By Gina Rain
ginarain@aol.com
 

Rating: PG
Category: S, A, MSR
Spoilers: Pilot, DeadAlive
Summary: Scully is hearing things she can no longer
deny.
Disclaimer: The X-files and its characters belong to
Chris Carter.
 

Now, no matter where I am
No matter what I do
I see your face appearing
Like an unexpected song
An unexpected song
That only we are hearing

(The Unexpected Song: Andrew Lloyd Webber, Don
Black)
 

Two people less musical than Mulder and Scully were
hard to find. She couldn't hold a note in a paper
bag and, as a singer, Mulder made a good rapper.

Still, during one of those moments when Scully chose
to step outside herself and examine their
relationship, she came to the conclusion that the
two of them had a natural harmony; that they were,
indeed, able to create 'beautiful music' together.
The first known incident occurred in a
graveyard during their first case. In the long run,
nothing could be more ironic.

Years before, they found themselves standing in the
pouring rain while laughing together for the first
time. Scully was always very conscious of propriety,
especially back then. She knew it wasn't the time or
place for such an action but it seemed natural. It
seemed right. Here was a man who was used to being
mocked for his theories and expected no deferential
treatment from his new partner. But she never took
the easy way out. Scully could almost hear the
sounds of the tethers of scientific method snapping
as she let her mind free-fall into understanding Mulder's
Theory. It was a moment of respect and acceptance. They
didn't agree with each other on many things, but they'd
each bend a little and adjust their ways in an attempt to try.
That knowledge was exhilarating. In the years that
followed, she never remembered the wet clothes and
the cold. She remembered the sound of their
laughter.

But that was then. It was life in a different world:
a world with Mulder.

He was dead now.

Maybe.

Probably.

Definitely.

He *was* dead.  Scully shook her head at her
foolishness.

She had been the last person to see his lifeless
form in the coffin. For months, she had relived that
moment in an effort to convince herself of the one
fact she should know above all others. She knew the
dead. She dealt with the dead every day. She still
did. As she sliced and diced and taught others the
fine art, she wondered why she never thought of
Mulder. Of course, she hadn't permitted an autopsy
on him. She didn't want to know the horrible secrets
it might reveal.  Whether his death was a result of
one final, horrendous act of torture or a series, it
made little difference. Life for him in those last
few months had been hell and the only comfort she
could find was in this odd form of denial. Yes, he
had been tortured but perhaps his final moment had
been one of quiet release, a moment when he had
closed his eyes and just let go. Another irony. She
didn't need scientific proof. In fact, she didn't
want it.

He was dead. That's all she needed to know. And she
did know it. Sort of.

Scully sat up against the pillows and looked out as
the dawn spread a little light on her dark curtains.
Her father had come to her before he died. A simple
appearance in her living room was followed by the
phone call announcing his abrupt exit from the
world. It was, perhaps, the single most real and
unreal moment of her life up until that point.
Seeing Mulder for a moment before being summoned to
the compound was even worse.  He had been standing
right there in that motel, and she had been filled
with such joy and hope, only a short while before
they found his battered, bruised body. If only she
had not looked away. If only . . .

Scully absent-mindedly ran her hand over her
swelling belly. If she allowed herself to think
these crazy thoughts, they would take this baby from
her, for the good of both of them. This baby she had
wanted so much. She had upset the apple cart. That
was the problem. She should have been satisfied with
what she had and not taken any of it for granted.
She should have wrapped her arms around each mutant,
listened to each harebrained theory Mulder espoused.

"Scully."

There it was again: the whisper of her name. It held
reproach this time. It didn't always, but he
wouldn't like her to second-guess herself. He
wouldn't want her to upset herself or their child.
All this was clear in the way his slightly raspy
voice said her name.

If she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, she
would gladly give herself a push over the edge. Just
to continue to hear his voice. Just to see his face.

She looked at the window again. If she concentrated,
she almost could see him there again. Not wearing
some odd suit, like the last time she had seen him
before she had closed the lid, but with a towel
wrapped around his waist. His hair was wet and she
was cautioning him against opening a window in case
he caught a chill.

"Scully, you're a doctor. You don't 'catch a chill.'
A cold is a virus," he said, looking out at the
street.

"You don't live with Margaret Scully for so many
years and escape unscathed," she said, not lifting
herself up from the pillows. "Why are you up so
early?"

"I've got a few things to do in the office."

"Oh." She felt foolish. She had left him alone in
bed on several occasions. They were too new to all
of this. Pillow talk was not their forte and here
she was demanding to know what he planned to do with
his time.

