TITLE:  SUSPENSION OF A LIFE IN PROGRESS
AUTHOR:  Blackwood
EMAIL:  entreamis@yahoo.com
URL:  http://www.members.tripod.com/black.wood/index.html
RATING: PG13
CATEGORY: MSR, Angst, Story, Fill-in for NIHT-1
FEEDBACK: Treasured
ARCHIVE: Yes, with a note to me.
SPOILERS: The Pilot, DeadAlive, Existence, NIHT-1&2,  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, although at this point, M&S are treated 
better by the fanfic writers than by Hollywood.  Doesn't surprise 
me.  It's just a doggone shame.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I live 20 miles from Ground Zero.  Following the 
horrific events of 9/11, I was heartsick; and the muse needed to 
vent. My betas encouraged my writing, but urged me to amend some 
of the original elements for this story and/or to withhold 
posting. I heeded their advice on faith alone.  So, my thanks to 
you -- Audrey, mountainphile and Mish -- for wisdom and concern 
and support in troublesome times.  And to you, readers, for 
keeping the faith.


SUSPENSION OF A LIFE IN PROGRESS (1/1)
by Blackwood


It looks out of place.  Burnished bright and sharply edged, its 
prominence on his key ring bespeaks no apology to the other keys 
tarnished with age and use.  He's carried one like it for years 
but up until the last few months, it's always been a loaner 
marked with a snippet of tape and her name alone.  This one is 
his and his fingers curl around the solidity of brass as he 
isolates it from the rest.

He slips the key into the lock and feels the tumbler drop, 
releasing the latch.  Pushing forward, he enters and in customary 
fashion, scans the interior.  It smells like vanilla and talcum 
powder and her.  Evening shadows fill the room.

She's sitting in profile by the window, but she doesn't 
acknowledge him.  All is still and a momentary flutter of anxiety 
rises in his chest.  He looks closer, breathing only when he sees 
the rocker move.  They're okay.  His heartbeat slows once more.

He tosses his keys onto the table and unzips the front of his 
windbreaker.  Drawing a glass of cool water from the tap, he 
drinks it down, moisture sliding over his chin and down his 
throat.  His back is pressed to the counter's ledge.  

All the while, he watches them.

Back and forth, to and fro, in a slow rhythmic cadence known only 
to time and new mothers, she rocks.  The swaddled bundle in her 
arms stirs and she inclines her head, cooing words he cannot 
hear, though he knows their intent just the same; knows because 
he's felt her breath on his own face, sweet and warm.  The child 
cradled in her arms, he understands.  She would care for anyone 
tendered to her care.  But him?  How could it be?  He doesn't 
quite believe it, but it is enough that she does.

He imagines her the day they met: the awful suit that concealed 
her beautiful body; her cool hand slipping into his as 
introduction, as invitation, as intervention; her nervousness, 
though she masked it well with an assertion of authority.  He 
recalls his admiration of her intelligence, his surprise at her 
willingness to listen and his forced dismissal of her as sexual 
distraction.

Diana had left him a note, in ornate hand, just two weeks prior.  
He was incapable of change, his work consumed him and no mere 
woman could compete with Mistress Obsession for very long.  
That's what she told him and he couldn't argue.  It hurt like 
hell just the same.

Scully didn't try to compete and wasn't much interested in 
changing him, either.  Good.  He was relieved when she kept her 
distance.  Right?  Well, there was always the work and she was 
more than competent, though difficult.  They were partners and, 
in due time, friends.  He would have been satisfied with that, if 
that was all she could offer.  But something happened along the 
way and platonic became ever more complicated.  And unwanted.

Setting the glass onto the counter, he moves towards them, 
pausing beside the arch leading from the kitchen into the living 
room.  He presses a shoulder against the wall and focuses his 
attention on the sight before him, willing his mind to absorb 
every detail.

Scully's head is bent towards the baby, hair cascading across her 
face as mother and child communicate without words.  A wry smile 
twitches his mouth as he thinks, "family trait."  She's let her 
hair grow and he approves.

He likes the way it caresses her neck, like liquid amber framing 
her face.  He loves the silken slide of it through his fingers 
when he pulls her close to capture her mouth and kiss her 
thoroughly.  He recalls the way she looks when she lifts it off 
her neck, astride him in candlelit night.  His loins ache as he 
remembers the way she breathes his name like Song of Songs.  How 
long *has* it been since they'd last made love?  Too long, he 
decides, for a man well aware of the great disparity between 
fantasy and reality when it comes to loving Dana Scully.

