Author: Christina M. Simmons


E-mail:  catwings@erols.com


Title: Shivah


Archive:  Sure, just let me know.  If anyone wants to ship it out to the XFC


list as well, go ahead... I'm no longer on it.





Spoiler Warning:  Orison,  Sein Un Zeit


Classification:  Vignette for 'shippers.


Rating:  G





Timeframe:  Begins during SUZ, following the scene that's been fascinating


'shippers.  Don't read it if you haven't been following spoilers.  Flashback


to post-Orison.  Ending is inspired by the diner image from FoxFlash as


posted by Haven, plus SUZ set spoilers.  Again, if you've got something


against spoilers, wait until after the episode.





Disclaimer:  Characters and series belong to Twentieth Century Fox, yadda


yadda yadda. Like I ever claimed that they didn't.





Author's Note:  This story was inspired, largely, by a quotation I read


during my nightly prayers.





". beside us in grief - silently, usually, like an orthodox Jew sitting


shivah with his bereaved friend, offering no words to explain away a mystery


that is beyond words."


- Bishop Edmond Lee Browning, *A Year of Daays with the Book of Common


Prayer*





Summary:  Somewhere between dusk and dawn, Scully comforts a grieving


Mulder. and is later surprised by his response.








Her back ached. her neck. it seemed forever, longer, that she'd sat there,


unmoving.  Mulder, a dim huddle under his covers, did not move.  Dana Scully


regarded him, her partner, her friend.  Then, muscles making their demands,


her glance became cautious. *don't wake him.*  She rose, aware of each


faint, creaking breach of silence as she stretched, relieving collected


tension.





Behind her, her partner slept on.  It was good for him to sleep, she knew.


he had refused sedatives, the standard prescription for grief.  He had


ignored her suggestions as his physician. but had accepted her presence as a


partner, as a friend.





She ached for him.





Poor Mulder.  To be stripped of both sister and mother in such a short


period of time. though one had been little more than a dream, an illusion,


for decades. it had cut into his most hidden vulnerabilities.  She'd been


with him, through his fever-delirium after the loss of his father.  She'd


seen him, countless times, finger the Polaroid snap of his sister.  His


mother he had clung to as only a son can, and now even that was gone from


him.  She, too, knew the grief of parental loss. of the loss of a sibling.


of the self-blame and anguish that followed, exacerbating the pain of


mourning.





If she could take it all away from him, the pain, the grief, she would. take


in on herself in a heartbeat.  But she could not. all she could do, of


course, was sit vigil with him, and be what comfort a friend could be.  That


she could do, and did gladly. and she would be there in the morning when he


woke, and would help him through the first day of mourning.





At the moment, however, she ached from head to foot, and longed for a brief


respite of her own.  She turned for the door, towards the glow of the


kitchen beyond.  A moment away couldn't hurt. a moment to find an asprin,


swallow a glass of water.





"Don't."  It was muffled, muted. she had to pause to hear it, soft movement


overlaying the voice from behind, masking it.  "Please."





The hesitation split only an atom of time.  She turned, going to the


bedside, kneeling there.  Mulder's forehead felt very warm, moist under her


hand.





"Mulder. I'm not going anywhere.  Just to the other room."  She tried to


smile, reassuring, comforting.





His hand snaked up from beneath the covers, grasping her wrist, holding it


firm.  His eyes, dark and round, caught her.  He hadn't been sleeping.  His


voice, even softer now, was hoarse. raw with tears.





"Please don't leave."  And there might have been another word there, a


single syllable, but he couldn't verbalize it, not under the subtle emphasis


of the other words.  Scully's head tilted slightly, the tears flooding her


eyes.





*Don't cry.  Be strong.  He needs you.*





It was not her partner speaking. that bare, ravaged voice.  It was that core


within him, tucked safely away from daylight and his own truths, stripped


now of its shielding humor, its faades and its defenses.





*Don't leave me . *





She'd heard it like reading a printed word, seen it written there in his


eyes. behind the grief, behind the confusion, a flailing hand reaching for


her.  He was broken inside, and the shards were piercing. but he was still


strong enough to know her, to reach for the help, the comfort, he needed.





It moved her, moved something within her, and she remained there, gazing at


him.





The memories came, unbidden.








She had not been good company for him that day.  Mulder had understood, of


course. had stood by her when they had wheeled the sheeted gurney out past


the front of her shattered apartment, had taken her overnight bag from her


hands, had placed a calming, guiding hand on the small of her back, steering


her past windows that had eyes behind them.  He'd understood and accepted


her silence, and had driven her to her mother's house as the late winter sun


grew wan and pale in a sky the color of old sheets.





