TITLE:		FANCY HARVEST
AUTHOR:	Pebbles
RATING:	PG-13, borderline R for one really naughty word
ARCHIVE:	Sure, just ask nicely, okay?
DISCLAIMER:	Yeah, yeah, I wish!  But they *still* belong to CC, 
1013, Fox, DD and Gillian the Great
SPOILERS:	Emily, small ones for Alpha, and Milagro; oh yeah, 
and all the other Fancies :)
CATEGORY:	MSR, Angst, Angst, Angst
THANKS TO:	Brandon My Man, Sure Shot Shannon, Robbie Over 
the Ocean (for early work)
NOTES:		Yep, it's another Fancy
FEEDBACK:	Go ahead.  Kick my ass for being such a sap.  You'll 
find me at pebblesb@earthlink.net

FANCY HARVEST
By Pebbles


I wake to cramps.  And a dull throbbing in my lower back.

I gingerly turn onto my side and draw my knees up a little.  I think for a 
moment of asking Mulder to dig his thumbs into my back for me but 
he's asleep at my side and I hesitate to disturb him, to stir things up 
when they have only just settled down.

I'm suddenly afraid and I don't know why.  My inner walls are trying to 
resurrect themselves, as if in preparation for some great battle; quite 
naturally I fall back into the old habit of concealing my state from my 
partner.  And denying it to myself.

I'm fine.

My mind fully accepted the fact of my pregnancy only after 
confirmation by my own OB/GYN.  Dr. Chappel was stunned when all 
her tests had come back positive, having personally delivered to me the 
news of my sterility some years back.  "You Scullys," I remember her 
marveling as she shook her head in amazement.  "Always ready to 
prove somebody wrong."

After the first few weeks of niggling but not incapacitating nausea, it 
seems as if my body has finally accepted the change as well. I run my 
fingers across my stomach, wondering how there can be a life growing 
in there. Near the end of the first trimester, there has been little 
alteration of my physical appearance, with the exception of my breasts, 
with which Mulder has lately become obsessed.  He can and has spent 
hours fondling them, testing their weight in his capable hands, teasing 
the nipples with his tongue, suckling like a greedy child.

"They're so pretty, Scully," he told me just last week.  "Your nipples 
have gone the color of champagne grapes.  Makes me want to eat 'em 
up."  And then he tried his best to do just that.

I look over at him in the bed beside me, on his back, one arm thrown 
over his head to expose the silky soft tufts of dark hair in his armpit.  I 
want to rub my nose in it and breathe him in but again I pull back, 
unwilling to move for fear of worsening the cramps, which have abated 
somewhat.  Besides, I argue with myself, if I wake him he'll doubtless 
notice something amiss and will ask me if I'm okay.  I'll probably 
respond with my usual "fine" and we'll start the tap dance again.  I sigh 
softly, regretfully, having thought we were past that by now.  I thought 
I was over the need to hide things from him.

Apparently not, for I resist the silent pull towards his body, remaining 
huddled within myself, opting instead to lie still and watch him sleep.  
Then and only then can I gaze at him to my heart's content.  Then and 
only then is he completely at ease.  And that only since we began 
sleeping together.  Together we have managed to defeat each other's 
nightmares.  Together we are stronger.
  
Mulder's profile in early morning light is a sight to behold:  absurdly 
long lashes, strong nose, luscious lips slightly puckered in slumber, the 
corners turning up just slightly, as if he is dreaming of something that 
makes him happy.  Most likely the miracle child, about which we 
dream often. 

After so many years of being alone I have only recently come to realize 
the double blessing that I have, Mulder at my side, his child in my 
belly.  That we have managed to conceive after being told it was 
impossible is a feat beyond my wildest dreams.  How we are going to 
manage all the complications this change will bring is something we 
are still trying to work out.

The long weekend we stayed at the cabin was a time of marvels.  We 
spent most of our waking hours taking long walks, hand in hand, 
stumbling around in a goofy sort of stunned happiness.  At night we 
curled into each other and inevitably ended up spooned together with 
our hands resting atop my stomach as we slept.  It was a time of 
complete harmony and boundless joy; a memory I will treasure for the 
rest of my life.

