TITLE: What She Wanted
AUTHOR:Dreamshaper
FEEDBACK:is gladly welcomed and gradually replied to by dreamshpr@aol.com
ARCHIVE:If you want to, go ahead. But you know the drill--if we haven't 
spoken before, send a letter, please.
CATEGORY: MSR, A 
RATING: R 
SPOILERS: Terms of Endearment all the way, and the Emily arc.
SUMMARY: Post-ep for Terms Of Endearment, Scully POV
DISCLAIMER:The characters ain't mine--which is good, cause sometimes I 
*really* don't like 'em! Ha, take that CC!
NOTES: This was written because of a discussion on ATXC about the cruelty of 
just tossing Scully's infertility into the plot mix, and her daughter, with 
barely a mention after the eps...and then just the spontaneous bit of 
harshness that was ToE. 

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

"What she always wanted." He had murmured, as if the words were somehow 
unimportant. "What she always wanted." Not "a baby", not even a "demon 
child." Just something she wanted, as if it were...unimportant...that what 
she wanted was a living, breathing child of her own.

As if it wouldn't matter to me one bit what it was she wanted. As if not 
hearing him say the word would somehow keep me from seeing the children, hers 
and my own and impossibly together in that mass grave.

What she always wanted...

What I want, now that I can't have it. What I yearn for even as I gently, so 
gently brush away the grains of sand stuck to fragile, newborn and long 
buried bones. 

This is the last one to be freed of the dirt. The final child, perfection in 
miniature, beyond this world. Hopefully a being with a soul that now flew 
wild and free.

My fingers do not pause in their delicate task, my face feels as cool and 
serene as I have ever made it. The monstrous pain in my knees from spending 
countless hours here, the burning in my back and pain in my cramped 
fingers...all are a tribute to these lost ones. The prayers I have recited in 
my head for all these long hours since gently freeing the first tiny corpse 
are ringing in my head, another tribute.

But they don't drown out his words. No, those ring through my head the 
loudest, harsh and demanding though his tone, his eyes, had been nothing but 
quiet, and serious.

Nothing but impersonal.

There will never be anything more personal in the world for me than the 
babies that I cannot have, that another woman bore, and that died and--

Even if these babies are no part of me, no relation of mine, they will take 
over a section of my heart. Like Emily, like that poor lost baby in Home, 
they will stake their claim and I shall never be the same.

Because I *want* them.

Whole and healthy, fragile and week...newborn and with eyes as old as the 
tides, I want them all. And instead of smiling into the old eyes, cradling 
the frail new body, I am left to crouch in the dirt and mourn what cannot be.

What might never have been, even had I been left whole. 

I never had any particular desire for children, before I could not have them. 
And even after I knew I could not, the sadness had been aloof, taunting the 
edges of my heart but never able to bite. And then...then along came Emily 
and with her my rushing, pulsing *need* for a child. And with her passing, a 
deep, aching void of what *cannot be*.

With a gloved forefinger, I touch the tiny skull laying before me, perfectly 
formed and delicately strong in it's structure. These babies, all of them, 
would have been perfect. The answers to mother's prayers and father's dreams, 
wrapped in blankets and cuddled by parents who would spend years laughing 
with them, crying over them and fighting for them...

And instead, they are here. In the dirt.

And all because of what *she* wanted. 

It chokes me for a second, sends tears careening madly into my throat. But by 
pressing the back of one dirty, gloved hand to my mouth and closing my 
suddenly filled eyes, I manage to control myself. In a heartbeats worth of 
time I can open my eyes, swallow back my fears and grief, and continue on 
with the slow excavation. Heart beating slowly, and dully in my chest, I 
force myself on with my solitary task, lovingly clearing away the packed 
dirt. And a part of my mind calmly catalogues the perfections of the bones, 
the perfect spacings, the delicate orbits. The rest is forced back, forced 
into at least temporary confinement, the trap of aloofness and scientific 
interest.

