do no less -- by attending to
these personal details she forced herself to remain strong
and empowered, holding the pain at bay for the sake of her
own sanity.

With infinite tenderness she helped to dress him, halting
often in her ministrations to weep over the particular limb
she tended for the last time, saying her farewell.  His
mangled cheeks and the ragged chest scar, the deep punctures
in his wrists and ankles -- these injuries stirred the most
copious tears.  To his credit, the somber attendant stepped
away to allow her privacy during these moments of consuming
grief when she crumpled under the weight of her loss.

Early the previous spring they became lovers, after long
years of respectful devotion and partnership.  Within this
intimate setting she found the capacity to open herself more
fully to the supernatural possibilities he espoused, to
embrace a greater trust in this man she believed to be her
soulmate in their journey through life.

She hadn't anticipated how short that journey would be.

Tonight, driving into the dark unknown, her mind can't help
but focus on significant events since that time, special
moments in their relationship that served to shape the
implausible path on which she now finds herself.

************

Mulder's apartment
Spring 2000


"You should rest," she advised him, one hand shutting the
door to his apartment and the other clutching a plastic
trash bag full of his sodden clothes and boots.  "Your ankle
needs to be elevated as soon as possible."

Scully twitched her nose at the fetid odor that greeted
them, a combination of fish tank, old leather, coffee, and
the fusty, humid staleness of a home sealed tight in rainy
weather.  The rooms, unheated for days, felt chill and
uninviting.  Outside, gray afternoon blended into the peach-
purple of early evening.

"Mulder -- did you hear me?"

His hand flew up, index finger raised, as he stumped
painfully toward his bedroom and shut the door.

Recovering from injury and hypothermia, he slept much of the
way home to DC from the Virginia mountains.  In the
aftermath of the storm's long fury, heavily-rutted roads
made for precarious maneuvering and required all of Scully's
strength and attention.  Her muscles already throbbed from
strain and fatigue caused by the daring rescue she'd
performed the previous day.

She yawned with weariness.  It had been no small feat,
rappelling down the precipice, searching for Mulder in the
lightning and rain of the storm, and then hoisting his
injured bulk out of a pit and up a rocky mountainside.  Her
body hadn't been pushed like that in years.  Even with
Carl's massive arms to support most of their weight, she
found the experience grueling.

Alone in the dim, stuffy living room, she began preparing it
for his convalescence.  Her movements were slow and careful,
hampered by joints that stiffened during the long ride home.
Yesterday the rope had bitten harshly, sawing against her
clothing and the oversized jacket, marking her narrow
ribcage with burns and raw scrapes.  Even now, the simple
action of bending forward made her eyes snap shut from pain.

Grimacing, she forced the window open, leaning far to the
side of his computer in order to reach the sill and refresh
the room.  Her lungs expanded in the gust of silver-cool
air, sharpening her wits and flagging spirit.  A click of
the lamp and light sluiced through the deepening shadows.

Because he spent so much time on the couch, she tossed the
pillows to one end, where he'd have optimal view of the TV.
Next came the blanket.  Thick and familiar, smelling like
Mulder, it was less scratchy than she remembered.  She sank
down onto the couch cushion, the dark leather surface gently
cupping her bottom as she eased back and closed her eyes.

Nearly a month before she settled into the same niche and
stretched out shoeless feet to the edge of his coffee table.
Tipsy and verbose from lack of sleep, she let theories,
hypotheticals, and true confessions spill unchecked from her
lips.  Mulder became her sounding board and voice of reason,
helping her sort and validate her hazy perceptions of the
supernatural incidents she'd experienced.  In turn, he
offered his own opinions about destiny, foreshadowing, and
life-choices.  No wonder he decided soon after that it was
time for them to explore a more personal path together.

Hearing the toilet's faint gurgle, her eyelids flickered
open.  She groaned and rocked forward to her feet, muscles
screaming in protest.

"I think you're set," she said when he appeared in the
bedroom doorway.  Again she yawned, hiding it under her hand
like something shameful.  "Do you want a cup of tea or
coffee before I head out?"

Mulder limped from the bedroom, putting only the minimum of
pressure on his wrapped foot.  Shaking his head in reply, he
reached back to shut the window before moving to the couch
where she stood shivering.  "What's your hurry?"

His fingers curved around her cheek.  For a moment she was
reminded of the physical contact so new in their exploration
of one another -- the melding of mouths and tongues,
nakedness, and the deep sensual touching of lovers.
Intimate delights all, brought back with them to cultivate
at their leisure in the familiar environs of home.

Leaning into his palm from sheer weariness, she took sudden
critical note that he'd replaced his travel-worn shirt and
pants with cleaner clothing.  He looked fresh and relaxed in
his gray tee shirt and sweat pants, the edges of his brown
hair spiky and damp, like a child's after washing.

She, on the other hand, felt rumpled and about as stale as
the laundry in the plastic bag.  Weary, body-sore, and
envious.  The contrast between them was so disheartening
that she frowned in annoyance.

"You know, Mulder... all things considered, *I'd* like to go
home and change too.  Maybe take a hot bath.  Then sleep for
about three days straight until I stopped aching... "

His eyes, serious in their hazel intensity, examined her
face.  "I was hoping you'd stay here.  I want to talk with
you about the last three days and put some things into
perspective."

"What things?"  Apprehension made her scalp prickle in a
fretful wave across her hairline.  She angled a dubious brow
toward him, wondering about the nature of his concern,
whether it was professional... or something of a more
delicate nature.

"A lot's happened.  We've corroborated the Gunmen's theory
about tachyonic signature and brought back hard evidence for
testing.  We located what could be another alien abduction
site.  In fact, after Skinner's audit, I think we should
drive back and see what else we can scare up.  Sound like a
plan?"

He caressed the square of her jaw, her earlobe now caught
between his thumb and index finger.  His palm against her
face smelled of soap and freshness.  Lashes veiling her
eyes, she forced her gaze over the taut expanse of laundered
tee shirt, wet her lips, and looked away from him.

"Let me get this straight.  You want me to stay here with
you instead of going home -- just so we can hash out
everything we encountered this weekend pertaining to alien
abduction," she said flatly.

It was a weak and unfair jab, but she was losing momentum
fast.  A stupid, careless mistake, she scolded herself,
sinking like melted butter into Mulder's couch with a
tedious drive home still looming on the horizon.  The hold
on her earlobe loosened, and his fingers slid around to the
back of her head, weaving through her hair with new
firmness.

"Not exactly.  There's more I want to know, Scully.  Like
how you willingly went out into the middle of a raging
lightning storm after the very same thing paralyzed you the
night before.  And the 'piece de resistance'... that
mysterious beam of bright light you witnessed when I was
stuck down in the hole -- "

"My God, Mulder," she flung at him, jerking her head away,
"is that all you can think about?  The fucking light in the
forest?"

He let her step back, his hand dropping to his side, unmoved
by her outburst.  "Actually," he murmured, "I was thinking
more along the lines of christening the apartment sometime
later tonight, after you got some decent sleep... then
talking about the fucking light afterward."

"Christening?"

He shrugged at the naked sarcasm that dripped from her voice
and flashed her a knowing smile.  "You know ... that
horizontal thing we do so well together.  The new survival
skill we picked up in the mountains."

"I'm tired beyond belief and need to get home.  You'll have
to do a lot better than that," she retorted, "to convince me
I should stay."

When his grin widened, she realized he'd mistaken her
response for half-hearted and sleepy flirtation.  "Well,
let's see... how do clean sheets grab you?"

They were the same hushed, teasing tones he'd used the night
he taught her how to swing a bat under a starry sky.  His
mouth rested hot and close against her hair, innuendo
fogging the cold night air.  Nice piece of ash, isn't it?
... Don't choke the bat, just say hello... His fingers flat
and firm on the curve of her hip.  Hips before hands,
Scully... Stirring her blood as his body curled over hers,
moving in tandem for the warm-up, waiting for the pitch.

She took a painful breath and shook her head quickly in
order to stay alert.  "I have those at home, thank you."

"Takeout delivery?"

"Hardly."

He paused for long moments while she waited on unsteady
feet, her knees and joints straining for balance.  Patience,
stretched taut like a rubber band, snapped to its breaking
point in the silence and her shoulders drooped.  She pressed
trembling fingers over her eyelids.  "Forget it, Mulder.
I'm too tired to play this game tonight -- "

"No shit."

Offended, she stiffened at the sarcasm volleyed back, at his
damned persistence.

"And the last time I checked, there weren't any transporter
beams servicing this neighborhood."  He stepped closer and
pulled her hand down, holding her captive in his piercing
gaze.  "My request still stands.  Crash here with me instead
of somewhere out there behind the wheel, okay?  I promise to
keep my hands to myself... at least until after you've had a
good, long nap," he added, leaning forward to kiss her
cheek.

She blinked with indecision, her pride staving off the
inevitable.  As much as she longed for the familiar haven of
her own apartment in which to rest and lick her wounds,
driving all the way back to Georgetown would be a foolhardy
undertaking.  Fatigue slowly overpowered her ingrained
desire for cleanliness and privacy and the need to match his
strength to the end.

His hand returned to cup her chin.  She felt his thumb graze
over the soft pout of her lips, forestalling another
objection and reminding her of their redrawn boundaries.
"Things are different between us, Scully.  Be safe and stay
with me tonight."

At the sensible entreaty, she sighed and surrendered to the
exhaustion that finally engulfed her in a stupefying wave.
Her bruised arms reached for him, encircling his body as she
leaned against him for support.  In the past, she would have
held out at all costs -- now, she could risk dropping her
guard.

"C'mon, then," he whispered, his breath stirring her hair.
"Let me put you to bed."

Mulder took charge the way he did two nights before, when
the flash of lightning exposed the deep, emotional wounds
that remained hidden and unhealed from her own abduction
experience.  Like she did last night, coming to his rescue,
then tending his injured and shaking body at the motel.  It
was how they always cared for one another -- tender,
instinctual, automatic.

