By Alelou
Alelou123@aol.com

Feedback of any ilk is welcome
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers:  Big ones for DeadAlive and previous episodes
Category: Major angst, M/S
Distribution: Gossamer and anywhere with headers
attached
Disclaimer: These characters belong to CC, 1013 & Fox.
Summary:  Various impossibilities are reconciled with a
reality that is even less desirable.
Author's Notes:  Jamie's comment about formaldehyde and
this entire whacked-out season inspired this one.  Do
not read this if you want one of my patented happy
endings.  However, I am incapable of being totally bleak
(at least until I see the season finale).
 

Mulder smells.

Decomposing bodies generally reek in a way that makes
the average human gag.  It's an inescapable fact of
death.  As bacteria consume dead flesh, they generate a
high, sickly-sweet odor.

But that's not the way Mulder smells.  No, this is a
Mulder-After-Sweating-Two-Days-Without-a-Shower smell,
mixed in with a few hospital smells.  It's quite
familiar, really.  Yeasty, salty, musky.  Very Mulder.
A Mulder who's very much alive.

Something's wrong here.  You can't be buried in the
ground for a month and smell like this.  I don't care
what alien viruses happen to join the dance of decay.

I'm sitting here while he sleeps and miraculously
breathes air into lungs that were empty and cold and his
once silent heart pumps blood through a network of
arteries and veins that should no longer be capable of
circulation.

I guess this means they didn't use formaldehyde?   I
don't remember saying, hey, no formaldehyde for my dead
alien-abducted partner.  I didn't want an autopsy, but I
didn't make a fuss otherwise.  What would have been the
point?

The thing is, this just really, really can't be
happening.

I shiver and feel myself break out in a clammy cold
sweat as the realization sinks in.  This is, in fact,
impossible.  Flat out impossible.  I suppose maybe if
Jesus Christ himself had walked in and said, "Arise,"
there might be some explanation for how Mulder is lying
here breathing.  But I haven't seen anyone even
approximately meeting the description around here ...
not even Jeremiah Smith.

A clone?  I suppose it's possible.  He seemed so real
when he woke.  He knew me.  But who knows what they can
do, these people.  So it's possible.

Or maybe he's actually an alien?  It happened to Billy
Miles, also inexplicably.  What if they can come back in
different forms?  Maybe there are different aliens?
But why bother with the whole being-buried-in-the-ground
business if you don't have to?  Hardly a very convenient
way to colonize a planet.

If it's not him, what if it's me?

Maybe that huge fungus that had us left a few spores in
my lungs and they've sprouted?   Or we're still there,
buried in the ground?  Maybe I never woke up from the
bee sting?  Never woke up from the last gunshot wound?

It would explain this strange pregnancy that can't have
happened and never seems to progress.  It would explain
how I never quite seem to get around to looking for
Mulder ... not to mention the impossibility of Mulder
lying here breathing in front of me.  It might explain
that inxplicable illness I didn't know about, and the
ship I finally saw, and the reappearance of Jeremiah
Smith.  It might even explain John Doggett and the
strange little Indian on the cart and the slug messiah.

Can I even be sure that I lost Mulder?

Maybe he lost me.

Maybe I finally went insane.

If not, this is looking like it might be a good time.

xxx

"She's mumbling something," Maggie Scully says.

"Uh?"  Mulder starts awake from where he's been dozing
in the side chair.

"Come on, Dana, wake up," Maggie urges.

"Why not let her sleep?" Mulder asks bleakly.

Maggie brushes her daughter's hair repetitively.  "I
want whatever time I can have," she says fiercely.

He nods miserably.  "I'll be back in a few minutes," he
says, pulling himself to his feet stiffly.

xxx

I wake up to the sound of my mother crooning my name.
When I open my eyes, she smiles, looking a lot older
than I remembered.

"Hey, sweetie," she says.

"Hi, Mom."  I feel strange.  Woozy.

"How do you feel?"

"What happened to me?"

"You passed out in the woods near here, while you and
Fox were on a case."

"In Oregon?"  Oh.  Well, of course, in Oregon.  "Where's
Mulder?" I demand.

"He'll be back in a few moments.  He's been here the
whole time, believe me."

I stare at her.  "How long?"

She looks as if she'd like to avoid the question.  "Two
days," she says.

I'm still trying to figure that one out when Mulder
comes back in with a doctor in tow.   Mulder looks gaunt
and worried and unbathed.  But he's here.  He's alive.
I sigh in relief and smile at him.  His smile back is
more of a grimace.  My heart begins to thump as I
realize there's something very wrong here.