It makes me wonder though. How many of my children, the ones so long ago 
stolen from me...how many of them were given funerals? How many were as lucky 
as Emily was, to be freed gently and remembered forever in a heart that aches 
for her absence? How many of *my* children were left like this? How many, how 
many *how many*?

The wondering could drive me mad. Perhaps someday it will. 

Perhaps someday I'll welcome it, when the memories of too many lost babies 
will beat a dull tattoo in my chest that drowns out the sound of my 
heartbeat. Maybe then I will welcome insanity.

Certainly, I would welcome some now.

But finally, the task is done, and I call over the deputy who will be doing 
some of the basic records. He and the county coroner will work to see exactly 
how each of these little ones died, though from their basic averageness I can 
tell that all would have been born healthy. 

And then I climb to my feet with a sigh, almost falling over backwards as my 
locked knees nearly give out, and suffering a sudden wash of dizziness that 
reminds me I haven't had food or water in some time. I am caught gently at 
the shoulder in an instant though, and from the hand I can tell it is my 
partner.

I don't want to deal with him. His words keep ringing in my head. "What she 
wanted," the chorus of the words over and over...

I would gladly welcome a brief, fast fall into insanity, if only the words 
would stop. 

"Hey, Scully." He teases gently as the hand braces itself against my 
shoulder. "Get up too fast?"

I nod dumbly as weariness sets in and I have to fight the urge to sway again. 
Yes, I got up too fast, yes that's it...

"Still no abnormalities, huh?" His voice is no longer teasing, is the same 
impersonal tone it often is when the information being discussed has no 
bearing on Samantha.

That was cruel, I realize as I steady myself against him. It doesn't have 
that tone when he discusses the Knicks either.

Once the world is stable around me, I clear my throat to answer, aware that 
he is still waiting with relative patience for a reply. "No abnormalities, 
Mulder. All healthy, all well-formed." Perfect, I want to tell him but know 
he won't understand the yearning I would say the word with. All perfect.

I look into the sky, all gray and clouds and rapidly darkening with the 
setting of the sun. I wish it were clear, wish that the faint outline of the 
sunset I can see over the house was full and vibrant before me. It might make 
it easier to hold my own internal funeral.

Missy told me when I was young and forced to attend my first funeral that the 
ceremony was important. "Dane," she'd said gently with her too old eyes 
settled firmly on the buttons of the dress I was to wear, "We have to go, so 
we can pay our respects. So we can wish the soul of Aunt Edna well on her way 
to Heaven."

"But she's dead." I had whined, fidgeting and impatient. "And she was nice, 
so she's going to Heaven anyway. I don't know why we have to go to a boring 
funeral."

Her eyes had risen from my buttons to my face, quiet and calm and almost 
laughing. "Dana, funerals are important. They give everyone a chance to say 
goodbye. And I think they give the soul permission to fly free. Now, you're 
set, and we're almost ready to go."

These souls deserve ceremonies to mark their passage, and they deserve Heaven 
more than the most saintly of persons grown, simply for their lost innocence. 
And I hope that somewhere up there, Melissa and Emily--together in *their* 
lost innocence, whenever I think of them--are waiting for them, or have 
already found them. 

I push away from Mulder when my silent prayers have finished for the final 
time. I turn and stumble away, feeling his eyes on my back with unknowing 
concern, and puzzlement. But I can't turn back. It's over. All I can do is go 
on, and wait for eventual madness to engulf me.

It feels like an impossibly long walk to my car, a hideously difficult 
journey. It's harder still to finger the key free on my ring and fumble the 
door unlocked and open. But sinking off my still weak knees into the soft, 
comfortable seat is easy. So is tilting my head back, and closing my eyes 
against the weak, cloud strewn sunlight.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

I still can't get the words, the images, out of my mind--and I've sat in this 
car, silent and unmoving, for nearly an hour. 

What would they have looked like? I wonder, and for a moment Betsy's babies 
are mine.

Red haired little girls...maybe dark little boys. Blue eyes, just like 
Emily's, perfect little bodies. An imperfect world, a flawed mother, but 
beauty in themselves and in her love. Their faces blended together in my mind 
to form a little group, different in age and coloring, different in looks, 
one with laughing eyes like Charlie's, one stubborn like Bill, one wise like 
Melissa,  and one like me, restless and...

