TITLE:  Another Chance (Part 1 of 1)

AUTHOR:  Leslie Sholly

E-MAIL:  PennySyc@aol.com

DISTRIBUTION:  Spooky List, Ephemeral, and

Gossamer, yes.  Anywhere else, with my name

and address attached.  And please let me know!

SPOILER WARNING:  Anything through

Trevor is fair game.

RATING:  R (language)

CLASSIFICATION:  VRA

KEYWORDS:  MSR, post-ep, Mulder-Angst,

Scully-Angst

SUMMARY:  Pinker Rawls is no longer a

threat.  Why can't Mulder move on?

DISCLAIMER:   Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox

own the characters of Dana Scully and Fox

Mulder.  I mean no infringement or disrespect.



FEEDBACK:  Would be very much appreciated

at PennySyc@aol.com (Leslie).  



************************

Another Chance

by Leslie Sholly

************************



     The bloody pieces of Wilson Pinker Rawls are

everywhere, in the road and atop the car

that ended his life.  June looks at me through a

the blood-spattered window, face ravaged. 

"What did he want?" she asks me.



     "Maybe another chance," I reply.



     My own words haunt me throughout the rest

of that terrible night.  Outwardly, I'm

efficiency itself, handling the details, asking

questions of Jackie, June, and Trevor and

answering those the local P.D. puts to me.



     Scully is at her best, a pillar of strength and a

fountain of sympathy to the battered

women and terrified child.  Her particular blend

of womanly tenderness and F.B.I.

professionalism can't be beat at times like these.



     Me, I'm just going through the motions.  All I

want is to get away from this gruesome

scene, from this place of shattered lives and

broken dreams.  I've had enough and I

want to go home.



     Back in D.C., though, I don't feel much

better.  I should feel triumphant, right?  My

paranormal theories have been proven correct

once again.  I've got eyewitnesses, physical

evidence--even Scully believes.  And we

prevented Jackie and June and Trevor from

being seriously injured.  The only thing to regret is

failing to catch Pinker alive--but then that

would have presented its own difficulties.  How,

for instance, could we have kept such a

man safely confined?  But I don't feel

triumphant.  Quite the opposite.  I feel hollow,

sad.



     So over the next few days I do a little research

on our friend Pinker.  Scully and I don't

have a whole lot going on right now so I have

time on my hands.  I want to understand this

man--try to explain to myself why the case has

left me feeling this way.



     Pinker's childhood was typical of the kind of

guy he grew up to be.  Poor family,

alcoholic mom, abusive dad.  Pinker was in and

out of foster care but always ended up back in the

bosom of his dysfunctional family.  Eventually

the father abandoned them, and the mother died

soon after.  On his own from an early age, Pinker

racked up juvenile convictions--vandalism, petty

theft, escalating to assault and worse as he aged,

until the conviction that put him behind bars.  He

was a man full of rage by all accounts, and he

was quick to express that rage physically at the

least provocation.  Not much to like about my

friend Pinker.



     Thing is, I can relate to Pinker.  I was luckier

because until Sam was taken, my family

was pretty normal.  My dad worked a lot; he was

emotionally detached to a certain extent.

But probably no more so than lots of fathers in

that pre-sensitive male generation.  And

even after our family fell apart there was plenty

of money, there were good schools.  I may

have lacked the emotional support of my parents

but there were other supports there for

me.  I was never totally on my own.



     And my dad never beat me.  At times I used

to wish he would.  See, I inherited his gift

with the English language.  What is humorous

irony and bantering innuendo in me,

though, was brutal sarcasm in him.  His words

wounded my soul the way Pinker's dad's

switch flayed his hide, and the scars left behind

were equally deep.



     So Pinker was fucked up.  I have a certain

sympathy for that.  It doesn't take a psych

degree or a profiling background to see why he

became what he did.  There's a dark twisted

side to me too, hidden beneath the outward

trappings of a designer suit, an Oxford

education, and a prestigious occupation, and

kept at bay largely because I have a quest on

which to focus my energy and Scully by my side

when things get bad.



     But Pinker had nothing.  Nobody.  Then out

of nowhere comes this power.  June told us

Pinker said it came from God.  Suddenly he had

the means to get what he wanted, and he

went after it.



     His boy.  His son.



     My heart twists inside me and I'm glad I'm

alone in the office now, because I can't stop

my face from crumbling and a few tears from

making their way down my face.  Herein lies

the crux of my identification with Pinker.  Here

is the reason this case is staying with me,

torturing me by day and keeping me awake at

night.



     It might seem out of character for a swinging

bachelor such as myself, but for many

years I've thought about, dreamed about, having

kids.  I've always wanted to have them. 

Secretly, I've always thought I'd be a good father. 

I would discipline with love instead of

fear.  My words would be tender and supportive,

never cruel and sarcastic.  I'd pitch in with

a baby--after some of the things I've seen in the

X-files, could diapers be too bad?  I'd teach

my son to play t-ball and later shoot baskets in

the driveway with him.  I could even learn

to play Barbies and watch Teletubbies.  I would

be good at it.  I know I would.



