The Deep Untangling

By Rae Lynn
xraelynn@gmail.com


CLASSIFICATION/KEYWORDS: MSR, Scully POV

TIMELINE/SPOILERS: Mid- to late 8th season

SUMMARY: "Thus far, Mulder and his son have at
least one thing in common: For several months
this past year, they both slept like the dead."

DISCLAIMER: All characters contained within are
the property of Chris Carter and Ten Thirteen
Productions.  No profit will result from this
story and no copyright infringement is
intended.

ARCHIVE: Inquire within.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a companion piece to a
story I wrote recently called "This Life Is Not
Yet Rated."  You don't need to have read that
story to understand this one, but for those of
you who did, this is the same piece from
Scully's perspective.  If you'd prefer to read
"This Life Is Not Yet Rated" first (or later!),
it can be found here: http://www.geocities.com/
rae_lynn05/ThisLifeIsNotYetRated.txt  Hurry
back, I'll wait!

* * *

"People die sometimes so near you
you feel them struggling to cross over,
the deep untangling, of one body from another."
--from "What Saves Us," by Bruce Weigl

"Once you lose someone it is never exactly
the same person who comes back."
--from "Feared Drowned," by Sharon Olds

* * *

Mulder's screams wake me before William's.

Once, it seemed that his screams were all I
would have left of Mulder; it was months before
I dreamt about anything other than fresh agony
on Mulder's lips, before I could remember his
voice as anything other than a plea for me to
save him.  I would wake with his screams still
echoing inside of me, wondering if somehow they
could reverberate through my body down to where
the cells divided and slept, preparing to
awaken.  Our child.  Mulder's and mine.

Thus far, Mulder and his son have at least one
thing in common: For several months this past
year, they both slept like the dead.

We are idly discussing what I privately think
of as our safe-zone topics -- the weather, our
lunch menu, whether or not William's toothless
grin can be labeled gassy grimace or smile --
when it happens: Mulder drifts off.  It happens
gradually, his firm grip on William never
loosens even as his gaze slackens and dims.  
Watching Mulder grow silent, something cold
pours through me.  

Mulder may have risen from the dead, but he
hasn't risen all the way.

"Mulder?"

He jerks, a little guiltily, as if he's dropped
back into his old life and I've caught him with
an issue of the Adult Video News.  For a moment
I picture him there in his office, flipping
through photos of crop circles and munching on
sunflower seeds, and an ache surges in my chest
as the image crumbles and decays.  

"You're doing it again," I say, as gently as I
can.  Even so, Mulder flinches.  Inexplicably,
I find myself mesmerized by the movement, the
small gesture that seems to resound in me as
loudly as his screams once did, no longer a
terrifying premonition but an alarm
nonetheless: I am home.  I am alive.  I am
safe.  

But just barely.

He blinks and looks away, managing an
unconvincing "Oh.  Sorry."  

"Mulder..." I start to say, willing the ominous
overtones to vanish from my voice; the last
thing Mulder needs right now, I tell myself, is
a lecture on conversational etiquette.

"I'm working on it," he interrupts, quietly
insistent.  I have listened to enough of
Mulder's denials over the years to detect the
warning tones that swim beneath the surface of
his words.  

But this isn't merely another case that got
away from us.  These days, Mulder still
inhabits my apartment like the ghost he almost
left behind.  

Reluctantly, his eyes meet mine, and my resolve
collapses.  Surely bearing witness to his
rebirth is as startling as the event itself.  
It's still a wondrous thing to have him in
front of me, holding our son in his arms and
staring me down as fiercely as though he were
still alive.

He is still alive, I remind myself every
morning, mouth dry, pulse pounding, willing
Mulder to stir as I listen to the sound of his
heart.  He is still safe.  He is still home.

"I know you are, Mulder," I say quietly,
reaching out for William; I have been seized
suddenly by a longing to touch Mulder, to feel
his pulse thrumming beneath my fingers.  His
skin is cold to the touch, these days, his body
stiff and awkward next to mine, and I content
myself with an armful of my sleeping son, whose
veins are humming contentedly with the blood of
his father.  

The bottom of William's overalls are sagging.  
"He needs a diaper change," I say without
thinking, wishing I could take it back when it
rings accusatorily in my ears.  Mulder rises
automatically to his feet, his arms
outstretched.