Haunted.

I'm haunted, by memories, by tragedies and miracles. And as much as I will 
one day welcome a lapse in sanity I welcome now the ghosts, because they keep 
me going. They will keep me hunting when I might have let go long ago. They 
will keep me stable until I can turn the tables on the men who made them 
ghosts instead of warm, solid reality.

It's a satisfying image, revenge. And one that forces a small, undoubtedly 
cruel smile onto my face, that cracks the ice around my muscles and permits 
expression...

That cracks the ice around my heart and permits tears.

The begin to fall, slow and tender like kisses down my cheek. And with each 
one that falls, three more well until I am drowning in them, and ready for it.

With my eyes closed and my breathing pounding rough and rushed in my ears, I 
don't hear the footsteps approaching. I don't see Mulder cross to my side of 
the car, I don't see him pause in surprise. But I feel him, in my heart I 
feel his actions, and I swipe a furious hand across my cheeks, take a deep 
gulping breath and fish for a Kleenex even as I move my hand to lock the 
doors.

He's too quick though, and has the passenger door open before I can hit the 
automatic lock. 

"Scully." He says my name urgently, like it is important, and a small, bitter 
laugh rumbles through me. "Scully, what is it? Are you hurt? Where are you 
hurt?" 

His hands cross over the line between our seats, run lightly and impatiently 
across the skin he can reach, checking for injuries, and they make me laugh 
harder. He freezes in place for a second before slowly lowering his hands to 
rest lightly beside me. "Scully?" The question this time is more concerned, 
more afraid, and less certain, and it chokes my laughter in my throat.

"Oh, Mulder." I whisper, eyes closed and head back again. "I'm not hurt 
anywhere I could heal."

"I don't know what you mean." He whispers back, even his hushed voice echoing 
in the still, trapped air. 

I hum under my breath for a second. Of course he doesn't understand. And I 
feel calmer now, almost conversational, so I suppose I might as well give him 
hints and see how long it takes for the really important things to register.

That must be the problem. These things are so important to me...but Mulder 
finds them insignificant enough to forget, even with his eidetic memory.

"A little more than a year ago, I recieved disturbing information. Shortly 
after, I met a disturbing person. And sometimes, oddly enough, those two 
things come back to remind me...'

His sharp intake of breath is harsh in the car, and I nod slowly, knowing he 
has finally seen it. "Emily," he murmurs under his breath. "This reminds you 
of Emily."

It wasn't a question but I answer anyway, with a bitter smile. "Yes, it does. 
Surprised?"

"No." The words is matter-of-fact, and I nod again, sensing his eyes on my 
tear stained profile. "No, I'm not surprised at all. But, Scully--good God, 
why didn't you say something? I never, *ever* would have gotten you into that 
if...if you had..."

"If I had told you how I feel, Mulder?" The gentle tone of my own voice 
surprises me. Sometimes it seems that I am incapable of gentleness, and I 
have had cause to wonder over the last year if my infertility and my newfound 
bitterness are a cause and effect. "When has telling you how I feel gotten me 
anywhere? Besides the Antarctic, of course."

He flinches from my words, but I get no satisfaction from it. And within 
seconds he has slammed open the door  and is out of the car.

I open my eyes quickly, regretting my words already and wishing I could 
snatch them back by the vibrations they stirred in the air, snatch them back 
and hold them in because his misery only increases mine...

But he pulls open my door before I even have a chance to find him with my 
gaze, pulls it open and pulls me out. I find myself backed against the side 
of the car, weak knees and all, and held there with the force of a much 
taller, much heavier body against my own. 

