By Lesdean A. Warner
xangst@marina-pt.com
 

Date: 15 Nov 1995 18:47:41 -0500

Here's AHAB again, revised and updated to round out the DEMONS/SOLITARY
arc, and to take into account certain events in Season three. POST-ANASAZI
alert is now in force. I have added bits, and changed substantially what I
have always felt to be a lack-luster ending. This doesn't have to be read
after DW or SOLITARY, but they'll help.
   I'd really like to hear from people who read AHAB first time around, as
well as newcomers to the story. Did you like the changes? Did you think
they were a mistake? This piece is my favourite of my own hand, and it
took the pain and stress of SOLITARY to prompt me to do a rewrite. Please
let me know how you like it.

Gosh, you thought you were going to get a story, and all you've gotten are
questions! <bg>

Okay, okay, here it comes, but first...

The Disclaimer:
Fox Mulder and the Scully family are the intellectual property of Chris
Carter, Fox Broadcasting Company, and Ten Thirteen Productions. They are
also the dramatic property of the respective actors. Thanks (without
notice) to Morgan and Wong for the words from One Breath.

*****************
A Gift from Ahab
by Lisdean Warner

Dads, Dana Scully decided with a sad smile, were funny. Especially hers.
She looked down at the package in her hands, almost afraid to open it.
   Here it was, her thirty-second birthday. He had been gone for much more
than a year, and his loss touched her as painfully today as it had on this
day a year ago. And today, she had recieved a present from him.
   She was in the hospital--again. She wondered that the FBI didn't drop
her from their medical plan. Certainly Accounting had to shudder whenever
they saw something with her name on it. At least this time, they wouldn't
be picking up the bill. Triple-A might throw a fit, but she figured she
could probably afford the hike in her premium.
   She smiled again, quietly, carressing the corners of the package, loath
to break its spell on her, loath to reveal his last gift to her.
   The door slipped open, and she looked up, smiling at the tall man
hidden behind a huge bouquet of yellow roses. "Hi, Mulder."
   "Happy Birthday, Scully."
   He set the roses on a nearby table, surveying the other gifts as she
surveyed him.
   The greatest gift she had recieved this year. Two weeks ago, she had
almost been willing to believe him dead. Then, like those miracles her
mother so believed in, he had returned to her, and those terrifyingly
empty days in a Virginia hospital had finally been rewarded, when he had
opened his eyes and been with her--really *with* her, not trapped in the
horror that Conche had led him to.
   He was still painfully thin, and the suits that used to make him look
like something out of GQ, now made him look like a well-dressed scarecrow.
   But this too would pass, she realised with a smile, as he eyed a box of
chocolates greedily.
   "Take one," she offered, shifting uncomfortably in the elevated bed.
"With the running I *won't* be able to do for the next month or so, I
don't need the extra calories--and *you* could use the weight."
   He looked over at his partner. She had lost what looked like half her
weight in the last three months, and the back brace that engulfed her
seemed sizes too big. "You couldn't?" he asked fondly.
   "Weight, yes," she conceded. "Fat, no."
   He cast her a shy glance. "You want *me* to get fat?"
   She smiled sardonically. "You weigh even less than I do, Mulder.
Nothing could make you fat, now."
   He shrugged happily and grabbed a few chocolates, snagging a cherry
creme for her. "So what do the doctors say?"
   She tried to shrug. "Another few days here," she rolled her eyes. "Then
bedrest for a week."
   Mulder sighed loudly as he sank into the chair beside her. "The office
is going to fall apart without you."
   She smiled wryly. "That office fell apart a long time ago." She
half-shrugged again, hampered by the brace that supported her back.
"Besides, you've handled it alone before."
   The silence was deafening, and she winced at it. She knew now what he
had felt when she had disappeared. She supposed that, like him, she would
come to cringe at stray remarks like that.
   "Sorry," she said quietly, her eyes straying back to the parcel in her
lap.
   "What's that?" he asked, shrugging it off, as he always did.
   She smiled the tender smile she seemed to reserve for family--and for
him. "A present from Ahab." She looked up at his silence. "An old friend
