| TITLE: Eclipse AUTHORS: Diana Battis and alanna DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never have, never will, damn it. CLASSIFICATION: S, A, MSR RATING: NC-17 ARCHIVAL: OK for Gossamer. Please feel free to link to the story on our websites, and drop us a line so we'll know where to visit! SPOILERS: Seasons seven and eight through Per Manum/This Is Not Happening SUMMARY: The subtext of shadows. FEEDBACK: alanna -- alanna@alanna.net Diana Battis -- All4Mulder@aol.com Authors' notes at the end. ECLIPSE by Diana Battis and alanna ++++++ Club Sambuca Washington, D.C. December 22, 1999 "What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" Mulder slides across the leather bench, a drink already in hand, and smiles into startled blue eyes. Though it's barely six, Sambuca is already teeming with happy hour patrons. The air is alive with muted voices and the clink of ice; pin stripes and dark gabardines blending into a choppy sea of monotony that belies the club's exotic name. He expects his comment to be greeted with a raised eyebrow and a half-amused snort. Instead Scully looks away, her expression pensive. "I was just about to leave." Her voice is barely audible over the opening notes of "Mood Indigo." Meeting here had been Scully's idea. He assumed she wanted to have a holiday drink before she left for San Diego. He leans forward, stealing a quick look at his watch. "I had a last minute call from Skinner," he murmurs in explanation, "but I'm all yours now." Scully nods, and the faintest bit of pink seeps into her face. "I...what are you drinking?" Mulder gestures at his glass, ice swirling in the amber liquid. "Twelve-year-old scotch, since you're paying. You are paying?" he teases, but his eyes narrow as he notes the way her lower lip trembles. He reaches for the glass, clenching it in a knuckle-whitening grip as he awaits her reply. Scully stills the quiver with a weak grin. "Of course," she says, a chagrined shake of her head fanning her hair against her flushed cheeks. He forces a smile and raises his glass in a toast. "Since I won't be seeing you, Merry Christmas, Scully," he intones, then takes a gulp of his scotch. The smoky warmth glides down easy, its malty tang almost enough to cover up the bitter taste of loneliness. She lifts the goblet by the bowl. "Happy holidays," she offers, staring at the pale liquid. There is a nuance to her simple delivery that taints the greeting. Like an uncharted sea, it is full of hidden undercurrents that scare the shit out of him. After one small sip, her glass is again on the table, her fingers dancing along the length of the stem to trace abstract patterns in the goblet's condensation. She purses her lips; tiny furrows wrinkling the corners of her eyes as she studies the swirls and drops with intensity usually reserved for the pathology lab. "So..." He sighs, his tongue snaking out to wet his lips. "You all packed and ready for the big trip?" He rubs two fingers across his brow, trying to ease the tiny frisson of pain that now pulses behind his eyes. She jumps at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide in her newly-pale face. Nodding, she looks away, setting down her glass to reach for a cocktail napkin. She scrubs her damp fingers repeatedly until the "Season's Greetings" message lies in an alphabet soup of shredded paper. Tossing it aside, she sits up straight and squares her shoulders, her chin thrust forward. "Mulder...there's something I need to ask you." Her tone is brisk to the point of curtness, and Mulder finds himself holding his breath as he waits for her to continue. "How much do you know about in vitro fertilization?" She slides a finger around the lip of her wine goblet. The question is not what he expects. "Well, as far back as the third century AD, Jewish thinkers debated the possibility. In England, Robert Dickinson carried out secret experiments in the 1890s, but by the end of World War II the Archbishop of Canterbury recommended that artificial insemination be made a criminal offense. All that was moot by 1978 when Louise Brown was born, the first of the so-called test-tube babies." Mulder watches her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. She is no longer fidgeting with her glass, but her impatience is still palpable. "I take it that was really more of a rhetorical question," he finishes lamely. Leaning forward, she tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, her lips curling in a weak smile that never quite reaches her eyes. "I've been consulting a new doctor about...about my fertility options." The last few words are expelled in a