"I would remind you," he says and there is a growl and inflection to the 
words that reminds me of Skinner at his angriest, "that I went around the 
goddamned globe with a bullet hole *in my head* so that I could take you 
home. I've fought ten thousand battles for your safety, and made bargains I 
*never* would have made for anyone else. Not even myself. So if anything on 
this Earth is going to hurt you, it will not be something I can fight." His 
eyes are boring holes in mine, fierce and sad in equal measure, and his voice 
is dropping more with each word. And with the end of his diatribe, something 
in his eyes softens, and he lowers his forehead to mine, tilting my head back 
against the cool metal of the car. "And I could have fought this, Scully. If 
you'd told me."

Anger finally stirs to life in me, and I try to push him away, finding him 
immovable. He merely stands before me, forehead resting on mine and taking 
deep breaths as I heave at him.  "I shouldn't have had to tell you, Mulder." 
I finally hiss through clenched teeth. "You should have *known*."

That tilts his head back, though he doesn't step away. "Maybe I should have, 
Scully. Maybe you're right." And he finally steps back, though he holds onto 
one of my hands tightly and pulls me with him around the car. Stumbling, I 
follow, cursing softly under my breath as the motion whirls my head and 
weakens my knees.

He has me settled in the abandoned passenger seat and buckled in before the 
dizziness clears, and is in the driver's side before I can gather enough 
coordination to unbuckle myself. The key is already in the ignition, and he 
shoots the car into motion, speeding backwards out the drive. 

"Where are you going?" I question through gritted teeth and a sudden chill.

"Food, Scully. The last thing you ate was probably that damned bee pollen 
you're tempting fate with, and I haven't even seen you eat that today." His 
voice is very calm, and just the right side of patronizing, and it makes me 
angrier than I have ever been.

"Mulder, how can you think I can *eat*?"

His eyes whip around for a second, off the road and looking so deep into 
mine. "Scully, we're going to talk about this over something warm and at 
least moderately edible. And if you don't end up eating at least a little of 
something, I will damned well feed you myself. The last thing we need is for 
Kersh to come down on you with the wrath of God for passing out from hunger."

"Mulder, Kersh is going to come down on us because you are *not* authorized 
to be out here. And he will know, the man's a psychic where you and trouble 
are concerned."

"Well then, the last thing you need is for me to come down with the wrath of 
God if you pass out from hunger." His friendly smile in my direction is full 
of teeth and anger, and I suddenly am drained. Slouching down in my seat, I 
look out into the dim grayness, and wish again that I could see the sunset.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
Half an hour later, I find myself settled into a booth in a dim, quiet 
restaurant, far away from any other patrons and cradling a hot mug of coffee 
in my ice cold hands. Mulder is sitting across from me, watching through 
darkened hazel eyes as I swirl the steam that rises from my cup with my 
breath. His eyes show the lingering frustration, the faintly pained anger 
that he is still feeling, and I wonder what mine show...

I don't feel much of anything, not right now. So I watch his eyes, watch the 
dancing demons and dreams in the steam, and watch the sky outside the windows 
slide progressively into a gray night, starless and cold. And I wait for 
whatever words of wisdom Mulder has to dispense for the partner who is 
missing things she never had.

I wait a long time. The night sky becomes completely black, a fact I note 
with regret, and the steam from my coffee becomes cold whirls of air before 
he speaks. 

"Why is it so hard for you to admit to me that you feel things?" The question 
is almost impersonal, but his eyes are aching, and I have to look away from 
them in seconds. And I don't have an answer so I just sit and let the silence 
build, till he sighs and leans forward, pushing my cup out of the way and 
finding my eyes with his. "Why, Scully?"

"I don't know what you mean." I finally respond coolly, a lie we both see 
right through but I cannot prevent anyhow.

"That's bullshit, and you know it. As bullshit as the damn manure cases we 
keep getting sent out on." His tone is angry, but his eyes only become deeper 
with sorrow, and more powerful in their hold on mine. "For once, Scully, can 
you tell me the truth?"

That cracks me, the insinuation that I have been less than honest with him. 
But it is not anger that fills me either, it is not rage which fuels me. It 
is the same sorrow that has bubbled up in his eyes.

I smile in a look I know isn't right, is skewed and somehow wrong. "I don't 
know, Mulder." I tell him, and I'm being honest, as honest as I can be. "I 
don't know if I know how anymore."