of his dropped it by this morning." Her voice took on a comical sterness.
"Admiral Dickey Ponfrey, United States Navy, retired."
   Mulder laughed. She would have saluted if she could have.
   She continued in a soft voice--a little regret, a lot of fondness.
"Uncle Dick and Dad did a few tours together. Next to Ahab, he was my
favourite Navy man." She looked up from the package. "He said he thought
Dad would have liked me to have it."
   Mulder was quiet for a moment. "Are you going to open it?"
   She smiled, placing it gently on the tray before her, and turning
toward him uncomfortably. "Later," she said, popping the chocolate into
her mouth and trying to talk around it. "What's going on at work?"
   He threw his head back with a silent laugh. "Scully! For once, you've
got two weeks off from work--no aliens, no psychos--"
   "An aching back and a broken arm," she finished wearily. "Mulder, I'm
going crazy in this place."
   He threw up his hands in defeat. "All right then, you asked for it." He
leaned forward. "Carl seems to have plunged back in with a vengence." He
took a moment, smiling at the young agent's resilience. "He and Bri asked
me to consult on a missing persons case in Colorado. Seems five young
girls have disappeared there in the last three weeks..."
   They debated the possibility of alien involvement for a while, Scully
trying to do her part to steer Mulder back toward sanity.
   "Come on, Mulder," she said wearily, "just because some kids *say* they
saw... a..." She trailed off, her face going grey as she almost bit
through her lip.
   "Scully?" He stood up suddenly, moving to her side.
   His solicitous hovering irritated her. "I'm all right, Mulder." She
took a deep breath, gritting her teeth. "Having the brace on is great for
my spine, but it causes my back muscles fits." She sighed quietly as the
spasms abated, smiling tiredly at his concern. "Come on, Mulder. I've been
through worse than a car accident in the last two and half years."
   Mulder sat back down warily. A car accident. Only Scully would describe
a seventeen car pile-up as a "car accident." The police figured she didn't
have time to slow down to fifty before plowing into the melee in the dense
fog.
   He shuddered suddenly, remembering when they had called him,
remembering her, bruised and bleeding and hung up in a swing bed while
they tried to decide whether she had broken her back.
   She smiled reassuringly. "I'm *okay,* Mulder." Laughter caught her by
surprise and she tried not to hurt herself with it. "Actually, it's just
about the first normal thing that's happened to me in the last couple of
years."
   He smiled sadly at that. She had been through hell in the past few
years. To Hell and back--and still she was coll, calm, centered. Lost her
father, her sister, three months of her life--and still she seemed always
to pick up the pieces and move on. He envied her control.
   But she was tired now He could see it in her eyes. He rose, touching
her hand gently. "I'll come by tomorrow morning."
   She shook her head. "Come by tonight." She was loathe to let him out of
her sight these days, afraid that he would disappear like a stray thought
if she did. "Mom somehow got the boys to come in for a birthday party."
She grimaced, looked up pleadingly. "I'm going to need some backup."
   He smiled slightly. "Are you suggesting I might be called to draw a gun
on your family?"
   "No, but you might have to stop me from drawing mine." She smiled wryly
and lifted her plastered arm. "Even with this, I think I might be able to
take out at least one of them."
   "Then I'd have to arrest you," he said, mock-serious, with another
squeeze to her good hand. He remembered another time, on another floor of
this same hospital, when she had come back to him. He would do anything
for her--even spend a night with her family. "When does the fun start?"
   "Eight thirty."
   He nodded toward the package. "That'll give you time to open your
present." He squeezed her hand once more and slipped out.

***

She had studied the present for nearly an hour before sliding it slowly
out of the wrapping. It was a cigar box, with a note on it. She pulled the
note off and ran her fingers carefully over the seal burned into the top
of the box. *Dolce Far Niente.*
   "Sweet Nothings?" she wondered aloud. Italian was *not* her language.
   She opened the note that had been taped to it. Dickey Ponfrey's precise
writing flowed across the page.