Her mother, as it happened, was away, visiting her brother Bill - holding


her grandchild, as likely as not, warm in the balmy atmosphere that was


California winter, away from the blood and the terror and the report of a


handgun...  It was just as well.  Scully wasn't so sure that she wanted


anyone clucking over her, just now.





*I'm fine,* she'd say, but her mother wouldn't believe that.  Mothers never


did.  She repeated it to herself, though.  *I just need rest, that's all. a


good sleep, and back to work.*





It wouldn't be that easy, of course. and she knew it.  There would be


procedure to follow. the Bureau loved its procedure. and paperwork to file,


and her own psyche to be unraveled by some psychologist who was not her


partner.  And mandatory leave, no doubt.





And then there was procedure to be followed, too, on a hidden level. her


personal putting-to-rights, years of catechism working their way on her.


Confession, she knew, would have to be attended to.  Absolution, though she


hardly felt that would help.  Absolution from what?  Dispensed by whom?





*How can God forgive someone who can't forgive herself? Or know if she even


wants to?*  The very thought exhausted her, and her eyes drooped.





"You okay, Scully?"





She lifted her head, for a moment disoriented.  She realized that  they'd


been sitting in her mother's drive for an indeterminate amount of time, and


that Mulder's brown eyes were scanning her face, analyzing each trace of the


past few hours. the horror, the shock, the resignation.





"I will be." she'd heard herself say.  It wasn't true, of course, but she


said it anyway.








He hadn't left her for longer than it took to run down to the corner


pharmacy for tranquilizers she knew she'd need once night came.  Enough


horrors had remained with her from her first encounter with Donnie Phaster


that she'd offered no resistance to Mulder's suggestion.  When he'd


returned, he'd brewed her a cup of herbal tea, then helped her remove every


candle from sight and close them into a cabinet.  Though a certain rational


part of herself felt foolish in doing this, she was grateful for his


presence. his help.  She expected him to go then, with promises to check in


on her come morning. but no promises came, and he did not make any move to


go.





When full darkness came, shading the windows, and it became clear that


Mulder had no intention of leaving, she had directed him to the guest


bedroom at the top of the stairs.  She hadn't the will or the strength to


protest, not with the tranquilizers working on her, that she didn't need to


be hovered over. let him stay, if he wanted.  Then, wearier than she could


ever remember being, she made her way to the master bedroom, rolled herself


up in the thick down comforter, and surrendered to the night.





It was sometime in the small hours of the night that she found herself


suddenly awake. not awake in a shock, trembling, as in the aftermath of a


nightmare, nor in the abrupt wakefulness following an unfamiliar sound


below.  She swam into a dreaming wakefulness, her eyes bleary in the gloom,


and found herself in her parents' home.  Was she awake at all?  It seemed so


real.





The downstairs hallway was very large, and cast in coppery shadows and


subtle lighting. it was familiar, each crevice and corner, the carpeting,


the family portraits on the walls.  She heard the snoring of her brothers as


she made her way, padfoot, down past their room. they had always snored, a


comforting night-sound.  The floorboards creaked underfoot.  Her heart


thudded wildly, fear of rousing her siblings foremost in her mind, fear


oddly muffled, jumbled. Missy, in particular, was a light sleeper.





She was sleepwalking, of course.  She'd been told by laughing parents that


she had an almost tenacious propensity for it. but she was, now, oddly aware


of it, aware of herself.  Aware of how her consciousness seemed suspended


from her body, how everything seemed to be proceeding in slow motion.





*Where am I going?  Why am I not in bed?*





A bad dream.  It must be that, with the cold fear coursing through her


veins.  She'd been having a terrible dream . but no, she was not Dana


Scully, not an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, she was simply


Dana, the smallest child awake in the night, and she was having a bad dream.





There was a man in the dream, a man who wanted to.





What did he want to do?





Menace, yes, she could feel the menace. she did not dare look behind her, at


the wicked shadows closing on her as she took the steps child-fashion, one


step, two step.  HE would get her if she looked back. her heart beat faster,


and she quickened her pace.





The sounds of her siblings sleeping faded as she reached the top of the


stairs.  Here, no coppery glow. only pale silver moonlight, flooding in from


the window at the end of the hall.  The inky tangle that froze her in place


was only a plant, a Boston Fern, sitting atop a hallway bookshelf.  There


were the doors to her father's study, her mother's sewing room. her parents'


room.





