Writhing Towards An Unforeseen Divination

Title: Writhing Towards An Unforeseen Divination
Author: TLynn
Rating: PG-13
Classification: MSR, SA, vignette
Disclaimer: These stories I write are just scripts for my action figures, nothing more. The real Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, David, and Gillian.
Spoilers: Takes place right after the events of ‘This Is Not Happening’, ends during the events of ‘DeadAlive’
Archive: If you want it, it’s yours. Just please let me know so I can come visit.
Feedback: I live for it.

Thanks: To my Beta Goddess, Robin, who is my greatest cheerleader. To KelB, xdksfan, annaK, and Bonnie over at Haven for their quick research help, and to the lovely Circe for
giving my fic a home.

Dedication: Though he’d never be caught dead reading something like this, this is for Francisco.

* * * *

For the first week, all she could do was cry. Days were long and nights were restless, the tiny life she grew in her belly the only force keeping her from falling into madness. Each time she ate, most of it refused to digest, instead creeping back up until she was forced to expel it into the toilet at some early morning hour.

Her mother called daily, her doctor was worried, Doggett paid bi-weekly visits, and aside from phoning to inform her of the 10-day bereavement period she was being allowed, Skinner kept his distance. Mrs. Scully even sent Father McCue over, but she quickly dismissed him, instead preferring to grieve without anyone’s company, even that of God’s.

Dana Scully was never one to believe in fate or destiny. She refused to accept that her path was already set out for her, whether it be by some unknown and unseen force or her own parents, and she was proud of the direction she had taken herself in the time she had been on this planet. But at the same time, she clung to the belief that everything happened for a reason. There was a reason she went into medicine, there was a reason she met Jack and Daniel, and there was a reason she pursued a career with The Bureau. There was a reason she was partnered with Mulder, there was a reason she believed his stories, and there was a reason she fell in love with him.

But there was nothing to convince her there was a reason for his death. Fox Mulder wasn’t ready to die. There had been some terrible mistake; some order had been passed down incorrectly in the chain of command. They, she and Mulder, had so much more to accomplish, seek out, and prove. Didn’t They realize that? How could They not see what They were destroying when They took him away?

He was always the one who excelled at guilt and self-deprecation. She could see it in his eyes so often, mixed with the natural hazel color and making them deeper and darker than any man’s should be. Eugene Tooms, Duane Barry, Donnie Pfaster, her cancer, the FBI, Alex Krycek, Cancer Man, the Bounty Hunter, Skinner, and Them; the list was endless. Enemies appeared to them from far away and from their own backyards, and he always blamed himself where she was concerned. Even if she got a paper cut while riffling through a stack of files, he seemed to beat himself up about it. She could never get it through his thick skull that she was there right beside him because she wanted to be.

Now, she could hear his voice in her head, becoming her own. ‘If only I had gotten there a minute earlier’, ‘If only I had ran faster, pushed myself harder’, ‘If only I had never slept, never stopped looking’. She bore the heavy weight first of his disappearance, and now of his death. The words repeated over and over in her head, preventing her from coherent thoughts and fluid emotion.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

* * *

As she stood in the kitchen, swallowing the last bite of her bagel while pulling on her blue blazer, she just happened to glance at the small calendar that was affixed to the refrigerator door.

Yesterday had marked the one-month anniversary of his death. And she hadn’t even realized it.

She suddenly felt light-headed and backed a few paces until she reached a dining room chair to sit down on. Her head swam and her body shook as it hit her over and over, its hard edges slamming into her most sensitive spots without mercy. She wrapped her arms instinctively around her now-round belly and tried with all her might to grab onto the being that lived inside.

Had it really been a whole month? How could she have forgotten? Daily life had pushed its way back into her consciousness and distractions naturally followed, but she felt she owed it to him not to ever forget.

It happened slowly. There were reminders everywhere, in every object in the office, in most areas of her apartment, in cafes and restaurants all over DC. The first week back in a routine was the most difficult and she truly wondered if she was going to be able to stand it. But soon, a day would pass when thoughts of him were brief and random. Then two days of paperwork, three days of research, until four days of interviews left her neck stiff and her body weary, only thoughts of grilled cheese sandwiches and a soft bed finding room in her exhausted mind.

She hated herself. She hated that she was forgetting; she hated that she was able to go on with her life, pregnant with their child, while his body was deep in the ground. She felt she was betraying him, once again watching helplessly as he slipped through her fingers.

Suddenly, she felt movement in her abdomen. She smiled in spite of herself at the still-new sensation of her baby moving inside of her. It felt like a goldfish swimming or a butterfly flying, something magical and wonderful that only mother and baby could ever share.

“I’m sorry, Baby,” she whispered. “I’m letting go…”

* * *

She dreamed of him that night. Later, she wouldn’t remember all the images her subconscious unearthed, but faint recollections and fleeting pictures during a restless sleep would drift amid her thoughts.

His cold skin and stiff body, expressionless face, and closed lids; the image of her dead lover flashed like a strobe in the back round of her dreamscape. She wandered the field, calling his
name. She saw movement ahead and sprinted ahead, her cheeks red from the cold night. A small clearing amidst a cluster of shrubs held her answer and she fell to her knees as she saw his form.

He was tinier than she had imagined he would be, and his skin was fairer, his hair darker. Her hand went to her flat belly and felt it churning, her eyes never leaving the still form. She couldn’t remember and she began to panic. How had he died? She struck herself hard on the head, forcing herself to remember. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t remember delivering him; she couldn’t remember even holding him.

Anguish filled her being and she crouched over in physical and emotional pain. She failed them both now. She failed herself. She snapped her head up and stared into the heavens, willing Them to come back and face her once again. She tried to scream, but had no voice, had no tears, and she fell to the ground. They would come; she could feel it. So she waited.

The phone stirred her from her consuming nightmare. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest as she came back to consciousness and tears threatened to spill down her flushed cheeks. Their son shifted vigorously inside her. At almost seven months along, he often did, but this time it was almost painful. She stopped and focused on controlling her breathing for a moment, the phone still ringing on her bedside table.

“Hello?” she said, finally answering on the eighth ring.

“It’s Skinner,” the Assistant Director’s voice boomed through the receiver. “You need to come to Annapolis.”


“Now, Dana,” he said.

Something in his voice made her shake. She didn’t dare believe it, even for a moment. Everything she had ever been taught, ever believed, went against it. She winced slightly as her baby kicked against her forcefully.

“Now,” Skinner said again. “To the Naval Hospital.”

“Sir?” she asked, her voice a shaky whisper, tears spilling out beneath her closed lids.

He paused for what seemed like an eternity. She could sense the conflict that raged inside him, his doubts and disbeliefs, his concern and hope.

“Yes, Dana. He’s home.”