Dear Starbuck--

I know how much Bill would want to be with you today. I'm sorry that he'll
miss another birthday, but I thought you might like these as a remembrance
of him.
   There are a lot of 'Foxhole Letters' here--letters all of us wrote to
our families when things looked hairy--when we thought we might not be
coming back. We'd give them to each other to deliver--just in case. He
always wrote to you first.
   The rest are letters he wrote to me during his last few years, telling
me about everybody's lives, telling me how proud he was of you.
   He did love you, Starbuck. And he was so proud. Whatever problems you
had, whatever you fought about, don't ever forget that he was proud of
you.
   If you don't believe me, read his words for yourself.
   Your father was a great friend, and I always thought of you as a
daughter. Think of these as my present to both of you--A peace offering
from his grave.

                                                          Love,
                                                          Moby

She opened the box gingerly, sniffing pleasantly at the old scent of fine
cigars. Dick had always loved them, had whined childishly when he was
forced to quit. She steeled herself and opened the box, pulling out the
first letter, dated July 11, 1975. She traced the rich cursive of her name
in his handwriting.

Starbuck,

   There's a big storm brewing out here. We lost power about five hours
ago, and... Well, it's strange being on a dead boat.
   Tell Bill, Jr. I'll have words with him if he teases you too much. But
remember that he loves you. Don't ever forget that. It's only that he
doesn't know how to show it."

"Neither did you," she whispered fondly, diving back into the letter.

   Tell your mother I love her. I know she takes good care of you all when
I'm gone, and she needs to hear that sometimes. And don't fight with her
so much. You're a big girl now, so you think you know best, but she's
still your mother. She's been around a lot longer than you have. She knows
some things.
   I have to go up top now, honey. Take care of each other. I love you
all. When I get home, I'll have present for you.
   I miss you, Starbuck.

                                                          Ahab

Scully ran a finger over his signature: large, florid figures, a bold A
followed by smaller, precise letters. Intricate writing from an intricate
man.
   She read through the rest of the "Foxhole Letters," remembering each
homecoming, wondering that he never told them about all the near-misses:
three collisions at sea, four other fierce storms, one engine fire. There
were countless more, some she knew about, most he had kept secret. Never
want to worry the family, he must have thought.
   She smiled at the memory of her mother, always watching the weather
where his ship went, always worrying about tropical depressions or deep
off-shore fog. He couldn't have stopped them worrying no matter how hard
he tried.
   Each letter was a whole series of memories. She still had the little
geisha doll he had brought back from that tour in July 1975. He had been
so careful with it, carrying it, wrapped lovingly in tissue paper, all the
way from Japan.
   The second packet of letters was more intimidating. The first one was
dated three days after their first fight about her plan to join the FBI.
She tried not to cry as she read it.

Dickey--

Dana has decided to join the FBI. I can't think of a worse idea! She's a
doctor, for God's sake! The FBI is no place for her. No advancement, no
security. She even wants to be an active agent.
   I wanted something more for her, you know, Dickey? A nice practice
somewhere, a husband, kids. She deserves a lot more than a gun and the
chance to get shot daily!
   She won't listen to me, of course. I could almost curse my temper. She
inherited the stubborness from me. The courage, I think she must have got
from her mother.
   God, Dickey, what kind of a life is that for my little girl? She needs
be safe. That can't happen where she wants to go.
   I think I ruined it now, anyway. I just couldn't let her do it without
at least voicing my disapproval. She hasn't spoken to me in three days,
Dickey. She thinks I only think of her as my little girl. But I'm supposed
to, damnit! She *is* my little girl, and I love her. I couldn't stand it
if anything happened to her.
   But she's so damn stubborn, you know? She just won't see that, for
once, her old Dad is making sense.