Now, four weeks later, we have been trying to come up with the best 
way to break the news to those who will have to know.  My mother, of 
course.  Although that will inevitably lead to the question of matrimony 
-- a path I am unwilling to take at this particular time in our lives.  
Bureau policies aside, the delicate matter of working with one's spouse 
is not one to be taken lightly and I'm not sure I'm ready to rock the boat 
on this cruise into fantasyland.

For that's what life with Mulder has become.  That we have gotten to 
this point in our relationship is the stuff born of my wildest fantasies; 
the fear of what could happen to us if we make one false step is straight 
out of my worst nightmares.

Although I have a pretty good idea of how my mother will react, when 
it comes to our superior I don't have a clue.  Mulder argues that Skinner 
needn't know at all, if I don't want to tell him.  And, truthfully, part of 
me agrees with him.

I'm still not totally sure of Skinner's allegiance, despite the events of 
this past winter when he was so ill in the hospital and attempted to 
unburden his soul to me.  I felt so sure of him at the time, so sure that 
he was, indeed, on our side.  But later, after his recovery, when he acted 
as if nothing had happened and left us writhing under Kersh's thumb, 
then the doubts came creeping back.  At this point I am as unsure of 
Skinner as I have ever been in the entire six years I've worked under 
him.

I rub light little circles on my abdomen as I think of the months to 
come, hoping to ease the cramping that is threatening again.  A baby is 
easy to conceal at this stage of the game.  But once we pass the first 
trimester it will be much more difficult to hide the fact that there is 
more to Agent Scully than there was before. For the millionth time I 
wonder how we are going to deal with the enormous changes this 
unexpected arrival is going to bring into our lives.

As if in answer I feel another spasm grip my lower back and I jerk with 
the unexpectedness of it.  Mulder's eyes snap open, and he is fully 
awake by the time I've gotten my breath back.  He looks over at me, his 
eyes questioning.

"Scully?" he murmurs, turning onto his side so that he faces me.  "You 
okay?"

Here it is.  The moment of truth.  I open my mouth, even get so far as to 
press my top teeth against my lower lip in preparation for making my 
standard answer.

Then another spasm hits and this time it wraps from my back around to 
my middle.  I gasp involuntarily and Mulder goes on instant alert.

"What is it?" he asks quietly yet urgently.  "What can I do?"

And suddenly I feel it, the breaking away of a vital part of me, the rush 
of wetness between my legs that has nothing to do with desire for the 
man who is now looking at me with genuine fear in his eyes.
  
"Get us to a hospital," I whisper, stricken.  "As quickly as you can."

*************************

We lost the baby.

Nearly a week later it still hurts to think about it.  "Hurt" is such a mild 
word for what I feel inside.  "Hurt" does not begin to describe the pain 
that tears through my heart every time I look at Scully and feel doubly 
the loss that we have suffered.

True to form, she has withdrawn into herself again.  She is like a 
wounded animal, stark and silent and seemingly devoid of emotion.  I 
know better than to be fooled by her act.

Because the private Scully had her heart ripped out on Saturday when 
our child slipped the bonds of her body, the professional Scully saw fit 
to take over.  Sure enough, Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D. was in the 
office bright and early on Monday morning, performing two autopsies 
that very afternoon, mercifully on adults and not children.  Sometimes 
the gods don't totally piss on us.

Scully continued to perform her professional duties like the pro she is 
and promptly at 6:00 closed the file she was perusing, put it neatly 
away and announced that she was going home.  I rose to join her but 
she cut me off with a wave of her hand.

"Don't, Mulder," she said in that monotone that scares me so much, 
because I know that she has left me again.  "I'm tired," she continues.  
"I just want to go home and go to bed."

Something in her body language told me not to follow her that night, 
though my stomach tightened at the thought of her being alone.  "You 
want me to come?" I couldn't resist asking, secretly longing for her to 
say yes.

She shook her head, her eyes refusing to meet mine.  "No, not tonight.  
I really just want to go home and go to bed.  Alone."

So I let her go, even though it was tearing me up inside to do so.  And I 
likewise let her go on Tuesday, Wednesday and again yesterday.  But 
not tonight.  I've left her alone to grieve for five long days and four 
endless nights and this has got to stop.

I look up at her over the rims of my glasses as she begins to tidy her 
desk, signs I have come to recognize over the years as precursors to her 
departure.  She goes about it methodically, pens in their rightful tray in 
the front middle drawer, files neatly deposited in the pit drawer filled 
with color-coded and alphabetized Pendaflex folders.  Everything in its 
proper place, she closes the drawer and sits still for a minute, eyes 
downcast, hands resting on her knees, palms up, empty. 

