Title:  Upon a Star
Author: Jaime Lyn
Email: Leiaj@bellsouth.net
Summary:  What can Scully believe in, now that Mulder is gone?
Rating: PG (suggested sexual situation)
Category:  vignette.  MSR.  Pretty short.  We all know the drill.
Archive:  Anywhere :o)  If you like, drop me a line and let me know so I
can visit and make sure my story is well fed…
Disclaimer:  Mulder and Scully are not mine. I don’t own anything but
this one pint of Haagen-Daz coffee ice cream… and right now, it’s almost
all gone.  Sad, huh?  :o)

* Well, those who read my stuff know that I rarely ever write post-ep
fanfics.  But ever since watching ‘Requiem’ I’ve had this insane need to
write SOMETHING.  Finally it bugged me and bugged me till I sat down and
wrote and so… this is it.  It’s fairly angsty, short and well…
introspective.  This is my take on what’s going on in poor Scully’s
head.  Please read and enjoy and… as always, make my summer wonderful by
sending feedback if you like what you read.

For Jen.  How long have we been waiting for something like this to
happen?  Just like bunnies, right?

I’m sorry for everything I’ve said.
And for anything I forgot to say, too.
When our lives get so complicated
I stumble, at best, muddle through.
I wish our lives could be simple.
I don’t want the world.  Only you.
------ ‘The Letter,’ Lyrics by Tim Rice


Upon a Star
By Jaime Lyn


Sometimes when she looked up into the night sky, she thought she knew.

It was always a dark, savage feeling, a deep pain—like emptiness—that
ripped into the very bottom of her heart and made her think she knew.
Pushing thin red locks of hair from her skin, she closed her light blue
eyes and imagined why and how she knew.  She imagined that his hands
were on her cheek, on her neck, and on her forehead.  His strong, able
fingers pushed away her unruly locks of coppery silk hair and his voice
echoed in her eardrums and reverberated throughout the rest of her
body.  He was there.

“I’m with you, Scully.  I’m here.”

It was a waking dream, a startlingly desperate hypnosis.  I feel you,
she thought.  Mulder, I’m here.  Find me.

Her slender fingers tapped against the glass pane of her window, her
lips sucked in breath after breath.  In, out.  In, out.  Each breath was
deep, long and harmonious until she could feel her heartbeat throbbing
in tune with the oxygen that pumped through her lungs.   It was an eerie
music that never ceased or ebbed as she dreamed.  It hurt, but sometimes
she liked it that way.  She needed the hurt.

At least one evening a week was spent like this, staring up into the
stars and imagining that he was there, watching her back.  She imagined
that he saw her and he knew her and he called out to her in the same way
she pictured his face in her mind.  His eyes, his lips, the slope of his
jaw… he was there.

“Hold on Mulder,” she said.  “Hold onto me.  I’m here.”

But there was never an answer, of course, although she always imagined
that one night there would be.  She saw it clearly in her head—the
moment he would answer, the moment he would hold her and kiss her and
tell her he was there for good.  But this was a common fantasy.

Mulder was gone.  She closed her eyes every time she thought of it.
Mulder was gone.

“I’m so sorry, Agent Scully,” she had heard, more times than she cared
to remember.  “I’m so sorry, so sorry…”  Everyday for a week after it
had happened, after Mulder had gone missing like a seedling on a breeze
and she had been released from the hospital.  “I’m really sorry Dana…”
Every time another agent spotted her in the halls, or the local FBI
psychologist made eye contact with her in the elevator or outside, by
the bench… their bench.  The one that overlooked the reflecting pond.
“I’m terribly sorry, Dana.  Is there anything you need?”

It wasn’t long before all the “sorrys” had evolved into one long,
monotonous phrase.  “Sorry, Dana.  Sorry sorry sorry sorry…” ---Just
like it had been in the beginning

“I lost him,” Skinner had said.  “I’m so sorry…”  Her head had buzzed
and ached and she heard it over and over.  “So sorry sorry sorry sorry…”

Thankfully though, as was the way with life and all things, the sorrys
eventually began to ebb and cease. The looks of regret that were often
shot her way began to pass.