He doesn't remember the moment he fell in love for the last time 
in his life, but images rise in his mind just the same.  Summer 
of '94.  Another sweltering evening spent in the basement of the 
Hoover since the a/c in his apartment was on the fritz *again.* 
Cold pizza and warm beer sat atop a stack of folders while he 
perused back files for possible inquiry.  It was well after hours 
and he was engrossed in reading when he heard her voice.

"Even aliens take an occasional weekend, Mulder."

"Hey, Scully.  Take a look at this," he said, hoping to detain 
her.  It still surprised him that she went out of her way just to 
say good bye every day, but he had to admit he liked it just the 
same.  She sighed, checked her watch and entered.

"What's the matter?" he inquired as she approached.  "Got a 
date?"

"Actually, Mulder... yes."  His breath caught for a fraction of a 
second though his face betrayed no emotion.  "With my mother."  
He exhaled.

"I just thought you'd be interested in hearing about this."  It 
can wait," he said.  "Go see your mom."

"What is it?"

"You'll be late."

"Mulder, you know you won't be happy until you've given me at 
least the bare outline.  You'll call me after I've gone to bed to 
tell me what you could just as easily tell me now.  Then I'll be 
awake, thinking about the case and wondering about *your* take on 
things."  She paused for breath before adding, "So?"

He weighed his options and after a moment's thought said, "What 
do you know about...  The topic didn't matter.  She stayed.  She 
listened.  She cared.  About him, his opinions, his feelings.  He 
was hooked regardless of what she could or couldn't give, did or 
didn't feel, wanted or needed or hell-- None of it made sense, 
but that's how falling in love felt to him.  Shit. 

And now they are here, against all odds.  Parents.  Surreal, even 
in context of *his* life.

He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet. Pushing away from 
the wall, he crosses the room until he's beside her.  He hovers 
in silence above them.  Her white cotton blouse is unbuttoned and 
one side of her nursing bra undone.  Her arms encircle their son 
who is busy rooting at her left breast.  She's still again and 
when he looks into her face, he notes closed eyes.

Security.  It is what they will never have, but for blessed 
moments like this -- moments so fleeting in their worried lives 
he commits them to memory before they vanish forever.  Nothing is 
simple or safe and his return to life has proven to be just 
another act in a wayward drama he's never understood completely.  
But this, now, he owns forever.  And so, he watches their son 
suckle his mother.  Funny.  He thought the sight might bother 
him.  It doesn't.  On the contrary, it feels natural and all he 
wants to do is to protect them both.

Squatting down, he watches the boy's reddened, scrunched-up 
features as he fusses, having lost the nipple that provides such 
comfort and sustenance.  Scully's lids lift and he looks into 
sleepy blue eyes.

"Good run?"  He nods.

Baby's discontent grows louder and Scully sighs with a soft 
murmur.  Her hand helps the rosebud mouth find her again and 
frustration becomes contentment.  She strokes the velvety head 
and coos, "There now.  That's better, isn't it?"

Mulder considers them both.  "I think I'm jealous."

Shaking her head, she smiles despite herself and pushes at him 
with her free hand.  "You can just go away if you're going to be 
ridiculous." 

"Seriously, I think I'm jealous."

"Of a newborn?"

"Of anyone who gets your undivided attention besides me."

"Guess you'll have to grow up then."

"Guess so," he agrees in a soft voice then stands, kissing her 
cheek as he rises.  "Don't forget dad needs you, too," he murmurs 
in her ear.

"He'll be asleep soon."

"I'll be waiting."  His response is calculated to send a message 
he doesn't want misconstrued.  Her catch of breath and sigh tells 
him his missive has hit the mark.

He enters the bedroom.  He toes off sneakers and peels off socks, 
leaving them where they drop.  He sloughs out of clothes at a 
leisured pace, tossing articles onto a chintz-covered chair.

The bedcovers are tumbled.  Ahh, compromise.  She's always been 
fastidious, while he?  He was a "bear with furniture."  At least, 
he used to be.  Scully has stored most of his personal belongings 
and he's replaced what he absolutely needed.  The home to which 
he returned following resurrection was Her, not a suite of rooms 
or tangible goods, with one exception: the key to *their* 
apartment.

"Let me do this, Scully."

"No."

"It makes sense.  I want to be there for you both."

