Vox By Catwoman TheCatwoman@toosexyforyou.com Classification: V, A (for the most part SA), UST (sort of) Keywords: Mulder/Scully UST (again, sort of) Rating: PG (With a MAJOR Angst Warning.) Vox By Catwoman Disclaimer: The X-Files and all of its ilk do not belong to me, but to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox Television, and all of their ilk. I would never propose to assume that I do own Mulder and Scully; if I did, I would not be quite so unduly cruel to them. I mean, sure, I'm willing to do some pretty awful things to them to get a good plot line going, but to my thinking, Emily and all that has followed is simply unforgivable. The song 'Vox', as quoted in this story, belongs to Sarah MacLachlan. I would not presume to own anything of hers either, simply because there are very few people on this earth who can presume to do any number of the beautiful things Sarah can do. The very last quote is from 'Strange World', also by Sarah. Distribute: Please post to XF Fanfic, ATXC, and Gossamer. Spoilers: The Emily arc, including 'All Souls'. This story takes place directly after the events of 'All Souls'. WARNING: Mulder and Scully get sensitive with each other, if nothing else. If this repulses you, leave now. OTHER WARNING: If you are not into angst, you will despise this story, and even if you are into angst, if you are at all like me, this story will scare you away from this degree of angst for a good long time. Just thought I'd warn you. Note: This story's been running around in my head since I first saw 'All Souls', and when I watched it again tonight I knew I had to write this down. See, as with many of this seasons angst-infested episodes, 'All Souls' made me feel physically sick, just because of the general unfairness of it all. We know from the episode that the events in the episode also made Scully sick, emotionally if nothing else. I would guess that Scully was haunted by the events of the episode, and will continue to be haunted by them, for quite some time afterward. Well, I think it's about time Mulder sees what losing Emily has done to Scully, and what he's doing to aggravate the hurt. And yes, I know that sounds suspiciously like the plot line to 'Mother', but I assure you, this is completely different, if the underlying sentiment is the same. This story is completely apart from the 'Mother' arc. Dedication: This one's dedicated to Marlie, who never knew her mother, and now lives with a mother who will never understand. Other Dedication: This is also dedicated to Brandi, who agrees with me on the whole Emily issue. Summary: Post-'All Souls'---enough said. ***** In the desert of my dreams I saw you there And I'm walking towards the water steaming body cold and bare But your words cut loose the fire and you left my soul to bleed And the pain that's in your truth's deceiving me, has got me scared Oh why? ***** It seemed odd to retain the ability to stand when all other strength had left her body. It seemed logical that her knees would fail her, along with common sense and all other logistic instrumentation she'd ever possessed. But her knees remained strong, while her science remained gelatin, permeating the softer emotions of her mind like a wet and rusted yet achingly sharp knife. Somehow, free of her mind, her body carried her out of the confessional and away from the priest's confusing words and painfully objective viewpoint. Her feet, which to her limited thinking should have been as useless as her eyes which seemed unseeing, propelled her slowly but effectively out of the church and into her car. And she drove, with virtually no awareness that she was doing it, and by some miracle she not only survived the drive, but survived it smoothly, pulling up in front of her apartment building as she always did, each and every day of her mortal life. It all seemed too normal now. And beautifully mundane. She even managed to get up the stairs, fit the right key into the lock, and make her way into her apartment, closing and locking the door behind herself as always. Her purse and shoes were left by the door, and her sweater made itself into a pile on the couch. Then, without warning, she was in the bedroom, and her dress and hose were on the bed, neatly folded by some stranger's hands. Dimly her mind registered that she was mostly naked and that the air conditioning was blasting in her apartment; her skin was rising in goosebumps from a cold nothing that her heart felt. Through a haze, she watched herself pull on a pair of shorts, old cutoffs from jeans her mind remembered her body outgrowing years before. Then her hands, apart from her emotions somehow, slipped a shirt over her torso, leaving her not so naked but immensely more cold. She found herself in the living room, again without warning, and sitting on the couch. She started to feel her eyesight clearing, or at least