Her face shows that she hasn't been sleeping well, maybe not at all.  
There are circles under her eyes that no amount of makeup can conceal.  
And she is pale.  Paler than I have ever seen her outside of a hospital 
bed.  Clearly she is not well.  My heart constricts painfully in my chest 
as I realize an overwhelming need to care for her.  Just this once, I wish 
she would let me do that.

I can't let her go tonight, can't let her be alone with her pain for the next 
two days.  If she continues to decline at the rate she has this week, 
she'll be unable to function come Monday.  Scully or not, the human 
body does have its limits, and I have a sick feeling that Scully has 
reached hers during the last few days.

She suddenly rises from her chair and I'm alarmed at the look on her 
face, the way her hands grab for the edge of the desk for support.  I step 
around the desk and secure her with a hand on each shoulder, standing 
close enough to her body to feel her trembling.

"That's it," I say quietly.  "I'm taking you home."

"Mulder, I can drive," she protests, but her voice has none of its usual 
conviction.  "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," I tell her.  "Don't even start with me, Scully.  Not this time."

She goes quiet and I can feel her inwardly seething at my harsh 
dismissal of her words, her annoyance at my need to care for her.

I retrieve her briefcase from the floor beside her desk, and stand 
waiting as she glares up at me.  In her eyes I can see her embarrassment 
at her inability to control the shivering that has seized her, her anger 
that she has to lean on me when she wants so badly to stand on her 
own.

Finally, resigned, Scully takes the briefcase from my hand and walks 
docilely out into the hallway and toward the elevator.  She punches the 
call button and a moment later the bell dings as it arrives, doors 
opening wide.  We board in silence, and ride up and out of the Hoover 
Building, out into the real world, where real pain awaits around every 
corner.

***********************************

Damn him!  Why can't he just leave me the hell alone?  I don't need 
him hovering over me every minute of the day, ringing my phone off 
the hook every night, watching me like a hawk every waking moment.  
Just waiting for me to fall apart.

I'm fine.

So what if I haven't slept more than a handful of hours for the last six 
days?  So what if my body feels bruised and battered and barren?  None 
of these conditions are new to me.  I've bounced back more times than I 
can count and I see no reason to believe I will not bounce back from 
this ordeal, given enough time and a sufficient amount of space in 
which to heal.

Never mind that my heart has been ripped out as surely as any victim of 
that psychic surgeon, along with the baby I had been so amazed to find 
myself carrying.  It isn't as if I actually expected to carry the child to 
term, I tell myself.  Motherhood is obviously not in my genetic 
makeup, nor has it ever been.  While I consider myself a good aunt to 
my brothers' children, I have not seen myself as maternal for some time 
now.  The rigors of my job, the demanding hours it requires, the need to 
be able to pick up and go on a moment's notice, none of these are 
conducive to raising a healthy child.

In the years I've known myself to be barren, I considered my sterility a 
case of God knowing what is best for me, and I trusted in the basic 
biology of my very human body.  But even God can err, once in a 
while; and God has seen fit to rectify the mistake.  Now all I want to do 
is just forget that it ever happened.  Let me go back to pretending that I 
never wanted it in the first place.  Just like with Emily.

I'm just fucking fine.

I'm so fine my partner is falling all over himself to try to care for me 
while at the same time keeping his distance.  I know the vibes I'm 
putting off are confusing and I wish I could stop it, but I can't.  I 
recognize the old pattern, my pushing him away just when I long to 
have him near me the most, punishing myself for my deficiencies, 
imagined or otherwise.

I lost our child.  I allowed my body to reject the miracle of conception.

I recall that I had been thinking of the difficulties that lay ahead last 
Saturday morning, and no matter how hard I try I can't shake the 
feeling that those negative thoughts were somehow translated into a 
physical reality.  Be careful what you wish for, I remember from long, 
long ago.  It seems to me that, once again, I have gotten it.  And this 
time I've hurt Mulder, along with myself.

I can't bear to look at him these days, and for this reason I've invented 
one excuse after another to keep from spending time with him outside 
of the office.  He was with me during the entirety of the Weekend from 
Hell, wherein I miscarried on Saturday morning and underwent a D&C 
that evening.

