TITLE: THE GHOST OF YOU AND ME

AUTHOR: Blackwood

RATING: PG13

E-MAIL: entreamis@yahoo.com

URL: http://members.tripod.com/black.wood/index.html

CATEGORY: MSR, Vignette, Angst, Post-ep "Patience"

SUMMARY: I didn't mean to fall in love with you.

SPOILERS: The Pilot, One Breath, The Erlenmeyer Flask, Post-Modern

Prometheus, The Unnatural, Millenium, En Ami, all things, Requiem,

Within, Without, Patience.

FEEDBACK: Keeps the muse happy and me writing.

ARCHIVE: I'm honored, just let me know where.

DISCLAIMER:  Not mine.  One hundred years from now, it won't matter

what I posted on the Internet, but Mulder & Scully may be a little

better off because I wrote fanfiction.  

AUTHOR'S NOTES: After several months absence, the muse came

a'courtin.  In the midst of a bit of erotic fancy (yes, I'm still

writing it), this emerged.  Respects and thanks to BB Mak for writing

a song that CC could have commissioned.  Lyrics at conclusion.  My

gratitude to Mish, Audrey Roget, Diana Battis and Forte for tangible,

incomparable beta and intangible, incomparable support.  You know,

for a person who uses words to express herself, words will never be

sufficient to express what you mean to me.  (Musea)





THE GHOST OF YOU AND ME (1/1)

by Blackwood



I hate you, Mulder.



Vomiting into a cracked ceramic toilet at the Harvest Home Motel at

dawn's early light is not what I'd call a good start to the day.  I

make my way to the tiny diner attached to the main office and find

Agent Doggett writing his report.  Coffee?  No, thank you.  Tea? 

Fine, but make it an herbal blend.  Two saltines are all I can manage

to keep in my stomach.  God, Doggett, how can you eat eggs?  No, I'm

fine.  Really.  Excuse me.



I splash icy water from the dingy sink onto my cheeks and catch my

breath, waiting for the throbbing in my head to ease and the nausea

to subside.  Pressing my hands to my forehead, I breathe deep

breaths.  When I lift my gaze to the image in the mirror, watery eyes

stare back at me from beneath the arch of my hands.  Makeup conceals 

broken capillaries from lack of sleep, but the fatigue still shows.



Hands slide downward to frame my face.  My cheeks are rounder. 

Sighing, I run a hand through hair that isn't quite as lustrous as

usual.  My body is changing.  The way my blouses are getting tighter,

I'm sure the gossip mill thinks Mrs. Spooky has had breast implants.

Oh, didn't I tell you?  I'm pregnant, Mulder.  And yes, it's ours.



At least, I hope it is.  I'm inclined to worry about what happened to

me while I was unconscious with the Smoking Man.  I am a doctor, but

my specialty is seeking the truth from the dead and the undead,

depending on your viewpoint, not the unborn.  My obstetrician doesn't

seem worried and I'm reading everything I can to allay my fears. 

Given my age, there are more than enough normal concerns, let alone

the paranormal.  I try not to think about the possibility of

artificial insemination against my will or the nature of the baby

within me.  It's too frightening to consider and too early to tell.



I really hate you, Mulder.



It's a long flight from Idaho to D.C., and the miles slip by in

silence.  Working with you, I used to wish for quiet -- to think, to

consider the facts of a case, to find the science in your magic. 

Doggett is practically a sphinx, Mulder, but there's no magic now;

only work, my own tenuous leaps of faith and the man sitting beside

me.  His name is John Doggett and I really don't know what to make of

him.  His official role is to lead the task force sent to find you,

but that doesn't preclude a hidden agenda, does it?  We've been

betrayed before and he's Kersh's boy, after all.  Yet, I don't know.

I was Blevins' girl once, and we know what happened after I met you,

don't we?



Doggett is audacious, but I can deal with that.  He's a no-nonsense,

ex-New York City cop with an "everything can be solved with good

police work" M.O.  He's good at what he does and he's been at our

heels, Skinner's and mine, since we began our search.  If I trusted

him for a moment, I might commend his investigative technique, but

our introduction was less than reassuring.  To be honest, he needed

his vision reduced.  I accommodated.  Talk about audacious.  Still,

he *is* an ex-Marine, so the dousing I provided should have felt

familiar.