clearing enough so that she could tell where she was, and that she was sitting in her living room, and that she was staring into space. She saw her surroundings in a drunken stupor, her eyesight that of an astigmatic without glasses. All senses seemed to have dissipated somehow without her knowledge. All except memory. She remembered everything. She remembered Emily. She remembered Mulder. She remembered the priest in the confessional. She remembered Father McCue. She remembered Father Gregory. She remembered the messengers. She cried. She didn't notice it until the hot drops of moisture were running in small rivulets down her chest and arms, leaving tiny trails of ice where they passed. And then she was startled; it did not seem proper to cry: she had just cried for forty-five minutes in the confessional, and if that wasn't bad enough, she was doing it again? Then her mind remembered, and her body started to sob, and she was left behind, shaking in the wind, wondering what was happening and why she was so disconnected. Before her body had informed her of its intentions to move, she was lying curled up in a tiny ball of human woman in the corner of the couch. Her body was convulsing, rising in waves and crashing like thunder. Her mind was shaking with the force of her emotional storm, and some part of her, the part of her that remembered that she was a doctor, tried desperately to tell her that she was sobbing too hard; the stress was building up and she was forcing her body into overdrive. She was going to be sick. Her mind in its entirety didn't register this complaint, and her emotions didn't care in the slightest. Her emotions were running the more terrifying moments of last week's case through her mind in devastating slow motion and then sudden high speed, moving like an old early 20th century newsreel. She saw Emily lying underneath a cold green sheet on an autopsy table, her eyes awake and pleading. She saw the messenger girl, whose hot hand she had held in hers less than a moment before, frozen in an immortal pose of genuflection. She saw a man in black with four faces. Abruptly, her body was moving again, running into the bathroom, leaning over the toilet. She was sick, and intensely so, her body trying desperately to vomit all of the vile memories that had accumulated without its permission. And as she leaned over, losing several days worth of nourishment to the cold porcelain of ancient and strange technology, she snapped back into herself, and realized where she was, and who she was, and what had happened, and what she'd done to herself. But it was too late. Body had taken over. ***** Through your eyes the strains of battle like a brooding storm You're up and down these pristine velvet walls like focus never forms My walls are getting wider and my eyes are drawn astray I see you now a vague deception of a dying day Oh why? ***** Mulder felt sick. He had been feeling sick since four o'clock that morning, when he'd awakened from the harsh world of his nightmares to the even harsher world of his real life. He'd dreamed of Emily. He'd dreamed that Scully was alone on a plain of sand, bared and vulnerable to the biting winds. She walked through the sands aimlessly, unknowing and uncaring of where she was going; simply walking, walking and waiting, for all eternity. She'd stopped before eternity was over, however; she'd found the one thing that could make her stop, make her hesitate. A tiny golden cross, buried in the sand. She'd held it within her fingers, and that was when she'd faded away, her substance blowing away with the sharp winds, taking her from his view as suddenly as she'd entered. And then he was alone, but not alone. With Emily. He saw her on an autopsy table, covered in a pristine green sheet. Her eyes were wide and blue and Scully eyes, and they were frightened and begging him. But he didn't know what she begged of him; he couldn't hear her. And then abruptly it was dark, and he couldn't see her, but he knew she was still there, crying out for his help. He'd lost his sense, but he could still feel the presence of the little girl. Which was when he'd awoken, sitting up and panting in frustration, confusion and fear. He'd paced for several hours after that, resisting the urge to call Scully, but hadn't been able to even remotely fathom what the dream might have meant. The dream physically disgusted him, for some reason. The events of it were clearly frightening enough to make him feel sick and uneasy, which he did, but this feeling was different. It was a feeling of repulsion, not for the dream itself, but of something within the dream. He knew it wasn't Emily, and he knew it wasn't Scully. That left only himself. But why would he be disgusted with himself? Questions like this ran through his head throughout the day as he went about a normal Sunday afternoon, doing his laundry and