"I'll take care of it," he says, his voice
wavering somewhere between hopeful and
terrified.  My own reflexes are not as in tune
with Mulder as they once were, and it takes a
split second to blink the doubt out of my eyes.  
There are very few things in this life that I
am certain of any longer, but one of them is
that fatherhood is not something Mulder ever
planned for.  When they are alone, Mulder
studies William the way he once studied
mysterious lights in the sky: with a kind of
awe that is breathless and euphoric and tinged
with just a hint of trepidation.  

Now, Mulder looks like he is rapidly losing his
nerve, his tentative smile frozen uncomfortably
on his face.

"Mulder, are you sure..." I start to say, and
the smile wavers.

"He's my son," Mulder replies with practiced
casualness.  "Of course I'm sure."  

Suddenly I picture him in Oregon, so tender, so
sure of himself.  'There's so much more you
need to do with your life,' he says.  'There's
so much more than this.'  At the time, feeling
dizzy and weak with William already burgeoning
inside of me, I scarcely gave his words any
thought; it was just Mulder asking me to leave
him for the hundredth time when both of us knew
there was no longer any going back.  

But maybe Mulder wasn't asking me to leave.  
Maybe Mulder was saying goodbye.  

I let him go to Oregon, I can let him change a
diaper, I tell myself as I lift William to
Mulder's chest.  Suddenly my own arms are
around him, pretending I don't feel the way he
stiffens, the sound of his breath rigid and
shallow in my ear.

"You just need some time," I hear myself say,
although my voice sounds like it belongs to
someone else; another Dana Scully, one who
hasn't yet buried a partner and birthed a son.

Mulder's low murmur is reassuring against the
sound of William's happy coos, and I relax into
the couch when I hear the rustle of diaper
Velcro.  Then in an instant the noises of the
changing table slide ominously into silence
before William's wails are flung into the air
like a scarlet flag suddenly unfurled against
the sky.  

Before I am even aware that I have moved, I
find myself on the floor with him, my hands
grabbing for his.  

"Mulder?  Mulder!"  My voice is high and tight
with panic and I will myself to calm down.  
Mulder's eyes are wide and blank as he wrenches
away from me.

"Mulder," I say commandingly.  He shudders
once, some of the awareness seeping back into
his eyes even as he takes a half-hearted swipe
at my hand on his forehead; I've forgotten that
our old roles no longer seem to apply, and the
man who once couldn't let me walk through a
doorway without personally guiding me with his
hands now seems to flinch at any intimation of
human contact.  

"There was nothing," he mumbles, pulling
himself into a sitting position without further
explanation.  Still shaking inside from the
past few terrifying minutes, I find myself
growing inexplicably angry.  In our old lives,
Mulder and I perfected the science of
pretending nothing was wrong; he disregarded my
frequent and vocal objections to his outlandish
theories, I overlooked the bad jokes he made at
crime scenes.  We studiously ignored each
other, Mulder and I, for a good seven years.

"Mulder, that was not nothing," I say sharply.  
I'm just beginning to steel myself for the
debate that will inevitably follow -- God,
there was a time when I thought I would never
have this argument again -- when Mulder jerks
suddenly away from me, his eyes staring past me
like a stranger's.  William whimpers pitifully
as Mulder's chest gives a panicked heave, and
then his body goes as still and silent as it
had gone into his grave.

Instinctively I am lunging for him, my hands
pounding at his chest, unsure if the pulse
throbbing in my fingers belongs to Mulder or
myself.  It is several seconds before I can
safely convince myself that Mulder is still
here -- still alive, still home, but most
assuredly not safe, not if the desperate
fluttering of his eyes beneath closed lids is
any indication.  William's miserable sob is
very nearly my undoing; for an instant I have
to fight the temptation to join in.  

I always knew it was impossible to bargain with
God, but when Mulder was missing, I tried
anyway.  Lord, let me find him.  Return him to
me, and I will do the rest.   

My faith in God was strong, but my faith in
Mulder was stronger.  Except that I never
nailed down a crucial aspect of our deal.  I
never specified that I wanted God to help me
find Mulder *alive*.

