By MystPhile
MystPhile@aol.com

Date: Sat, 18 Sep 1999 19:32:30 EDT
Distribution:  Gossamer, Ephemeral, and Xemplary, okay;
others, please ask.

SUMMARY:  WHAT IF. . . Scully had never ventured to the FBI
basement, never met Mulder.

Classification:  S, SA

Spoilers:  None

Rating:  R

Disclaimer:  Some characters property of 1013.

Website:  Thanks to Beaker, my web page is at
                http://members.xoom.com/MystPhile/

Feedback:  Very welcome

Still Life
By MystPhile@aol.com

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

He settled between her spread thighs, the weight of his knees
making her hips slide down the bed.  His mouth clamped
onto her nipple; the suction was strong, giving her more pain
than pleasure.  She bit her lower lip, her breath coming
faster.  He interpreted the sound as passion.

He lifted his head from her breast, moved to hover over her
face.  "Happy 35th, Dana," he whispered.  "Glad I could be
home for the celebration.  I was afraid I wouldn't make it."

"I didn't think you would. I was sure it was just going to be
Mom and Melissa and the guys."  She sighed.  "You've missed
most of my birthdays, you know."  And just about everything
else of consequence about me, she added mentally.

They'd been married for seven years now, and he'd spent two of
her birthdays with her, one Christmas, and two wedding
anniversaries.  Like Ahab, Paul sailed the high seas.
Actually, he spent most of his time beneath the seas, on a
nuclear submarine.  Dana had grown used to being a Navy widow,
having reached the point of being happier when her husband was
away.  Much happier.

They didn't really know each other any more.  She wondered if
they ever had, or if it had been a simple attack of hormones,
prolonged by the absences, which at one time had made their
hearts grow fonder.  And their reunions hotter.  But that was
long ago.  So long she could barely remember those feelings.

Now she knew little, and cared even less, about his life at
sea.  And he in turn asked few questions about her working
life as an Internist at a San Diego hospital, or her
activities with her relatives and friends he didn't even know,
and her energetic work on behalf of the American Heart
Association.  She felt she owed that one to Ahab, victim of
the silent menace.  But Paul was unaware of her activities.
For all he knew, she watched tv every night, or picked up
extra money lap dancing at a sleazy nightspot near the base.

He came home periodically, socialized with his friends, drank
too much, and made amiable noises at her family, especially
her brothers, initiates of his world.  She was not one of
them.  She maintained her own life, her own friendships, her
own world.  It was a tempered, comfortable world, except when
her husband appeared.  He interfered with the pace of her
life.  She was not glad when informed of his imminent return;
the news made her twitchy.

Why go on with him, she wondered.  He's never here anyway, and
when he is, I feel like his whore, fucking without feeling.
Just because I wear this ring and once took some unthinking
vows, I owe him this?

He kneaded her breast roughly, squeezing the nipple, watching
her face.

Her rings gleamed in the dim light of the room.  She searched
her husband's eyes, seeing nothing there.  Or at least,
nothing for her.  She was married to a stranger, one she no
longer found attractive.  He was rough, he was impersonal, he
was. . . no one to her anymore.  Just the guy who had the
legal right to do this, who expected her to respond to and
enjoy his actions.  A stranger who purported to be intimate
with her.

Had she ever told him exactly what to do to enhance her
pleasure?  Not for a long time.  And her pleasure wasn't high
on his priority list these days anyway.  His tongue invaded
her mouth, rough, probing.  She tasted liquor, sharp and
stale.  She felt his penis poking at her, like a drunk groping
to fit the key into the lock.  Once she would have guided him
in; now, she thought, the hell with it.  He's too drunk to get
it in--that's his problem.

He got lucky and hit the target, sliding inside with a hard,
painful thrust.  "Oomph," she murmured.

"You love it, don't you, baby," he crooned.  "Love it, love
it, love it.  Are you wet, baby?  You gonna come for me?"

Unlikely, she thought, as he thudded against her, chafing her
tissues.  What's much more likely, Paul my un-dearest, is that
we are going to go our separate ways.  Soon.  The minute I get
my head together to give you the news in words you will
understand.  Words that will not cause a testosterone flare of
resistance.  Words that will convince you that a separation is
best for you.

Ouch!  Well, she thought, at least he'll be quick.
 

