DISCLAIMER:  None of the characters herein are mine.  I am simply
borrowing them for a creative outlet, not profit.

SPOILERS:  Post-Gethsemane.

CATEGORIES:  S, somewhere in-between MSR and Noromo - both groups should
be able to read it with no problems.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  I'm playing around with the conventions of Gethsemane in
this story.  This is primarily an illustration of how I would have liked
to have had Gethsemane end - and is a result of drinking far too much
latte and listening to DJ Shadow nonstop (the combination creates a sense
of profound confinement).  The title is from a song by Radiohead, whose
lyrics I will print at the end of the story.  To understand the plot, you
have to take the events of Gethsemane at face value and ignore Scully's
meeting at FBI Headquarters and her identification of Mulder's body. 
After that, just go with the flow.

I might make this a series but haven't quite decided yet.

Feedback (of any sort) is much appreciated - for now, my only reliable
address is emmalanna@aol.com.

~~~~~~~~

Fade Out
By Emma Baker

It happened so simply, almost quietly.  Funny how the most profound events
of your life can whisper by you until you suddenly look up and they're
looming over your head.  I heard the whispering but it frightened me so I
chose to turn within myself - something I very rarely do.  And when I did
raise my eyes everything in front of me was empty and terrifying.

I watched Mulder walk out of that strange warehouse room and felt
something, but I couldn't categorize that feeling or deal with it.  Just a
foreboding, a sixth sense that something was going to happen but I'd be
damned if I knew what.  It was like a cliffhanger on a television show but
without the piped-in emotion.  I almost - almost - called out after him
but bit my lip and looked down at the cement below my feet.  And then I
began walking, following him.  As I passed the dethawing tank-cum-coffin,
I noticed his cell phone sitting on the side like a stone on a beach.  I
distractedly picked it up and slipped it in the pocket of my coat, palming
my own to call a cab to take me back home.  

As cliched as this sounds, the ride home was almost trancelike.  Snatches
of our conversation played through my mind but that last sentence in
particular - "They gave me this disease to make you believe."  Did I
believe what I was saying?  Oh, I don't know.  I said it to drive the
point home, not to lash out at him.  But did he?  The look of reply he
gave me was cold and so very terrible in its emptiness.  I saw his hands
twitch as if about to strike out at anything they could reach.  And in the
moment before he turned and fled, two emotions flashed across his face -
hatred directed at me, them, who knows?  And terror.  Abject fear.  And
thus began my revelation.  

He thought *he* gave me cancer.  

He thought I blamed him.

Yes, I knew what my brother had said and I did realise that this might
never have happened to me were it not for my involvement with him, but I
had never blamed *him* for it and will never do so.  But he did not know
that.  This poor, tragic man who took the world upon his shoulders when he
should be the one being cradled - he believed that he had caused my
downfall.  My God, it broke my heart.  I could tell him "no", I could deny
it - I could violently pound the thoughts out of his weak body, but it
would always be there, festering in the core of his heart.  And this
scared the hell out me.  At that moment, I almost called out to the
driver, about to turn onto my street, to reverse and head to his apartment
so that I could be there to catch him when he fell,  but then I felt like
an intruder.  While I was the root, this was his grief and he needed the
time alone.  And at this point I couldn't bear to be pushed away. 
Selfish, yes, but I had to recognize my own vulnerability.

I unlocked the door of my apartment and slowly walked toward my bed,
shedding something with each step, until I was curled up in my bra and
panties on top of my bed, finally smothering myself under the covers as a
refuge.  I lay there watching the shadows move for god only knows how
long,  but in an entirely different world altogether.  

Later - much, much later - I was shaken awake by a cellphone's ring. 
Disoriented, I stumbled toward the kitchen until I found my coat, only
then noticing that it wasn't my own cell phone's distinctive ring.  
Fumbling through the pockets, I grabbed Mulder's phone and hesitated only
a moment before hitting the button to receive the call.  

"Yes, hello?"

"Umm...Agent Scully?"

"Yes?", hoping my words approached coherence.

"It's Frohike."  Pause.  "Is Mulder there?"

"Mulder?  Uh... no, I haven't seen him for a few hours."

"Oh. I was getting a little concerned because I tried his apartment and he
wasn't there.  I thought I'd try this number."

"Frohicke, has something happened?"