     I'd be the father I wish I could have had.  Just

like I'm sure Pinker thought he'd be a

good father to Trevor.



     But, just like Pinker, I'm never going to get

my chance.  Because the woman I love

cannot bear children.  I've been in love with

Scully for years and ever since I first fell for her

the children I dreamed of looked like Samantha

with Scully's impossibly blue eyes, or were

red-haired and freckled versions of me as a boy. 

God knows I have my fair share of sperm

and I've no reason to believe they are anything

but viable, but when those bastards stole

Scully's eggs, they stole *my* future too.



     This is an absolutely private grief, one I shed

tears over in secret before I shared the bad

news of Scully's infertility with her.  O.K., so we

aren't a couple.  So I've never even kissed

her.  For some time, I've been operating under

the premise that we'll be together some day. 

It's inevitable.  The minute Scully looks a bit

receptive I swear to God I'll be all over her. 

I've already told her I love her.  I've been

dropping hints for years.  The moment is

coming--I can feel it.



     So here I sit, thinking melancholy thoughts

about Pinker and Trevor, and me and my

imaginary son who will never be born, when I

hear the clicking of Scully's little feet in those

ridiculous heels she wears.  I'm glad of the

warning they provide, though, because it gives

me time to wipe my eyes and try to pull myself

together before she enters the room.



     I can't fool Scully, though.  She can tell I'm

upset and I didn't have time to hide Pinker's

file.  But if I'm expecting any sympathy, I'm sadly

disappointed.  Scully makes a gesture

of irritation toward the file.  "Mulder, that case is

closed."



     "Technically--but we still haven't come up

with an explanation for Pinker's abilities."



     "And won't--with the man dead and his body

in more pieces than a side of beef after the

butcher's had his way with it.  Our reports have

been filed, Mulder.  It's time to move on. 

Let it go."



     "I just can't get it out of my mind, Scully," I

say, miserably.



     "I don't get it, Mulder.  What's bugging you so

much about this case?"



     I sigh.  "I guess . . . I guess I feel sorry for the

guy, Scully."



     "For Pinker?" Her voice rises in surprise, in

indignation.  "The guy was a creep, Mulder. 

He killed indiscriminately.  I don't even want to

imagine what the kind of death he caused

must have felt like. He hurt June and

Jackie--terrorized that poor child . . ."



     "He just wanted his son, Scully."



     "His son?  He didn't even know that boy," she

says disdainfully, dismissively.



     "But Trevor was still his."



     "He wasn't.  Parenthood involves a lot more

than just contributing the initial biological

material."



     I don't say a word but I can't hide my shock as

I turn to look at her.  I open my mouth--

close it again--I'm speechless.



     Scully realizes what she's said at the same

moment I do.  Her eyes fill--her lips tremble--

and as the first tears fall she runs from the office.



     I start to follow but stop dead in my tracks.  I

realize that I have *no idea* what I would

say to her.  I  never, never meant for the

conversation to take that turn.  I've been so

wrapped up in my own connection to Pinker that

Scully's--which was really much more

obvious--never occurred to me until the words

about biologcal material came out of her

mouth.



     I wonder, though, if the similarities of the case

might not have registered in her

subconscious.  It might explain why Scully,

normally soft-hearted and sympathetic, had

nothing but contempt for Pinker.



      Thirty minutes tick slowly by and Scully

doesn't return.  I still don't know what I'm going

to say to her, but decide I'd better go after her

anyway.  So I check the bathroom and when I

don't find her, I go to the parking garage and look

where we left her car after lunch today.  It's gone.

We were supposed to have a four o'clock with Skinner

to be assigned another case, and I realize it's a

measure of Scully's distress, that shecould take off

in the middle of the day like this.



     I take a few minutes to call Skinner and offer

an excuse.  Scully isn't feeling well, I tell

him--something she ate, probably--and I want to

drive her home.  He accepts my explantion

and I'm off to Georgetown.



     Scully doesn't answer when I knock so I let

myself in.  I can hear her sobbing in her

bedroom and I hesitate only seconds before

heading back and tapping lightly on the door. 

"Go 'way!" she orders through her tears.  I've

never minded invading Scully's personal space

before and I'm certainly not going to start now,

so I push open the door.



     Never, never have I seen Scully like

this--rumpled and splotchy-faced, eyes swollen

and red from crying.  I've seen Scully vulnerable

before but now she is utterly broken and I

don't know the person I see before me.



     "Scully, Scully . . ." I murmur and move to

offer the only comfort I can think of, the

warmth of my embrace.  But she pushes me

aside.



     Drawing a ragged breath and struggling to

speak thorugh hiccuping sobs she focuses her

watery eyes on mine and asks, "Is that what you

think of me, Mulder?  You think I'm like--

like Pinker?  A crazy, obsessed person pursuing a

connection where none exists, shoving

my way in where I don't belong ..  ."



     She's crying harder, becoming hysterial, and I

grab her by the shoulders and almost shout to

focus her attention.  "NO!  No, Scully, no!  I

*never* said that, I never *thought* that!  To be

honest, I hadn't even thought to compare you to

Pinker at all, not till the same moment it occurred to you."