When I awoke from the procedure, all I wanted to do was go right back 
to sleep.  I have little memory of Mulder driving me home, or of 
putting me to bed once we got there.  There is only a merciful 
blackness for the remainder of the weekend, and the next thing I knew 
it was Monday.

Mulder was in my kitchen making coffee when I stumbled in there that 
morning, and he stopped what he was doing immediately when he saw 
me.  His mouth twisted into a sad little smile and I let him come to me 
and take me in his arms, because it was easier not to resist.  I let him 
hold me for a good long while, settling my head against his sturdy 
chest, my ear just above the steady rhythm of his heart.

A heart that was aching with loss, a hurt that I had given him.  Because 
I had rejected our miracle.  I couldn't bear to face him.  I pulled away 
from his arms and pushed past him to the cabinet and pulled out a juice 
glass, moved to the refrigerator and poured a glass of juice to take to 
the shower with me.

"I'm going to get a shower," I mumbled as I passed Mulder in route to 
my bedroom.  "I'll see you at the office."

I heard his startled exclamation behind me and whirled to find him 
giving me that look, the one that states he is about to assert his 
dominant will upon me and try to make me do something I have no 
intention of doing.

"You sure that's a good idea, Scully?" he asked quietly, crossing his 
arms over his tee shirted chest.  "Is there anything so terrible about 
giving yourself some time?"  

'I don't need time," I say curtly, starting again for the bathroom and the 
sanctuary of a hot shower.  "I need to work.  I'll see you at the office."

When I came out of the shower half an hour later he was gone, and I 
haven't been alone with him outside of the office since then.  Until 
now, when he has assumed control of the situation and insisted upon 
driving me home.

The drive to my apartment is made in total silence; likewise the whole 
process of seeing me to my door,  which he insists upon doing.  When I 
try to turn him away at the door he pulls out his key and opens it, 
ushering me inside with a possessive hand, pushing the door closed 
behind him and locking it with the other.

He relieves me of my suit jacket, even hangs it in the closet for me, 
then escorts me into the bedroom where he sits me on the bed, pulling 
my legs up and gently pressing me backwards, so that I am lying flat.  
He leans over and takes off my shoes one by one, setting them neatly 
by the chair at the window, bringing back with him the throw I keep 
folded over the arm.  I lie there and watch him as he leans over me, 
pulling the throw across me and tucking it around my cold feet.

He exasperates me when he gets like this.  On one hand it's heavenly to 
be so cared for; on the other it's hell on my sense of independence.  I 
don't want to appear weak before my partner, for fear that he will not 
be able to rely on me when the going gets tough.  I will not crack over 
this, I promise myself.  I won't let him down.  I'm fine.

I tell him so as he bends down to kiss me on the forehead and urges me 
to rest while he makes us something to eat.  He just gives me that look 
in response, the one that telegraphs he doesn't believe me for shit.  I 
hate that in him.  That he can read me so well.

I turn my face into the pillow as he leaves the room and will myself to 
blank my mind, to retreat into the sweet oblivion of sleep, where I don't 
have to pretend to be strong, I don't have to worry about being weak, I 
don't have any emotions at all.  And maybe when I wake up I'll find 
that the detachment has carried over into the harsh reality from which I 
sought escape.

*************************

She is out like a light.  I barely manage to wait five minutes before I am 
at her desk, rifling through the address book for Dr. Chappel's pager 
number.  I find it, pull out my cell and punch in the digits quickly, 
leaving a terse message on the recording.

If Scully can't let me in on what is going on inside her right now, 
perhaps her doctor can give me a clue as to what is typical behavior in 
patients who suffer this kind of loss, at this stage of the game.  Not that 
my Scully is typical anything.  The pregnancy itself was extraordinary.  
How could the loss be anything less?

I putter around in the kitchen while I wait for the doctor's call, trying to 
be as quiet as possible even though I remembered to close Scully's door 
as I left her room.  I finally locate a can of minestrone and a box of 
Jiffy cornbread mix.  Yum, yum.  Just what Scully needs.

I find a saucepan and put the soup on the burner to warm, then mix the 
cornbread in an amount of time that does justice to its name.  I spoon 
the batter into the muffin pan and pop it in the toaster oven, turning the 
soup down to simmer and covering the pot with a lid.