First one week passed, then two and three.  The fourth and fifth went
slowly by and with them, May turned into June, then early June into late
June, then into early July.  The temperature began to rise steadily and
the air became dank and humid with the rolling days, as often happened
when summer took over the city. Afternoons were long and hot and bright
with sun that spilled into all the empty corners.  Nights were clear and
breezy, the stars twinkling in a way that seemed to sway with the wind.

Mulder I’m here, she’d often think, on those nights when her heart beat
fast and sure.  I’m here.  Hold onto me.

When late summer finally arrived, it arrived quietly and slowly.  Life
at work went on as it should, rush hour still rushing amidst the loud
and angry heat, the pulse of the city still beating-- even though
sometimes it seemed as if there weren’t any reason for things to keep on
going at all.

Out of automation and a need for normality, Dana Scully got up every
day, just as she always did before he had gone, at six am sharp.  At six
thirty she was done with her shower.  At seven am she was done with her
makeup and hair. By seven fifteen there was nothing left to fuss over
and she dilly-dallied around with her morning orange juice.  Sometimes
she stared at the too-white walls, the always clean kitchen floor, the
TV that interested her less and less these days.  When seven thirty
finally relieved her of this tediousness, she grabbed her keys. Eight
thirty am on the dot and she was there at work, sitting in her regular
chair, staring at that damned ‘I Want to Believe’ poster, pushing
regular old case files, expense reports and statements across the desk.
Occasionally, cases came her way—X-Files Mulder would have jumped on
without reserve if he were there.   But, alone and lacking his
enthusiasm for the often ridiculous, she avoided most investigations.
Her head hurt and her heart hurt and her whole body ached so much that
she sometimes wished she had never stumbled across the X Files at all.

Damn you Mulder, she’d think.   Damn you to hell for doing this to me.

Sometimes it was easier to blame him like this, to feel a seething, deep
and abiding rage—rather than a miserable emptiness--- for the one man
who could drive her from one emotional extreme to the other.

Inwardly, she cursed herself and cursed him and cursed the goddamned X
Files that had, throughout the years, become the object of their
separate obsessions.  What had kept them going all that time? She
sometimes wondered.  Was it the truth?  What was the truth anyway? Why
hadn’t they just… stopped? Just one day stopped and said, ‘what are we
doing here?  Why don’t we slow down?’

But they never did.  They never slowed down. .   In work, in the truth,
and finally, in a desperate physical-emotional pull, they exploded and
bubbled over, and never, ever slowed down.

Damn you Mulder, she’d cursed. All these years and its your fault. All
your fault.

But was it really?  No, she knew it wasn’t. They’d both had a hand in
their fate, whether they’d wanted to or not.  But then, whose fault was
it?  It had to be someone’s.  Was it hers? Smoking Mans?  Nobody’s? She
didn’t know.  Maybe she was never meant to know.

Scully leaned back and sighed into the stillness of the quiet, summer
evening.  “Why aren’t you here to argue with me?” she asked.  Her eyes
glazed over with thought. Her only answer was the ruffling of her
curtains.  “You’d tell me I was wrong,” she sighed.

Sometimes, her head clouded and fogged with vicious, confusing thoughts
and impulses.  Her body ached until tears would sting the back of her
eyes, pricking and holding her till she was suspended and choking on the
effort to swallow them back.   There was never any room for tears.  She
never allowed it.

“Oh Mulder,” She said, staring out past the lights of the sleeping city.

In her mind’s eye she saw him, saw the two of them, body and souls
entangled together in a perfect moment that was once real but would
never be again.  His skin was soft and hard all at the same time, his
lips whispering things she knew would never be realized.  All over he’d
glowed, cool and wet and red-hot, and her hands grasped him, his breath
came hot on her neck and arms and cheeks and everywhere.  Promise after
promise and kiss after kiss he’d swallowed her whole.  He held onto her
as if she were his last breath of air, and she gasped to him words of
need and love and faith that had always been real but never spoken.