That was what she sought.  Even dreaming, sleepwalking, she knew that room.


knew its comfort, its protection.  How often had she slipped in there as a


child, hearing her parents breathing together in the night, and made her way


to the foot of the tall, wide bed?  How many times had she laid herself


down, carefully so as not to wake them, across the foot of the bed. and


slept then, until mother or father discovered her there, and drew her into


the well of warmth between them?





She saw the bed, welcoming. a port in a storm, her father had once said.


But.





*Something isn't right.*





There was only one mound in the bed, a sleeping form concealed by quilting.


Why was this?  Where were her parents?  She froze in the doorway, still


oddly distant from her own self, and stared.  Was her father out at sea?


Was that it?





She placed her hand on the door frame steadying herself.  The cool, smooth


wood seemed more real than the vision before her.





*No.  Daddy isn't at sea.  Daddy's. gone.*





And suddenly, her senses flew back to herself, and she was aware, entirely


aware, for a moment.  No, she was not in her parents' house. she was in her


mother's house.  The furnishings were much the same, yes, but the house was


different.  And she was not a small child, fleeing a waking nightmare.





*You're sleepwalking.  Walking in a dream.  This isn't home.*





She stared into the room.  Mulder.  Her partner was here, and she was awake


in the night.





She felt suddenly inexplicably cold, bereft of the dream's promise of


protection.  All the memories of the day flooded back to her in waves.


images disjointed, overlapping, and she began to tremble.  Donnie Phaster.


A gun in her hand.  Mulder, eyes wide, staring at her.  Don't shoot.


Candles everywhere.  Broken glass.





She felt herself take one hesitating step forward, then froze.





*This is wrong, Dana.*





The thought was her own, but come from a distant place.  Shelter was ahead


of her, every instinct told her that. ahead of her, where the memories,


where the images could not reach her.  But.





*No.  No, you are not doing this.  You're a woman, not a child now, and you


will NOT seek comfort in someone's arms to drive your own demons away.  Not


even if that someone is your partner, your best and closest friend, the only


person in this godforsaken world who knows you.maybe better than you know


yourself, for all the good that will do him, or you.*





She remembered pulling back, stumbling backwards and slumping against the


wall, feeling its coolness, its calm support. the bookshelf, conveniently


placed and waist-high, steadied her as she reached for it, meaning to turn,


to make her way back again to her own safe nest.  But her legs, suddenly,


were weighted, unwilling to move.  Her chin dropped to her chest, the


drug-induced lethargy taking her again, and the floor rose up to meet her.





And sometime in the night, in the pre-dawn grayness, her partner had come


out of the room and found her there, cheek and shoulder pressed against a


conveniently-close bookshelf, curled in upon herself, unmoving.





She had not wakened when he'd lifted her as easily as one might lift a


child, had no recollection of the tender concern, the care he'd taken not to


disturb her.  All she knew for certain was the feeling of his heart beating


against her cheek when morning touched her, roused her. the cotton-soft feel


of his gray tee shirt against her skin, the easy rise-and-fall of his


breath, the warmth that radiated from him into her, speaking wordlessly to


her of safety, and peace.  His arms were about her, their protective embrace


heavy with sleep.  When she'd turned her eyes upwards, she saw his head


lolling at what must have been an absurdly uncomfortable angle - and rightly


so, as he was sitting upright, there on the living room sofa, holding her


close.  He probably hadn't meant to sleep at all. her partner, her


protector, her friend.





She did love him so.








He hadn't spoken of it the next morning, and she had found it all too easy


to slip back into the daily routine. the cases, the paperwork, the easy


banter that passes between friends.  In truth, she had not thought of that


night at all. until now.  Scully blinked, realizing that Mulder's eyes had


not left her face, that his hold on her had not eased.





He needed her.





"Mulder," she said.  "I'm not going anywhere."





He did not respond immediately, but after a moment his fingers loosened


their hold on her wrist.  He nodded, allowing her to rise and move to the


other side of the bed without protest.  Awkwardly, tentatively, she sat,


considering her partner's back, its cloaking blanket.  Then, decisive, she


moved herself across the mattress, lowering herself to one arm, molding


herself to his form - he lifted his head briefly, allowing one arm to slip


beneath his neck, the other to encircle his chest, a protective embrace.





As the cool cover-fabric warmed between them, Scully felt her breathing fall


into the rhythm of her partner's, felt his heart beating against her. and


Mulder, as though aware of this, too, moved ever so slightly backwards,


sealing up whatever small gaps her settling had left.  His hands found hers,


covered them, squeezed.  Then, as sleep crept in and took him, he became


still.





Three days later, returning to her apartment, she found the letter wedged


under her door.