It's said that God works in mysterious ways.  
Then again, so does Mulder.

Before I can change my mind, I shift William to
my other hip and grab the cordless phone,
hitting #7 to connect me directly to Skinner's
office.  Mulder would die if he knew I had
Skinner on speed dial, I think sourly, before
the thought explodes in my chest like a
grenade.

Mulder would die.  

Is this what it's like for him, every minute of
the day?  A thousand meaningless figures of
speech planted like land mines in the dark
corners of his brain, ready to strike at any
moment?  I glance over at him, still out cold
on the floor of William's nursery.  

Perhaps death feels safer than the horror he
has left behind.

I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts I haven't
even had time to compose an explanation for
Skinner, something to strike the right balance
between "Perhaps you'd like to swing by and say
hi to Mulder and the baby on your lunch break"
and "Mulder has gone crazy and I need your help
immediately."  I settle for the truth, my voice
quaking far too much to conceal what I might
otherwise try to deny.  

I'm frightened for him.  

* * *

Skinner breaks land speed records and several
traffic laws to get to my apartment, but Mulder
never stirs.  Maybe the truth is that I don't
have the heart to try to rouse him; sprawled
there on the floor, one hand flung underneath
William's crib, Mulder looks more peaceful in
sleep than he has since he's come home.  

"Come home" is the way I've always mentioned it
out loud, the way I've always phrased it in my
head.  After all, that's what it must be like
for Mulder, I tell myself -- go to Oregon with
Skinner, come home to Washington.  He couldn't
have been aware of the passage of time, of the
birth of his son, of his death and rebirth.  He
couldn't have memories of being missing, of
being in a grave.

He couldn't, because it might destroy him.  It
is destroying him.  

No.  Our denial is what's destroying him.  

Skinner, bless him, asks no questions other
than "What would be the best way to move him?"  
It's only once Mulder is settled on the couch
and William is sleeping in his crib that
Skinner expectantly looks me in the eye.  

"What happened?" he says gravely.

It isn't the first time Skinner has asked me to
explain my partner to him.  But as much as
things have changed between Mulder and me,
things have changed between Skinner and me as
well.  Once I would have lied to Skinner to
protect my partner.  Now I feel I must confess
to Skinner in order to save him.

"I think they're flashbacks," I say quietly,
moving away from Mulder toward the door.  "But
he refuses to discuss them, so I can't be
sure."

Skinner takes a moment to digest this, as if he
has trouble believing that Mulder -- the
original Comeback Kid -- could be felled by
something as insignificant as dying.  

Mulder once held this man at gunpoint and
announced his own resurrection without
blinking. I think Skinner and I both realize
that was a long time ago.

"I need to pick something up," I say quickly.  
"Will you...can you stay with them?"  

Skinner surveys me impassively before nodding,
and his voice stops me before I can hurry out
the door.

"Dana," he begins, my first name stiff and
awkward on his lips.  "I'm glad you called me."

I nod, avoiding his gaze, and I close the door
behind me.

* * *

The pharmacy is stocked full of cards for
Father's Day, an irony I am sure Mulder would
have appreciated in another life.  I walk
briskly past them, willing myself not to look,
as I head to the back of the store.

The prescription pad in my pocket feels like a
betrayal.  Mulder intensely dislikes feeling
powerless, and the surest way to render him
powerless is to drug him.  Under the influence
of drugs, Mulder has been strapped down and
held against his will.  He has experienced
powerful hallucinations that nearly drove him
to suicide.

He has told me he loves me.  

I understand Mulder's resistance.  But he can't
live like this, I tell myself.  Something has
to give.  Reluctantly, I pull the prescription
pad out of my pocket.

I'm moving to the counter to grab a pen when I
see them -- red bags with yellow flowers on
them hanging neatly by the cash register.  

Sunflower seeds.  Mulder once told me that in
his childhood, the sound of his father -- his
father, for whom I named our son -- crunching
on sunflower seeds was what comforted him after
a nightmare.  After that, I would wake in the
middle of the night in hotel rooms in small
towns all across America, listening for the
sound of my partner crunching on sunflower
seeds.

I don't hear Mulder in the night anymore.  Not
unless he's screaming.

Impulsively I grab three bags and step to the
register, leaving the pen behind.