Scully let the tears fall. He hadn't really told her this. It might not
have made a difference, she thought, looking back at her younger self with
candor. But still...
   <The courage, I think she must have got from her mother.> Scully sighed
sadly. She had always thought him the bravest man alive, until those
fights. She cried in painful embarassment now, as she remembered the
thoughts that had run through her head then: He was just a control freak,
an over-protective Dad. Couldn't he just let her make her own life? Didn't
he know that this was what she wanted? Didn't he have enough courage to
just let her do it herself, instead of feeling like he had to shepherd her
through life?
   She almost didn't read the rest. She didn't want to know what he had
thought of her in those years of estrangement. How much of a mistake did
he think she had made with her life?
   She looked back on her years with the Bureau. How much of a mistake
*had* it all been? She had lost so much since she left Quantico. And so
much horror stayed with her. So many nightmares. Melissa featured
prominently now, she thought, rubbing a tissue over her eyes with her
awkward left hand. And Mulder had made a distressing reappearance in the
past few months--just when she thought she had finally come to terms with
New Mexico.
   But she would never come to terms with it all, she realised sadly.
She'd never come to terms with the death of her big sister, or the pain
she had caused her mother, or all the terrifying near-misses she and
Mulder had helped each other through, or Ahab's--
   No, she thought sternly. Stop it. The stress of the last few months,
the pain of her injury, the shock of the accident--all of it was
conspiring to weaken her. She couldn't let it.
   If anything, she thought, the last year should have taught her that
what she was doing was right. No matter how hopeless it seemed--how
difficult--it was right.

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

A GIFT FROM AHAB
Part Two
 
 

Dickey--

Dana got a new partner this month. Magg says she's not sure if Starbuck
likes him. He's weird, appearantly. Magg laughed when she told me that
Dana thought maybe this Mulder character and Melissa might make a good
pair.
   I want to call her. She's doing so well--really making a name for
herself. I always knew she'd succeed wherever she went, but she seems to
be a real rising star in the Bureau. Whatever I think of the Bureau as a
whole, I'm so glad to see her succeeding.
   She'd probably just hang up on me. Magg said she asks after me every
time they talk, but I get the feeling it's more for her mother's benefit
than for me.
   I just don't know how to approach her anymore. She's so adult, so
refined. You should see her sometime, Dickey. You almost wouldn't
recognise her. She looks so like Maggie did when she was her age. So
beautiful.
   Maybe I'll call her. I know you're just going to write back and tell me
to, anyway, so I'll save you the trouble. I just don't know what to say.

She smiled at the memory. Mulder had seemed so... *outrageous* when they
started together. She really hadn't known what to make of him. The last
month and a half had shown her that, now, she wouldn't know what to do
without him.
   She sighed deeply, her memory slipping to the phone call she got a week
after the date on that letter.

"Hello, Starbuck?"
   "Uncle Dick! Hi, how are you?"
   "I'm fine, honey, how are you?" His voice had positively twinkled. "I
hear you got a new partner."
   She remembered being a little perplexed. "How did you know?"
   "Your dad told me."
   "Oh."
   Dickey was silent for a moment. "Has he called you, Starbuck?"
   "No," she said surprised. "Why? Is something wrong?" She had talked to
her mother two days before, and she hadn't mentioned anything.
   "No," Dickey had replied slowly, sounding a little perplexed himself.
"He just told me he was going to, that's all."
   "Why?" Her father never called her--at least not voluntarily.
   Dickey's voice became soft. "Just to see how you're doing. To see what
you think of your new partner. Just to talk."
   Scully had shaken her head, a little sadly, a little angrily. "He and I
don't 'just talk' anymore, Uncle Dick."
   His voice had taken on that hard drill sargent's tone. "That's
something you should change, Starbuck. Now." He softened again. "Just call
him, Dana. He'd like to hear from you."
   She had sat there for a moment. Would he? Would he really like to hear
from the daughter who had gone so against his wishes? Who had made such a
failure of her life? "Maybe I will, Uncle Dick."
   He had sighed. "But probably you won't." He had spoken quietly, sadly.
"Dana, there's going to come a time when you'll wish you had spoken with
him. Things aren't as bad as either of you are making them out to be. You
just need to *talk.*"

He had been so right, she thought, running yet another tissue under her
eyes. She wondered how much could have been repaired if she had just
picked up the phone and called him.
   Probably very little, she thought truthfully. The one time she had
called him, the one time she had really tried to reach out to him for
help, for guidance, he had reacted just as she knew he would, and she had
done the same.