"Yeah... I don't know.  He came by earlier and asked if he could borrow my
tape of Carl Sagan at the - whatever - in 1972.  Then he asked if we knew
of any all-night pharmacies - said he was going to get a prescription
filled."

"A prescription?"

"Yes.  I don't know much more about it, though.  He said something about
having trouble sleeping...."  Frohike's voice trailed off.  

"Oh, God.  When was this?"  

"About four hours ago.  I just wanted to make sure Mulder got home okay."

got... home... okay.  Oh, my God.  

And then it hit me - the prescription for sedatives I had written him back
after the Roche case, when he said he had been having trouble sleeping.  I
remember it so clearly - fumbling around for the prescription pad I had
used only three times previously.  I knew he hadn't filled it yet because
- well, I just knew.  Mulder would never addmit weakness, even to himself. 
But now?  Why would he suddenly want them?  I can't imagine that he would
decide now that he need the help, but considering his frame of mind....
oh, no.  Sleeping pills....

"Frohike - hang tight.  What is your number there?"  She grabbed a pencil.
 "Okay, I'm taking both phones with me.  If you don't hear from me in an
hour, go directly over to Mulder's, okay?"  

My disconnection cut off his brief assent.

Even though it was only 5 AM the drive over to Mulder's took ages - so
many other drivers, apparently as anxious to interrupt their sleep as I. 
After considering every possible course of action and creating
conversations in my head, I decided to just stop thinking altogether,
instead counting down the minutes and blocks until I would be there.

As I pulled up in front of his building, illegally parking my car, I was
surprised to see everything so still, so normal.  What did I expect -
fireworks?  On shaky feet I climbed the stairs and tripped halfway up,
skinning my knees on the wood.  I wanted so much to collapse there in
frustration and fear but immediately cursed myself for that betrayal and
scrambled back up.

Reaching his door, I stopped, my hands balled into little fists. Pulling
one up, I knocked on the door then began counting - one mississippi, two
mississippi - until I hit ten.  Then I knocked again, more insistently,
and called his name.  Nothing.  Maybe he was just asleep.  I fumbled for
the red-tagged key on my chain and opened the door.  The room was almost
oppressively quiet and very dark.  Unsure of myself, I felt like a bride
as I took a small step then brought my feet together, then took another,
and another.  

Relief flooded me as I saw Mulder stretched out on his sofa, but the gates
closed as I approached him.  I was ready to nudge him awake until I caught
a good look at his face from the streetlights coming in through the
window.  My God, his lips were bluish-red and his face was so pale and
clammy that under better circumstances I might have fancied seeing my
reflection there.  As I pushed the coffee table aside to kneel down beside
him, I noticed an over-turned amber medicine bottle with a few pills
spilling out.  Fervently glancing back at him, I dizzily grabbed the pill
bottle - yup, Ristoral, a very strong sedative which should never be mixed
with the nearly empty bottle of Absolut sitting forlornly next to it. 
Fuck.  What had he done?  

I grabbed the phone and dialled 9-1-1, nearly punching the wrong numbers. 
The operator sounded almost obscenely calm across the line.  I barely
managed to croak out, "Come.  Now.  Overdose,"  then dropped the phone,
forgetting to turn it off.  Turning back to him with a strange
self-possession and control I didn't feel, I began forcing my own air into
his lungs.  I was so obsessed that my mind whirled, trying to remember the
proper steps for CPR.     After five deep shouting breaths, I pulled up
and pushed my hands into his chest, almost violently.  The pressure and
concentration gave me a way to take out my fear and frustration, even if
they bruised him or broke his sternum - a small price to pay for life,
huh?  I turned my ear to his lips and waited to hear something, willing
him to breathe.  I even sent up a short prayer to God - though it was more
of an oath or plea than a formal saying I learnt in catechism.  After a
few more haphazard but frenzied cycles, his breathing became deeper and
somewhat less layered, though the color hadn't begun to return to his
face.

I wanted to believe.  I wanted to feel that he was going to be okay - that
he was breathing and slowly returning to normal.  But I couldn't.  I'd
like to say that I used this time to ruminate upon the vast mysteries of
life and upon his and my unique relationship, but in honesty my thoughts
were of a primal and selfish *need* - need for his return, need for his
return to me.  Period.  Just those words repeated over and over in my
mind. 

As his body slowly rejuvenated itself, a frustration also crept over me. 
I had to *do* something, but there was really nothing I could do for him
except make him comfortable.  I ran into the bedroom and grabbed a blanket
off his bed, then dragged it into the living room.  I very carefully
tucked it around him then went into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. 