Just as I finish, my cell phone trills and I catch it on the first ring.

"Mr. Mulder?" a familiar voice calls.  "It's Christine Chappel.  How 
may I help you?"

A thorough grilling of Dr. Chappel assures me that, while alarming to 
me and perhaps seemingly overwhelming to her, the withdrawal Scully 
is experiencing is perfectly normal, and more common than I realized.  
I know all the general information -- that most miscarriages occur 
because the baby would not have lived anyway -- but hearing more 
detail from Dr. Chappel both comforts me and makes the knife
twist just a little bit more.

The risk of miscarriage doubles from age 20 to 40, she says, adding that 
about one-quarter of all pregnancies miscarry. Half of the miscarriages 
in the first trimester, which we had just completed, are the result of 
chromosomal abnormalities that prevent the fetus from developing into 
a healthy baby. I try not to consider the possible meanings behind 
"chromosomal abnormalities."

"Give her time to grieve, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Chappel urges me toward 
the end of the conversation.  "And if either of you are interested, there 
are a number of support groups in the area, even some on-line support 
groups over the internet.  I think that if you make the information 
available to Dana, let her know what kind of help is there, she might 
find an outlet for the sorrow and sometimes anger that she will 
inevitably feel.  I'm sure you would both benefit from joining one of 
these groups, maybe find comfort in the experiences of others. The 
support is out there, Mr. Mulder," she reminds me just before signing 
off.  "Please help Dana to see that."

I have a hard time picturing Scully opening herself to a stranger on line, 
especially after she was so scornful of my on line relationship with 
Karin Berquist earlier this year.  Still, it's worth a try.  I'm so worried 
about her at this point that I'm willing to try anything.

I hear the door to the bedroom open and look up to see Scully coming 
out, brushing her tousled hair out of her eyes and yawning.  She has 
removed her skirt but not her slip or blouse and she walks toward me 
on silent stocking feet.

"Hey, honeybunch," I call, teasing her with the endearment I know that 
she hates but still allows me to use.  "Soup's on."

She sniffs the air appreciatively, the lure of the rising corn muffins 
attracting her attention at once.  "Corn bread, Mulder?"

"Close," I say, taking two bowls and plates from the cupboard.  
"Muffins." I go about setting the table while Scully takes one of the 
wicker baskets from the wall of the kitchen and pulls a clean dishtowel 
from a drawer.  She lines the basket with the towel and places it near 
the toaster oven, leaning over slightly to peer inside and judge the state 
of readiness.

We work together to put dinner on the table.  I snag a couple of spoons 
and napkins, put them in their proper places and hit the freezer on the 
way back, removing two tall frosty glasses which I fill with iced tea 
and place on the table along with the pitcher.  Scully, meanwhile, has 
determined the bread done and dumped the muffins into the basket, 
covering them with the towel before placing them on the table.   A 
moment later I set the bowls of steaming minestrone before us and we 
sit down to eat.

Scully starts out hesitantly, taking little baby sips of the soup, nibbling 
on a muffin.  But slowly an appetite seems to grow and she eventually 
eats the whole bowl of soup, and two muffins as well.  I eat more 
quickly, as usual, but when I'm finished I sit back in my chair and 
watch her, taking what satisfaction I can in at least doing small things 
for her, even though I know it doesn't help with the real problem.

She looks up at me, wiping her mouth on the paper towel that is 
pretending to be a napkin.  Her eyes are so blue, so vivid in her pale 
face, and I swear I could dive right in and drown in them forever.  
Especially now, when they are dark with heartbreak.

Despite her anguish, she smiles at me.  It isn't one of those Scully 
mega-watt smiles she so rarely bestows, but it does seem to indicate she 
appreciates my pitiful little gesture.

"Thank you for dinner, Mulder," she says quietly.  "You didn't have to, 
but I'm glad you did."

I return the smile, reaching my hand over to rest atop hers and giving it 
a squeeze.  "I'm glad you enjoyed it," I tell her.  "I'm glad to see you 
eat.  You needed it.  You still need it."

She ducks her head.  "Give me time, Mulder," she says, her voice 
barely a whisper.  "I'll be fine."

That stops me cold.  "I'll be," she said.  Not "I'm," as in "I AM fine."  
She said "I'll BE fine."  That, alone, is progress.