* * *

I can hear voices as I approach my apartment
door, and something clenches in my chest,
steeling for what's ahead.  

Mulder is standing in the hallway.  I can't
stop my eyes from roaming the length of his
body.  I'm not sure what I expect to find.  
Mulder has never worn his scars where anyone
can see them.

"You're awake," I say unnecessarily, glancing
at Skinner.  "How long...?"

"About five minutes after you left," Skinner
reports.

Mulder flashes me his best attempt at the kind
of grin he hasn't actually sported since 1994.  

"Presents for me?" he says caustically, nodding
toward the white bag in my hand; in his mind
it's surely full of Zoloft or Klonopin.  
"Scully, you shouldn't have."

Something shudders down my spine, inexplicable
rage mixed with incredible relief -- not an
uncommon blend of emotions to direct towards
Mulder.  

"You're right, I shouldn't have," I hear myself
say.  I glance away from him and an
uncomfortable silence settles around us, broken
only when Skinner tactfully announces his
departure.

I follow Skinner into the hallway, where he
shrugs on his trenchcoat before looking me in
the eye.

"He's going to be fine, Dana," he says.  "You
have to believe that."  

I don't have to believe anything, I want to
tell him, still clutching the bag of sunflower
seeds like a shield.  Not anymore.

"Thank you for coming," I say formally, trying
to ignore the panic swelling in my chest.  I
became a pathologist because I knew I couldn't
fix everything, because I was practical enough
to understand that the best thing I could do
with my medical degree was dissect a body in
search of the secrets it could tell.  I could
diagnose Mulder if he were dead, put scalpel to
bone and calculate where and when things had
gone wrong.  

But Mulder has already survived things that are
worse than death, and for all my prayers I
don't know now how to help him.

Skinner puts a hand on my arm as he prepares to
leave.  "If you need anything," he says, "let
me know."

I nod in reply, but my thoughts are already in
the next room.

Mulder and I have never been the poster
children for effective communication, but
something needs to change.

"Mulder, we need to talk," I say as I walk into
the living room, unable to meet his eyes.  
"This isn't working."  

I've rehearsed the speech in my head for weeks,
but seeing him there in front of me, my resolve
almost crumbles.

Mulder is home.  He is alive.  He is safe.  
Return him to me, I had said, and I will deal
with the rest.  

But can I deal with it if Mulder doesn't want
to?

"I know this hasn't been easy for you," I say
carefully around the growing lump in my throat.  
"You've been through so much.  And if this
isn't what you want..."

Mulder's hands hang limply at his sides, his
gaze narrowly focused on the floor.  

"What makes you think this isn't what I want?"
he says dully.

"The nightmares, the flashbacks, are getting
worse," I say quietly.  "You flinch every time
I touch you.  You look at William like..."

Before -- before he vanished into the Oregon
forest in front of Skinner's eyes, before his
violated body went into the North Carolina
ground -- Mulder used to gaze at me with such
passion and intensity in his eyes that I had to
look away.  Now I look at his eyes and see
nothing.  

"Like what?" he says flatly, and I can feel the
bile rise in the back of my throat.  He wants
to make me say it.

"Like you're afraid of him," I finish.  I
expect an instant flash of rage, of denial, but
it never comes; Mulder just gapes at me.  His
silence is infinitely worse than a protest.  

"You *are* afraid of him," I say dumbly, and
for the first time in weeks something animates
in Mulder's face.

"God, Scully, I'm not afraid of Will," he says,
agonized.  His voice drops to a low murmur, so
low I can hardly hear him.  "I'm afraid of what
I might do to him."

His statement hangs in the air between us,
assaulting me with the sheer dread in it.  

"I don't understand," I say slowly.  "Mulder,
you -- I know you.  You would never hurt
William."

You would die before you hurt your son, I
nearly add.  You would die for us.

Mulder draws himself up to his full height, his
thin frame quivering with the force of his
words.

"Scully, I was missing for six months and in
the ground for three," he hisses, as if either
of us needs to be reminded.  "We have no way of
knowing what was done to me, other than that it
takes a truckload of sedatives to get over.  
"Aren't you at all concerned that I might hurt
the baby?  Or..."  He swallows convulsively and
looks away.  "Or you?"