I brought it back then dipped my fingers into it, bringing them up to his
face.  As I glanced around the room I noticed something on the coffee
table next to the sofa - it was a photograph of me in a small frame.  I
didn't recognize it.  Below it was a sheath of paper.  I couldn't read it
well, but the title stood out in bold print:  "New Treatments for Cranial
Tumors."  A vague sense of guilt blanketed me.   Feeling helpless, I sank
down on the floor next to him and took his arm, cradling it close to me as
I stroked his hair back off his forehead, and waited for the paramedics to
arrive.  


The ride to the hospital took ages.  The paramedics began their bland
reassurances - "It's really just an overdose.  We'll pump his stomach and
put him on a drip and he'll be fine" - saying things which should have
been obvious to any doctor.  To be honest, though, I didn't feel much like
a doctor at that point.  I felt like a victim and a criminal, wrapped into
one.  It was so easy to blame myself for his being in this situation, for
I was the one who had said those words - practically out of spite - which
had sent him spiralling.   But once I started blaming myself, where would
I go?  I created the situation, but not the execution.  He was the one who
tried to -- the one who took those pills.  It was his decision to make.  

I didn't have time right then, though, to start issuing blame.  Everything
was immediate - what his status was now, what had to happen.  I felt like
introspection was a luxury when my life was dying right there before me. 
If he were to leave, I'm not sure I could get past that enormous sense of
loss.  The situation was bringing out an angry streak that I -so very
much- didn't want to feel.  Didn't deserve to feel.  And so I cleared my
mind of every thought and stared down at Mulder.  

And there he was.  My god, he looked so calm - almost beatific.  His skin
was pale and clammy but somehow it glowed.  And even though he was in such
physical trauma, he seemed content, as if every one of the terrors inside
of him had been drawn out with a hook and a fine thread.  With the
ambulance pulling into the hospital driveway and the sirens ringing
heavily in my ears, I reached over and took his hand in both of my own,
and sent up a silent prayer - saying nothing but meaning everything.

I followed them down the white hallway into an examining room.  The door
shut behind the nurses, which stung me like a slap.  I felt what all those
families I've encountered over my years as an investigator have felt - the
ignominy and the complete helplessness of being made to stand idly by. 
While that might have been enough for them, it was *not* for me.  I turned
on my heel and ran back to the admissions desk, asking -demanding- them to
let me into that room.  When the F.B.I. badge didn't make much impact, I
offered up his insurance information as a bribe, which seemed to work as
it proved I was listed as Next of Kin.  And so I ran in.  

It was such a surreal feeling - to stand there watching while I could very
easily be the one acting.  But somehow, unlike the other times I'd been in
this situation, I didn't trust myself to act.  Not now.  I stood there as
they executed the routine:  the intubation, the pumping of his stomach,
then the IV.  It was all so simple but also so frightening to see the way
we doctors turn a body inside-out to make it better.  The ends justify the
means.  I knew what should be done - I was a doctor - but I just stood
idly by.  I wished I had some of that F.B.I. backbone at the moment so
that I could loudly object and be assertive, but my heart just wasn't in
it - it was over there, lying on that steel table.  

***

Mulder was moved up to a semi-private room, though he was the only
patient.   I could mark out the time, but I was hardly aware of its
passage.  As he was being wheeled upstairs, I walked next to him with
sluggish feet barely able to keep up and with my hands grasping his all
the way, as if the connection was a lifeline for both of us.  I wished it
was just another gunshot wound or hypothermia so that I could step into
Agent Mode and take control of the situation.   But this threw me for a
loop - I had no idea how to react, so I didn't.  I didn't even know
whether to be angry or sad, so I didn't do either, slowly withdrawing into
myself.  

The slivers of sun barely slipping through the blinds over the window
reminded me that it was now morning.  I picked up the phone in his room
and dialed Skinner's office, grateful to have his secretary inform me that
he was out of the building all day, so a message was left with the phone
number there and asked her to have him call me here when he had a moment. 
 I paced the room for a few more minutes and desperately wanted to curl up
on the other bed but knew Mulder's insurer wouldn't much care for another
bed on the bill, so I settled for the chair next to the bed.  Emotionally
exhausted, I fell asleep slumped over like a rag doll.  

