Title: Duet Author: Agent L Classification: V, post-ep Rating: G -- nothing objectionable Spoilers: DeadAlive This is a Doggett-free zone. Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name is attached. Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, Fox, and now Robert Patrick: I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or even chocolate would be expected or accepted for this. Summary: Scully and Mulder, together again. Feedback: Yes, please! LHoward388@aol.com Duet "Scully...?" "Yes, Mulder?" "Will I be able to play the piano again?" "Well, Mulder, I...You don't play piano." I smile, not so much at the joke but at the joy it brings him to sucker me in yet again. Then I have to turn away, overwhelmed by sudden tears -- tears that I used to be able to command and control as I could so many other things in my life, but that now flow freely and at the most unexpected moments. I thought I'd cried every tear for him that night in the desert, so many months ago, only to find that I had not yet truly experienced grief. That was the day we buried him. "Scully... " "Yes, Mulder?" "What's black and white and and red all over?" "A newspaper." "Nope. A sunburned zebra." He's so proud of that one I don't have the heart to tell him I guessed wrong on purpose. I am content to listen to his silly jokes, his sleepy ramblings, just to hear the sound of his voice, like some lovesick teenager. His face, scarred and pale, is beautiful to me. I hold his hand long after he no longer knows I'm here, my thumb lightly on his pulse, counting each beat as if it were my own. Every time I leave this room I fight a sudden sense of panic that he'll be gone when I return. Or I awake in this chair and for a moment, my brain fogged with exhaustion, I fear that the last two days have been some tantalizing, impossible dream and I'm alone in my bed. Alone in my life. Not quite alone. I put my hand over the gentle mound of my stomach. He hasn't asked me about it yet, but he knows. I've seen the questions in his eyes, questions he is too afraid to ask, so he tells me knock-knock jokes instead. "Scully...?" "Yes, Mulder." "What does it feel like?" I must have missed something. What am I supposed to say? What's the punch line? As I hesitate, hating to admit I wasn't paying attention, he raises his hand and tentatively reaches toward my stomach. Then he stops, his eyes seeking mine, asking my permission. I smile and take his hand. Our fingers twine together to rest on top of my womb. His expression is one of awe, and a little fear. I have the same feeling every time I catch a glimpse of myself as I pass by a mirror or a shop window. Every time he opens his eyes or smiles at me. "Mulder?" "Yeah, Scully." The voice is sleepy now, he's having trouble keeping his eyes open. I hold on to his hand as it starts to slip away. "Why did the chicken cross the road?" I'll have to wait until tomorrow to hear his theories. The End