Mulder once told me that it was my rationalism
and my science that had saved him.  But today
it is my gut that gives me the answer.

"No," I say firmly.  "Mulder, when you were in
the hospital, your body was examined for
evidence of microchips -- "

"They don't need a microchip anymore to control
a man's brain," Mulder interrupts.

" -- and even if you *had* been implanted," I
plow forward, ignoring him, "Mulder, I know
you.  You would die before you hurt me or the
baby."  

There it is.  You would die.  The sentence I
swore I would never speak out loud.  

"It's not just that," Mulder says tightly,
words tumbling out of him that he has been
damming up for weeks.  "It's...Scully, I look
at Will and I remember when my father went from
all-around American dad to someone I didn't
know anymore.  He had a family and he stumbled
into a conspiracy that destroyed everything he
had worked for.  Scully, my father...My father
went in blindly.  He had no idea what his
actions would cause.  But I can't say the same
for myself.  How can I be a part of Will's life
when we both know what the consequences might
be?"

For a moment I can only stare at him, startled
into silence.  Is that what Mulder fears --
that his own relentless pursuit of the truth
will place his child at the mercy of a global
conspiracy?  That I had never considered the
consequences of my own actions?  

"Then why did you ever agree to this in the
first place?" I ask, stunned.  When Mulder
doesn't answer, I keep going, the words pouring
out of me and threatening to bleed into each
other.

"And what did you expect me to do?" I say.  
"That I would just leave behind all the work
we've done all these years?  That I would just
leave *you* behind?"

Abruptly Mulder's anger resurfaces, his eyes
flashing dangerously.  "Then what *were* you
thinking?" he explodes.  "Scully, how many
times...how many times have you talked about
getting out of the car, building a normal life?  
I thought...that this could be your chance."
 
"Without you," I say disbelievingly.  I choose
my words carefully, hoping to make him
understand.  "I was thinking that there are
other people out there who can help," I say
quietly.  "I was thinking that you and I aren't
the only two people in the world who can be
entrusted with the task of saving it.  I was
thinking that we both deserved a chance at
happiness."

He merely stares at me uncomprehendingly;
happiness is a concept with which Mulder has
never been intimately acquainted.  Does he
think that all I ever wanted or needed from him
was his genetic material?

Risking rejection, I move closer to him and
take his hand.

"Mulder," I say softly, unsure of how to make
the words come out right, "when the in vitro
didn't take, I realized something.  I realized
that asking you to help me conceive a child was
a mistake."  

I regret the words as soon as I've said them;
the last time Mulder looked at me like this, I
had just shot him.  

"Please, hear me out," I say quickly.  "I
realized that I was wrong to think that I could
get back what was taken from me by having a
child.  And I realized that I was only
presenting myself with an impossible choice.  
That one day...one day I would have to choose
between you and my child."

But now I don't have to choose, I remind
myself, tightening my grip on Mulder's hand as
if to assure myself that he is still here.

"But then I did get pregnant," I continue.  
"After I stopped believing it was possible,
after I had come to terms with my choice.  And
suddenly you were gone, Mulder, and I didn't
know where to start.  It was almost as if..."

Mulder has always had the mind of an
investigator but the soul of a poet, and he
intuitively grasps the heart of the dilemma.  
"As if God had chosen for you," he finishes in
a low voice.

No, I think, looking at him in dismay.  I don't
know what God had to do with Mulder's
disappearance, but it certainly wasn't the
answer to any of my prayers.  

Return him to me, I had asked when Mulder was
missing.  And now Mulder sits in front of me,
gaunt and shaken, but with something so
familiar lurking beneath the surface.

I have to believe that that was God's choice.  

"Mulder," I say softly, "I told you that I
prayed a lot, and that my prayers had been
answered. I don't know what hand God played in
this, but I believe He heard my prayer.  For
both of us."  I squeeze his hand, still
unwilling to let go.  To ever let go.  "You're
not alone in this, Mulder.  Please don't ever
think that you are."

Reluctantly I pull away from him, rising to my
feet.  I have made my choice, and God has made
His; the rest, I realize with apprehension, is
up to Mulder.

The choice to panic, or the choice to be brave;
the choice to retreat, or the choice to move
forward.  