I awoke sometime later, though I suspect I hadn't really slept at all.  I
turned my head to find Mulder looking at me, eyes half-opened.  He licked
his lips and said, "Scully."  Not a question, just a statement without any
inflection to give itself away.  I made no move to speak - I had no idea
what to say.   Seeming to sense this, he said, "No, I think I know what
happened.  You don't have to say anything."   We sat silently for a while
longer.  That same hand I had been grasping earlier was peeking out from
under the sheets.  Although it had been my lifeline earlier, in
consciousness it was a symbol of the barrier between us.  We seemed to
have a vague idea of what was in each other's minds, but reluctance and
fear kept us from speaking.   I finally opened my mouth. 

"I saw a photo of myself on your coffee table.  I didn't recognize it. 
Where did you get it?"

He was silent.   Then he spoke: "I used it while we were searching for you
after you were abducted."

Silence.  I looked down at my hands, the guilt stinging me with physical
pricks.  And then I thought, Why should *I* be feeling guilty?  He is the
one who tried to ditch me, not the other way around.  I pulled my head up
and around, and looked him straight in his eyes.  

"Why, Mulder?"

"Oh, God, Scully.  You --  It was an accident.  I got carried away.  I --"
 The words poured forth from his mouth with a desperation that belied his
physical exhaustion.  "I just wanted to sleep, to forget it all, even if
it was only for a little while.  I wanted to have a night free of
nightmares or of thinking what I might have done to you!  I just wanted to
collapse."

"CARRIED AWAY?  You call mixing Restoril and vodka 'carried away'?  Good
God, Mulder!  You're not stupid, you KNOW what that could do to you."  I
took a long, shuddering breath.  "You tried to kill yourself and I just
thank God I was there to pick up the pieces."

His words stumbled over my own.  "Kill myself?  NO!  Oh, Scully, my... I'm
sorry.  I'm so sorry."  

I could hear the tears in his voice, even if they weren't on his face.  My
resolve was threatening to collapse too.  I wanted to force that anger and
frustration and relief out of myself, to just beat something....  I
started furiously pacing around the room, his gleaming eyes following me. 


"Scully --" 

I whipped around to face him.  "I can't.  I just can't.  I've tried so
hard to be here for you, to hold your hand as you pursued those demons of
yours, as you let them put holes in your head!  As you let them *take you
over!*  I can't do it, I can't always be there to pick you back up and
dust you off.  It's my life too!"

I stopped to catch my breath as the sobs took over me.  Through the tears
I caught a glimpse of his stricken face. 

"I want to be here for you, Mulder - to be your other half.  I just don't
know if I can do it anymore.  I can't be your partner in all this if I'm
always two steps behind."

Silence.  I finally looked back over at him.  My God, his look stabbed
right at my heart - the pain I had caused him.  His voice came out as a
whisper:  "Scully, come here." 

I stood my ground.

"Scully, please."  

I had never heard such need come from a voice before.  I walked over and
stood next to his bed.  

"You're right.  You are.  I don't know what else to say except just that. 
I could make you all sorts of vows that it would never happen again, but I
just can't promise that.  You know that.  But, oh, Scully... I'm so sorry.
 So sorry.  Do you really have no idea how much I do need you?  How much I
count on your being there *with* me?"

I crumbled right then.  We both did.  Mulder reached his arms up toward me
and pulled me securely into his arms, holding on as if afraid to let go. 
The mutual exhaustion and sorrow flowed between us.  Blame was not placed
nor was any resolution created - there would be plenty of time for that
later.  Right now, we just lived for the immediate.  

He finally let me go and I looked at his face.  Without a word, he scooted
over to one side of the bed.  I stepped out of my shoes and curled up next
to him.  We lay there, together, without words.  We were beyond them.  
They hung around us - the spoken and unspoken ones, like a child's mobile.
 But they were no longer threatening.   

THE END.


"Street Spirit (Fade Out)"
By Radiohead (Copyright 1995)

rows of houses all bearing down on me
i can feel their blue hands touching me
all these things in all positions
all these things will one day take control
and fade out again and fade out

this machine will   will not communicate these thoughts
and the strain i am under
be a world child form a circle before we all go under
and fade out again and fade out again

cracked eggs dead birds
scream as they fight for life
i can feel death can see it's beady eyes
all these things into frution
all these things we'll one day swallow whole
and fade out again and fade out again.

~~~~~Emma Baker, emmalanna@aol.com~~~~~
Magical Transit Child since 1994. 
           "I've repressed it all" - Ma Mulder.