And after that moment, they were never to be discussed or mentioned
again.  Everything had always been so… closed up.  Hidden behind
invisible walls.

Scully shook her head and watched the clouds move southward over her
window.  “Oh Mulder, how stupid we were,” she said.

Before that one evening, throughout the years before, their union had
created a trust, a deep and unbreakable love for each other.  But on
that night, in that singular beautiful frozen moment, somehow, they had
created a life.

“Damn you Mulder,” she said, as she watched various cars pull away and
sputter down the street.  She could never say it, never utter the words
out loud to others but still, she said it to herself.  Damn you.  Damn
you Mulder.

Nowadays there was nothing.  No words.  No looks exchanged.  No work to
be split between two.  No second chance.  Nothing.

Now, because of their stubbornness and because of his contempt for those
who had tried to stand in their way, he was gone.  Mulder was gone.  And
nothing was left for her in his wake except chaos.  Now there were
auditors, ops boards looking to shut her down, conspiracies crumbling…
and a silent longing and a determination to bring him back.

Her obsessions, his obsessions, once again, haunted her. They drove her
to curse his name and at the same time she caressed every recollection
of him, cherished every moment and memory.

She loved him because he was Mulder and she hated him for the same

“Damn you,” she said, touching the cool glass.  “Damn you.”

Of her pregnancy, Scully had told no one.  Not the lone-gunmen or even
her own mother knew why, as of late, she experienced sick and dizzy
spells on the hour, every hour.   No one knew why she had suddenly taken
to eating red-meat or why she consistently  refused coffee and wine.

But most importantly, no one knew that the only reason she got up every
morning was grounded in the dim hope that she would somehow find the
truth, live happily ever after if it killed her… and find the father of
her child.

“One day, baby,” she whispered, rubbing her hands lightly over her
abdomen, “one day, things will be different for us. I promise you.”  She
closed her eyes and imagined that she could see her child and it could
see her back. “It will be ok,” she said.  “I love you… both of you.”

She wasn’t exactly sure when it had happened, or even why it had
happened, but somehow, it had.  And life had become joyous and painful
all at the same time.

Obsessively, Scully’s thoughts always returned to her child.  A living
part of Mulder was with her, inside of her, even when he himself was
not.  And only the hardened, protective Assistant Director Skinner knew
about the small, growing life within her, about the rip that widened in
her heart.  Only he paid frequent visits to the basement office,
inquired about her “condition” which, had the circumstances been
different, would have been a miraculous revelation for the once barren
Dana Scully--- and for Mulder, the man who had said he wanted the world
for her.

Yes, it was a gift—true—but it was a gift that came wrapped up with a
strangling, numbing empty terror.

What would happen to her life now?  What would happen to her child, now
that she had the chance to give birth to one?  The possibilities were
vast and endless and chilling.

Mulder, the man she’d loved for so long, was gone—for how long she would
never know--- and here she was, alone in almost every sense of the word,
with nothing but the X-Files and the uncertain future of her unborn
child.  Every day she prayed and every night she closed her eyes in

Please God, she said silently, and thoughts of her own mother, of Emily,
of her scar, floated about her.  Please may my child live.  Please may
my child be safe.  Please don’t let me fail Mulder… and myself.

Behind such prayers laid a torrent of unshed tears and a waterfall of
mind-numbing terrors.  What if I’m not safe?  What if the baby is like
Emily?  What if they take my baby?  What if Mulder’s dead?  What if---

Unknown worries such as these were always kept tightly wound up.  If not
for that constant defense, then surely, her weaknesses would overtake
her and her carefully constructed dam would break.

And in the very beginning, this had been almost easy.

“In Mulder’s… absence, I want to remain active with the X Files,” she’d
told Skinner, a pillar of cracking resolve. Then she added, “alone,” as
she squared her jaw and resolutely exited the room.

In her mind, she’d known that if Mulder did not come back, another
partner would be issued to her, whether she wanted it or not.  But in
her heart of course, she refused to be ‘unfaithful’ to him and she did
not care what anyone else thought.  Her stubborn decisiveness had left
no room for argument and, because her pregnancy was still a delicate
issue, Skinner had given her none.