And that seals the conversation as our dinners come. We pick at our food, 
neither of us speaking, neither looking at the other, and both of us 
radiating pain.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

We settle into a motel only a few miles away from the house, and bid each 
other quiet, reserved good nights. I strip automatically, tossing my ruined 
slacks on the floor and groaning a the relief of being free of them. The 
knees had long ago become stiff with the mud, and there were small tears I 
hadn't noticed before, punctures and the like...

Basically, they're ruined and I can't say I'm too upset about that. I would 
never have been able to wear them again anyway.

I step into a warm shower by force of habit and not of will, yearning just to 
crawl into the comfort of sheets and sleep, but knowing I'll regret it if I 
don't manage to scrub of the dirt and little spots of dry blood that decorate 
my knees and upper calves. 

But it *is* will that has me scrubbing my skin raw. It is will that tugs 
shampoo through my wind tangled hair roughly enough to draw tears, it is will 
that savagely twists the knob and turns the shower into a fall of ice water. 
Will keeps me in the flow of the water till my hands are turning blue and 
shivers convulse my frame.

When I finally step out, the mirror across from the shower is unfogged and I 
am confronted with my own image...and it frightens me, saddens me. I am all 
ribs and frail bones, pale, pale skin stretched taut over a still flat 
stomach that I ought to take pride in. The incredibly faint stretch marks 
that cross my breasts are relics of my abduction, bearing false witness to a 
pregnancy that never did and never will happen.

But at least I have biceps of steel, I think, and flex into a ridiculous 
pose, smiling without feeling, trying to make the image in the mirror normal. 
But it can't be done, so I drop my pose and pick up my t-shirt.

The lights in my room are off, thankfully, and I fall into the silent 
darkness gracefully. Tucking myself under the warm, surprisingly soft 
comforter, I stare at the shadow dappled ceiling, faintly amber from the 
parking lot lights, and consider whether or not I will be able to sleep...

But I'm under before I can finish the thought.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

When I wake, I am gasping and terrified, and I am not alone.

Automatically, I struggle, biting down into the surface closest to my mouth 
and hitting out with a fist. All I get for response is a surprised grunt, but 
I know it's Mulder, and release instantly.

But I don't stop fighting. I'm trapped in, hemmed in by long arms and legs, 
but I push at them furiously, claustrophobic and angry. 

"Mulder, let me go." I hiss. "What are you *doing*?"

He pants the answer into my ear, sending satisfaction rushing through me. I 
have fought hard enough to put him out of breath, soon I will be free. 
"I...came in here...because you were having...a nightmare." He gasps, before 
grunting as I shove particularly hard in response. "I came in...to wake you."

And just as I feel I can free myself, he rolls, pinning me tight beneath his 
far heavier mass. 

"This is *not* the thanks I expected to get." He whispers in my ear, hot 
little puffs of air that warm terror chilled skin. "Not after waking you from 
wha sounded like a horrible dream."

I don't remember dreaming, and finally still beneath him as I fight 
frantically to recall it in my mind.

Helpful, sensing my dilemma, he shifts his body over mine to lighten the 
weight, though he doesn't move away. "You were saying something about 
Melissa, and Emily. And then you were whispering something about trapped 
souls, and digging." His hands press lightly to the skin pulled tight over my 
ribs, reassuring and gentle, and I remember.

I was trying to dig out a grave. Emily had been buried there, with Melissa 
and the babies, and they were all calling for me. Their souls had been 
trapped in the dirt, and it was my fault. I followed their screams and found 
them leading to the spot in my apartment where Missy had been shot, only my 
floor was just mounds and mounds of dirt. I dug furiously, frantically, 
cutting open my palms and crying out for my sister, my daughter, the poor 
children deemed imperfect by their mother...

And they began to tell me what it was like, trapped and dead...they couldn't 
get free, but they could feel themselves rotting away...