rush of breath. She pauses, her eyes now wary, but at his nod she continues. "It's possible I may be able to conceive, with help." "I see," he replies in a cautious tone, giving no hint of the myriad of questions crowding into his mind. A nervous chuff of laughter greets his response, and her eyes flicker to his face before her lashes drop, concealing her expression. "No, I don't think you do." The fragile wall between reason and fear crumbles at her words. His stomach roils, fueled by the volatile mixture of scotch and panic filling his gut. Christ, spill it, he wants to shout, clenching his jaw to hold back the words. Instead, he nods encouragement and leans back, draping an arm across the top of the seat. Only his fingers, curled like talons as they dig into the cool black leather, signal his reaction. She takes another sip of her wine before answering. "My doctor feels I have a better chance of successful implantation if we begin immediately." "How soon?" he asks, fighting the dread that surges through him. "I...that all depends on you." He chews on his lip for a moment, mulling over her words. "I can go it alone for a few weeks," he says finally, struggling to calm the thunderous beating of his heart with slow, even breaths. She glances up, startled. "That's not exactly what I mean. I..." She hesitates, her tongue flicking at the corner of her mouth. "I would like you to be the baby's father." Father. The word seems to hang in the air, mixing with the soft music and even softer bits of conversation seeping into his consciousness. "Scully..." He is like a drowning man, sucking in shaky breaths between the waves of shock that rob him of words. "This isn't the way I wanted to ask you." She gestures toward the now-smoky room. "Miss Manners' book of advice doesn't seem to cover this situation." Shrugging, her lips curve in a smile that's a fraction short of genuine. "I don't know what to say," he murmurs, reaching for his nearly empty glass. He is lying. He wants to say yes, to replace her mockery of a smile with a real one. But it's too soon. In the space of five minutes he has gone from being a co-worker and friend to something much more, something he has barely allowed himself to think about. The question is too important to be answered in a jazz club while Billie Holliday wails "Strange Fruit" in the background. He swallows the remains of his watery scotch in one gulp and sets the glass on the table. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot." Her face is now grave and pinched, all the joy that should accompany talk of babies missing. "I couldn't figure out how to work up to the subject." She looks away, focusing on her half finished glass of wine. "I can think of at least a dozen reasons for you to say 'no,' and only one for yes. And it's not a very logical reason." A huge sigh escapes her. "Guess I'd make a lousy salesperson," she muses, tapping a fingernail on the base of the glass. "Why don't you tell me your one reason?" he asks, his husky with suppressed emotion. Her glance skitters to his face, then back to the wine. "There is no one I'd rather go through this with," she says softly. "I know it's not a simple request. I...I certainly don't expect your answer now. You'll want time to think about this." "When?" He leans forward to whisper the word, pushing a nerveless hand through his hair. The dull throbbing in his head is kicked up a notch by the anxiety coursing through him. "I was hoping for your answer when I get home on the thirtieth. I realize that's not much time. And it's selfish of me to expect an answer by then. It's just..." Her teeth worry her lower lip for a few seconds. "I couldn't figure out how to ask you." Sighing, he looks at his empty glass, longing for another drink. "Have you weighed all the possible ramifications?" he asks in a less than steady voice. "I've done nothing but think about them since Dr. Parenti first advised me of the possibility." Picking up her wine, she drains the remaining liquid in one long swallow before setting the glass back on the table. "I know it's asking a lot, but there isn't anyone else I'd trust." She reaches over to touch his hand. He feels the weight of this responsibility, contained within the small cold hand that covers his. The lie of omission that manifested itself in a vial of ova has never seemed more painfully obvious than now. A very small part of himself is amazed that she would want him, but he quells that inner voice of doubt. "You flatter and honor me with the request," he manages, inwardly cringing at the stilted words. The first hint of a real smile crosses her lips. "I