“Just take care of yourself for now,” he’d merely said.

The winds of the evening shifted suddenly, and her light curtains began
blowing in the other direction.  Scully’s eyes turned to her hands, her
fingers wrapped in the soft gossamer-silk of her blanket.  The breeze
felt good on her arms.

“I’m doing alright, Mulder,” she said.  “I’m ok.”

Everyday she walked the halls at work as if nothing could touch her.
She went about her business as carefully and normally as she always
had.  Her cool blue eyes never wandered.  Her colleagues dared not cross
her and the wall around her heart grew to astronomical proportions.
Outside she was as hard and cold as nails but inside she was shaking.

Her cell phone hardly rang at all these days, and every time it did,
wishful thinking made her insane with disappointment when she answered
it.   At home, her phone no longer woke her at three am to discuss
theories about life and the universe.   No one ever knocked at midnight
anymore to ask if she wanted to watch a movie or go for a run.  And
sometimes, oh sometimes, she needed the intrusion so badly she could
taste it.

What’s wrong with me, she often wondered.  What have I done to myself
here?  You’d know Mulder, wouldn’t you?

The worst of her grieving and aching over subjects like these was
usually done at night.  For, generally, if she slept, it was never
soundly.  Her hands were always trembling and itching for her gun when
she woke, and the uncertain noises of the night seemed suddenly
dangerous and threatening.  Everything seemed dangerous and threatening

To the world, her heart was iron and practical.  She was steel. But to
herself, she was scared, she was lonely, and though she’d never admit it
to anyone, she was utterly starved for the safety of the strong arms
that had, during many terrifying moments, held her so tightly.

“Where are you, Mulder?” she asked.

Instinctively, her hands went to grasp the golden cross at the base of
her neck; the cross that had always held faith and truth in its tiny and
simple design. It was gone though, gone with Mulder, as she knew it
would be. “Where are you?” she asked again, tasting the flood of fear
she always tasted when she asked such questions.

On evenings like this one, as the wind caressed her window, or as the
clouds passed over the clear stars above her, she’d close her eyes and
wish.  She knew it was a silly and impractical thing to do, and lord
knew Dana Scully didn’t set store by silly and impractical things, but
she did it anyway.  She did it because she loved him, because she missed
him, and because she knew he would find it amusing that she had resolved
to do one impractical thing a day--for him.

“Lord grant this wish I wish tonight,” she whispered to the clouds
above, rubbing her hand over the slight swell in her abdomen.   “Please
let him hear me.  Please… Mulder,  I’m going to find you.  We’re going
to find you.  Hold onto me, Mulder.  Hold onto us.”

And when her breathing slowed and her heart beat in tangent, when
everything inside of her throbbed and pulsed like music, she swore she
heard him.  She swore she felt his lips on her forehead and his fingers
brushing over the delicate planes of her stomach.  He was there.

“I’m with you, Scully,” she felt and heard, in her heart and in her mind
and then again and again and all over.  “I’ll find you…”  She whispered
it with him, as if he were there, as if he could hear her.  “I’ll find
you.  I’ll find you.”

And with everything she was and everything she knew she would be, she
found that perhaps she had always believed him.

“You feel me Mulder,” she whispered.  “I know you do…”

Her eyes slipped closed again and what seemed like an eon passed by.
Outside, a light rain began to fall like tears, and the moon slipped
behind a silvery blanket of clouds.  Inside, just behind the glass pane,
at the chair by her window, Dana Scully slept soundly.

___________ End___________

Yeah, I know this one was sad—and maybe not what you thought it might
be.  Personally, I’ve always thought that Scully might resent Mulder a
little—maybe not with a willingness she liked, but because she is human
and it is human to resent the people we love, even though we love them.
If you’ve got feedback for me, comments, or you just have your own
thoughts about ‘Requiem,’ I’d love to hear them.  Emails always make me
happy.  Thanks for reading :o)

Go read and enjoy!