His strong arm sustained her as they shuffled into his cold
bedroom.  So much had changed between them, she hardly
recognized herself as the same woman who stood next to this
bed in the darkness a month ago, vacillating between
commitment and uncertainty in the stormy, blue hours of
early morning.  They'd come a long way, she mused, swaying
on sore feet while Mulder peeled off her wrinkled jacket.

"Sit.  Let me do this," he ordered gently and she complied,
grateful for his attentions and the soft bed behind her
legs.  He knelt to pull off her shoes and knee-highs,
favoring his bad ankle.  The kneading of his strong fingers
felt wonderful, each foot massaged in turn, his hands
careful to soothe rather than tickle.  Her head lolled back,
eyes shut, luxuriating in the sensation.

"My things are out in the car."  Her voice sounded weak,
drowsy, even to her own ears.

"We'll get 'em later."  He rummaged through a dresser
drawer, shaking out a large blue tee shirt for her approval.
"Put this on and then get under the covers.  You won't make
People Magazine's annual best-dressed list, but at least
you'll be comfortable."

She eyed it numbly, daunted by the effort required.

"Here, Scully... lift your arms."  She allowed him to draw
the white shell up and over her head, mindful of her sore
joints and muscles.  Cold air on sensitive skin shocked her
back to reality and she crossed her forearms over her
breasts to shield them from the chill air.

His breath hitched in surprise.  "No bra?"

"Shut up, Mulder."  Her cheeks flushed and she cursed the
tears that sprang from nowhere, glazing her eyes.  "I
thought you knew that.  It hurt too much to wear it this
morning.  My ribs -- "

" -- took a real beating, I know," he finished for her.
"Let me have another look."

Naked to the waist she raised her arms, elbows bent shoulder-
high, placing herself into his capable hands.  She blinked
back tears at his gentleness and tender concern, holding her
breath when he hovered closer.  Soft fingertips stippled
over the raw skin.

"Jesus," he whispered, making a circuit around her body.  He
followed the scabbed trails the rope had scored over her
underarms and ribs, that dipped down to cut beneath her
shoulder blades and across her back like red whiplash.
Coming around to her front again, his hands lightly grazed
the undersides of her breasts.  "This might leave some
scarring.  I'm sorry."

The last thing she wanted to see was the mute regret in his
stare, knowing that he blamed himself for the damage she
incurred last night on his behalf.  Her hand stroked his
bristled cheek to assuage the guilt and he pressed his lips
to her palm in a grateful kiss.  It's okay, she told him
with her eyes and fingers, hoping to drive away the hurt.
This isn't your fault.  These things happen to us, but we
survive and go on.

"Don't worry," she soothed.  "I'm a quick healer, remember?"

"Damn lucky for me..."

They'd both been lucky, she admitted, considering the many
years spent side-by-side, taking one hit after another.
Physical wounds, leaving scars in the flesh, usually healed
in a timely manner.  But the emotional trauma, the personal
loss and heartache -- these things took the greater toll and
required a longer, slower, deeper recovery period.
Sometimes they were never fully mended.

All at once she shivered and hunched forward, nipples
puckered in the cool air.  "God, it's freezing in here."

He grabbed the blue shirt and eased it over her head,
careful of her other bruises and scrapes.  "Warm you right
up," he said, holding her head gently to his hip while he
stretched out an arm toward the wall to nudge the thermostat
higher.

"Pants, Mulder."

She stood with care, biting on her lower lip, the long hem
of the shirt bunched in her hands.  When he went to his
knees again to unbuckle and unzip, she saw that his wince
wasn't for his swollen ankle alone, but also acknowledgement
of the bruised splotches that blossomed over her thighs and
calves.  In apology he pressed his lips into the soft,
shallow scoop of her hipbone, savoring her there before
reaching to hook the waistband of her panties.  "This too?"

"Please."  Constriction was the last thing she wanted while
sleeping and the quick gust of air between her legs felt
like a cleansing rush.  Needing no further encouragement she
crawled to his pillows, then eased herself under the
bedding.

The sheets, in contrast to the rest of the apartment, were
crisp and fragrant; she buried her face, took a long breath,
turning to him with a pleased, sleepy smile.  "Mulder, you
weren't kidding."

"About the sheets?  Listen... I may be a slouch when it
comes to housekeeping, but I live for that April-fresh
scent, that Downy softness."

"Don't forget to elevate the foot, Lucky Man."

She watched through heavy lids while he stripped down to his
boxers and slid into his bed beside her.  The scruff on his
upper lip tickled her ear, sending warm shivers throughout
her body.  Then came the soft, velvety brush of his mouth,
parting and closing her lips with his.  Just enough of a
tingle, she thought, to usher in restful slumber.

"Sweet dreams, Scully."

"You too... "

Closing her eyes, his body pressed beside her, she could
almost imagine they were back at the mountaintop motel.  The
rain and the wind, the thunder and lightning, the single
room they'd shared, were all part of her memories of the
nights and days when they first came together to make love.
She thought of Carl, the tall, good-hearted man who held the
rope for her and Mulder, then pulled them up the ravine.  Of
Skeeter, a four-year old eavesdropping dynamo who feared
both strangers and spiders equally.

Foremost, she remembered Ruth, the woman who reached out to
them with such kindness during their stay.  Sharp-eyed,
perceptive, she was manager of the small motel and doting
mother to Skeeter.  She still mourned the disappearance of
her husband Samuel four years earlier.  Still waited for his
return, though in all probability the man was dead.

"Mulder," she whispered, "Ruth asked me what I would do if
you were to suddenly vanish the way Sam did.  I didn't know
how to answer that question -- I still don't."

"Is that really something you want to think about now?"  He
shifted on the pillow, leaning to kiss her forehead.
"Future events are shaped by the paths we choose to follow,
Scully, and the choices and decisions we make through life.
By the people, or the person, with whom we choose to share
it."

She gave a wan, uncertain smile.  "All the same, we should
check on her to see if anything has changed.  I told her
we'd try to help."

"That's the plan," he said.  "Now go to sleep.  And don't
worry...  I don't intend to sneak off where you can't find
me."

************
END Part 2

Signs Of Life
by mountainphile

TITLE:  Signs Of Life (3/6)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in parts
EMAIL:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
Disclaimer and Header info in Part 1

************

Between Georgetown and Annapolis
Early Spring 2001


The obsidian highway stretches before her, a blue-black
ribbon fading into darkness.

She's been awake during these empty hours after midnight
more times over the last seven years than she cares to
remember.  Untold numbers of nocturnal investigations,
stakeouts, long hours shadowing suspects, pacing stark
hospital hallways, tossing from sleeplessness, harboring
uncertainty.  Losing her partner, finding him, then grieving
for him.  Driving, as she is tonight, headlong into the
unknown.

Tears threaten, taunting her again with their presence and
then backing away.  It's been like that since Reyes' phone
call, when she slammed the phone down, steeling her emotions
and determining what course of action to take.  Only
something devastating as a supreme, violent act of God could
keep her from ripping up the road in her haste to reach
Annapolis.

The highway is wet and black, gleaming in the artificial
light from car, truck, and neon.  She drives deftly,
clutching the wheel with sure hands, but realizes with a
glance downward that she's pushing the envelope on speed.
Skidding or losing control of the car is not an option at
such a time, so she eases up on the gas as the child stirs
in her womb.

"Shhh... settle down, little baby."  She strokes the smooth,
moving lumps of knee or foot or elbow.  The most important
reason to exercise prudence and care on the road.  Their
baby, and no harm must come to him.  For whatever reason she
already thinks of this child as male.  Again she tries
Skinner's line and it remains unresponsive.  She shivers
despite her wool coat and elevated body temperature,
flicking on the heater.

She and the baby follow opposing schedules.  He rests during
her waking hours, then rouses when she tries to sleep.  Her
heart pounds and her nerves are on alert, while the child
within her settles down to nap.  Only now has he made his
presence known since the last kick during Reyes' phone call,
as if to remind her of the danger she flaunts now behind the
wheel.

So like Mulder, she ponders.  The black to her white, the
visionary to her rationalism, the bold leaps of logic to her
cautious examination.  This irony of opposites touches her
soul with a bittersweet poignancy.  Cupping her belly, she
contemplates the silly notion that such a small thing as an
unborn baby's rest patterns could be another indication of
paternity.

Certainly he's a miracle, a truly miraculous conception.
But when -- and how -- did it happen?

For nearly a month following their return from the mountains
her body was a willing recipient not only for Mulder's
semen, but also his most tender affections.  Because of her
infertility, they delighted in the delicious freedom of
lovemaking with nothing between them to blunt sensory
pleasure or to disrupt spontaneity.  They indulged often,
with the amorous desperation of two lovers making up for
lost time.

The examining doctors estimated she was roughly three weeks
pregnant the night the pieces of the puzzle fell together
and she realized Mulder's danger.  The night when she
collapsed like a rag doll into the Gunmen's startled arms at
the Hoover.  When, as Skinner described it, Mulder
disappeared into a beam of light that emanated from what
appeared to be some sort of bizarre spacecraft.

Three short weeks, barely long enough for her body to alert
her to its hidden secret other than chills and occasional
vertigo.  Her menstrual cycle had been erratic for years
since the theft of her ova left her empty and barren.  And
her body's increased sensitivity -- she attributed that to
the fever of passion that seized her whenever she and Mulder
came together in private, to his generosity and attentive
skill as a lover.

She wonders why happiness hangs by such a fragile thread,
why a miracle commands so great, so precious a price.
Mulder was destined never to know she had conceived their
child, never to know that the miracle he'd wished for her
had actually occurred.

As for *how* it happened... She has no scientific proof to
support a rational theory for how a barren woman might
conceive, no medical explanation to offer.  Memories of her
stint on the road with the Smoking Man, of the accursed chip
still in her neck, are intimations she rejects with
vehemence and disgust.