need to be going. My flight is very early and I still have a few things to do tonight." "Let me walk you to your car." "Not necessary. Valet parking is a wonderful thing," she says lightly. She gives his hand a final squeeze. "Please, Mulder, just think about it." With those final words, she slides out of the booth and heads for the door, the cadence of her heels a frenetic counter-rhythm to the soft music filling the club. Mulder stares straight ahead, unblinking, until the sound of her footsteps is lost in the roar of blood rushing in his ears. His vision blurs, and he blinks away the wetness stinging his eyes. It's the smoke, he tells himself, watching the feathery blue haze drifting through the air. And it's been a long day. A good night's sleep, that's what he needs... He turns, waving to capture the attention of a passing waiter. "Glenlivet," he murmurs, pushing his empty glass across the table. "Make it a double." ++++++ Burnside Memorial Hospital Rice County, MD January 1, 2000 "Where did you park?" Mulder stands beside her, impatience coloring his voice. His jacket is thrown over his shoulders, the empty sleeves flapping wildly in the wintry gusts of air. Though the temperature has dropped dramatically, he seems oblivious to the cold wind ruffling through the downy hair on his uninjured arm. Scully eyes him with care, noting the faint lines of pain etched in his brow. "Why don't you wait inside and let me get the car?" she counters, stepping off the curb without waiting for an answer. "No." His hand comes down on her shoulder, the touch gentle but firm. "I've had enough of hospitals." Shrugging, she tilts her head upward and breathes in, savoring the crispness of the air. It does feel good to be outside. After decaying flesh, gunpowder, and the cloying antiseptic of the hospital, she needs this. They both do. Nodding, she moves forward, unsurprised when his hand slips down to rest at the small of her back. They walk in silence, his stride shortened to match hers. It's colder here in the open, away from the building's brick and glass protection. The wind is strong, its needle-like bursts biting into her flesh without remorse. Another sharp gust swirls past, playing tag with a crumpled sheet of newspaper. Shivering, she watches as it dips and soars in front of them like a strange, exotic bird. She doesn't see the large crack in the asphalt until her ankle turns and she begins to fall forward. "Easy, Scully." His arm tightens, hauling her against him. "Are you okay?" "It's nothing." Embarrassment makes her voice sharper than she's intended. She pulls away from him and walks a few steps. "I'm fine." The petulant child in her is refrained from adding, 'I can take care of myself,' but her meaning is clear. His lips purse, but he says nothing. Instead, his arm encircles her waist, supporting her as they resume walking. Though she accepts this gesture, the weight is an added responsibility. She is used to responsibility. All her life, she's been aware of her duty and what others expect from her. At home, in school, as an agent. Her purpose in life has always been clearly delineated. Now those roles are tenebrous. For the first time she is confused; unsure of how to act or feel. She has never been one for spontaneity. Her life is well-ordered, controlled -- she prefers things that way. But fate in the guise of a kiss has knocked her for a loop. Pandora's Box is open, and she fears the hope that remains inside. They walk in silence, his arm heavy where it curls around her waist. I can handle this, she thinks, feeling his warmth soak through the layers of wool and silk until her skin burns at the contact. She must, if they are to continue as before. His hand starts to move over her, tracing a small circle on her back. She knows it is supposed to comfort her. It's a courtly sort of gesture -- Mulder is nothing if not polite. But tonight she can't seem to view it in the same light. She sees the car and pulls away from his too-confining touch, breaking into a jog. Keys jangle from her clumsy fingers, filling the stillness with their jittery music. The darkness is swallowing her, and an irrational fear courses through her body with each pulse of blood, stealing away her breath. Reaching the car and fumbling to unlock the door, she wishes things could be as they were. Once inside, she allows herself to breathe again, the rapid puffs of air fogging up the windshield. It was foolish to think they could contemplate parenthood and still have things remain the same. Already their relationship is changing. Though he hasn't told her his decision, she already knows what