Perhaps it is the choice that anchors him to
the past.  Perhaps, I think, it is a choice
that will propel him forward.

"You're not your father," I tell him, and
Mulder looks up at me in surprise.  "But you're
the only one who can decide if you want to be
William's."

"Is that what you think this is about?" Mulder
says derisively.  "That I'm having flashbacks
because I'm subconsciously rejecting the idea
of fatherhood?"  

I find myself closing my eyes briefly, just to
avoid his piercing gaze.  "I don't know what to
think," I admit.

When William's cry shatters the silence in the
living room, I'm almost grateful for the
interruption.  Numb from what has just
transpired, I move on autopilot into William's
room, slipping easily into the routine of the
past few months: Flip light switch, grab
diaper, worry about Mulder.  

William's face is puffy and red from screaming.  
It looked the same way the day that I met him,
just weeks after I stood with Skinner in the
cemetery and watched Mulder's body go into the
ground.  William didn't look at all like him,
not then, but that day I imagined that I felt
Mulder with me, standing behind me in the
delivery room and whispering in my ear.  I felt
him so strongly that when William was placed in
my arms, waving his tiny hand and screaming his
head off, my first instinct as a mother was to
comfort him in a way I had never reassured
anyone besides his father.

"Joy to the world..."  

It was toneless and tinged with sadness, but it
was something tangible, something that reminded
me that Mulder had once been here with me, with
William, though neither of us had realized it
at the time.  

"All the boys and girls," I murmur, tickling
his stomach, and William's cries begin to fade
away.

"Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea," I
tell William solemnly, and he regards me with
unabashed delight.  

I almost miss overhearing the muffled sound of
a sob in the living room as I concentrate on
lifting William out of his crib.

A sound makes me turn, my hand still pressed to
Will's head.  Mulder fills the doorway, the
expression in his eyes so familiar I can hardly
believe I once thought I might never see it
again.  Longing.  And life.  

"I'll take your pills," he says in a low voice,
before I can open my mouth to speak.  "I'll
learn to meditate if I have to, I'll even eat
yogurt mixed with bee pollen if you think it'll
help."

He takes a step closer to us, the sound of his
breath filling the space between us and all the
spaces in between.  

"But this is what I want," he concludes
hoarsely, his eyes locked fiercely on mine.  

Sometimes the truth seems unbearable, poised
like a bullet to destroy us.  And sometimes, I
think as William's hand lunges for Mulder's,
the truth is a beacon, guiding us home.

* * *

END.


"I have set before you this day life and death,
blessing and curse; therefore, choose life,
that both you and your children shall live." --
Deuteronomy 30:20

* * *

Feedback.  It's what's for dinner:
xraelynn@gmail.com

ADDITIONAL AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Bruce Weigl's "What Saves Us," from which this
story borrows its title, has is a gorgeous poem
about the Vietnam War that has nothing to do
with The X-Files.  But when I was stealing a
line from it for the title of this story, I
found it especially touching in light of the
belief held by many people that Mulder was
wearing Scully's cross when he was taken in
"Requiem," so I've reprinted it here (warning:
it's a little PG-13):


"We are wrapped around each other in  
the back of my father's car parked  
in the empty lot of the high school  
of our failures, the sweat on her neck  
like oil. The next morning I would leave  
for the war and I thought I had something  
coming for that, I thought to myself  
that I would not die never having  
been inside her long body. I pulled  
her skirt above her waist like an umbrella  
inside out by the storm. I pulled  
her cotton panties up as high as  
she could stand. I was on fire. Heaven  
was in sight. We were drowning on our  
tongues and I tried to tear my pants off  
when she stopped so suddenly  
we were surrounded only by my shuddering
and by the school bells grinding in the  
empty halls. She reached to find something,  
a silver crucifix on a silver  
chain, the tiny savior's head hanging  
and stakes through his hands and his feet.  
She put it around my neck and held  
me so long the black wings of my heart  
were calmed. We are not always right
about what we think will save us.  
I thought that dragging the angel down would  
save me, but instead I carried the crucifix  
in my pocket and rubbed it on my  
face and lips nights the rockets roared in.

People die sometimes so near you  
you feel them struggling to cross over,  
the deep untangling, of one body from another."