"Hello?"
   "Hi... Dad?"
   "Dana?" His voice had been rough, surprised. "What's wrong?"
   She had shrugged, looking abashedly at her feet, as if he were there,
towering over her, instead of sitting in his kitchen at the other end of
the phone line. "Nothing, really. I just... wanted to talk."
   "About?" She had heard it as gruffness, indifference, though she
realised now that it had probably just been his own awkwardness.
   "Just... I don't know, Dad. Work is getting really... odd."
   He had snorted with more disdain than she would have thought could come
over a phone line. "It's the FBI. What do you expect?"
   "Dad," she had quipped, immediately defensive. "The FBI is a fine place
to work--"
   "If you're a spook--"
   "Damnit, Dad! I called to *talk* to you, not to get a lecture!"
   "Dana, if you want to talk to me, *talk* to me. Just don't expect me to
agree with you."
   She had started crying then. She hadn't meant to, but she couldn't stop
herself. He just wouldn't listen to her. She was trying to say something
important--something important to *her,* and he just didn't care.
   He also couldn't deal with crying. "Look, Dana, if the FBI gets to you
that bad--"
   "--*It* doesn't, *you* do!--"
   "--Then maybe you should just get smart and quit!"
   She had slammed the phone down on him, something she couldn't remember
ever doing to him before. <Things didn't used to be like this,> she had
thought, curling up on her couch and crying. <Things used to be really
good. He used to love me.>

Probably things wouldn't have changed if she hadn't hung up the phone.
Certain things were just the way they were. She looked down at the letters
before her. <People just change.>
   She looked up, startled, as a nurse came in, medication in hand. The
young woman looked at her, concerned. "Are you okay? You in pain?"
   Scully shook her head with a sad little smile. "No, I just..." <deep
breath> "I was just reading over some letters from my father."
   "Oh," the nurse said, nodding, as she handed her the pills. "Yeah, my
dad died a few years ago. He was pretty mean sometimes, but I really miss
him."
   Scully looked up at her. The little-girl face made it impossible to
gauge her age. "What was he like?"
   The woman smiled sadly, and Scully realised that behind that child's
face, she had to be at least forty. "You know, temper, the occassional
knock upside the head. He travelled for a living." She sighed wistfully.
"I guess, after a while, he just didn't know me well enough. He thought I
was still a twelve-year-old."
   Scully stared quietly as the nurse left. She wiped her eyes again, and
turned to another letter.

Dickey--

Dana was in some trouble at work. Someone, some *psycho* she and this
Mulder were chasing, he attacked her. She's fine, Maggs said. Just a
little shaken up.
   I *knew* this would happen! I tried to get her to see what kind of
danger she was going to be in when she joined, but she wouldn't listen to
me. This time it was minor. Next time she might end up dead.
   I don't know what to do about it anymore, Dick. She wouldn't listen to
me if I told her to get out. I'm not even sure I *want* to tell her to get
out. She's a good agent.
   A guy from Intelligence was at one of those awful Military Bashes last
week. Seems he had worked with her on some case or other a while back. He
thought she was good--very good.
   It's obvious she knows what she's doing. Maggs even tells me how
Starbuck tells her how much she enjoys her work. I can't ask her to leave
something that means so much to her, but...
   But, Dickey, what if she gets hurt? Really hurt? I feel like, somehow,
it would be partly my fault. I mean, maybe if I hadn't made such a
production of it in the first place, she would have lost interest in a
while. Decided that the FBI wasn't really where she wanted to be.
   I mean, did I railroad her into it? If she were to end up dead because
she was mad enough at me to join the Bureau as some sort of payback...

She smiled tenderly. Just like Ahab to think everything had something to
do with him. She would have joined the Bureau regardless. Maybe the speed
with which she did it had something to do with his opposition, but she
hadn't done it just to spite him.
   She had known he worried about her. Every time her mother called, it
was "your dad wanted to make sure you were okay," or "your dad asked me to
ask you if..."
   Her poor mother. Caught in the crossfire. She had been the bridge
between her husband and the daughter he had adored--the one he adored, but
couldn't talk to. Scully wondered how her mother had ever put up with it.
   She remembered a few times when she hadn't.