"Scully . . . " His tone was chiding and endearing
all at once.

"What?"

"Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong."

"Am I?"

"Yes," he leaned back against the windowsill and
looked at her. "I willed you awake, you know."

"You did," she stated flatly.

"Yes. I bet you didn't know I could do that."

"You're right. Tell me how long you've had this
power."

"Well, I've thought I might for a while but proved
it when you opened your eyes just now."

"You weren't making any noise and you weren't even
looking in my direction when I opened my eyes."

"My point exactly. I willed you awake through
intense concentration and the desire to see those
baby blues before I left."

"Okay." She took a small breath and closed her eyes.
She didn't know why she was doing this but she
listened to the sounds in the room. There really
weren't any. All was silent and still but she knew
the exact moment he was standing in front of her.
Keeping her eyes shut, she reached out a hand and
touched his bare chest. She felt, as well as heard,
his chuckle.

"See, you have the power yourself. We have to open a
file on ourselves." She opened her eyes and saw him
as he stood before her, his hand now covering the
one she still had against his skin. His eyes were
soft and warm and she ached for him to come back to
bed, but knew she'd never stop him from leaving when
he felt he had to.

"It can be explained scientifically, Mulder-in
several ways-in fact."

He smiled and let go of her hand. He adjusted a pair
of phantom eyeglasses on his face. "Well, Agent,
write that in a report and have it on my desk by
noon. I'll consider it with an open mind. That will
be all."

"Frohike? Is that you?" She asked, feigning
amazement.

"Agent Scully, that is not only not amusing but
downright insubordinate," he dropped his Skinner
imitation. "Have you seen my socks?"

"No, I haven't."

"Ah, there they are." She watched as he dressed in
silence. Every few moments, he would look at her
across the room and smile. There were soft sounds of
clothing being put on, bedding being adjusted, and
two people breathing in the cold morning air coming
from the now open window. It was different than the
usual 'song' she noticed when they were together. It
was quiet and tender, and almost heartbreaking in
its simplicity.

He walked over to the bed and put his finger under
her chin. She raised her eyes to his and he softly
pressed his lips to hers.

"I hear this song in my head, Scully," he said as he
broke away.

Her eyes widened in utter amazement. Maybe they did
need to open a file on themselves.

"What song?"

"Well, you're probably too young but there was this
cigarette commercial in the 70s. For Virginia Slims,
I think. It had these women in bloomers
and contrasted them with women in modern dress
holding these cigarettes. And someone kept singing,
'You've come a long way, baby, to get where you've
come to to-day-yay-yay-yay,' or something like that.
That's the song that's playing in my head this
morning. Weird, huh?"

Scully burst into laughter. She wasn't sure if
Mulder even understood why he joined her, but he did
anyway. It was his part of  their harmony.

They *had* come a long way but some things remained
the same. The sound of  laughter was her favorite
duet in their repertoire.
 

Scully's smile turned into a frown as the phone rang
and interrupted her memories. Damn it. It was all
she had and some asshole couldn't leave her alone to
wallow in peace.
 
"Yes?" she said, in lieu of "hello."

"Scully." This time it was Frohike's voice
whispering her name.

"What's wrong?"

"I have something to tell you but I don't know if I
should . . ."
 

Several hours later, she closed her eyes for a brief
moment. They burned and she relished the sensation.
Since the funeral, she had felt as if she had been
looking through someone else's eyes, at someone
else's life. Perhaps it had been wishful thinking
come to fruition.

It was a sweet ache as she opened them and
looked at Mulder in the hospital bed. She watched
her own hand as it rose and fell with every movement
of his chest.

Scully blocked out the logic of family, friends,
medicine and science. She listened to the hisses and
beeps of his life support devices and knew she would
hear their song again. This time, their harmony
would take on an added richness as the rhythm
section of their son's developing heartbeat waited
to join in.
 
Mulder was alive.

Definitely.

Absolutely.

And, for the first time in months, so was she.

The End
 

Author's Notes:
I once wrote a little story that was probably my
biggest "bomb" ever. It had a title that was a
complete (and unconscious) bastardization of Andrew
Lloyd Weber lyrics. Because I'm insane and have ALW
on my mind once again-and one of his songs stuck in
my head-I'm trying again, "borrowing" a proper title
this time.  It's a lovely song and, I figured, this
story probably won't be any worse of a bomb than my
last three <vbg>.

Beta thanks to: Me.
Beta blame to: Me.