I squeeze her hand again, smile at her as she looks back up at me.  
"Yes, you will be," I agree with her.  "You always are.  But once in a 
while, Scully, do you think that maybe you could let me take care of 
you when you need it?"

She watches me for a long moment before rising from her chair and 
coming over to me, nudging my legs apart and surprising the hell out of 
me by settling herself on my knee, looping her arms around my neck 
and resting her head on my shoulder.

"I'll try," she agrees, finally, great weariness evident in her voice  "It 
won't be easy, Mulder, but I'll try."

****************************

Mulder persuaded me to leave the clean up to him in favor of a nice 
warm soak in a bubble-filled tub.  I switch the lights off and light a 
scented candle, remove my blouse and slip and hang them on the hook 
behind the bathroom door. Dropping my underclothes in an untidy heap 
on the floor, I step over the high side of the tub, pausing to pin my hair 
up with a clip before sinking down into the foamy water.  I lie back on 
the bath pillow and close my eyes, weary and beaten.

It hasn't even been a week since our world fell apart and already I'm 
having trouble remembering all the things that actually happened.  
During the ride to the hospital I got a good opportunity to study 
Mulder's "panic face", and it frightened me nearly as much as what was 
happening to my body.

When we got to the emergency room, I made him wait outside while 
the doctors confirmed that I was, indeed, losing our baby.  At the time I 
didn't think I could stand to witness his pain on receiving the news, 
thinking if I could prevent myself from watching his heart torn asunder 
I could keep my own from suffering the same fate.

Afterwards, when the messy business of expelling the contents of my 
womb was over, he came to me where I lay propped up in a hospital 
bed, with a pillow beneath my knees and clean sheets surrounding me.   
We only had a few moments, as I had decided to go ahead and let them 
do the D&C right away, not wanting any latent reminders of the horror 
of miscarriage coming back to haunt me later on.

I can still see his ravaged face as he came to stand beside me and took 
my hand, bringing it to his lips to press a soft kiss on my fingers, his 
eyes glittering with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," we said in unison, swallowing twin lumps that lodged in 
our throats, quelling the heartache that threatened to assume control.  
Moments later I was wheeled into surgery, having willed myself not to 
cry.  Now, nearly a week later, the dam has remained unbreached.

I wish I could allow myself the luxury of expending my tears in the 
privacy of my bathroom, but I'm afraid that once I start it will be a very 
long time before I stop, and I know that Mulder won't let me hide in 
here forever.  Besides, if I stay in here too much longer, I'm afraid my 
resolve will crumble and the tears will come despite my best efforts.  

Sleep.  Sleep is what I need, what my body craves, and with this in 
mind I make short order of bathing and pulling the stopper from the 
tub.  I step out and wrap the waiting towel around me while I wash my 
face and brush my teeth, finally emerging from the bathroom to cross 
the bedroom and root around in my pajama drawer.  I settle on an old, 
soft tee shirt of Mulder's that I confiscated months ago, slip it over my 
head and slide a soft pair of cotton panties over my bottom.  At last.  
Ready for bed and nothing to stop me.

I quell the guilt that rears its ugly head as I hear Mulder still puttering 
around in the kitchen, cleaning up the supper dishes and putting things 
in order.  I smile at the incongruous image of my Mulder in the throes 
of domesticity.  He never ceases to amaze me.

Finally, able to wait no longer, I climb into bed and pull the comforter 
over me.  And before I know it, I'm gone.

*********************************

Finally, she sleeps.

She had let me persuade her to bathe and lie down only after promising 
that I would come soon after.  I tidied up the supper things while she 
readied for bed and after checking the locks and putting out the lights I 
joined her in the bedroom.

I saw the lump she made in the bed as I crossed to the bathroom to 
brush my teeth and take care of business.  When I came out a moment 
later, she was already zonked.

As I look down on her now I smile at her choice of sleeping attire, a tee 
shirt of mine that she pilfered from my apartment several months ago.   
I drop my pants and shirt to the floor and climb into bed in just my 
boxers and tee shirt.  I want to take her in my arms and hold her close, 
but she's sleeping so soundly I hate to disturb her.

She's been so distant these last few days, so full of grief and stoicism to 
the point where I ache for her, feel her pain lance through my heart as 
surely as any fallen knight on some medieval battlefield.