She considers one remote possibility -- their night at a hot
spring reputed to have miraculous, restorative properties,
when she and Mulder first became intimate.

His hands were gentle on her breasts, softer still when he
spread her thighs, the heat of the dark water nothing
compared to the fever that beat throughout her body.
Because of impurities in the water they agreed to forego
penetration.  She felt his erection push against the folds
between her legs and begin a tantalizing, repetitive slide,
up and down.  For the first time she fondled him, hard and
pulsing in the palm of her hand, holding him while he rubbed
himself against her clitoris, bringing both of them to their
first climax.  Languishing afterward in steaming water and
moonlight, she succumbed to the transcendent spell of the
place and told him she sensed its power.

Few at the Bureau even suspected, observing them together in
the office or during subsequent investigations, that in
private life they were lovers.  To all outward appearances
the partnership continued seamlessly as before.  They
remained professional, above reproach, just as Scully
insisted and Mulder had grudgingly acquiesced.

Only Skinner seemed to know far more than he let on.

Eyes quick and calculating behind his glasses, he received
the Sullivan report a day later than requested.  He accepted
it in silence, standing behind his desk while they sat
opposite, facing him.  He flipped a few pages of the report,
scanned its contents, and then shut the folder.

He was perceptive, a man of integrity.  The Bureau generally
overlooked anything of a private or sexual nature between
working partners unless it became sloppy, caused dereliction
of duty, or defied protocol.  She remembered his eyes
flicking from Mulder to her and back, taking note of the
reddened scrape on Mulder's cheek, of her bruised wrist that
peeked from the cuff of her jacket.  He saw Mulder's limp
and the careful way in which she sat down in her chair.  He
knew of the storm and their questionable absence, the excuse
for the lateness of their report.

Their impassivity no doubt spoke volumes.  He asked no
questions, other than whether they were fit for duty, and
then dismissed them.  Weeks later, with Mulder's
disappearance, she shared with Skinner that she was
pregnant.  Months after that he supported her at the
graveside and stated his conviction that Mulder wasn't to be
the last of his family.

Since returning from Bellefleur, Skinner moved like a man
marked by guilt and discontent.  She alone witnessed his
grief at her hospital bedside -- the honest tears of a
strong man frustrated by failure and unknown powers he
couldn't identify or control.  Because of the tragic
circumstances and his own involvement in the events
surrounding Mulder's abduction, he's been protective of her
and fervent about the ensuing manhunt.

As friends they talk, mostly out of his concern for her well-
being and her baby's, but also because they share a history
that encompasses so many unbelievable events spanning the
last seven years.  She trusts Skinner as much as she can
allow herself to trust anyone since Mulder's death, but
recently he's become less communicative, almost preoccupied
with matters he keeps close to himself.

His decision to exhume is a tribute to his newfound grasp on
the unexplainable.  The fact that he's enlisted Doggett's
help in spiriting away Mulder's body without her knowledge
shakes her to the core.

Wait, she intones, repeating the litany as the mile markers
whip past.  Don't touch him until I'm there -- Again she
punches Skinner's cell phone number.  No answer.  She
wonders if it's because he's sending all messages to
voicemail or simply avoiding communication.  Seething with
nervous impatience, she switches tactics and dials Doggett.

"Agent Scully?"  He sounds first surprised, then weary and
evasive, no doubt wishing he'd checked his own caller ID
first.  "What's goin' on?"

"Skinner's not answering his cell, so I'm calling you
instead."

"Yeah, well... " Doggett hesitates before huffing tiredly
into the phone, "he's had a pretty full plate today.  We
both have.  What can I do for you this time of night?"

"I know what's happening."  The words tumble out in a
whispered rush, not the way she planned at all.  Her throat
feels thick, strangled, and she's forced to swallow hard
before continuing.  "I know where you are -- and why."

Momentary silence.  At first she wonders if he's stunned,
but then realizes that, ever the investigator and unwilling
to tip his hand, he's listening, hanging onto the receiver
and culling for clues of his own.  "And where might *you*
be?"

"On my way to Annapolis.  Please don't --" In a sudden,
frantic need to protect Mulder, she discovers her eyes are
brimming with tears and blinks them away.  "Don't touch him
until I arrive.  I have every right to know what you're
doing, you and Skinner."

"And what is it you think we're doin'?"

The trembling in her voice betrays the desperate yearning of
her heart.  He's playing dumb, which galls her.  "I want to
know if you've opened the casket yet."

"Agent Scully, I want you to pull over.  Do it now."

"What?"

The voice is too brusque, too commanding for Doggett.  A
bolt of fear shoots through her chest.

"You heard me the first time.  I said, pull over and stop
the car -- or, swear to God, I'll stay tighter than a clam
at low tide."

The seconds crawl as she checks her mirrors and steers the
braking car far onto the shoulder of the highway.  Cloaked
in darkness, she waits for a trailer to barrel past,
vibration rocking the car, then lifts the cell phone back to
her ear.  "I'm parked.  Talk to me."

"Then, I want you to listen and listen good."  His pause
seems interminable.  "All I can say is, yeah... we've seen
Mulder."

Scully puts a hand over her eyes, hoping to quiet the heavy
pounding in her chest and ears.  By sheer force of will her
voice emerges clear and steady, as if from a stranger's
throat.  "What can you tell me?"

Again the phone is silent, except for Doggett's labored
breathing into the receiver, muffling any background noise.
"I can tell you right now that Agent Reyes needs a crash
course on how to keep her mouth shut."

"That's irrelevant -- I need to know about Mulder."

"Then I'm the wrong person to give you any answers, Agent
Scully.  And I'm sorry you had to hear about things this
way."

A wave of resentment shakes her, sparking her impatience.
"Apologize instead for hiding the truth from me," she snaps,
her voice rising in volume.  "We're talking about my partner
-- "

"So it seems," he interjects, and the slow flush of
disloyalty warms her face.  She's not been fair to Doggett,
she knows, particularly during the first few months of their
association.  Somehow they've managed to smooth out most of
the uneasy wrinkles between them since their initial heavy-
handed meeting outside the task force's office.  The man has
saved her life and she's reciprocated, deepening their
sluggish respect for one another.  Truth told, he was
successful in locating Mulder despite the fact that it
happened far too late to secure any lasting redemption.

Diverting her focus back to Doggett's foot-dragging and his
blatant lack of cooperation, she's freshly infuriated.
"Though you may disagree, I'm grateful for the information
Agent Reyes shared with me.  She had the courage to be
forthright."

"Sounds to me like the pot calling the kettle black," he
says dryly.

The unsubtle dig sinks home, catching her unawares.  "It was
my understanding that we'd already dealt with that issue and
moved on.  If you recall, my reasons for secrecy were
entirely justified."

"Well, as of tonight that makes two of us.  Or should I add
Assistant Director Skinner and say three?"

"Please."  She refuses to apologize again for past actions
or wrangle with Doggett over errors in judgment and old
mistakes.  "Please, don't make this harder for me.  I need
to know his condition.  At least tell me whether he's
dead... or if he's actually alive."

On the last word, her voice cracks and she puts a hand to
her mouth.  Her vision swims in the darkness, making the
headlights passing to the left of her car dip and swerve in
a crazy staccato until she blinks.  Tears frame her face,
first warm, then cold on her skin.  Her need to speak to
Skinner is so acute she can taste it.

"Agent Scully... "

His voice is quieter, with a gentleness that soothes her
panic.  She senses not only the depth of his concern, but
also the guilelessness in his single-minded consideration of
her emotional and physical safety.  He sounds, as well, like
a man caught in the middle, reluctant to sever allegiance
with either side, yet mediating from the relative safety and
familiarity of ground he trusts.

"I don't know how to make this any easier for you, but I
want you to turn that car around and go back home.  Think
about the baby.  In your condition you don't need to subject
yourself to this... this sideshow they've got going on here.
It's a three-ring circus and I feel like the clown with the
big, sad face, raining on everybody's parade."

"You haven't answered me."

"That's because I can't."

Once again outrage slices through her like the clean, sharp
cut of a scalpel.  "Let me talk to Skinner, dammit."

"I can't do that either."

"Then," she says tersely, glancing into the rearview mirror,
"I'll see for myself."

"Whoa, now, don't go off half-cocked -- " He stumbles over
his words in haste and frustration.  "The honest-to-God
truth is, I don't *have* any answers for you and I wish I
did.  How can I give an accurate, believable, and truthful
answer to something that I don't know for certain and sure
as hell don't agree with or understand?"

"Welcome to the club," she whispers into the phone,
compassion displaced by a powerful surge of conviction
within her spirit.  "Now it's sink or swim, Agent Doggett,
and the sharks are always hungry."  She restarts the engine
with a hard, angry twist of the key.  "Expect me there
shortly."

************
END Part 3

Signs Of Life
by mountainphile

TITLE:  Signs Of Life (4/6)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in parts
EMAIL:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
Disclaimer and Header info in Part 1


The dream comes without warning, an insidious vapor that
invades her sleep and then brings her awake with a sickening
lurch of fear.  Each time it unfolds in much the same way...

Peering through narrowed eyes she spots him... foggy
glimpses of a man naked, trees canopied over his head.
Sometimes he staggers through a field, lost and uncertain.
Childlike, afraid.

"Mulder...!"  She screams and her voice echoes in the gray-
green depths of a mountain hollow, shattering the serenity.

Drawing closer, she's unable to see his face with any
clarity.  Sudden movement overhead, a humming beam of light,
and he ducks into a squat, trembling in the leafy
undergrowth.

She detects Mulder's weak, muffled laugh rising from the
rocky contours of the forest floor.  "Hey, Scully, welcome
to my nightmare... "

No, it's mine, it's my nightmare now, she reasons, confused.
Strangers crowd her, jostling her forward to the edge of a
pit where cold handfuls of dirt crumble like snowfall over a
coffin.  The lid gapes open, a ghastly grimace.