"I can take of myself.  And William."

"I know that.  It just doesn't feel right otherwise."

"We had an agreement, Mulder.  You don't owe me anything."

"Wrong," he said before slipping his hand into his jacket pocket 
and pulling out a small red velvet box.  She stared at the box 
and then, at him.

"It belonged to my grandmother," he said and without waiting for 
a response, opened the case and placed the filigreed silver band 
on her left hand.  "Unless..."  He stopped then, looking into her 
face, realizing he'd assumed her willingness.

Too large on the fourth digit, she transferred it to her middle 
finger.  "It's beautiful," she breathed, eyes still averted.

"I'll take that as a yes?"  Hope was a whisper and he discovered 
he was short of breath.

"It's crazy," she insisted sotto voce to no one in particular.

"It's time," he affirmed and she lifted her eyes, the smile on 
her lips shimmering in the moistness there.  "We'll make it 
official as soon as you're up to it."

And that, as they say, was that.

He turns down the a/c several notches and strips before heading 
for the shower.  Ancient pipes groan as hot water rushes from the 
tap.  He adjusts the spray and steps under, closing his eyes as 
soothing warmth cascades over his weary body.

He reaches down to grab a plastic bottle, snapping open the cap 
and squeezing goo into his hand while he turns around, water 
slapping the small of his back.  Soaping his head, he hears the 
snick of the door he left unlocked and opens his eyes.  

"Everything okay?" he asks, pausing his routine.

"He's sleeping--"

"Like a baby?"

"How'd you guess?"

"I'm a profiler, remember?" He hears her amused groan and smiles 
before he tips his head back under the spray, listening to the 
rush of water around him.  The chink of plastic on porcelain and 
the hiss of a baby monitor, refitted to D.O.D. standards courtesy 
of the Gunmen, fills the room.  He listens for the unmistakable 
sough and rustle of cloud-covered sheets as Will settles for the 
night.  The sound of a sink tap opening gives too little warning 
before he's doused with cold water.  "There's somebody in here!"  
She chortles, but the tap shuts down.

She's going through her evening routine and though he's known her 
for years, sharing intimate habits is new.  The fantasies playing 
in his head tantalize.  He swings open the glass door and poking 
his head out of the stall, inquires, "Care to join me?  I could 
use a playmate."

She turns and her face is fresh-scrubbed, her natural beauty 
needing no disguise.  Crossing her arms over her chest, she leans 
back against the sink.  "First of all, Mulder, I've been up since 
five.  Second, Will was cranky for hours this afternoon.  I think 
it's colic."

"You're the doctor," he jests, stepping from the stall dripping 
wet.  Her appreciative eyes flick down his body and back to his 
own.  His satisfied grin draws a small, secretive smile from her.

"Pathology, Mulder, not Pediatrics," she says in a serious tone, 
though her eyes are twinkling.

"And third?" he shoots back, unabashed as he towels off.  He 
embraces the comforts of shared, every day life in a way he's 
never known before.  Besides, he likes the idea of her watching 
him.  Arousal shoots through him and the result is evident; well, 
half evident.

"Third?"  She pauses, cocking her head to one side, demure 
receding as the bathroom steams with more than condensation.

He wraps the towel low around his hips, clutching at one corner 
as he moves towards her.  He makes no excuses for his proximity 
or his actions as his free hand finds her waist and pulls her 
nearer.  Her figure is full and round and he wants her very much.  
"This is *your* list, Scully, remember?"

"Third," she repeats, unwilling to meet his gaze.  "My doctor 
says it'll be six weeks before we can..."  Her voice trails off 
and when she looks up, she's blushing with a shy smile.

"Six?"  His disappointment is obvious.  She nods.  "Weeks?" he 
adds.  Her exaggerated "sad face" reveals her own disappointment.  
His head drops back onto his neck and he closes his eyes.  He 
steps back, re-wrapping the clinging towel around his waist, 
tucking in the corner at his hip.  "Death was easier than this," 
he mutters to himself.

"Hey," she murmurs in a voice laced with honey.  He looks back 
and she approaches.  Her hands skim along damp forearms and up 
along his biceps, coming to rest on his shoulders.  He shivers 
though he isn't cold.  "There are other things we can do," she 
informs him with an arch of her brows.

Her hand cradles the back of his neck, pulling him down towards 
her waiting mouth.  Hands become allies, fingers entwining in one 
another's hair as lips and teeth and tongues stake their claim 
and they breathe love to each other.