*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*


You aren't going to like reading this, Scully. I know you, and I can say


this truthfully, and all I ask is that you give what I have to say an honest


hearing.





You have gone as I write this. your concern, your care lingers here, and it


gives me some degree of comfort in an apartment that, for the first time


since I've known it, feels alone.  I never had any fear of solitude before I


met you, and I do not think I fear it now, but I am no longer easy in its


still, silent company.  I wish you were here with me, but your absence makes


writing this easier, somehow.  I know I could not look you in the face and


say what I am about to write.





Scully, you are the only family I have now.  My sister gone in the distant


past, my father before you had the chance to know him, my mother. there is


an ache there, and it will remain for some time before it fades.  Nothing


really prepares you for being an orphan at any age, for being nobody's


child, for being nobody's brother when once you were.  Still, I could say


you're the only family I've had for a long time:  family being defined as


what you have behind you, supporting you, urging you on.  Telling you that


you've been a damned jackass, sometimes, but never for a moment withdrawing


itself from your life, for good or for ill.  I think on all counts, you've


been more family to me than my own flesh and blood has been.





Writing this, I find myself suddenly thinking of a warm summer night, stars


overhead in a velvet sky, halogen lights flooding a green expanse, and


teaching you to play baseball.  The image, the moment, is very much with me.


heightening the feeling of closeness to you, knowing that you will read this


and remember, too.  I taught Sam to play baseball, on an evening that is


centuries away from my present.  She didn't want to learn, either.





But you, unlike that child-sister of mine, stayed. in more ways than one.


You have been a true friend to me, and I know that most of the time, in my


arrogance, stubborn and impetuous, I did not deserve it - your trust, your


faith, your love.  I do say that, Scully, for there are ways and ways of


loving. and, like most things between us, it has not needed to be something


spoken aloud.  Your actions told me, your continual presence, and I can only


hope that you can say the same of me.





For years now I've wrestled with the thought that I might be somehow


responsible for Sam, for what happened to her, for that gap that tore my


family apart and created the me you have known.  Now, I stand on an icy


precipice, with too much behind me and only darkness ahead.  I feel, Scully,


that I have taught you how to play a game you cannot win.  That neither of


us can win.





I cannot lose you as I have lost everyone else dear to me.  Sister, father,


mother. all gone, now, because of my blindness and obsession.  Twice now, I


have very nearly lost you as well.  I will not risk it again.





You would only argue with me, I know. feeling that, perhaps, I am taking a


decision away from you.  I am not.  This decision is mine, and mine alone.


By the time you read this, by the time we speak, I will have filed my


resignation from the Bureau.  It is the only way, Scully, that I can ensure


your safety. by nullifying that threat that is myself.





If you will have me, still, as part of your life, I would not cut our ties.


it is this life I have lived I want to shut out, not you.  You are, and will


always be, too much a part of me to be without.  For all you've done. as my


partner, my heart's sister, my closest - maybe my only - friend. thank you.





*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*





He had, Scully noted with some amusement through the tears, signed both his


first and last name. Fox Mulder.  She drew the breath in, wiped at her eyes,


and sat back, staring into empty space.








*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*





Mulder,





In a world that seems, too often, more full of darkness than of light, more


cold than warm, more a nightmare and less a dream, you have been for six


years now my companion on a journey I did not undertake willingly. but later


held fast to, heedless of resistance.  Through all of this, you have been my


guide and protector, my friend and my anchor, and I have struggled at times


to be the same for you.





Twice now, I have walked into a darkness unwillingly, been held there, and


considered myself gone from this world.  I know that icy precipice you wrote


of, too.  I know its terror and desolation.  Not even my faith - in my God,


in my family, in you - could warm that moment, ease the despair, stop the


tears.  Death, I thought, would be far kinder. far easier to endure.  But I


have done that, too - stood facing Death, and come to know him, and


understand his presence in myself.  Facing cancer, a slow and lingering


death, I found myself longing for life. for a heartbeat more, unspoiled.





Into all of this, you placed yourself, unfailingly. defying impossible


forces in your quest to find me, bring me back; refusing to submit to a


disease that was mine to succumb to.  You were my strength when none


remained in me.  Without you, I would have chosen the painlessness of the


abyss, but you held my hand - you would not release me to its comfort.  You


say you did not deserve my faith, my trust, my friendship. my love.  But the


saving of one life is enough to make claim on that for at least its


duration. if not longer.





And now, you ask me to forgive you for walking away.