CLICK<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
 

It was the third attack by the group calling themselves the
Yellow Menace.  They had chosen as their targets Federal
penitentiaries, and when their bombs exploded, the results
were mixed.  Invariably, they killed or maimed some prisoners
while others managed to escape in the ensuing chaos.

Assistant Director Dana Scully arrived on the scene, striding
forward in an expensively tailored wool pants suit, a soft
blue blouse, and the hard, alert eyes of the person in charge.
She looked incongruously chic against the Pennsylvania
countryside as she picked her way through mud, debris,
stretchers, and vehicles with flashing lights.

Magically, the mud did not cling to her high-heeled boots.
She reached her target in pristine condition, causing everyone
around her to adjust ties, wipe shoes, and slick back hair.
The fine drizzle didn't seem to touch her either; to the
nervous law enforcement officers awaiting her arrival, she was
wrapped, metaphorically, in plastic.

"What've you got?" she demanded, frowning at the Agent in
Charge at the scene.

Jake Carter, fat and fifty, stepped forward, wishing he were
facing the terrorists rather than this superior.  She had a
reputation for extracting every last bit of effort from every
member of her team.  A tireless perfectionist, she expected
miracles from those under her; generally, she got them.
Carter braced himself to produce loaves and fishes.

"Identical MO," he stuttered.  "In every case, they wire a
van, send it hurtling against the wall, packed with
explosives.  The results here are, so far, just what we've
seen at the other pens."

"Not good enough," AD Scully snapped.  "Get me a map of the
Federal facilities that have been hit so far; let's see if
there's a pattern."

She gestured at the smoking gully where the wall had been.
"Get this debris to the labs and find out if there's an intact
serial number for the van.  If there is, we should have our
boys within days.  If not, look into the van acquisition
question.  They had to get hold of these things--stealing,
renting, buying.  Put a trace on this and all the other vans."

She paused for breath, not for thought.  "And see who's been
staying in the motels in the vicinity.  All the bombing
vicinities.  Someone has to check these prisons out in
advance--to determine the best approach route, find the right
piece of wall, choose the best time of day."

The misty rain suddenly turned into a shower.  This didn't
interfere in the least with the AD's concentration.  "Carter,
find me a room inside.  I want to address the entire team.
Time to catch these bastards before they do any further
damage."

"Yes, Ma'am."  He escaped thankfully.

Still ignoring the rain, the AD approached one of the flashing
ambulances.  She bent over a young man whose ear had been
blown off.  Despite a hasty wrap, blood soaked the entire area
under his head.  He might be a Federal prisoner, but he looked
like a high school freshman--raw, innocent, and scared out of
his wits.

"What's your name?" Scully asked.

"Dan," he croaked.

"Is it just the ear, or do you have other damage?"

"The ear," he moaned.  "Christ, it hurts."

She laid her hand on his, gave it a warm, comforting squeeze.
"They've got a drip going," she told him.  "Your pain will
ease in a few minutes."  She leaned down further.  "Did you
see anything?  What happened?  Where were you?"

"The exercise yard," he said.  "And all I saw was a big hole
blast through the wall.  And then the splatter of my blood.
Thought they blew my head off.  Thought I was dead."

"Ear wounds bleed like hell," she told him.  "You'll be fine."

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said, as he was lifted into the
ambulance.  "I'll remember that."

She flashed a genuine smile.  "Good luck," she called.

Straightening her jacket, she headed to her meeting, ready to
kick ass and take names, if necessary.  Whatever it took to
get the job done.  Saving lives was more important
than coddling the agents.  If she had to kick ass, so be it.
If they thought she was a raving bitch, so what?  She didn't
need to be liked.  Nor did she need to be loved.

That's what I get all the big bucks for, she told herself, as
she strode through the crowd, eyes not missing a detail.  She
stood outside the meeting room, straightening her cuffs.  When
her left cuff pulled back, she caught a glimpse of her watch,
which showed the date.

Happy 35th birthday, she told herself, as there was certainly
no one else to say it.   Just where you wanted to spend it.
In a jail.

CLICK<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

"The colors are so much brighter than I expected," Dana
said, adjusting her binoculars.  They sat on a bench in the
Sistine Chapel, necks craned to study the ceiling.

"Well, they were restored," Melissa said, lowering her head
and rubbing her neck.  "The oranges and greens especially are
not in the least subtle.  They're kind of . . .neon."

"Uh-huh.  This was a great idea, Missy."