tidying his apartment so that he could at the very least walk through it without killing himself, and finally settling in to do some paperwork on his computer. But the expense reports he was supposed to be working on held no interest for him whatsoever; the dream drove him. He wanted, *needed* to know what it meant. So he paced some more, finally forcing himself to sit down on the couch and probe deeper into his memory, into his mind. Somewhere, he knew that his mind knew what the dream meant, because the dream was a product of his mind, and his mind was obviously trying to tell him something, or knowing wouldn't have mattered so much to him. He knew that the key was his loss of sense, in the dream. He had watched Scully disappear before his own eyes, and then when he'd been looking at Emily, his vision had blanked out entirely. His hearing had never seemed operative during the dream; it had been like watching an entire movie with the mute turned on. Somehow, that lack of hearing and loss of sight was important, or so his mind was telling him, and since the root of the dream was his mind he believed it. Blind and deaf, he said to himself. Blind and deaf. Blind and deaf to...Emily. And Scully. Blind and deaf to Scully, he wondered. The phrase made something click in his mind. Blind and deaf to Scully! His mind shouted it at him abruptly, causing him to jump, startled by the intensity of conviction in his mind's voice. Blind and deaf to Scully, he asked his mind. What does it mean? Blind and deaf to Scully's what? Scully's feelings? Scully's need? Or just Scully? Scully as a whole, as a human being... A human being with...emotions. A rapid stream of images flowed through his mind, of the way he'd treated her since Emily's death. He was cold and unfeeling because he couldn't see or hear her anymore; he was blind and deaf to Scully, and had been for many months. Blind and deaf to Scully. That was it, he realized, feeling a strange relief as he found that he'd discovered the answer to his dream's puzzle. The dream was telling him that he was blind and deaf to Scully and to Emily, and that he'd... He'd hurt them, he realized with a sudden flash of insight that left him trembling in its wake, a weaker, more humble man than before. He'd hurt Scully and her daughter's memory very much, simply by ignoring, by brushing aside. Hurt Scully, his mind echoed. You hurt Scully. His motto in life was 'protect Scully.' The only thing he truly wanted to achieve in life was to keep Scully from being hurt by him. He didn't want to see her hurt, not by him...not by anything else either, but especially not by him. You hurt Scully, his mind accused again, loudly. You hurt Scully! You are hurting Scully, it whispered then, and he realized the import of the dream. He could fix it. He could do something. He could... Help Scully. The mantra ran through his head as he rummaged around the apartment, catching up his coat and shoes and keys in the process. Help Scully, help Scully, help Scully... And he was gone. ***** I fall into the water and once more I turn to you And the crowds were standing staring faceless cutting off my view to you They start to limply flail their bodies in a twisted mime And I'm lost inside this tangled web in which I'm lain entwined You're gone and I'm lost inside this tangled web in which I'm lain entwined Oh why? ***** "Hey Scully?" he shouted a second time, wondering if she hadn't heard him the first time. He knocked again, but she didn't respond to that either. Feeling his temples pounding insistently that he'd been wrong, that he was paying, that she was hurt, he pushed the key into the lock and made his way into her apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. He put the keys in his coat pocket and slipped off his shoes and coat inside the doorway, intending to stay for awhile, whether or not she was home and whether or not she was asleep or not feeling like talking. He would wait. She waited for him all the time; he would wait for her now. "Scully?" he called again, cautiously, more softly, in case she was asleep. If she was, he would allow her that peace. There was no answer. He made his way to the bedroom, but it was empty as the rest of the house seemed. Then he noticed that the bathroom door was mostly closed, open only by a sliver. That sliver was illuminated by bright light. Glancing once more around the apartment he stepped up to the bathroom door and knocked lightly, careful not to move the door at all. "Scully?" he asked softly, but loudly enough so that his voice could be heard on the other side of the door. Still no answer. Forcing himself to be brave, Mulder pushed open the door a little further, then a little further. What he found made his heart drop into his shoes, grumbling on its way down that it would come back when he learned to keep a heart properly. His mind seared