I can wait as long as I need to, she vows, feeling with a
vague certainty that this assertion belongs not to her, but
to someone else.  Never lose hope, keep waiting for him --

"Scullleee!"

No, it's *my* nightmare, she insists with increasing panic,
and the man in the forest lies down on his side, spent and
shivering, melting away into the mist before her horrified
eyes.

And she awakens, shaken and perspiring, swollen eyes awash
with her tears.

************

Washington D.C.
Summer 2000


The restaurant Skinner chose was a short drive from the
Hoover Building.  It exuded masculinity, boasting the
atmosphere of a gentlemen's club, with low lighting, deep
red and green tones, leather, dark wood, and brass
appointments.  At one end wooden tables were spaced wide
apart for privacy, separated from the front lobby by a
short, ornate bar, its length peppered with a few afternoon
customers.

Scully stood at the lobby's entrance.  She felt off-kilter,
out of her usual element as she scanned the dimly-lit dining
area for Skinner's balding head and glasses.  Perhaps that's
what he intended by selecting such a location for this
conference.  Glancing around the perimeter, she would not
have been surprised to see spittoons, hunting prints, and
the traditional smoking room with a sign declaring "Men
only."  Few women were dining and only one sat at the bar.

In a far corner she saw him wave her forward.  Here they
would have privacy for their discussion, yet it was public
enough for a safe, proprietary lunch.

She walked between the tables, high heels muffled on the
dark carpet, hair caressing her cheek, her back straight and
unyielding.  Heads turned as she passed and a suited man at
the bar cleared his throat appreciatively.

Skinner was standing when she approached and motioned to the
chair opposite his.  "Thanks for coming on such short
notice," he said, waiting for her to sit down first before
he reclaimed his own seat.

She did so with care, nerves still fragile and emotions
dangerously close to the surface.  Control was something
precious and necessary to her, but with each passing week of
this pregnancy she felt it sifting like sand through her
fingers.  "What is it you wanted to talk about?"

Skinner's brown eyes examined her face, watchful behind the
glasses, and he laced his big fingers together on the
tabletop.  "How are you feeling?  I understand you stayed in
the hospital an extra day."

"Just for observation," she assured him, tucking a napkin
into her lap.  It still felt tender in one spot from the
amniocentesis and her wrists and arms throbbed with soreness
from rough, restraining hands and the jab of the hypo.

"Whenever you feel the need, Dana, just say the word and
I'll see that you're relieved of field duty.  It's no
disgrace to work from a desk, especially for someone in your
condition."

She frowned.  "I'm fourteen weeks pregnant.  Not ill, not
disabled, not unfit.  When I do request full maternity leave
you'll be the first to know."  Folding her hands in her lap,
she looked him squarely in the eyes.  "And now, what is it
you wanted to speak to me about?"

After the events of two days ago, she wasn't ready to cut
Skinner much slack, any more than she was willing to trust
Doggett's judgment.  She still rankled from the ambush at
Walden-Freedman, felt outrage that the group's commando
leader had the audacity to inject her with a sedative.  A
pregnant woman and a federal agent, manhandled against her
will -- unacceptable.

"I have a few things I'd like to discuss," he admitted,
raising a finger to the waiter.  "Let's talk after we
order."

Scully requested herbal tea and a small salad, while Skinner
chose black coffee and a Reuben sandwich with fries, the
lunch special.  She felt his gaze as she took a sip of
water, knowing how haggard she looked under these low
lights.  Circles under her eyes, the blush she'd applied
that morning garish on her pale cheeks.  She assumed the
first order of business would be to ask about her health.

"I want to know how you're *really* feeling," he said
quietly.  "I know the first trimester of pregnancy can be
uncomfortable for many women."

Something tender in his voice made her lean back in her
chair and let her guard slip.  What she saw in his face --
concern, anxiety, compassion -- softened the hard, defensive
edge she'd placed around herself.  She raised her brows and
exhaled slowly.

"Just the usual complaints.  Nausea, sleepiness... some
rather strange dreams."  She shrugged at the short list,
wishing he would move on to another topic.  "Certainly
nothing that would prevent me from doing my job."

"I'm glad to hear it.  But how are you feeling otherwise?
Dana, you've been to hell and back for several months
running and have every right to take some time off if you
need to.  Use that leave of absence you arranged for the
other night.  In fact, I encourage you to do it."

She straightened again, the edge back in place and her armor
fortified.  "I don't think you understand... I *need* to
work, because time is working against us."  Her eyes glazed
for a second, then cleared with a quick blink.  "I'm fine as
long as I keep working and continue the search.  You have to
accept that."

He cleared his throat, rubbed several fingers over his upper
lip before replying.  "It would be easier if your recent
actions could support it.  Frankly, what I see is an agent
and a friend under tremendous strain, who's dealing with
grief, an unexpected pregnancy, a new partner, and who's
demonstrated some recent emotional instability."

She ignored the assessment.  "Allow me to add some
perspective to this discussion, Sir.  Point one.  No one can
tell me the location of Mary Hendershot and her baby.  I was
told she had a healthy baby boy and was recovering well from
the birth, but everyone seems at a loss to know exactly
where she is."

She saw a flicker of disquiet pass through his eyes, gone as
quickly as it appeared.  His lips parted as if to reply,
then closed again.

"Point two.  I want to know who the leader of this commando
group thinks he is, that he can march into an Army research
hospital with his team of thugs and abduct two women, one a
federal agent, the other about to give birth -- and then get
off scot-free?"

"They told me you overreacted and had to be restrained for
your own safety.  As for the man in question, he's a contact
of John Doggett's and was sent to protect you."

"Spare me... that's bullshit and you know it."  How many
times in the past had she heard such convoluted apologetics?
And how disappointing that Skinner, at this particular
juncture in time, chose to hide behind the convenience of an
obvious untruth.

"Point three," she continued, "I'm still concerned about the
safety of my own child.  At the very least I'd feel more
secure if I knew that Duffy Haskell or Doctor Parenti had
been apprehended.  Or if we actually knew who was behind the
atrocities performed at Zeus Genetics -- and why."

He shook his head.  "No sign of them yet.  Vanished into
thin air, along with the rest of the illegal research you
reported."

"Arson investigators uncovered nothing?"

"The heat was too intense to retrieve anything substantive."

"I know what I saw in that room... "  Shelves of specimen
jars filled with formaldehyde.  Misshapen, malformed fetuses
that were undoubtedly bred from human embryos harvested from
unsuspecting women.  Gone, disappeared like the evidence
from countless other cases through the years.

Mulder would have understood in an instant, he who had seen
and discovered phenomena even more grotesque, mystifying,
and unbelievable.  It was the evidence she always seemed to
miss by seconds and connections she failed to make because
of the lack of solid, scientific proof, her myopia tempered
by unbelief.  Now she was the one experiencing the
unexplainable firsthand, assuming the hopeless task of
persuading others of the veracity in her words.

"And I know what you're thinking," Skinner said huskily,
hands face down on the table as he stared back at her.  "You
can't *be* Mulder, Scully.  Any more than I can or Doggett
can.  Trust me, in time we'll find him -- "

He broke off, plates of food descending between them, their
thread of conversation split by the waiter's deft serving.

Scully sat motionless, waiting while Skinner paused, then
began on his sandwich.  She looked down at her own heaping
plate, at the salad, crisp with greens, bright bits of
cheese and tomato peeking through the vinaigrette.  Croutons
sprinkled over all with a liberal hand, which she would push
into a little heap to the side of her plate.  Her stomach
fluttered, though the cause could be hunger and not the
usual morning sickness.  More likely it was the subject at
hand, this cagey exchange that made her feel unsettled and
nauseous.  She had more to say to him.

Mulder used to steal her croutons, she remembered with a
gentle start.  He crunched them like the ever-present
sunflower seeds, needing something to chew on, to sink his
teeth into.  It became a foolish game between them.  "Damn
it, Scully, you're wasting the best part of the salad," he
chided her and then reached quick fingers across the table
to nab a tiny crisp square when she wasn't looking...

She sat back, appetite gone.  Skinner finished his mouthful
and wiped greasy hands on a napkin.  He glanced at her.
"You're not eating.  What's wrong?"

Game time.  "You told Agent Doggett that I'm pregnant," she
stated quietly, raising cold, accusing eyes to his.  "After
all we'd discussed about secrecy and in spite of our
arrangement, you went against my wishes."

"Scully, believe me, it was unavoidable.  He went to the
hospital that night.  He would have found out anyway, just
by glancing at your chart or overhearing a nurse's comment -
- there weren't any controls in place at that point.  The
important thing was, you and the baby were safe."

"Are we?  I no longer know whom I can trust," she shot back,
blinking away the damning wetness from the corners of her
eyes.  "Just a few days ago Agent Doggett lifted my personal
medical history right out of the file cabinet and formulated
a profile of me on the spot, comparing my experiences to
those of Duffy Haskell's wife."

"Please -- Don't read anything into it.  He's within his
rights to review whatever sits in those files.  The reports
and findings were written by both you and Mulder -- as such
they can be read by anyone working in that office."

What he said was true, she admitted.  For seven years the X-
Files had been the common glue in their lives.  Because of
that dedication and what had happened to them personally as
a result of their involvement, they'd become part of the
bigger picture, immortalized for posterity.  Like it or not,
her experiences and Mulder's were now a permanent part of
that dubious history.

"And I've told you this before," he whispered to her, his
eyes darkly intense behind his glasses, "I'm here for you in
whatever capacity is necessary.  My first loyalty is to you,
Dana... and to your baby -- because of the history we share
and what we know to be true... and out of respect for
Mulder.  That won't change."

He took a small sip of his coffee, seeking the right words
and savoring them on his tongue before he spoke.