I am unaware I am crying again till Mulder's soothing whispers begin to 
filter into my ears, drowning out the cries and his own whisper about what 
she wanted. And with the awareness of his voice comes awareness of his touch, 
tender and careful across my sides and hips, and his mouth, pressing sweet 
kisses to the tear tracks I am leaving behind in silent self recrimination. 
And gradually, under his caresses, I begin to heal the wounds buried under my 
skin. The shock of the day, of the investigation, and of the recent 
anniversary begin to fade under newly kindled warmth.

And when the tears have been gone for a few minutes, when I have begun to 
enjoy the caresses for themselves and not the soothing, I turn my face to 
his, and I kiss him.

And it seems right, that our first kiss should be given in response to 
healing, and memories.
 
Slowly, very slowly, as the kiss goes on his hands begin to seek out skin, 
pushing up underneath the shirt I wore to bed and tracing lightly across my 
ribs. His mouth grows firmer over mine as his touch does, as we lose the 
awkwardness of the first kiss and slide into the joy of the second.

My own hands begin exploring, finding the broad expanse of his cotton covered 
back a warm and inviting place to trailblaze, wandering down as far as they 
can--which isn't nearly far enough given my short arms and his long body. 
Sensing my dilemma, he rolls us over, gathering me closely onto his chest and 
giving me more room to move.

As the second kiss begins to fade, and we seperate for a moment to suck in 
air. There are no words though, just more touches, silent questions and 
responses  given in moans and sighs instead of speech. This is something I've 
wanted, even when I've been angry with him, and something I need. And I've 
known for such a long time that Mulder is only hiding the depths of feeling 
with the shallowness of innuendo. 

It's right. There's no need to ask a billion times if it is, no need to 
express once in words what has been said a thousand times in glances, and a 
hundred in touches. So once we have caught our breath, we kiss again, 
increasingly exploratory as familiar hands begin to touch familiar yet 
unknown territory.

It's an unwelcome interuption to strip off our shirts, but far more fun to 
have Mulder's slow, steady hands draw my panties down my legs, trailing 
fingers along my legs all the way. And to remove his loose pants requires a 
great deal of play with the drawstring, play which tightens my chest and 
shallows out his breath. And then we are free again to explore with hands and 
mouths...

And we make the most of the oppurtunity.

````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

"So, was that desperation?" He asks when we are calm again, when we are lying 
close to each other but seperated by a thin line of cotton. 

I would be offended, but he's still breathing heavily, and I'm too weak to 
hit him. So I nod, instead, knowing he has at least one eye open and looking 
at me, though I'm lying half dead and half asleep. He snorts and reaches over 
to pull me close, sighing as he twines around me comfortably. For a long 
moment, there is only silence and comfort. 

But Mulder is not one to bask in comfort long.

"I'm sorry about today, Scully." He says simply, drawing me closer when I 
stiffen. "I wish I *had* realized that something just wasn't right in you 
digging..." His voice trails off uncomfortably, and I find myself squeezing 
his arm, reassuring.

"I know, Mulder. Anger was more a defense than a truth. I don't really blame 
you, not knowing that the reason you missed it is because I haven't...said 
anything." My voice is rough, even to my oen ears, so I stop to clear my 
throat before plunging into the painful world of emotion declaration. 
"It...hurt, to dig up and examine those bones. But it would have hurt me more 
if I hadn't done it, because I would have known I had run away. And that 
would have been--the *guilt*, Mulder, that I feel now would be nothing in 
comparison. At least, I said prayers over them and know that some were said. 
I mourned them, even though they were all long dead and no connection to me. 
And I gave them closure. So maybe...in the end it's a good thing that I did." 
I sigh and run out of words for a moment, resting my head on his chest and 
listening to his heartbeat. "Isn't it?" I finally whisper.

"Yes." He whispers in return. "Yes it was good. And I wish I could have been 
a part of it, for you, and for them."

I close my eyes and smile, knowing that he means it, that I did the right 
thing no matter the anguish it caused me, and might still cause me. Knowing 
that I didn't have to have gone it alone--but that I managed.

Melissa, I think, would be proud.

                      THE END