~*~*~*~


The knock on the door, when it comes, wakes him with a start.  
Mulder's eyes crack open and he rubs away sleep with the fingers 
of one hand.  A yawn grips him and moisture pools in the corners 
of his eyes, weariness heavy on him.  He sits up, looks to his 
left and sees the burnished head resting on the pillow besides 
his stir.

"I'll take care of it," he tells Scully, throwing off the 
coverlet before slipping out of bed.  The pounding repeats its 
rhythm; four, heavy knuckled raps demanding notice.

Padding to the doorway in nothing more than flannel bottoms and 
tee, he leans his head to one shoulder, then the other, 
stretching stiff muscles.  The sound repeats with insistence and 
he curses under his breath, spying through the peephole to 
identify the asshole banging the door at 3 a.m.

He swings the entry open, more confused than surprised at the 
sight of Walter Skinner.  "What is it?" he rasps.

"I need to talk to you."

"It's 3 o'clock in the morning."

"This can't wait," his visitor informs.  With a jut of his chin 
towards the interior, he asks, "May I?"

Mulder lifts a hand, waves it through the air in a grand gesture 
and steps aside to allow Skinner entry.  Pressing the heels of 
his hands into his eyes, he wills himself awake.  Something was 
going down.

Skinner stands just inside the door, waiting for his agent's full 
attention.  Mulder pushes the door closed and runs a hand through 
his hair as he walks past the older man.

"I'm sorry-" Skinner begins, only to be interrupted by Mulder's 
gesture of a finger pressed to his lips.

"They're asleep."

"No, I'm not," a voice says from the bedroom doorway.  Scully is 
there, robe askew over pajamas, concern clear on her face.

"I'm sorry to disturb you--" Skinner begins.

"What's going on?"  Mulder interrupts.

Skinner's head jerks back to the man, his voice serious.  "I got 
a call about an hour ago.  Somebody told me your life was in 
danger if you stayed in Washington."

"Who?" Scully demands.  "Who called?"  

Skinner looks from one agent to the other.  "I don't know."

"Male or female?" Mulder asks.

"The voice was digitally disguised."  Mulder nods and slumps onto 
the sofa with a deep sigh.

"It came in on my cellphone, which was also odd," Skinner adds.

"Who has that number?" Mulder inquires.

"Not many, but it wouldn't be difficult to get."

"For someone in the Bureau, you mean."

Skinner nods.

"To what end?"  Scully asks, sitting beside Mulder.

"Coup de grace," Mulder interjects with conviction.  Two sets of 
equally interested eyes swing towards him. His hands are tucked 
behind his head and his expression tells of his annoyance.  
"Excuse the analogy, but I'd say Kersh wants to nail the lid shut 
on the coffin of my FBI career."

"Mulder."  Scully's voice reveals her discomforture with his 
words.  Her body is still turned towards Skinner, but her right 
hand reaches out, coming to rest on Mulder's knee.  She won't 
look at him, but her grasp is firm and Mulder discerns worry in 
the crease of her brow and the purse of her mouth.

Skinner's eyes dart, taking in the intimate gestures.  "I thought 
you should know."  The small cooing cries of a baby drift towards 
them.  Scully rises.

"I'm sorry," Skinner says.  "It's my fault."

"No," Scully responds in a gentle voice.  "It's time for his 
feeding."  Casting a glance back at Mulder, she leaves the two 
men to continue.

Mulder's eyes follow her, closing only after she's disappeared 
from sight.  He runs a hand over stubbled jaw, then looks at 
Skinner who's moved to stand beside the window, eyes squinting as 
he gazes outward. "What is it?" he asks.

"I don't know.  Just a feeling," Skinner replies without turning.  

Mulder stands and crosses the room, peering towards the dark 
vehicle Skinner points out.  "I may have been followed."  Both 
are quiet, watching the street and listening to the sounds of 
Scully soothing the baby in the bedroom.  After a few moments, 
Skinner asks low, "How's he doing?" 

Mulder glances at him.  "Will?  He's good.  He's perfect, in 
fact."  Despite the seriousness of their prior conversation, 
Mulder can't help but allow a trace of pride creep into his 
voice.

Skinner nods his understanding with a wry look.  "I have to 
admit, it's a little disconcerting to think of him as your son."

A self-effacing smile steals over Mulder's features.  "And 
Scully's," he adds.

