TITLE: Second Wind AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where. DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013, Chris Carter, and to the X-Files. SPOILER WARNING: DeadAlive CONTENT: Post ep RATING: PG-13 CLASSIFICATION: Vignette SUMMARY:Who knew that second wind blew so damn cold? COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at: http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer. I wonder if Lazarus found reanimation a chilling experience. Did he shiver and pull his burial shroud closer around him? Was he chilled to the core despite Judah's hot sun? Unfortunately, I have no one with whom to compare notes, as old Lazarus is no longer among the living. Besides, Lazarus was in the tomb, for what-four days? I could do four days standing on my head. Try three months, buddy, and we'll talk. I shiver, picturing frozen soil closing over me. Who knew that second wind blew so damn cold? I feel this chill deep in the marrow of my bones. It's a cold that no hot shower penetrates, even when I stand under scalding water until it becomes tepid. I felt warmer hearing Scully squeal when she took the next shower, and the water turned cold. I glance over to watch the few remaining inmates as they drift aimlessly in the icy blue of the fish tank. I find myself choked up at the thought that I still have an apartment. What possessed Scully to continue to pay the rent, even after my funeral? She was undoubtedly in denial, but I find myself touched by it anyway. I'm sure she would be more comfortable at her place, but I think she knew instinctively that I needed to be somewhere familiar. My feet feel like blocks of ice even wearing two pair of thick socks. I huddle on the couch, wearing a ski sweater layered over a thermal shirt, sweatpants covered with two blankets. I cup my hands around a mug of hot tea and still feel the chill. Scully says I'll feel warmer when I put some weight back on. She rambled on about temperature sensitivity and lack of body fat, but to be honest, I wasn't really paying attention. Instead, I was listening to the tone of her voice, the cadence of the words, the pure Scullyness of her explanation. She and the hospital nutritionist have worked out this dietary plan for me. Every bite I eat is packed with as many calories and nutrients as possible, and has as much flavor as boiled wool. The best part of mealtime is watching Scully do more than pick at her food, though I'm pretty sure her hearty appetite is a recent development. In spite of her expanded waistline, her face still has the pinched look I remember from the days of cancer. I'm still confused about what happened to me. I can't recall anything concrete. My memories are mere fragments, indistinct shadows that I pray aren't real. I remember dreams, horrible dreams that I couldn't wake from. I remember pain and aching loneliness and a weird sort of claustrophobic vacuum. And then I awakened to the most amazing sight. It seems to be my fate to wake in hospital beds, repeating the experience over and over, perhaps until I get it right. Just about every time, I'd force my eyes open to find Scully, favoring me with a rare smile, holding my hand, touching my face. But she always seemed guarded, as if afraid that the next time, I might not wake at all. Maybe she has finally lived her worst nightmare. This time was different. All I could see was Scully's face, but I knew something had changed. The walls were down, the shields gone. I saw her clearly for perhaps the first time. I read every emotion as it played across her beautiful face: amazement, wonder, joy, love. Especially love. I hardly recognized her. "I always knew I would see you again," she said, eyes glistening with tears. "I just never dreamt it would be on this side of the grave." I remembered times when I would have paid a fortune for a glimpse into Scully's thoughts. Laying in that hospital bed, trying to adjust to this new openness, I had no idea that the biggest changes in Scully were yet to be revealed. She stood to help me sip some water, and her greatly pregnant form came into view. Scully took my hand and placed it on the rise of her belly. I have to admit that every wisecrack, every joke deserted me in that incredible moment. I lay there, mouth moving but unable to form words. Scully watched me, her expression shifting from amused to worried. The only sounds in the room were the beeping of the monitors and the ticking of the clock. "Caddyshack," she said finally. "If this child has a sophomoric sense of humor and a taste for unbuttered popcorn, I'll know for sure, but I think it was the night we watched Caddyshack." "I guess an appreciation for fine malt beverages would just about clinch it," I quipped as I remembered that perfect night. She tasted of cinnamon and beer, and her skin was soft as velvet. I remember how she felt in my arms, and how she screamed my name when she came. God, I hope it was that night. The object of my affection waddles out of the bedroom, face flushed from a nap. Of course, I would never mention her duck-like gait. I have learned a few things over the last few days. Offers of back rubs are good, a full container of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey in the freezer is essential, and comments about formerly sleek figures are best kept to oneself. I am, above all things, a quick study and a survivor. Scully wears a maternity tank top and a pair of my boxers, leaving her toned arms and legs bare. The shirt hugs her middle just a bit, revealing the tiny bump of her navel. I know she is uncomfortable with the temperature cranked up to eighty, but she doesn't complain. I certainly don't mind her lack of clothing. She drops onto the sofa next to me, curling up against my side. Her body radiates heat like a campfire, and I hug her to me. A tiny gasp escapes her lips, and I turn to her in concern. She smiles to reassure me and places my hand on her belly. "I think I have a performance of Riverdance going on in here," she says. Of course, this isn't the first time I've felt the baby move within her. But every time I feel the firm roll of a tiny foot against my palm, I'm blown into a million pieces. I think I can safely say that I've witnessed more than a lifetime of amazing things and this puts them all to shame. I pull Scully onto my lap and wrap my arms around her. "No Mulder, I'll crush you," she protests. "Nonsense," I say as I quiet her with a kiss. I welcome the solid weight of her body, the pressure of heated flesh against my legs. She melts into me, her arms around my neck. I can feel her lips pressing small kisses along my cheek, grazing each scar as if she could heal it. Maybe she can. And I feel warm. End.