Skinner knows about the baby.  I needed someone inside the Bureau to

know about me, about us.  He's been supportive, but he's beginning to

act like my father and it's beginning to piss me off.  I can just

imagine what Ahab would say if he knew his little Starbuck had been

"knocked up" by her partner.  He loved me, but he never did

understand me.  I love you too, Dad, but I'm an adult now and I'm in

a mess.  Jesus, Mulder, I sound like a bad rock song.  As for

Skinner, he's recovering from his encounter with an Alien Bounty

Hunter that seemed to be everyone, everywhere -- even you.  I never

thought I'd be yearning for an official dress down in front of his

desk with you by my side, but I'm practically nostalgic for it.



I finally told Mom.  I can still see her face, her mouth betraying

both joy and worry; her eyes glistening, yet sad.  She knew what was

going on before I even said the word "pregnant."  And Missy?  What

would *you* tell me?  No, I won't tell Bill...yet.  And since when

did Charlie ever care?  I wanted to ask my mother for her blessing,

her forgiveness, her strength.  Instead, I cried in her arms and she

stroked my hair, like she did when I was a girl and my brothers left

me behind while they went on some grand adventure.  Well, this isn't

a grand adventure.  It's a nightmare.  But, she told me you'll be

back.  She told me you never gave up searching for me.  She told me

to have faith.  Faith, I have.  It's hope that's in short supply.



Did I mention I hate you?



Even in your absence, I feel your presence.  We reach the Hoover

early afternoon and Doggett types the report and offers to write up

the expenses for our first X-file. I don't know whether he's being

chivalrous, fair-minded or over-controlling.  A manbat, Mulder. 

*That's* what we found.  There was even a newspaper photo and an

article that practically laid the entire thing out for us.  Not much

of a stretch of the imagination, if you ask me, although Doggett

thought it bizarre.  It was, but...just another X-file from where I

sit.  Doggett watched my every move and questioned every theory. 

Thank you, Agent, for being so polite while scrutinizing me.  Isn't

it nice to know I'm so highly thought of---



Damn you, Mulder.



Ernie Stefaniuk lived in hiding for forty years.  He reminded me that

there is a life beyond all this.  So did you.  His wife, Ariel, left

everything behind just to be with him.  I realize he couldn't know

about us, but I wondered.  Could I do the same?  Given the chance to

leave it all behind to be with you?  I've lost so much already,

Mulder, but...  Please don't ask me to give up more and don't tell me

it has to end here.  It can't.  Where are the writers?



In the evening, I drive home in a state of half-awareness.  I'm no

longer surprised when I find myself in Alexandria, parked outside

your apartment, hoping you'll suddenly emerge.  I let myself in only

to feed your fish.  I don't stay long.  The squeeze of my heart at

the emptiness I feel in your home leaves me aching for things I no

longer have.



I always admired you, Mulder.  I trusted you, too, no matter what

Spender said about my early motives.  I never told you, but he said I

feared you too much to love you.  Funny, fear is never a word I

associated with you.  Respect, approval, trust -- yes, these I

understood.  But love?  That wasn't an option.  Love had no place in

the professional ranks of the FBI, and never with my partner.  I

disdained agents who lacked the self-discipline to keep their

hormones in check. Oh, I noticed you, Mulder.  I'd have to be deaf,

dumb and blind not to react to your unique chemistry.  I never

thought I'd say this, but maybe I owe the smoker a shred of thanks

for forcing me to eat crow.  Little good it does me now.  They say

you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.  Count me among the

newly anointed in the Church of Regret.



I lie in bed at night, unwilling to sleep, unable to let go.  You've

been gone before, but it's different now.  The candle flickers on my

nightstand and memories rise in its wavering burn; phantom images of

our life together... Hundreds of days, thousands of hours, a million

shared moments in your eyes, your words, your touch.  My fingers

clutch the shirt I took from your bedroom not so long ago.  Always, I

listen for the soft chirrup of a cell phone in the dark, hoping to

hear a familiar "it's me" when I pick up.  I wait, not breathing,

hoping for the sound of your key in my door at the oddest hours.



Sometimes, the silence is unbearable and I throw on my jacket and

head to the park.  You know, the one where you taught me what I

already knew about baseball, and men, and you and me.  The one where

you babbled on about God-knows-what because we were both only paying

half-attention to words, too conscious of the way our bodies fit

together.  Your voice filled my head, the stars were out and you were

wrapped around me.  It felt wonderful.  You almost kissed me then,

when I turned in your arms.  Then we remembered we weren't alone and

*you* blushed.  Thinking about that night makes me smile.  There

aren't many things that do that any more.