     She's listening to me now, so I continue.  "The

situations have a certain similarity, sure.  But

you're being too hard on yourself as usual,

Scully, and too hard on Pinker."



     "What do you mean?" she whispers.  Tears

are still trickling down her cheeks but my

voice is calming her.  I grip her hands tightly and

rub the backs of them rhythmically with

my thumbs.



     "I mean that Pinker *did* love Trevor even

though he didn't know him, just like you

loved Emily without knowing her.  That he felt a

connection there as soon as he saw the

boy.  That maybe he thought he was doing what

was best for the boy--giving him a father."



     "But," she protests, "Trevor was happy where

he was."



     "As far as we know, that's true, Scully.  But

don't try to make a comparison with Emily's

situation.  She was alone.  You weren't trying to

take her away from people who loved her. 

You wouldn't ever have done that."



     She nods slowly, accepting my words.



     "And you let her go, Scully, when you saw

you couldn't help her.  You stopped the tests

so she wouldn't have to suffer anymore.  You let

her go."



     "So did Pinker," she admits, looking up at me

through a curtain of silky hair.



     I brush her hair back from her forehead and

ask, "How do you mean?"



     "He saw . . . I think he saw how frightened

Trevor was.  He'd broken the glass with a

brick.  He could have gotten the boy.  One more

hit would have done the job.  But he gave

up.  Just gave up and walked away . . . into the

path of June's car."



     "The poor guy," I say.  Finally Scully leans

into me, rests her head against my chest.



     "I'm sorry, Mulder," she murmurs.



     "Sorry for what, Scully?"  I'm stroking her hair

and enjoying the closeness of the

moment.



     "I wasn't just upset over the parallels I was

drawing in my own mind.  I was much more

upset to think that you were reaching the same

conclusions--that you've been so disturbed by this

case because you though I was crazy to have

been so affected by Emily . . ." 

Impatiently she rubs tears out of her eyes.



     I bend over and plant a gentle kiss on the

crown of her head.  "But you know now that's

not true, don't you?"



     "Yeah."  Then the question I hoped she'd

forget to ask occurs to her.  "Why have you

been so upset about this case then, Mulder?  Why

can't you let it go?"



     "Told you I was sorry for the guy," I say,

tensing a little.



     "Yeah, I know you are, Mulder.  But I also

know it's more than that."  She's rapidly

recovering from her own free-fall into emotional

vulnerability.  I see the investigative skills

coming back online.  She pulls out of my

embrace to stare at me searchingly, and I flinch

under her gaze.



     "Come on, Mulder, tell me what's wrong."



     "I wasn't comparing Pinker to you.  I was

comparing him to me," I admit, wondering

how little I can get away with telling her.



     "In what way?" she asks, and I watch the

wheels turning.  The possibilties are many and

she might pick one of the wrong ones--the lousy

childhood, an inadequate father figure,

even a single-minded devotion to a quest without

caring who or what gets in the way.



     I debate which of these possiblities to admit to

and am surprised when I hear the truth

coming out of my mouth.



     "Pinker wanted a chance to be a good dad to

his son.  He had a rotten father and he

wanted a chance to do better with his own kid."



     Scully waits.  When I don't elaborate, she fills

in the blanks.  "And you . . . .you'd like

the same chance . . . to rectify your own father's

mistakes by being a good father yourself?"



     I nod, ducking my head a bit to hide my

suddenly misty eyes.



     "You don't have to worry, Mulder," she says. 

With conviction, she adds, "You'd be a

wonderful father."



     All of a sudden I feel sure she's imagined it

just like I have.



     "I'm not concerned that I wouldn't be a good

father," I tell her.  "I've thought a lot about

it and I know I would be."



     There's confusion in the blue eyes turned to

look quizzically at me.  "Then I don't

understand what's upsetting you."



     I don't want to spell it out but it's too much for

me finally.  The words break out of me in

a rush.  "Jesus, Scully!  I know you're the one

whose eggs were stolen--but don't you

think that it hurts *me* that we can't have any

kids?  You aren't the only one whose dreams

died in that train car."



     The room is totally silent for several seconds

after my outburst.  I can't imagine what

Scully is thinking and I'm not sure I want to

know--probably that I'm a selfish bastard for

trying to make her loss mine as well.



     Evidently, though, that's not what Scully is

thinking because before I know what is

happening she's pulled me down next to her on

the bed and wrapped her arms about me

and suddenly she's crying again.  Both of us are

crying together at last for what we have lost, for

what we will never have.



     Through her tears Scully whispers, for the first

time, that she loves me.  Our lips meet

and the emotion between us turns to passion of a

different sort.  My last conscious thought

before I allow myself to be overwhelmed by her

love and by her touch is a promise not to let this

unexpected chance for happiness go to waste.



*********************************************

"Do not let your chances like sunbeams pass you

by . . ."



          - Rowland Howard

*********************************************



THE END



Feedback of all kinds welcomed and treasured at

PennySyc@aol.com (Leslie)