Skinner nods.  "I'm glad for you.  Really.  You both deserve some 
happiness."  He pauses, fidgeting with awkwardness.

Mulder moves away from the window.  "You believe this mystery 
caller?"  He stops midway to the bedroom, turns and casts a 
meaningful glance towards the open door and back to Skinner, 
uncertain if Scully is listening within.

Skinner looks Mulder in the eyes.  "I...don't...know," he says 
with a slow nod of his head.  "It could be a hoax, although  
seems like a lot of trouble for Kersh to go through just to keep 
your wings clipped."

"Kersh is a scared little man.  He doesn't just want me out of 
the Bureau, he wants me out of the picture."

"What will you do?"

Before he can respond, Scully reappears, Will's compact form 
snuggled against her, his head bobbing at her shoulder.  The two 
agents look at one another, unspoken communication sharper than 
ever.  Mulder tries to sort out the players in this new drama, 
but there's been a recasting.  Things are not what they were and 
he doesn't have the luxury of figuring out an elegant solution.  

"I'm staying," he avows.

"Mulder, no," Scully interjects, as he expected.  She moves until 
she is standing before him. "Whoever is at the bottom of this, we 
will find out.  We will.  But you should go, at least for a 
while.  We'll be fine."

"That's crap," he growls.  Then his voice softens, his expression 
earnest.  "My place is here."

"Yes," she agrees, looking into his face, devotion shining in her 
countenance.  "But I need you alive. I need to know you're safe."

"She's right," Skinner adds.  "I'm not sure who or what's behind 
this, but I can't guarantee *anybody's* safety at this point."  

Mulder sends a pointed look at the man, deciphering Skinner's 
meaning at once.  This isn't about him at all.

"There are obviously still questions out there that need 
answers."

Both men turn towards the source of the statement and the sorrow 
in Scully's face matches their own.


~*~*~*~


She turns to him in the darkness, molding her body against his.  
He hears her sigh and when she lifts her face to his, he kisses 
her with tenderness.  His lips move to her cheek and he tastes 
the salt of tears.

"When?" she asks, although they both know the answer.

"As soon as possible."

"I want--"

"No," he states without hearing her finish.  "You need to be 
here.  You know that."  He shares her apprehensions, but there's 
no helping it.

There is no security in the world, he thinks, but this.  Here, in 
the haven of Scully's arms, he finds respite.

"You'll contact me," she admonishes.

"In time."

"You'll be careful."

"Of course."

"You'll come home."

He presses her onto her back, then, and stares into her eyes. He 
nods before kissing her long and deep.  She is pliant and warm 
and his.  When they part, she shifts in his arms, nestling her 
back against his front.  He holds her close, listening to her 
breathe as the hours they have remaining together slip into 
eternity like starlight.

In time, sleep overwhelms her again.  Mulder cannot rest.  Moving 
in slow time, he eases himself from her side and out of the bed.  
He packs his bags and sets them by the door.  He's never liked 
good-byes and this one will be hard to take.

He stops by the bassinet to watch his slumbering son.  One large 
hand runs over the velvet head, damp with sleepy heat.  Turning 
the blanket down halfway, he rests his palm on Will's lower back, 
feeling the rise and fall of new breath.  The baby stirs at his 
touch.

He turns the baby onto his back and the cherubic mouth parts as 
eyelids lift.  "Hey," Mulder whispers.  Tiny fists rise up 
garnering an involuntary smile from the man above.  "Take care of 
Mom while I'm gone, huh?"  After so many lonely years, he has 
planted his feet in the world at last.  Now where had he heard 
that phrase?  Odd, he thinks, then sets the thought aside.

He turns the baby onto his side and waits until Will relocates 
his two favorite fingers to suck on.  Turning his head over his 
shoulder, he watches Scully at peace in slumber's sacred embrace.  
This woman, this child -- they are his and he...  He is theirs.  
He's more grateful for that Truth than any he's ever pursued, and 
he will not allow anyone or anything take it away from him.  Not 
ever.

Security.  It is an illusory concept paid for in warm blood, 
heavy sweat and healing tears.  It has always been so.  He 
wonders what the future holds for himself, his family and his 
country.  There are so many questions and far too few answers for 
comfort.  But then, he's always been good at finding answers.

You just had to know where to look.

END
SUSPENSION OF A LIFE IN PROGRESS (1/1)
by Blackwood

Thank you for reading!