Except, maybe, the night we finally laid the rumors and our

reservations to rest and simply chose to be.  We faced our demons

together, the spectre of tragedy that hovered over us exorcised by a 

New Year's kiss.  Even then, we moved forward with care, protective

and shy with our newfound roles.  I cannot say with certainty why it

took us so long to reach what, in hindsight, felt so inevitable. 

But, no matter what happens, I will never forget a night filled with

moonlit trees and the wind rattling your bedroom windows, covering

the sounds of too-long repressed desire at long-last given voice.



Can we pause there for a moment...please?  And let me remember you: 

your eyes, your mouth, your wit, your mind, your incredible capacity

to dream like a child, then cut to the chase.  I feel you in the

memory of gentle caresses that conveyed your wonder, tender words

that revealed your love.  I know your mouth on mine, cautious then

hungry, fearful your passion will break me.  No, it never will,

Mulder.  Your passion is what I crave most.  I want you inside me,

our hearts pressed together, so close I forget where I end and you

begin.  



These are the things that sustain me.



These...and the life within me.  Yes, I'm happy about the baby. 

Amazed really.  Oh, shut up, Mulder.  Yes, I suppose that's what

*does* happen when people do what we've been doing for the last few

months without taking precautions.



Just as I protected Gibson, I will safeguard my child.  Our child. 

Count on it.  Yes, we found Gibson Praise.  In the Arizona desert. 

In the place the Gunmen told me I would find you.  I don't know what

the connection is, but you will find it, Mulder.  I know you will and

you will come back to me, to us.  To all of us. 



I suppose I should be grateful the Bureau is pulling out all the

stops to locate you, but I'm suspicious of shapeshifting Bounty

Hunters, Kersh's puppets, Krycek and Marita.  I hold them all

responsible.  I'm angry and sore and heartsick, Mulder.  Where are

you?  I'm haunted by images too painful to describe.  Are they doing

to you what they did to me?  This chip in my neck that holds my

cancer at bay, can it save you as well?  Or will it be a hollow

victory to find you, then lose you again to an illness you hid from

me?



I want to believe, but I'm tired.  So very tired.



Byers leaves messages on my answering machine.  Frohike invites me to

supper.  Langley sends me e-mail jokes.  They mean well.  Holly makes

sure I eat during the day and Ellen goes with me to the doctor. 

Meanwhile, Doggett watches me from the sides of his eyes while we

drive some back road, question a suspect, work in your office.  Our

office.  Whatever.  Yes, Doggett is officially on the X-Files.  I

wasn't consulted, but I'll do my part.  Anything it takes to get you

back.  Anything.



I really hate what you've done to me, Mulder.



I hate being the believer.  I hate being the leap of faith artist,

the paranormal expert, the mystic.  Doggett says he's not Oxford

trained.  Neither am I.  He says, "I'm no Fox Mulder."  Ditto.  I'm

me, Dana Scully.  Still.  Physician, federal agent, bereaved mother,

bereft sister, beloved daughter, trusted friend, loyal partner.  Dana

Scully -- part skeptic, part believer, completely absorbed by the

search for my partner.  The search for the truth.  The search for

myself.



I didn't mean to fall in love with you, Mulder.  But I did.



And, God help me, I do.





END

THE GHOST OF YOU AND ME (1/1)

by Blackwood





The Ghost of You and Me

by BB Mak



What am I supposed to do with all these blues

Haunting me everywhere, no matter what I do?

Watching the candle flicker out in the evening glow,

I can't let go.  When will the night be over?



I didn't mean to fall in love with you.

And baby, there's a name for what you put me through.

It isn't love, it's robbery.

I'm sleeping with the ghost of you and me.



Seen a lot of broken hearts just sailing by;

Phantom ships lost at sea and one of them is mine.

Raising my glass, I sing a toast to the midnight sky.

I wonder why the stars don't seem to guide me.



I didn't mean to fall in love with you.

And baby, there's a name for what you put me through.

It isn't love, it's robbery.

I'm sleeping with the ghost of you and me.



The ghost of you and me.  When will it set me free?

I hear the voices call; following footsteps down the hall;

Trying to save what's left of my heart and soul.



Watching the candle flicker out in the evening glow,

I can't let go.  When will the night be over?



I didn't mean to fall in love with you.

And baby, there's a name for what you put me through.

It isn't love, it's robbery.

I'm sleeping with the ghost of you and me.





Thanks for reading! :)

November 2000