Melissa laughed.  "It was a natural, Dana.  So much to
celebrate.  Your 35th birthday.  Your new job.  Our return to
San Francisco.  Both of us dumping our husbands.  Where else
would we go but. . .the Vatican?"

"Sure, where they really approve of divorce.  Perfect.
Besides, you've dumped more husbands than I have."

Melissa shrugged and raised her binoculars.  "We're not in a
race.  Besides, if we were, I'd win hands down.  My last
dumpee was a heroin-addicted saxophonist.  Can't come near
that, can ya, Sis?"

"It depends on what you think of cardiologists."

"Jerry was nice," Melissa said judiciously of Dana's ex-
husband.  "Just a tad dull."  She snickered.  "Ironically,
somewhat lacking in heart."

Dana chuckled until the voice on the loud speaker began
haranguing all the tourists to respect the fact that
they were in a chapel and keep their voices down and
behave properly.  "Geez,"  Melissa muttered, "how many
languages can they yell at us in?"

"They seem to know a lot of them."  Dana sighed.  "It's nice
to be with you, haven't seen much of you in the last year."

"I took off for Japan to drown my sorrows.  Sufficiently
soaked, I trekked back to San Francisco.  By a huge
coincidence, you chose that same moment to dump Mr. Wrong,
pick up stakes from Seattle and head for the same fault line.
Always good to live dangerously, huh, Dana?"

Scully shrugged.  "I never expected to become a divorce
statistic," she said.  "And Jerry wasn't a bad man or
anything close to it.  He was always very. . . pleasant.  I
just got so. . . so fucking bored.  Oh, shit, God will strike
me down, sitting here under Michelangelo talking like this."

"God's heard worse, I'm sure.  Why shouldn't you look for more
excitement, Dana?  Is that why you chose San Francisco?"

Dana squinted at her sister.  "What do you mean?  I feel
guilty about failing at marriage so I go settle on a fault
line, as a. . .  a symbol?"

"No.  I mean, the prospect of danger, something unpredictable.
Isn't that what drove you and Jerry apart?  The
predictability?  The tedium?"

Dana thought about it.  "Yeah.  I'm 35 years old and I want
something to *happen* in my life, damn it.  I need some kind
of excitement, not just to trudge along in the same old rut.
You understand, Missy.  You've always chosen the road less
traveled by."

"Maybe.  Sometimes I think I've become predictable in my
unpredictability.  Maybe number three should be a cardiologist
or a lawyer or something like that."

Dana snorted.  "Why not go all the way?  Marry a CPA."

"Gotta draw the line somewhere.  I said I wanted to be
unpredictable, not a suburban Barbie."

They studied the ceiling, enthralled.  Here was life, Scully
thought.  Ironic that the paintings of someone so long dead
could teem with such vibrant life.  She wished for a similar.
. .neon vibrancy.  Something to grab her imagination, shake
her beliefs, make her more. . . .alive.  Teach her, broaden
her horizons, make her heart soar instead of plod.  Where
would she find it?  *Could* she find it?

"So," Melissa whispered, "what do you think of Adam's prick?"

Scully trained her binoculars on the magnificent portrayal of
Adam, his finger reaching out to touch the finger of God the
creator.  She studied the pose, the colors, the defined
musculature, the zealot God, the expression of human longing
on Adam's countenance.

"It's his expression that interests me," she told Melissa.
"He wants something.  He's reaching out for it.  It's almost
within his grasp."  She envied him.  "Look how short the
distance is between their two fingers.  It's just about to be
his."

"Yeah.  I see all that.  But have you ever seen such a big guy
with such a little prick?"

"His prick doesn't matter," Dana said.  "He's about to receive
a whole new life.  When those two hands touch."

CLICK<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

His mouth clamped onto her nipple.  The suction was strong and
very, very pleasurable.  He established his rhythm, and she
drew a deep breath, feeling her body relax into the steady
movement of his jaws.  Her entire being became warm and
flowing and soft; she glowed.

She raised her hand to stroke his head, fingering his soft
brown hair.  She traced the outline of his delicate shell of
an ear.  When she touched his forehead, she felt a slippery
sheen of sweat.  She rubbed her fingers across his forehead,
trailed them down to his soft cheek, caressed him lovingly,
her heart overflowing.  I love you so much, she thought.  You
are the best thing that ever happened to me in my life.  I
would give my life for you.  Over and over and over.  Any
time.