"At the same time, I went against my better judgment the
other night, calling Agent Doggett out to inform him of your
unexplained leave of absence.  You're right -- I agreed to
secrecy while you were at Walden-Freedman.  But I can't
perpetuate this charade at the expense of another agent who
just happens to be your new partner.  Especially a man whose
record is rock-solid and who's shown such dedication to his
work."

Doggett's frustrated words came to mind, spoken to her in
their office several days earlier:  "I'm just tryin' to do
my job, only it gets hard to do if the person you're working
with is keeping secrets and telling lies."

"I have my reasons," she said evenly, the small, localized
ache in her belly a tangible reminder of the risks that
still existed, of the unseen dangers that lurked,
threatening her child.  For the space of several moments,
while pondering, she forgot that it was Skinner who sat
across from her.

"I suggest you arm him with as much truth as he can handle,
so he can effectively assist and protect you."  He clasped
his hands over his plate, eyes beckoning, trying to call her
back.  "Keeping him in the dark is a mistake you may regret.
I know I'd personally choose him to watch my own back."

With an air of defiance, her chin lifted toward him, her
voice low and cool.  "Then, in light of the present
discussion, am I to consider this a reprimand?"

"No, of course not," he assured her.  "I'm speaking to you
as a friend who's in a position to offer sound advice.
Advice that could possibly save your life."

Her emotions seesawed, felt fragile as the water goblet on
the table before her.  Damn these hormones that played such
havoc with her reactions to kindness and concern.  How would
she respond at five months, eight months?  Perhaps Skinner
was right; a short leave could be beneficial after all.  Her
mouth worked, absorbing the emotional overflow, and she
swallowed.

"Very well," she murmured.  "I'll speak with him.  But I had
wanted to tell him when I felt it was safe.  I -- " She
paused, embarrassed by the rising tears.  "I wanted to find
Mulder first."

Skinner cleared his throat and pushed his half-eaten
sandwich plate aside.  He reached a hand across the table to
touch her.

Large and warm, comforting around the slimness of her wrist
and the back of her hand.  She closed brimming eyes and
bowed her head.  It was a hard thing to concede, but she
needed someone like Skinner, a friend who could share in her
loss, who would steer her from error.  Someone who
understood the enormity of the task they faced, who also
felt a personal bond to Mulder.

"You were the first one I told about my pregnancy, the only
one I felt I could trust," she whispered over the lump in
her throat.

"I know that."

"Walter, I've got to find him."

Her voice broke, like glass shattering, and at the
unfamiliar use of his first name Skinner's hand tightened
over hers.  Through a sheen of tears she saw him blink
several times.  "We will," he said thickly.  "Come hell or
high water, I'll do everything in my power.  That's a
promise."

************
END Part 4

Signs Of Life
by mountainphile
TITLE:  Signs Of Life (5/6)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in parts
EMAIL:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
Disclaimer and Header info in Part 1

************

Scully's Apartment,
Early May 2000

Mulder sat on the edge of her bed, clad only in tee shirt
and boxers, feet bare, knees apart.  He thumbed through
pages from a file opened flat on the quilted bedspread
beside him.

A white legal pad waffled on his thigh while he scribbled
notes about laser fields, storage of data, and diagrams for
setup.  His glasses tilted on his nose at a forward angle
and the lenses reflected the soft golden light of her
bedroom lamp.  Focused, he bent to his task with the
comfortable, easy manner of a man who seemed happy and in
his element.

Leaning back against the doorjamb, Scully watched him with a
possessive hunger, knowing that with the coming of morning
they faced a new and dangerous challenge.  Her bathrobe hung
chill against the skin of her legs and breasts, raising
gooseflesh in the slow passage of moments.  Since the events
in Bellefleur and the hasty meeting in the Hoover, she had
ample time to think about the implications of this new
crisis.

The nauseous ache in the pit of her stomach could only be
caused by the contention she felt at being left behind.
Mulder's words, spoken hours before, still reverberated
through her mind.

"I want you to forget about it, Scully."

"You're not going back out there.  I'm not going to let you
go back out there."

"I don't want to risk losing you."

"It has to end sometime.  That time is now."

Always a team player, she tamped down the indignation that
swelled from deep within her spirit, but in the end conceded
to common sense and Mulder's wishes.  He already blindsided
her direct involvement when he pulled her sprawled body into
his lap in the Oregon forest and declared she was bound for
home.  Dazed and momentarily frightened by the surrealistic
parade of events, she accepted his dictum -- later, rested,
clear-headed, and frosty again, she regretted the feebleness
that had forced her into this position.

"How much longer will you be?"  Her voice remained neutral
in the quiet room, feeling him out.

"I dunno... " He shook his head, lenses catching the light
bulb's kaleidoscopic reflection.  "Let's hope my
photographic memory can pinch-hit if my analytical and
scientific comprehension takes the bench.  I assume
Skinner's being briefed Gunman-style as we speak."

"Don't kid yourself; he's probably asleep."

His eyes, magnified through the glasses, peered up at her
wry tone and then flicked back to his notes.  His lip
curled.  "You ready to hit the hay, Scully?"

"It's late," she said, rubbing her eyes with the back of one
hand.  "Most people sleep at night."

"Most people aren't jetting across the country tomorrow to
unmask the alien menace."

Considering previous otherworldly encounters, she felt
Mulder underestimated what awaited him in the forest near
Bellefleur.  She'd fallen prey herself, snatched up by a
power both faceless and demonically strong.  Now she
understood what the deer in the mountain hollow had endured,
snared by a similar force a month earlier.  Helpless,
suspended puppet-like high in the air, fluttering like a
moth impaled on a sharp, invisible pin.

She remembered the prickle of panic when, in the warm haven
of his motel room, he climbed behind her to cocoon himself
around her shivering form.  He whispered about the personal
costs and damage she sustained since throwing in her oar
with him, following his quest and laboring for the FBI,
sacrifices that forever marred all she held most dear.
There was so much more she could do with her life, he
insisted, so much more...

Chilled by his words, she recovered with a few modest tears
and a kiss to his hand.  Assurance.  She needed assurance
that future changes would necessarily keep them together.
She wanted the familiarity of the friend and partner she had
grown to trust and the sensual closeness of the lover she
now cherished.

Mulder had enough to claim his attention tonight, but she
felt a sudden, overwhelming need for closeness as she
watched him prepare for the morning.

Slipping one arm around the back of his shoulders, more for
her own comfort than his, she pressed a kiss on the crown of
his head.  His rich scent, manly and clean, filled her
nostrils and she closed her eyes, losing herself for a
moment in the thick silkiness of his hair, fueling her
desire.

"Let me go with you," she murmured one more time, brushing
the short locks back from his forehead with her fingers.

"None of that," he scolded, too intent on his notes to
permit distraction.

She sighed and pursed her lips to his temple, at home
against his skin.  Work came before pleasure when Mulder was
lost in a case, rapt and pumping all his energy into a new
exigency.  As his partner she understood the mindset; as a
woman, she wished he'd direct a portion of that zealous
energy her way.

"Maybe you should come to bed with me," she suggested, "and
finish up in the morning."  Molding her body against the
length of his arm, she waited, his elbow cushioned lightly
against her crotch.  When no response seemed forthcoming
other than his pensive "hmmm," she exhaled and stepped back
to give him space.

"Well, just don't forget to pack your light saber, Luke,"
she sniped, hoping to rock his bubble of concentration, even
a little bit.  "I happen to think the risk is formidable...
and there's no guarantee, even for you."

He looked up then, a faint smirk creasing his lips.  With
slow deliberate fingers he peeled off his glasses, eyes
never leaving hers.  "Scully, are you talking about Oregon
now -- or sex?"

His eyes twinkled with mischief.  Feeling foolish now that
her basic need was unmasked and compromised, she stalked
toward the other side of the bed to set her alarm clock.  "I
suppose it doesn't much matter to you, does it?  One's just
as good as the other -- "

"Wait... "  His voice was placating, but amused nonetheless.

"No.  Forget it, Mulder, it's fine.  Do your work and turn
off the light when you're done."  The clock hit the night
table with an audible smack.  "As for tomorrow, I'm resigned
to sitting this one out, but please enlighten me about
something when you can finally tear yourself away... "

Too perturbed to rummage for pajamas under his scrutiny, she
shrugged off her robe and climbed naked under the sheet and
blanket, presenting him with her back.  It wasn't her usual
behavior to lash out like a woman scorned, especially with
so much hanging in the balance tomorrow.  Good one, Dana,
she lambasted herself.  Jeopardize his preparedness because
your insecurities outweigh your common sense -- and because
you're dying to feel his skin against you and to make love
again...

She heard the tiny clink of his glasses on the night table,
the rustle of paperwork and clothing that preceded his entry
into bed.  Under the sheet the heat from his body suddenly
radiated down the length of her back and she felt him settle
in beside her.  "The light, Mulder?"

He came from behind, leaning over her shoulder while his
arms tucked around her in a snug, overlapping embrace that
nearly lifted her off the mattress.  Long and broad to her
narrow smallness, he held her captive with muscular arms and
legs, browsing his lips through her hair, over her ear, to
the ticklish place at the back her neck.  There he rested on
the small seam of her scar, home to the chip that continued
to prolong her life.  He gave the spot tender acknowledgment
with a ruminating kiss and her defenses crumbled before him.

"It stays on," he murmured.  "You want enlightenment... and
I want to look at you."

She turned to face him with a flutter of uncertainty, his
lower arm still cradling her body.  Her knees slid across
the front of his strong, tensed quadriceps, then shrank back
when she straightened her legs and drew her hips closer into
his warmth, his aura, without actually touching him.

"Well?"  Her tone was defensive, feathers still ruffled.

He slid a large warm hand over her cheek, speaking in a low,
conspiratorial whisper.  "I'm developing a working profile
of my partner," he explained, brushing a kiss over the
bridge of her nose.  "Mild-mannered, albeit kick-ass FBI
agent by day, wild woman and insatiable lover by night."  He
paused while her eyes sought his, but the close proximity
made it impossible to focus on him clearly.  "What do you
think so far?"