him with painful regret and guilt. Scully was curled up in the corner of the bathroom, against the bathtub, her head resting against the cool tiles of the wall. Her eyes were closed and her mouth hanging slightly open, but she wasn't asleep. He glanced over at the toilet and concluded that her body was simply giving her a brief respite from the toils of being immensely and painfully sick. "Oh God, Scully," he whispered, more to himself than to her, and she seemed to hear him because her eyes fluttered under their lids, but she didn't respond other than that. By the look of her, she couldn't respond in any more concrete way. Being careful, as though tipping the balance of the very air around them could make her worse, he knelt in front of her on the cold floor tiles, one hand instantly going out to touch her cheek. His knuckles grazed over her skin, his eyes taking in her limp form and memorizing so that he would be forced to see it in his nightmares enough times so that he would always remember. At the feel of his touch, she abruptly moved, sitting up straight in a too- sudden movement, her eyes flying widely open and staring straight at him. He wondered for a moment if he'd been wrong, if she hadn't known he was there at all, but that doubt was proven unfounded when she hissed a strangled plea of, "Don't touch me, Mulder," at him. She'd known he was there; she'd just been hoping he'd leave her alone. And then she was sick again. She was leaning over the toilet bowl, vomiting right in front of him. She couldn't help it; he made her sick. "Oh, Scully," he whispered, his voice sounding unduly harsh in his ears. His hands reached for her again, balking at the remembrance of her fearful words. "Scully, please..." She had a brief hesitation, and before he could think his hands were reaching out and smoothing her hair away from her face, and the sweat away from her brow. She tensed and shivered under his touch, and her body convulsed in preparation of another bout. "Please, Scully, let me help you," he whispered, coming up closer behind her, his hands gently resting on her shoulders now. "I know I've hurt you; please let me try and help you." She was silent, but something in the way she stopped trying to hold back her sickness, the way she was suddenly and violently sick and didn't seem to want to hide it from him, told him that she was willing to let him try. She was always willing to let him try. His hands reached for her face again, this time holding her hair away from her while she was sick, keeping her face free and her hair safe. When she finished, a moment later, one hand was still stroking gently through her hair, smoothing it, while the other smoothed over her forehead, gently pulling her back and away, into him. To his surprise, though perhaps in her weakness it should have been no surprise, she willingly leaned into him, letting herself rest against his warm and supportive frame. He slipped one arm around her waist, gently holding her to him, and the other hand reached out and flushed the toilet, then shuffled around on the countertop and finally came up with some toilet paper. He wiped her face tenderly, aware that she was for the most part out of it again, and couldn't clean herself up. He stayed still, cradling her against his chest, for a full ten minutes before she stirred faintly in his arms. "Mulder..." she murmured, sounding almost groggy. "I'm here, Scully," he replied uselessly, dropping his head to be closer to her ear. She turned her head slightly against his chest, but her eyes remained closed. Her forehead scrunched in a tiny frown. "Mulder...sorry..." she said, and cleared her throat abruptly, evidently annoyed with her voice's lack of coherency. "You didn't do anything wrong, Scully," he assured her softly. "Not you. I'm the one who's sorry." "But Mulder..." she began, already regaining her fully-functional, argumentative self. "It's okay, Scully," he said, but somehow the phrase didn't seem quite as useless as it sounded on his tongue. Whatever it was, it quieted her, and she waited a few moments more before she spoke again. "I need to get out of here," she whispered hoarsely, and cleared her throat again. "I don't want to stay in this room." "Are you finished?" he asked her, and he felt her hesitate, and in his mind he pictured the physical checklist he was sure her doctor's mind was going through. "I think so," she replied after a full moment. He noticed that despite her return to complete coherency, her body was still lifelessly limp in his arms. He turned his arm awkwardly and slipped it under her arms, around her back, and then slipped the other arm under her bent legs. Then he moved to a kneeling position, being sure to keep her supported. Finally he moved onto his feet, still crouching, his arms still supporting her. Grunting to himself softly at the effort of doing so from