She moved her finger to the corner of his mouth, gently
pressing her breast to break the suction.  He grudgingly let
go, milk drops trickling from the side of his mouth.  She
switched him to the other breast, where he resumed his
suckling, eyes closed, breathing steady.  Sweat once again
beaded his forehead as she rocked him gently in the chair.
She hummed a little lullaby, and he didn't even mind if it was
a bit offkey.  He was perfectly happy.

Standing in the doorway, his father looked on, enjoying the
communion of the two people he loved most.  He found Scully's
flat rendition of "Hush, Little Baby" endearing.  She looked
up, saw him hesitating in the shadow, and smiled. She was as
tranquil as a Michelangelo Madonna, and as strong, filled with
conviction and vibrant life.

"Happy 35th birthday," he said softly.  "You're holding a very
precious gift there."

"I know."

CLICK<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

"Scully.  Scully."

She opened her eyes, just stopping herself from uttering that
most worn of clichs, Where am I.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I can tell you what happened to you," Mulder said, "but not
what's going on.  You've been murmuring the strangest things."

Her vision cleared a bit.  She noticed that she was in a
hospital bed, Mulder perched beside her, a little frown
creasing his forehead.  Her head ached.  It throbbed.  She'd
been hit.  Yes, that was it.  What was Mulder saying?

"What kind of strange things?"

"Nothing that makes sense.  You were saying 'ouch.'  Now that
made sense.  I figured your head hurt.  But then you started
muttering about big bucks.  I wondered if you were talking
about deer, but then you added something about jail.  Then you
said the word 'prick' quite distinctly."

He smiled.  "I nearly left to give you some privacy, but
before I could get out of here you started talking about love
and gifts.  And you were smiling.  I've never seen you look so
blissful, Scully."  Mulder's smile turned wistful.  "Maybe I
should find the same guy and pay him to bop me over the head."

"Yeah," she said.  "I got hit.  I remember now.  In the woods,
up near Mount Hood.  Right?"

Mulder nodded.  "By a yeti, I suspect."

Not feeling up to discussing yeti, she closed her eyes.

Mulder picked up her hand.  "We should have postponed the case
till after your birthday, Scully.  This is no way to celebrate
your 35th.  It could have waited a day."

She opened her eyes.  "Actually, Mulder, I had a pretty full
day."

"Doing what?  Dreaming?"

She nodded.  "All sorts of things that could have happened in
my life.  Things that happened on my 35th birthday."

"Oh.  Was I there?  I wasn't the prick, I hope."  His smile
was a bit nervous, she noticed.

"I don't think I'd met you," she said.  "All the. . . dreams
were of things that . . .  that might have been if my life had
taken a different turn."  She stared into the distance.

Mulder frowned.  "But you looked so happy there at the end.
The peace in your face--it was remarkable.  You looked twenty
years old and like. . .  like the happiest woman in the world.
That's what you'd have if not for me?"  He looked agitated.

"I don't know," she said.  Suddenly she felt exhausted.  It
wasn't just that she'd been hit on the head and possibly
concussed, but as if she'd also lived through half a
lifetime's worth of trauma.  How much territory, how many
emotions, she'd covered.  She couldn't take any more.  She
needed sleep.  *Dreamless* sleep.

She had no wish to be investigated by Mulder.  Bad enough he'd
dragged her off to be hit by a . . . a yeti?  In *your*
dreams, Mulder, she thought.  She yawned.  "They were just
dreams," she told him, trying to deflect him.

He nodded.  "Yeah.  And sometimes a dream. . . is an answer to
a question we haven't. . . yet learned how to ask."  He stared
at her, her eyes closed once more.  But now she was just
Scully, not the mysterious creature with the secret life
bouncing behind her eyelids, illuminating her face.  "Did you.
. .  did you find any answers in your dreams?"

She opened her eyes.  "In most of my dreams. . . I wasn't very
happy.  I was cold or. . . discontented, looking for something
different or more exciting.  And. . . maybe I wasn't the
nicest person either.  None of them really seemed like . . .
like me, Mulder.  What I *could* have been, maybe.  But not
who I am."

"Except for the last one," he whispered.  "You weren't looking
for something then.  You'd found it."

She nodded.  "That one gave me something I can't have.  An
answer to a question I was afraid to ask."  She glanced up.
"And that's all I want to say about it.  Please, Mulder."

He took her hand.  "Sure."

Love, gifts, he thought.  What she can't have.

As she slept, he stared bleakly into the distance.   He
kept her hand encased in his, so she would have something.

END