"Sounds like supposition and hearsay."

"On the contrary.  These findings come from first-hand
experience -- " He drew out the "s" in a soft hiss, shifting
his head on the pillow so his gaze could lock with hers.
His face became grave, his eyes serious and searching.
"Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's *wrong*.  I just feel I should be there to watch
your back, in light of the players in this little drama.  I
don't trust any of them -- Krycek and company -- and neither
should you.  In fact this whole affair about a self-
repairing spaceship gives me pause -- "

"Okay."  He nodded.  "What else?"

He put her on the spot, bleeding the truth from her with his
persistence.  Calm and disarming, his fingers combed through
her hair as if he could untangle whatever it was that held
her back.  No matter how slow her steps, how hesitant her
progress in revealing the hidden recesses of her heart,
Mulder would wait.  Seeing the look of love blossom over his
face, she began to soften.

"Only this -- in a dangerous situation what makes *you* so
God-damned invincible, Mulder?"

"You do," he said a simplicity that went beyond conviction.
"You make me invincible.  You always have."

Her eyes shut and her breath caught at the unexpected impact
of his words.  "Oh, my God... keep talking like that and
I'll be sending Frohike in your place tomorrow."

Overwhelmed by his avowal of love and trust, she could do
nothing more than slide her arms around his body and hold
him close.  Mulder hummed with contentment and returned the
embrace.  At her stomach the awakening stiffness of his
erection, his coarse pubic hair tickling her skin.  Against
her ear, the steady drub of his heartbeat, the muscle strong
and pulsating with life.  His fingers began an investigative
journey over the twin hills of her buttocks, massaging them
gently, lovingly under the blanket.  The arousal that
swelled within her groin did little to ease her
apprehensions about his mission -- or their futures.

"Explain what you meant about things coming to an end," she
said.

He fed a hand through the smooth mass of her hair, stroking
the back of her head, pressing it like a treasure to his
bare chest as he sighed.

"Nothing... and everything.  Nothing you should worry about.
But, everything to do with changes coming down the pike."
He chuckled again.  "Let's face it, the more our vision is
reduced at the Bureau by myopic bean-counters, the sooner
it'll have to focus elsewhere."

"And then what?"  She knew in her heart she'd be willing to
do whatever was for their best interest in the changing
landscape ahead.  Obstacles and new signposts would
necessitate moving in an alternate direction, another
perspective.  They'd faced it before during their years
together, but still the inevitability of one more shift in
their working relationship was disconcerting.

"Then... who knows?  You can always be a doctor or teach 'em
how to slice and dice at Quantico.  Whatever you want.  I
may have a harder time finding my niche in this world."
They shared a reluctant laugh, a shifting of hands and arms,
bringing new sensations at points of warm contact, skin on
skin.

"Whatever the future holds, whatever happens," she breathed,
"you're still my partner... "

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Scully."

She released a quivering huff, her eyes rimmed with tears,
burning with the salt of gratitude.  Taking his face between
her hands, she arched up to kiss him, welcoming the
sandpapery scour of his upper lip under her mouth.  The mild
hurt made her feel powerful, alive with new assurance.

"Good... because I love you too much to consider letting you
slip through my fingers now."

"And I told you that I was playing for keeps," he whispered
into her ear.



She remembered.  Oh God, she remembered everything, her
senses on overload as Mulder flicked off the lamp and they
began to make love that night.

Later, she would take these memories and others from their
cache within her mind.  She would pour over them like
precious snapshots, examining the details -- experiencing
anew the colors, fragrances, textures, the sensual touches
that comprised this physical manifestation of their love.

How his body and mouth handled her flesh, sucking her taut
nipples, his cock easing between her thighs and out again
with slow, but purposeful strokes.  How his tongue, agile
and strong, took on a life of its own in its thorough
exploration of her body.  Separating the soft layers within
her most secret place, probing its wet silkiness.  Rubbing
over the tiny, sensitive length of her clitoris so that she
soared, helpless in the waves of pleasure that claimed her.

His groans under her skillful hands, when her lips slid down
to his tightened balls, then up again to engulf the velvety
head of his cock with her mouth, licking and teasing.
Mulder mellow-eyed, welcoming her softness when she mounted
him.  His hips rocking, meeting hers, sensitive to changes
in rhythm and pressure as they climbed toward the apex of
release.

She remembered everything.  During his long disappearance
and then, after his death, she missed these expressions of
affection with a regret so potent it became necessary to
somehow restore that vital connection to him.  With
pregnancy, raging hormones inflamed her body's need for
release, so she achieved it in her own direct way.  Though
her fingers were poor substitutes for the wonders of his
mouth and body, she kept him alive by dreaming, by
remembering, and by imitating his touch.

************

Hoover Building
Very early Spring 2001


"Phone call for you, Agent Scully," said Doggett, swiveling
in his chair as she entered the office.  "About ten minutes
ago."

She felt his gaze settle over her prominent belly, swelling
underneath the chic maternity suit.  These days she was
aware that Doggett would often address her stomach rather
than speak to her face.  He bore the wistful, envious look
of a man relegated to the back seat, forced by the hand of
fate to observe in vicarious fashion the things he had once
known from first-hand experience and now missed beyond
measure.

She took comfort in the fact that, despite his obvious
fascination, he was entirely respectful and sensitive to her
condition.  Some men, she knew, found a pregnant woman's
body attractive and compelling -- the taut pear-shaped
abdomen, fuller breasts, enhanced libido all representative
of fertility and the primal, carnal impulses to which she
had evidently succumbed.

She set her half-filled travel mug of tea on the desk, and
then tucked her purse into a drawer.  "Who was it?"

"Well, you know... she wasn't too clear on that.  Sounded
like a black lady to me, secretive as all get-out."

"Did she give her name?"

"Nah... too much static in the line."  He tapped the desk
with his pen, musing.  "Come to think of it, Agent Scully...
I've taken several calls like that over the last few months.
This is the first time a voice came in that clear  -- at
least for a few seconds."

"That's it?"  She swung her head toward him, her voice
dropping to a whisper, throat dry.

"That's all she wrote.  You got any idea who it could be?"

("Somethin' inside of me is tellin' me not to lose hope.
Maybe you and your partner can find somethin' that the
regular police didn't.  An' I can wait as long as I need to
if it means I might see Sam again.")

Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt surprise that her
heart thumped so furiously at the long-forgotten words.  "I
think I just might, Agent Doggett."

"Anything I can help you with?"

She glanced at him with a weak, appreciative smile.  "Thank
you for asking, but no... it's a personal matter.  I have it
covered."

Ten minutes later she received permission from the Assistant
Director's secretary to enter his office.

"Sir?"  Scully stood just inside the open door, hands at her
sides, aware that Kimberly perched in the outer office
behind her, within earshot.

Skinner stepped toward her from behind his desk, forehead
wrinkled with surprise.  Something in her face stirred his
concern, because he shut the door without delay and offered
her the closest chair.

"What's going on, Scully?"

The enormity of what she was about to ask weighed heavily on
her heart.  It would entail the resurrection of memories so
personal and poignant that even now she pressed her lips
together to steel herself.

"Sir, some months ago, when we went to lunch after the
Walden-Freedman incident, you said something to me I haven't
forgotten."

With muscular ease he dragged a second chair to where it
faced hers and sat, leaning forward on his thighs with
clasped hands.  "As I recall, I said quite a few things that
day," he admitted, scrutinizing her face.  "Which one do you
mean?"

"You said, 'I'm here for you in whatever capacity is
necessary.'"  She drew in a deep, preparatory breath and
returned his gaze.  "I want you to understand that I prefer
to do this alone, but that in itself could be dangerous with
my pregnancy so far advanced."

He nodded, intrigued by the seriousness of her tone and the
cryptic message in her words.

"And so... "  She moistened her lips and peered up through
the lock of red hair that drifted over her eye.  "Because it
will entail a certain degree of personal disclosure on my
part, there's no one else I feel I can go to."

"How can I help?"

"I'll need an SUV.  And if you could arrange to get away for
a day, maybe two... I'd very much appreciate a second
driver."

Skinner leaned back in his chair, his forefinger shielding
his lip as he pondered her request.  His eyes came to rest
first on her belly, then her solemn, waiting face.  Finally,
he turned his head toward the sunlight, diffused and warm,
that poured through the window behind his desk.

She ventured, "Of course, I'll understand if this isn't a
good time for you -- "

He shook his head, surged to his feet, and hunched over the
open calendar on his desk, tie dangling.  Thrusting a hand
into his pocket, he quickly turned to face her.  "I have an
Explorer," he said.  "What time do you want to leave in the
morning?"

************
END Part 5

Signs Of Life
by mountainphile
TITLE:  Signs Of Life (6/6)
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in parts
EMAIL:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile
Disclaimer and Header info in Part 1

************

Rural Virginia
Very early Spring 2001


Lost in private thought, she said little to Skinner while he
navigated the curved lonely stretches of road into the
mountains.  Pregnancy made for awkward travel.  She
installed a firm pillow at the small of her back and
apologized for the frequent restroom stops required along
the way.  The car's rhythmic motion exacerbated her usual
late morning drowsiness.  Several times she sank into a
light slumber only to reawaken when they hit a bump or
lurched over a rut.  Road conditions worsened as the vehicle
lurched higher and farther from civilization.

The last time she followed this road was early the previous
spring, late at night with an opened file draping her lap.
While the heater blazed in Mulder's Taurus, they challenged
one another's perspectives, traded opinions on missed
opportunities, and came full circle to the subject of their
roundabout, precarious courtship dance.  A kiss, a grope, a
renewed sense of personal partnership.  A night that began
with unveiling fraud and ended with the unveiling of their
bodies in a miraculous hot spring.