"Dana, you'll have to tell him yourself."
   "Mom," she had said, trying to sound reasonable. "I won't be home at
all tonight. Mulder and I have a stakeout. I just want you to tell him
happy birthday for me."
   She had been able to see her mother, hand on her hip, finger poised at
her daughter who sat miles away. "I am not a relay station between you and
your father, Dana. If you want to say something to him, say it yourself."
   "But, Mom.."
   Her mother had softened automatically. "You two are so fond of each
other, Dana. I *know* you are. Just talk to your father. Surely a shouting
match can't arise from a simple 'happy birthday'?"
   "He doesn't like to talk to me, Mom."
   Her mother had snorted, disbelieving, over the phone. "He loves you! He
shows people your picture, and says 'That's my daughter, Dana. She works
for the FBI.' And he says it with *pride,* Dana."

She hadn't believed it then. It was something mothers were supposed to
say, along with "you're beautiful," and "you're smart"--"your father is
proud of you." Mothers had to say it, because fathers wouldn't. And
sometimes fathers just *weren't* proud of their daughters.
  But as she came to the last letter, she realised what a gift she had
really recieved. *She* had recieved her father's pride--right here, in a
little cigar box, written in his own flowery script.
   The last one was a little shaking, a little brief.

Dickey--

Hope you do come up next week. Maggs is after me to drag you out of that
sorry house with a crowbar. She'd love to see you. She wants to try to get
Starbuck up here. I really hope she does. I miss her, Dick. She's so far
away from me--a million miles.
   I know you'll kick me for repeating what you've been trying to say to
me for years, but I think maybe it's time I broke down the wall. She may
not like it at first--I'm sure *I'll* probably hate it--but we need to get
things resolved.
   I wish she knew how proud I am of her. I wish she realised how much I
love her.

                                                         Bill

Scully placed the letters carefully back in the box, sorting them by date,
crying the whole time. Nothing could ever change for her and her father
now. Not in this life. But someday, maybe soon, maybe not, she'd be able
to tell him how much she loved him. She'd be able to apologise for it all.
Somewhere in her mind, she heard a voice, long forgotten--a voice she
thought she had dreamed--

"For me, life went at a proper pace, there were many rewards... Until the
moment that I knew... I understood, that I would never see you again... my
little girl.
   "Then my life felt as if it had been the length of one breath--one
heartbeat. I never knew how much I loved my daughter until I could never
tell her. At that moment, I would have traded every medal, every
commendation, every promotion for one more second with you...
   "We'll be together again, Starbuck. But not now. Soon..."

She wished she could talk to him. There were so many things to say, so
much she wanted to tell him. He was proud of her--but did he know how
proud she was of *him*?

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

Instead of tiring her, as she had thought it would, the party refreshed
her. She remembered her brother's words from Thanksgiving--it seemed years
ago. "Concentrate on the living," he had said. As she looked up at him,
joking with Mulder, looking so like their father, she realised that he was
right.
   She had the remnants of her family. She had Mulder...
   Missy and Dad were missed--sorely, painfully--but her life was
here--right now, in this room.
   A phrase came to her mind. She had no idea what it was from--could
never recall actually hearing it: "Something lives on only as long as the
last person who remembers it."
   She ran a hand over the cigar box fondly. Ahab and Missy would be alive
for a long time yet.
   Mulder sat next to her, perched carefully on the edge of her bed. He
handed her a glass of iced tea with a smile. "They're going to kick us
out, soon," he said quietly.
   "Yeah."
   He looked at the box in her hands. "Is that from your father?"
   She nodded. "He always did give great gifts." She turned awkwardly
toward him. "So what did you get me?"
   She expected something cheesy--she'd all but begged for it a week ago
as she sat beside *his* hospital bed. What she got was a small, framed
sand-painting. Of a fox. She looked up at him, surprised. "Where...?"
   "A friend made it for me," he said quietly. "A healing gift, he called
it."
   She looked down at it again, running her good hand over its rough
surface. A healing gift. That, she thought with a smile, makes two.
   She looked up at him--a cautious smile sat on his drawn face, hope in
his eyes that she'd like the present. <Three.>
   "Thank you, Mulder," she said, leaning into him. "Thank you for coming
back."
   He draped a careful arm accross her shoulders, squeezing tenderly.
"Thank you for leading me back... Again."
**************

Okay, that's really the end of the DEMONS/SOLITARY arc. Expect a few more
nightmares for both of them, but nothing else to do with the loose ends
from this arc... at least for a while. <HeeHee>

Hope you liked the rewrite!

Lis