How can you think, Mulder, that I can bear to lose you any more than you


could bear to lose me?  You are, and have been, partner and friend and more.


you called me family, heart's sister.  I call you a part of myself that I


refuse to surrender.  In these six years, we have become more together than


we could ever be alone.





I know from medical school, from our work together, from all I've seen, that


every life is endangered every day.  We are not safe in this world we live


in, and the danger is not always a dark conspiracy, a malevolent force


unseen.  We live and die each day and night, and die a bit more in what we


must endure. our trials, our pains, forces imposed upon us by God or nature


or man.  But we live, also, in what small joys we may find, in the strength


drawn from the hand of an old friend, in the knowledge that we cannot die so


long as we live in and for one another.





I cannot demand that you change your mind. sway your decision, alter your


plans.  It is, as you have said, your quest. your life. your decision.  You


told me, once, that you would consider it a loss. a personal loss. if I left


the Bureau rather than endure an imposed separation from you, from our work.


If I thought it would have much effect, I would say that to you now.





But know, Mulder, that I will follow you in whatever steps you take.  That


is my decision, my life, my right.  I will not remain part of the Bureau


without my partner.  We will tender our resignations together, or not at


all.  You asked if I would be willing to allow you to remain a part of my


life, even after you had terminated our partnership.  The answer is no.  I


am not willing - there is no choice involved.  You are a part of my life.


and a part of my heart, my soul.  I can no more choose to admit you or bar


you than I could choose to admit or cast out part of myself.





You are right, Mulder.  There are ways and ways of loving.





Scully





*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*





"You play dirty pool," he said, lifting his eyes from the letter.  Scully


allowed herself a faint smile, warming her hands around the smooth porcelain


of her coffee mug.  The diner was a pool of late-night quiet around them, a


public sort of hush.





"I learned that game from a good teacher," she replied.  Mulder chuckled.


He was sounding, behaving - for the moment, at least - more like the partner


she had known. *known and loved, Dana?*. for what seemed like forever, now.


Still, there was a lingering sorrow in his eyes just below the surface,


tangible and vulnerable.  He was trying to hide it from her, and she knew


it; most people would have hardened, barricaded themselves behind cynicism


and apathy, but Mulder was not "most people."





The moment passed.  His smile faded, the chuckle died, and she reached


across, covering his large hand with her own.  She squeezed, her eyes


searching his face, silencing the words forming on his lips.





"Mulder, you're not going to lose me."  Her own voice was so soft it might


have been a whisper.  "Whether you like it or not."





Unaccountably, he withdrew his hand from hers, rose, and walked out of the


diner, shrugging on his jacket.  She sat for a moment, not watching him go,


feeling emotions roiling within.  Then she followed him.





She found him standing at the edge of the parking area, gazing skyward into


a winter sky of diamonds on leather.  She hesitated a moment, then came up


behind him, encircling him with her arms, holding him tight.





"It would be easier." he said quietly, speaking into the night.  "to choose


the darkness."





"Not if I have anything to say about it."  She was surprised how fierce her


own voice sounded.





He turned then, his arms going around her, and pulled her close, kissing


her.  He'd kissed her before, as a brother might kiss a sister, with the


tender affection of an older sibling. and later, as a childhood friend might


kiss another, in that first tentative, unabashed exploration of what love


might be.  This was different. as fierce as her tone had been, as insistent,


as possessive.  She was not surprised, then, to feel herself respond in


kind.





When their lips parted, she turned her eyes to his, and they were deep as


the night sky above, and nearly as dark.  She reached up, lay her palm to


his cheek, feeling it warm beneath that caress.





"The right choice isn't always the easy one," she heard herself whisper.  He


shook his head.





"No," he agreed.  "It's not."





"Mulder. if what you're afraid of is really what you've said."  She chose


the words carefully, cautiously.  "Don't.  You cannot lose me, any more that


you can lose your father, your mother, your sister. any more than I can lose


you.  No matter what happens. You are my partner.  You are my friend.  We'


re. family."  It sounded foolish to say it aloud, and she stopped herself,


biting her lip.  "I'll always be with you."  She moved her hand from his


cheek to his chest, covering his heart.  "Always."





There was more there to say, more she could say - wanted to say - but no


further words came.





Mulder glanced down, then covered her hand with his own.  A faint smile


played at the corners of his lips, and he stepped away, clasping her hand in


his.  As they stepped towards the brightness of the diner again, however, he


gave a tug, overbalancing her, drawing her close into his side, his arm


winding protectively around her shoulders.  He grinned down at her.





"Just making sure."





Without a word, Scully slipped her arm around her partner's waist.  They


walked on like that, together, leaving the darkness behind them.








- The End -