After that, Mulder's evasive detour and a freakish
unrelenting storm drove them to shelter at a nearby motel.
Unrestrained intimacy unfolded -- frequent sex, hidden
secrets that emerged between them to cause emotional
bruising and healing.  New abduction evidence and a daring
rescue with the assistance of the motel manager and her
family.

So much happened to alter her life, she thought in
amazement, and in just a few days' time.

"Not even a year," she said under her breath, watching the
bare-barked trees whip past.  "My God... "  Another wave hit
her, a sense of renewed loss and sadness that brought her
hand up to shade her eyes and mouth from Skinner until the
intensity waned and she could lean back into her seat again.
Each mile closer eroded her ability to stay composed and
self-controlled, but like a lemming, she was drawn against
her will to this place of beginnings.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Nodding, she realized he could see the toll this trip was
exacting from her.  Red-rimmed eyes that no doubt matched
her hair, flushed nose and upper lip, always beacons for her
emotions and the bane of redheads.  Few people had ever seen
this side of her or imagined the storehouse of emotion she
hid during all her years working for the Bureau.  The
emotional rollercoaster of the past few months certainly
made up for the lack.

She gave him a reluctant half-smile and turned her head
toward the passenger window.  "Forgive me for not being a
better conversationalist.  I hadn't realized how... how
overwhelming this would be."

"Say the word and we can turn around."

"No, I need to do this," she affirmed, quick to contradict,
yet touched by his willingness to shield her.  "It's
something we planned to do long ago, as a favor.  Because of
unforeseen events, I... reneged."

"You don't have to make apology for that."  They paused,
sidestepping the obvious, the unspoken and unnamed reason
for her lapse.

She was appreciative of Skinner's friendship and
understanding.  He required no more than minimal explanation
for this time-consuming jaunt into the hills.  Only if
danger threatened would he think of interfering and she felt
secure, grateful for his protection.  At another time, after
the baby's birth, she could exert her independent muscle,
once again reinforcing the armor of reserve she placed
around herself.

"The manager of the motel shared some information with us
about her personal life," she continued, scanning the stark
forest surrounding them.  "Her husband vanished some years
ago.  Mulder was convinced the man had been abducted by an
alien spacecraft."

"What about you?"

She threw him a wary look, shrugging before choosing the
right words.  "I've seen things... just as you have.  Things
that I can't prove or explain by any existing scientific
means.  I experienced something in Oregon that was similar
to what I observed here.  The only other person who knew
about it was Mulder -- "

The wave of sadness assailed her again, and she dabbed at
one eye furtively, face averted.  Skinner cleared his throat
and drove on.  It was obvious he would never relinquish the
wheel on this trip.

Morning yielded to afternoon before their arrival.  The air
was chill, but shafts of sunlight, golden like honey, arced
through the barren weave of tree branches above the
Explorer.  Nearly a year later and feeling a lifetime
removed, she felt herself drifting back in time, reliving
the storm and the isolation.  She remembered the numbing
fear caused by shafts of lightning that stabbed overhead
through the downpour, the search for shelter.  Her wary
relief when Mulder peered out of the streaming window and
stated, "There's a place back there with definite
possibilities."

"Here," she directed with a nod and moist, faraway eyes.
Skinner took in the remote scene around them, his forehead a
ruffled map of doubt.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, no question."  She drank in the sight, tucked far back
into the forest.  He gamely followed her lead over the
unpaved road, easing the car down the long driveway where
the ruts were frozen into hard dark ridges that rocked the
car like a child's toy.

To their left sat the narrow motel.  Homey, its rustic
simplicity was a siren call to the weary traveler.  Only two
of the six rooms were occupied, the one on the far end
sitting empty and forlorn, its curtains pulled and windows
darkened.

"One room, please."  Mulder's voice, low and matter-of-fact.
From the mists of memory she saw the key disappear into his
hand, felt his suggestive touch on her arm, urging her
forward.  Heard his husky murmur, "We're in Number 6.  Let's
go... "

"Dana?"

Her eyes flew open and she caught her breath, suddenly aware
that Skinner had twisted in his seat and was leaning toward
her, his concern evident.  Attentive from the moment they
left DC, she knew he was monitoring her reactions and body
language.  What did he think would happen?  So little was
shared between them about the significance of this place and
she was determined to keep it so.  Her secret life with
Mulder was no one's business and she regretted her inability
to complete this pilgrim journey alone.

"A blast from the past," she said, her cheeks coloring at
the admission.

"Let me know what you want to do," he said, "whether you
just want to visit for awhile -- or if I should go ahead and
reserve two of the rooms for tonight."

She instructed him to bypass the parking lot and pull up
under the trees a short distance from the check-in office,
where an old, sway-backed, moss-covered shed stood, the
scene of her sleuthing a year ago.  The passing seasons
hadn't changed its dilapidated condition or the beaten, ice-
coated weeds that still choked the pathway leading to its
closed doors.  Now they gaped apart in the daylight, a rock
shoring each against the peeling walls.  Intrigued, she
looked over to where a truck sat parked under the trees.

There she saw him.

Preoccupied with work, a man emerged from the shed, carrying
tools in the crook of his arm.  He came alongside the truck,
dented and mottled with reddish-orange primer, its hood
askew.  It basked under the naked trees that moved overhead,
dappling the man and his vehicle with the rays of afternoon
sunlight.

Curious at their approach, he walked toward them, his hand
raised in a friendly wave.  "Parkin' lot's back over there,
folks," he called.

Her breathing became rapid, her heart thudded, pounding in
her ears.

"Scully, what is it?"  Skinner squinted through the
windshield, then back to her pale face.  "Do you know this
guy?"

"Wait here," she said sharply.  "Please," she amended,
softening her tone when she saw the concerned protectiveness
in his eyes.  Even her light grasp on his forearm failed to
erase his apparent worry.  "Let me do this alone.  I'll be
right back."

With tremulous fingers she buttoned the front of her coat
against the cold, then opened the car door.  Skinner chafed,
watching as she eased herself down from the passenger seat.
Her enlarged belly made movement awkward, but she steadied
herself on the hard ground and walked slowly toward the man
by the truck.

Taller and broader than Mulder, he was dark and barrel-
chested under his olive-green jacket.  Army, she remembered
with a start, pulse throbbing in her temples.  Desert Storm.
He pulled off a tattered baseball cap, wiping his face with
a forearm, and nodded a greeting.  Full, broad lips parted
to reveal teeth white and even.  "Ma'am," he acknowledged in
greeting, his voice gravelly, resonant with life.

Her vision swam and she blinked at the impossible, the
unimaginable -- below large brown eyes, each cheek bore
three almost indistinguishable marks, faded smudges in the
rich walnut of his skin.

Suddenly dizzy, she saw through the hazy, imperfect filter
of her dreams the image of a man staggering alone in a
wilderness of tall trees.  Naked and shivering, falling to
his knees beneath bright, humming light.  Face and body
ravaged, life force waning.

Just like Mulder...

She pressed trembling fingers to her forehead and tried to
muffle a moan.  Seized with vertigo, she thrust out with the
other hand to steady herself against the knobby bark of a
tree trunk.

"You okay, Miss?"  He stepped forward, covering the distance
between them, and his strong hand slipped behind her elbow
for support as she began to weave.  "Lemme help you.  Maybe
you better sit right down over there.  You want some water -
-?"

Unable to reply, she was conscious of nothing more except
the sickening, melting sensation of falling backward into
blackness.



Her head hurt, felt thick and heavy.  Sounds pummeled her
ears in a whirlwind of panicked voices, shouts, and running
feet.  A small boy's high-pitched cry rent the air...

She became aware of an arm under her neck and across her
back, easing her to the cold ground.  A sudden shift, new
arms supporting her body and the backs of her knees, lifting
her.  Skinner, by his scent and the vibration of his voice
resonating against her ear.  She had the sensation of
floating without effort, held aloft, her hair feathered in
the wind.  The light changed from daylight bright to the
cool darkness of indoors.  Food smells, warmth.  Quilted
softness beneath her hips, under her head, as she was
lowered onto a bed.  Skinner's hand brushing the hair from
her eyes.

"Scully, tell me what happened."

What happened?  She remembered nothing but the dizzying
spiral downward.  Her baby.  My God, if she had fallen...
Like an echo, she heard the same words in her own ears as
she put sound to the thought.  "My baby... " she murmured
and her hand groped downward to cradle and shield her
belly's taut roundness.

"Scully, the baby's fine."  Skinner's voice drifted over
her, strained with anxiety.  "Do you hear me?  You were
caught before you ever touched the ground."  Her half-
closed, swimming eyes caught only the glint of sunshine
reflected in his glasses.

Someone else removed her shoes, unbuttoned her coat.  An arm
slid behind her neck for support.  She parted her lips when
the cold wet edge of a glass prodded between them, tapping
against the hard enamel of her teeth.  Tilting her head
forward, she sipped the water carefully, eyes closed.  She
tried to breathe, tried to quiet the jackhammer pounding of
her heart.

"It's all right, mister, you can move aside.  She's needin'
me now.  You lemme take it from here..."

The mattress gave and creaked under the person's ample
weight, crowding her body. She heard a woman's familiar
voice, her hand replacing Skinner's on her forehead, her
clothing fragrant from soap, sweat, and much cooking.
Feeling small and helpless, Scully's head and shoulders were
gently drawn to rest on the woman's thighs.  A comforting
hand stroked her tousled hair, cradled her cheek.  She
squinted upward.

"Ruth... "

"Good to see you again, Dana Scully from-the-FBI.  It's been
a long time," the woman whispered.  "Way too long.  And
don't you worry none, honey.  You had a little dizzy spell.
Things'll be jus' fine.  Now, tell me... what is it you got
here?"

Her hand slid expertly across the swollen belly, feeling for
the child within with the palpitating touch of a midwife.
Scully gasped at the unexpected pressure, then exhaled in a
gentle rush of relief.  It would be all right; she was safe,
the baby was safe.  Ruth was here.