such an awkward position, he started to lift her up. Abruptly, as with most of her motion since he'd arrived, she flailed in his arms, her eyes squeezing shut. She looked frightened. "Don't panic, Scully," he whispered calmly in her ear, then kept his mouth there, as though his breathing might reassure her. "I'm just going to lift you up and get you out of here." "Mulder, you don't have to do that," she informed him with a frown, her eyes remaining closed even as she protested. "I'm sure I can..." He chuckled in her ear. "Walk? I don't think so, Scully. You're so weak you can barely move." He finished lifting her into his embrace and stood, being careful to shift her with him. She sighed something against his neck and her arms lethargically moved around his neck of their own accord. He realized he'd called her weak, and wondered if she would punish him for it later by invoking her code of silence. He regretted saying it already, even if she never did anything about it. For all he knew, she hadn't even heard him say anything. "Mulder," she half-groaned into his ear as he walked her out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom. He had decided that the best place for her in this state was in bed, with him carefully watching over her. "Yeah Scully?" he answered casually, as though nothing was wrong. The concern in his voice couldn't be hidden, however. She simply repeated his name, this time in a bare whisper. "Mulder." He didn't answer this time. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. He reached her empty queen-sized bed and shifted her again, supporting her fully with his arms so he could lower her onto the bed without jarring her too much. She started to protest again, this time verbally. Her face scrunched up and her mouth opened, but he spoke before she could get out whatever she wanted to say. "I'm just putting you into bed now, Scully," he informed her as though dictating instructions of some kind to her. "Don't leave," was her immediate response, soft in tone but firm in conviction. Her eyes remained scrunched closed, but her intent was clear. "I'm not leaving," he said, trying to mask his surprise. He would have thought he was the last person she wanted around at this time. He only stayed because he felt his presence was necessary at this point. "Then where are you?" she asked in something almost like a whine, as she lay limply on the bed before him, her eyes still tightly closed. He realized that she was referring to the fact that he wasn't touching her anymore; she couldn't feel him. "Standing over you, Scully," he replied, wondering why she wouldn't open her eyes. He wondered if she was too frightened. "I know that," she said sourly. "But you're not here." He blinked. "You said you would help me," she reminded him, her voice suddenly soft, as he heard it only rarely in their work together. "Help me." "I...was just going to go get you a glass of water," he said, and it was the truth; it occurred to him that she might want to wash away the physical reminder of how sick she'd just been. "Then get a glass of water," she said reasonably, and he saw a finger on one of her hands twitch. "Keep talking to me." Blinking away surprise again, Mulder walked out of the room and into the kitchen, trying his best to obey her wishes as he did so. "Scully, I'm really sorry," he called out to her as he took a glass from the cupboard and the jug of filtered water from the fridge. "I realize I haven't been the greatest partner lately, and I came over to try and make it right. I hadn't realize just how far it had gone...I'm really sorry. I really do want to help you; I want to make up for being such an ass." He walked back into the bedroom holding the glass of cold water. She was still lying in the same spot, the exact same Scully-frown on her face. "Here," he said gently as he placed the glass down on the bedside table and moved up beside her. "I'm going to lift you a bit again, okay?" She nodded just slightly, and feeling thoroughly encouraged, Mulder gently lifted her off the bed and placed her down again quite a bit over from where she'd been before. He slid into the place he'd just vacated, lying next to her. "Scully, can you look at me?" he asked her quietly. He waited, allowing her time, and gradually her frown faded. She was still for several long minutes after that before her eyes finally slid open, revealing a stunning pair of dark hazel orbs that rolled up and focused on him, staying there as if his sight was the oasis in her desert. "Mulder," she whispered again, seemingly needlessly. He smiled gently at her. "What?" he asked carefully. She shook her head a bit, eyes sliding shut for a few seconds, then opening again. When he'd gleaned that that was her only answer, he leaned over and picked up the water glass. "I brought you some water," he informed her, holding up the