"Scully, this is Dr. John Doggett," Mulder says,
gesturing to the man at his side, before he sinks back
into his chair next to me and clasps my left hand.  Mom
hasn't let go of the other one.

"How do you feel, Miss Scully?" the doctor asks, in a
rasping voice that seems somehow familiar.

"What's the matter with me?"  I ask, but with a cold
spreading sense of horror I realize I already know.
"It's back, isn't it?  The cancer."

Mulder chokes back tears at my left while Mom sniffles
on my right.

"I'm afraid so," the doctor says.  "The tumor is still
relatively small, but it's growing into your cerebellum.
The flight may have contributed to some swelling that
caused you to pass out.  Tell me, have you been
suffering at all from headaches, perhaps even
hallucinations?"

A man on the cross winking at me.  A man reaching into
my chest for my heart.  A vision in a Buddhist temple.
A partner abducted and tortured by aliens.  A mysterious
neurological illness in a notoriously healthy man.  An
impossible pregnancy.

Fuck.

"That bastard took the chip out, didn't he?" I whisper.
"That must have been part of his agenda all along."

The doctor and my mother exchange concerned glances.

"It's not there anymore," Mulder confirms, his voice
bitter.  I'm relieved that at least one person knows
what I'm talking about.  Of course, this whole thing
could be just another dream, I suppose.

"How are you feeling right now?" the doctor asks me.

"I'm not sure what's real anymore," I confess.

Mulder bows his head and clutches my hand harder.

"How long do I have?" I ask the doctor, wondering if
this is just another bad dream I'm living through.

He hesitates.  "As you know, I can only give you an
inexact estimate, but I would guess you have less than
six months without treatment.  With radiation treatments
to keep the tumor in check, you may gain additional
time, but there are likely to be some unpleasant side-
effects.  As I believe you know, there are no
satisfactory surgical or chemical options with a tumor
in this location.  We can certainly try the experimental
therapy your oncologist used the last time, but he was
not at all sanguine that it was what led to your
remission.  In any case, however, Dana, as time goes by
you're going to have fewer periods of lucidity."

"Has it metastasized?"

"There's no sign of that.  But, frankly, I wouldn't say
that you need concern yourself greatly with that issue
at this point," the doctor said.

"And I'm not pregnant," I say to nobody in particular.

They look at each other in veiled consternation.

No, of course not.  Of course not.

"We need another chip," I say to Mulder, as if he could
go out and get one as easily as buying a loaf of bread.

Mulder agrees, "Yes, that's what we need," but he looks
haunted and grim.

xxx

"What is it?" I ask him, later, after Mom has left for a
meal and a shower and he's gotten past the Scully I'm So
Sorry stuff.

"Spender was found dead two days ago," he said.  "And
Skinner has just been asked for major cuts in our
budget."

"So I didn't just hallucinate that audit."

"No," he says, with a small smile.

"Did I hallucinate the part where you assaulted the
auditor?"

"No, but I was exaggerating.  I did try insulting him,
but I don't think he got it."

We've been holding hands for hours.   Nothing like
mortal illness to bring out the latent affection in this
relationship.  I squeeze his hand and he squeezes mine
back.

"Why did you ask him if you were pregnant?" Mulder asks
quietly, smoothing my hair back possessively.

I lean into his hand.  "I'm not late or anything.  I had
this long, involved dream while I was out, I guess.  In
it, I fainted because I was pregnant.  And you were the
father, Mulder, I'm happy to say, but unfortunately you
were abducted by aliens so you didn't even know it."

"Oh," he says, looking bemused.

"You would tell me if you were ill, wouldn't you,
Mulder?" I ask.

"Of course I would," he says, looking concerned again.

"So you're not ill."

"No, but I think I'm beginning to lose my hair," he
says.  "And at this point I could probably use about 30
years of therapy.  Where's this coming from, Scully?"

"Dreams," I sigh.  "Bad dreams."

xxx

"So does my disability pay come out of our now even more
limited budget?" I ask later.

"Nah, the Bureau has insurance for that," Mulder
mumbles.

"Well, good," I say.

"I swear if that bastard wasn't dead already, I'd kill
him," Mulder hisses.

"I'm glad you aren't the kind of man who actually does
that," I say.  "But on the other hand, at this point I'd
probably volunteer to help you do it.  How did he die?"

"The nurse said Krycek pushed him down the stairs in his
wheelchair."

"Nice."

"Mmm," Mulder agrees.  "Krycek has, of course,
disappeared."

We sit there in silence for a few moments.

"We're so screwed," I say.

Mulder squeezes my hand.  "We'll find a way, Scully."
 
 

THE END