"Shi-it," said Ruth under her breath.  "Now, who'da
thought...?  Girl, you sure are one for the big surprise."

"Not just me," Scully whispered, bringing a weak smile to
the woman's face.  "When... how?"

"Shhh, you keep quiet for awhile and jus' listen.  It
happened, oh... maybe one, two months ago.  I tried to call
your office number every so often, but them damn phone
lines... you know how it is.  Then I thought maybe I got the
number wrong when some other man picked up the phone."  She
shook her head with disgust, stroking Scully's hair back
from her temple with a soothing hand.

"Well, early one mornin' when it was still dark outside,
somethin' woke me up.  And there they were, Dana, lights
pourin' down from the sky like you wouldn't believe... I
checked on Skeeter first an' then grabbed the shotgun an'
went out.  An' then... "

Ruth closed her eyes, breathing heavily at the memory,
swiping at the tears that escaped before continuing with her
story.

"The lights disappeared and the sun was jus' tryin' to come
up when -- I swear to God, there *he* was, comin' outa the
woods toward me.  Buck-naked as the day he was born,
couldn't hardly walk in the snow an' cold... fell down on
the ground by the shed, an' it seemed like he was jus' this
side of dead."

"Sam -- "

"Yep, Sam's the one first caught you, honey.  He's right out
there in the kitchen now, lookin' after his boy Skeeter and
my beef stew."  Ruth's tiny smile faded.  "But when I found
him, shi-it -- he didn't give me much reason to hope, hurt
so bad the way he was.  God-awful holes in his face and cut
like a hog down the middle of his chest.  I tell you, I
prayed for all I was worth right there on the ground next to
him -- and then... "

Ruth paused, wiping at eyes that began to glow with the
wonder of revelation.  "Then I heard a truck pullin' up next
to us an' a man got out.  A kind, white-haired gentleman...
he jus' came outa nowhere, like an angel.  Helped me carry
Sam inside an' then touched his head, almost like he was
sayin' a blessin' over him.  An' would you believe it?  Sam
started gettin' better right after that.  It was a miracle,
Dana.  A true miracle."

Scully's chest heaved and she squeezed her eyes shut.  God
in heaven -- it couldn't be... A white-haired man appearing
beside Sam as if keeping an appointment with destiny, caring
for this one so suddenly, so belatedly returned.

Jeremiah Smith.

("You're going to expose me. You're putting people in danger
-- Abductees all over the country. I save them. I'm the only
one...")

She remembered her sobbing panic as she raced through the
darkness to Absolom's compound, searching rooms, a woman
crazed with desperation.  When the humming, blinding light
was snuffed, like the flick of a switch, she came to the
sickening realization that Mulder's only chance for
salvation was irretrievable, disappearing into the sky with
no possibility of returning to revive him.

("You came crashing in here.  I was trying to help him,
too.")

Her utter hopelessness when she fell hard to her knees on
the wooden floor, screaming in anguish --

"Dana, honey... "  Ruth's voice was hushed, but her sharp
eyes captured Scully's troubled ones, seeking her attention.
"Tell me somethin'.  Your man, Mr. Fox... is he this little
baby's daddy?"

At the simple guileless question, Scully gasped and
struggled for breath.  Tears trickled back across her
temples and into her hair, but she wasn't conscious of
weeping.  A weight of crushing grief and guilt forced a moan
from her throat.  Here on Ruth's bed with Skinner standing
sentry close by, the dam burst forth with a violent rush,
gaining momentum, and she was powerless to stop it.  Only in
the stark, lonely privacy of her apartment had she ever
succumbed to such overwhelming, wracking pain, such agony of
bereavement and self-accusation.  Her hand left her belly to
cover eyes and mouth; sobbing, she averted her face toward
the haven of Ruth's ample body, away from the light and
prying eyes.

"Shhhh, don't carry on so, honey," Ruth begged, pulling
Scully's head and shoulders into her lap, rocking her back
and forth in her arms as she would a little girl awakened
from a night terror.  "It'll be all right."  Then, in a more
serious tone she whispered, "Now, you can tell me... where's
he up and gone to *this* time?"

Through the storm of misery, Skinner's hushed voice was low,
almost indiscernible.  Stunned, no doubt, by the
uncharacteristic outpouring of emotion to which he was a
reluctant witness, she heard him mutter to Ruth, "You don't
understand.  He was missing, like your husband, and then
came back with the same injuries.  But... in Agent Mulder's
case we were too late."  And then, barely distinguishable to
her ears: "He was buried nearly three months ago."

No other words were spoken; there was nothing more that
could be said.

But as Scully continued to sob she felt a crushing vise
around her shoulders.  The fingers stroking her hair
trembled and a wounded, lowing sound came from above her
head, its vibration rising from Ruth's heaving chest.
Droplets splattered on Scully's hand, the same one that
shielded her tear-stained, reddened face, and the two women
clung together, their pain mutual and inconsolable.

************

US Naval Hospital, Annapolis
Early Spring 2001


Life, Scully believes, is not meant to be a solitary
journey.

Though each person is given both free will and faith, she's
come to the realization that her previous convictions were
too simplistic.  There are powers to which each person is an
unwilling pawn.  Powers of God, powers of the supernatural,
powers unexplainable by any conventional or scientific
means.

The second law of thermodynamics:  all things, all processes
spiral toward decay and an inexorable disintegration of
matter, but Scully is conscious only of retrieval,
regeneration, and beginning the dream anew when she rushes
headlong into the naval hospital.  Ignoring scientific
theory, she chooses to go beyond her instincts and focus
instead on the miraculous and the unbelievable.

There are the powers of death and of life, battling for
supremacy in determining an individual's ultimate physical
state.  With her burgeoning faith and newfound hope, she
finds she's warring against the power of death in order to
salvage the life of the man snatched too soon from her side.
For Mulder, the impossible second chance...

Flashing her badge in the lobby, she's directed through a
labyrinth of corridors, channeled through doors that fan out
like waves before her.  Skinner stands within, dismay
painting his face when he sees her, but with none of the
shocked surprise she anticipated.  Most likely Doggett has
clued him to her imminent arrival.

"Is it true?"  Emotions tumbling over one another in her
panicked eagerness, she tries to quiet her pounding heart,
eyes raking his face for information.

"Slow down," he insists, taking the defensive stance.  He
looms over her, his face a tight indecipherable mask.
Skinner, standing in her way, has made himself both
adversary and protective buffer.  Their voices are hushed,
but his height and physical strength, his firm denials, only
serve to fuel her determination to see Mulder.

She whispers fiercely, "Tell me it's true -- tell me!"

"Dana, listen... they've got him on life support and IVs.
Beyond that, only time will tell.  Maybe none of this is
ever supposed to happen.  But, after Billy Miles, there was
no way in hell I could pass up giving Mulder this chance...
especially after everything you've been through."

She leans against him, much like she did at the graveside
months before and feels Skinner's arms surround her, his
hand cupping the back of her head.  "Thank you," she
murmurs, her voice muffled and tearful.  "Thank you for
keeping your promise."

"Only time will tell," he mutters and she nods, stepping
away to facilitate her shift from rattled woman into the
smooth professional cover she presents to the world.  She
needs to be strong and self-possessed to see this miracle
through to completion.  In a prayerful gesture, she draws
both hands to her lips, focusing on the door of the small
room where Mulder fights for uncertain survival.

Doggett appears, hopelessness etched over his features.  He
blanches, seeing the raw resolution in her face, one hand on
her swollen belly as she approaches.  "I wish you wouldn't,"
he advises, and the pain in his eyes is an echo of another
time and past place, another hopeless watch into the night.
Not foolish enough to stand in her way, he bows to her stiff
determination and she enters the room alone, shutting out
the world behind her.

Mulder -- Her heart leaps into her throat when she sees him,
lying comatose and blanketed on the bed before her, one hand
draped across his stomach.  Unknown persons have swapped his
graveclothes for a faded hospital gown, the mass of tubes
connecting him to the beeping monitors like a tangle of blue
plastic umbilical cord.  His face and hands have been
cleansed and sweetened, erasing the odor of stagnancy, the
bitterness of death.

In awe she touches his chest to feel its subtle rise and
fall, tears pooling in her eyes.  Mulder, oh, my God, Mulder
-- the smooth facade crumbles and she leans forward to
huddle against him, easing her head and belly against his
unresponsive form.  The baby awakens for the first time in
what seems like hours.  Firm thuds on the walls of her womb
press against the body beneath her, tiny jabs that Mulder
would surely feel if he were conscious.

The first, unknowing contact of child to father.  Strong and
persistent, perhaps even supernatural, it spurs her faith.

She settles in closer in order to savor him, allowing their
baby to share in this magic moment.  Mulder looks less
ravaged than when he lay in the morgue nearly three months
before.  She bites her lip, cheeks awash in tears, choosing
to believe that his body, like the alien craft that snatched
him away so many months ago, will begin to repair itself.
That he will survive and awaken and somehow rejoin her in
the life they once shared, on the path they intended to walk
together.

When the initial shock abates and her emotions are more
restrained, when she's able to pore over his charts and
inject her own selfish optimism into the situation -- only
then can she truly assess and weigh his chances.  But,
sobbing over the absolute preciousness and beauty of this
man, she refuses to concede, to admit defeat.

Neural and vascular systems in a probable state of decay?
For all purposes dead, as the doctors so solemnly
hypothesize?

No, not so.  Dear God, not now...

How can she disbelieve, with the steady rising and falling
of his chest, whether induced artificially or not?  The
gurgle of internal noise she hears?  How then this pulse she
can feel with her fingers against the soft, dry skin of his
wrist?  This heart, beating like the sweetest music through
his chest to thud against her cheek in a miraculous symphony
of hope?

These unmistakable, irrefutable signs of life...

**********

THE END

Signs Of Life
by mountainphile
October 10, 2001