glass. "Can you..." She shook her head again, but this time she moved, forcing strength into her limbs as she slowly curled up, then curled her arms under her and lifted, supporting her top half above the bed. She pulled her legs up under herself and then righted herself, and she wobbled a bit but managed to stay kneeling, her eyes still focused on him. Awed by her degree of strength considering her complete lack of it mere seconds before, he handed her the water glass. She took careful sips of it, an old trick he recognized. Taking small sips gave her the nourishment of the drink, gave her throat the needed cleansing liquid, and didn't upset her stomach in the process of either. The process was immensely slow, but he didn't notice. She finally handed the glass back to him, her cheeks showing a tiny bit of pink to indicate that she felt much better. He placed the glass on the night table and looked over at her. She was still staring at him. "Are you okay?" he asked her softly. She shook her head with a subtle vehemence, and carefully lowered herself to lie on the bed again. Her eyes slid shut and she let out a sigh of a breath. "Are you going to be okay?" he revised his question, forcing himself not to be worried at her response. He couldn't remember a time when she hadn't replied to such a question that she was fine. His hand reached out and tenderly stroked several loose tendrils of hair away from her face. She didn't answer, and his hand stayed on her face, gently tracing her cheekbones. "Scully?" he asked after a moment. "Mulder," she replied, letting out another breath. She turned her face into the mattress, securing it from his touch. He pulled his hand back, watching her hide from him. "You said you needed me here," he said after allowing her some time. "I do," she replied in a voice muffled by the bedcovers underneath her mouth. "Will you..." he trailed off his question as his hands carefully touched her shoulders and back, a gentle question in his touch. She nodded slowly and turned onto her back, and his hands carefully lifted her again, this time pulling her across to lie against him, partly over him, her head resting against his chest and his arms tightly around her waist. She acquiesced to the comfort hold silently, closing her eyes as she allowed her head to be pillowed by the gentle rise and fall of his breath beneath his chest. Her legs tangled with his and he tightened his arms around her middle. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, and his lips landed softly on the very edge of her forehead, near her hair. She shook her head silently, indicating that she didn't want to hear it. She didn't want his guilt. "I've just been having nightmares," she said finally, explaining her sickness. "Me too," he admitted with a small smile. "That's what brought me here. But what made you so sick?" "I went to confession this morning," she said, and he was so startled he didn't comment. "I told the priest about the messengers, and about Emily, and everything else that's happened this week. When I came out I felt even worse than before, even if it was good to know that I'd shared my experience with someone." He didn't question that experience; he knew he'd been foolish and lost the right to ask. She would tell him if and when she was ready; she might never tell him, simply because of his lack of trust in her on the case she spoke of. "I was crying too hard," she finished, and silenced completely. He thought of that, and the mental image was a painful one. Scully, sobbing so hard she made herself sick...another image to add to his nightmare gallery. His arm closed a little tighter around her middle, the warmth of his flesh rubbing against her cool belly. Her shirt was draped over his arm; in the process of moving her, it had slid up so that his arms were against bare flesh. His head lowered and he buried his face in her soft hair. "Sorry," he whispered again, for his own sake. "Are you?" she asked in return, startling him. Her voice took on a lower, harsher quality. "Why?" He realized that she was letting him know that he wasn't forgiven. She needed his help now and much as she hated it, she couldn't deny it, but she wasn't accepting his apology. She wasn't forgiving him this time. He felt his temples pounding again. This time she wasn't willing to let him try. He'd lost his chance. ***** We walk without a sound across a barren landscape Your eyes are twisted down to a dew entrailed ground We watch the stars as they slowly fade away and in the clearing sky I see The cold stone face of morning setting in on me ***** THE END-Oh man. So who's even more depressed now? 'Maybe that's what faith is.' ***Feedback is greatly appreciated***Flames will be used to decorate the Catacomb*** "For the record, your honor, the people seek maximum penalty." - Madam Prosecutor, 'Kangaroo Court', Once A Thief