***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter, and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it. ARCHIVING: Link only, please! ========== Marking Time by shannono shannono@iname.com Summary: For the first time in her life, she knew what helpless meant. Vignette, Angst, Rated PG Spoilers through "Requiem." (For this story, I have placed "Requiem" in September.) Other notes at the end. ========== Marking Time by shannono The sensation of falling snapped her to attention, her head bouncing up from the seat back like a jack-in-the-box, neck muscles roaring out a protest at the harsh treatment. Grit scraped her eyes as she blinked, echoing the fire licking at her vocal cords; the back of her throat burned as if she'd been eating the world's hottest buffalo wings. She wanted to scream. She sat. Her eyes turned back to their duty, studying the squat cinderblock house across the street. Little bits of abandoned things dotted the overgrown yard, pieces of toys scattered like oversized confetti, torn school papers skittering across the ground with every passing breeze. One overachieving gust picked up a sheet and sent it twirling like a ballroom dancer toward the car; it flew right through the window, and instinctively, Scully threw out a hand to catch it. As if dreaming, she drew the rough, lined paper toward her, her hands smoothing out the wrinkles. A small child's efforts at making capital B, lower case b marched in unbalanced steps across the page, their valor rewarded with a bright red A+ rendered in strong strokes in the top margin. Hello Kitty smiled at her from one corner, the surface of the glittery, sparkly, brightly-colored sticker cracked and bent from exposure. Bits of glitter fluttered down onto the seat in a snowfall of silver and she sent the paper after them, watching as it settled onto the edge of the cushion, teetering there like a seesaw. She swallowed, her own saliva like alcohol, searing heat all the way from tongue to stomach. She opened her mouth to speak, just to break the silence, but there was no sound. Her voice betrayed her, the latest in a long line of betrayals. She considered giving up speech altogether, relying on sign language and vague gestures to communicate. Ironic that her prime witness on the case had been in full mime makeup when she'd questioned him, just hours before her throat had erupted and her own voice had disappeared. He'd refused to say a word. Coercion, threats, pleading, nothing worked, until he finally acquiesced to her suggestion that he write down his answers to her questions. It wasn't the most tedious interrogation she'd ever conducted, but it was close. Three days. Three days, and no sign of the little girl or her mother; no reason for them to vanish as if they'd never existed. The television had been blaring Rugrats when the woman's sister had entered, a few hours after the tiny family had failed to show up for work and preschool. Breakfast sat on the table, a still-warm iron on its board at one end of the living room. The house was neat if a bit disheveled, showing no signs of either fight or flight. It was as if one moment mother and daughter were there, and the next they were gone. Sitting in a dirty car that wasn't hers, windows down and gaze fixed on the empty house, Scully knew she should go. She'd stared at the structure for so long that its edges appeared warped and faded. She knew she needed food, and rest, and a long vacation on a secluded beach with no work and no children and no stakeouts and no one disappearing without a trace. She sat. Her hands trembled, and she tangled her fingers in an intricate knot to hold them still, the rough edges of her fingernails chafing against the wool of her coat. Leaves in fading autumn shades swirled rainbow waterfalls beneath the trees, heralding the fading of one season into the next. Three months. Three months, and no sign of him. For the first time in her life, she knew what helpless meant. Unable to help. Feeble. Incompetent. Incapable. Without recourse. Strength had always been her calling card. Damn the torpedoes; when Dana Scully had a mission, it was full speed ahead, and by God no one had better get in her way. She hadn't slowed down; hadn't given up on Mulder or on their work. But she was only marking time. Feet moving, legs bending, body working, mind processing. Never progressing. The waistband of her skirt cut into her stomach every time she inhaled; her jacket hung unbuttoned under her coat. Her clothes were growing tighter, but she kept putting them on each morning. Buttons strained and popped as she dressed, and she would only set that blouse aside and choose another. She took her calcium, her iron, her prenatal vitamins like a good little mommy; went to the doctor on schedule, ate three solid meals every day. No one could berate her for not taking care of herself, for the baby. For *his* baby. She spent at least eight hours a night in bed. She even slept, most of the time. She trained herself to partition her brain like a computer hard drive -- setting aside the search at night so her body could rebuild itself; rebooting each morning for another sixteen hours of work and other necessities. Her fourth bottle of water for the day sat dutifully in the car's drink holder, and her throat ached for the cool relief it offered. She resisted, calculating the time until she could leave the scene against the capacity of her ever-shrinking bladder, against the time when she'd be unable to sit in rental cars on shabby streets, unable to search, unable to do anything but wait. She hated waiting. "Patience is a virtue," the nuns had told her in school whenever she grew agitated at waiting her turn, but the past year had taught her the nuns were wrong. Patience got you nothing but seven years of tension, one night of glorious, incandescent release, and a beautiful burden, a tainted gift constructed of equal parts joy and despair. Virtue might have been the better choice. The wind swirled into the car, lifting Scully's hair and twining it into tangled ribbons. She shifted in her seat, untwisting her fingers and absently lifting one hand to push the strands back into place. The breeze waned, then flared again in a chilly blast. Scully shivered and hunched down in the seat, pulling her coat around her, her eyes never leaving the house. Her cell phone rang. She ignored it at first, then thought that perhaps the woman and her daughter had been found and reached to answer the call. "Scully, go home." Scully recoiled from the phone. Go home? She had work to do. She couldn't just go home with no good reason, no ... "Agent Scully!" Louder this time. She felt as if her hand were moving independent of her brain as it brought the phone back to her ear. Her head pounded, an army of feet marching inside her skull, counting out the seconds of her own personal hell. "Scully." Skinner's voice was smooth now. Soothing. Pleading? "Please, Scully." She sat. The house across the street shifted in her vision, blurred, fuzzed; her eyes ached, and she blinked, her eyelids chafing like sandpaper. Her mouth opened, and she spoke. "I'm fine." =====END===== Author's notes: I have no idea. This was a two-hour improv, written July 3, 2000, betweeen 9:15 and 10:55 p.m. I blame it on wen for starting it, on Magdeleine for the assignment, and on them plus Maria Nicole and Ambress for the elements. The challenge: Write a story in two hours, using provided elements. The elements: Magdeleine -- Really, really hot buffalo wings; Maria Nicole -- A mime who refuses to talk as a witness to a crime scene; Ambress -- Iron; and wen -- A slightly bent, extremely sparkly Hello Kitty sticker. Beta thanks go to the wonderfully talented quintet of Marasmus, Pebbles, Alicia, Brynna and Brandon. Hugs and smooches to the BFMers and various others who offered encouragement and/or demanded that I do it. Happy now? Feedback will make *me* happy, at least: shannono@iname.com