his answer will be. Mulder's proprietary air is more pronounced. She should have expected that. Turning her head, she watches him approach the car, the loose-limbed stride betraying none of the fatigue and pain he must be feeling. He wears disappointment well, she thinks, reaching over to open the door for him. But then, he's had more practice. "Thanks," he murmurs, sliding with care into the passenger seat and dropping his jacket on the console separating them. Wincing, he pulls the door shut and begins fumbling with the seatbelt. "Let me." Scully reaches across him, pulling at the strap with care. "You'll have to lean forward for a second." She tucks the shoulder section behind him, and fastens the belt around his waist, tugging the strap to make sure it is secure. "Okay?" He nods, leaning against the headrest and closing his eyes with a weary sigh. "I'm getting old, Scully." She touches his free hand, stroking over the hair-roughened skin. "You're just tired." Reaching down, she picks up his jacket and drapes it over him, tucking the sleeves beneath his back. "Try to get some rest. We'll be home before you know it." Within minutes of reaching the main highway Mulder is asleep, his chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm under the black leather. She steals a quick sidelong glance at him. His face is relaxed, the lines of pain nearly invisible. Her hand leaves the wheel for a second to rest against a stubbled cheek, his skin cool to the touch. The painkillers and antibiotics administered at the hospital seem to be doing their job, she notes with satisfaction. He should remain asleep for the rest of the journey. The road ahead is deserted and the shadowy blacktop seems to stretch into empty infinity. She cracks her window slightly, the cold air chasing the inertia she feels. With Mulder sleeping, the long drive leaves her with too much time alone to think. She doesn't want to think about this past week, about last night, about Mulder. Especially about Mulder. She counts the mile markers that flash past, careful to keep her speed steady. The tires hum on the road, their sound melding with the soft music of Mulder's snore. One mile closer to home, she thinks, her chest shuddering with a sigh. Home. They pass through several small towns, the houses dark and quiet. She imagines families, asleep in their beds. Normal people leading normal lives. "Normal." She says the word aloud, trying to taste it on her tongue and lips. What does normal taste like? Normal isn't zombies. Or conspiracies. Or having your reproductive rights stolen. Is it? She knows the answer to that question. Twenty minutes later she is pulling into a spot on Mulder's street, only a few yards from his front walk. She turns off the engine and leans back, closing her eyes as she flexes and stretches her cramped limbs. Rolling her head against the seat, a soft groan escapes her as the deep scratches in her shoulder and neck begin to throb. "You okay, Scully?" She turns her head to find Mulder awake, his eyes blinking sleepily. "Just a little stiff," she replies, shooting him a small smile. "Want coffee or something?" With his good arm, he pushes the jacket to his lap and gropes for the buckle of his seatbelt, grimacing as he struggles with the catch. "No, thanks anyway. I...I need to get home." She straightens up, replacing his hands with hers and unlatching the clasp with ease. "Thanks, 'Mom,'" he says with a laugh. Her body stiffens, and she pulls away from him with a jerky movement. She stares straight ahead, her face tight. "Can you manage the rest?" she asks, her voice cool. He swears softly. "I'm sorry, Scully, I didn't mean..." His voice trails away. Shivering, she closes her eyes for a moment. "Good night, Mulder." Blinking, she tilts her head sideways, studying him with feigned detachment. "Get some rest. We'll talk on Monday." He clambers out of the car, his awkwardness failing to stir her sympathy. "Night," he mumbles, pushing the door shut with his foot. A nod is her only reply. Her face stiff, she watches him lope up the walk and open the door. He turns, giving her a wave and a half-hearted smile before disappearing into the building. She waits a few seconds, watching as the door swings shut, then switches on the ignition. Tires squealing in protest, she pulls away, white-knuckled fingers glued to the steering wheel. If she's lucky, she will make it home before the tears start to fall. ++++++ END (1/8) All4Mulder@aol.com alanna@alanna.net +++++++ Chapter Two Back to Post Episode Stories Back to Main Fiction Page |
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