I wish she could cry.  Her drought of tears is painful to watch, and 
frightening at the same time because those that remain unshed will 
choke her on the inside if she doesn't get them out, somehow.

I worry about her until my own lack of sleep overcomes me and I drift 
below the surface of wakefulness, sleep that is distressingly short lived.

********************************

I am so tired and I still have three autopsies to go.  I am in the stark 
black and white of an autopsy bay, standing at the table, mechanically 
lifting the sheet from the corpse -- only to find a fetus lying there, 
curled up and vulnerable.  It has the stamp of its sire already, and I feel 
pain wash me anew as I realize it is ours. 

Mulder comes up on the other side of the table, opposite the tiny being 
we created, his face broken and unutterably sad.  /You didn't believe, 
Scully,/ he accuses. /You didn't believe and now she's gone.  Another 
miracle that was never meant to be./

His words resound against the walls of the autopsy bay:  /...never meant 
to be...never meant to be...never meant to be.../ - over and over until I 
clamp my hands over my ears to silence them.

/I can't believe, Mulder!/  I am anguished and broken.  /I want to 
believe, but I can't!/

He points to the fetus, our doomed, dead baby, whose death I had 
caused by my disbelief.  /Now she's an X-File, Scully.  You have to 
find out why she had to die./

Horrified, I back away as he hands me the Stryker saw, flips the switch 
that sets it into noisy motion.    It is  coming nearer, the whirling blade 
closer and closer to the pink lump of human tissue on the table.

/I can't do this!  I *can't* believe.  I can't *not* believe.  Oh, Mulder, 
I'm sorry!  I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry.../

*****************************

My sleep is disturbed by the low moans that are coming from Scully.  I 
peer at her in the darkness, barely making out her face in the light from 
the waxing moon outside the window.  Her expression is one of 
profound distress and the words emerging from her mouth are equally 
distressing.

"Can't...don't make me cut her...can't...Mulder, I'm sorry...so sorry...my 
fault...can't believe...my fault...so sorry...didn't want her to die!"  She is 
crying by this point, gently and painfully in her sleep, and I pull her a 
little closer and make shushing noises in her ear, crooning nonsense 
words of comfort for an ache that can't be eased.

I hold her through the night as she cries the tears she won't allow during 
waking hours.  And when she finally falls silent, limp and exhausted 
and utterly drained, I vow to find a way to help her accept her grief  so 
that she can overcome it, and find again the hope of a future wrought 
with miracles of our own creation.

Finally we both sleep.  And this time our dreams are mercifully few.

****************************

I have had the same dream now for eight consecutive nights.  Eight 
nights of mental taunting, seeing twisted visions of myself, Mulder, our 
dead baby and the mystery of her death.  Every night I am back in that 
autopsy bay, faced with the impossible.  How can I look too deeply for 
a reason for what happened?

I spent the majority of this morning at church, going to confession for 
the first time since before Beltane, hoping to ease my pain through a 
cleansing of the spirit.  Having failed in that mission, I ended up at my 
mother's, where we spent the afternoon watching a movie, "Dancing at 
Lughnasadh", with Meryl Streep and a host of Irish actors I didn't 
know.  It was a nice diversion, and, as always, good to spend time with 
my mother.  But when Bill and Tara called for their weekly Sunday 
afternoon chat I excused myself and began the long drive back to my 
apartment.

My mother's house is filled with pictures of babies, her own and those 
belonging to my brothers.  Childhood scenes of Bill, Missy, Charlie 
and me take up one entire wall of the den, while photos of Bill and 
Charlie's little ones cover the mantel above the fireplace.  Not so long 
ago I had allowed myself to dream of seeing my own child's picture up 
there with his or her cousins.  Now that dream, too, has died a painful 
death.

I am not meant to be a mother, obviously; for twice now I have been 
given the miracle of maternity and twice come away empty-handed.  
Mulder's voice, the one that haunts me in my dream, telling me that the 
child was a miracle that was never meant to be, keeps getting mixed up 
with the words he told me while Emily was fighting a losing battle to 
live.  How many times must I seek validation as a woman through 
motherhood before I realize that it's a road not meant for me to travel?

Mulder, to his credit, has been simply too dear for words.  He has given 
me the space I need, while at the same time being at the ready 
whenever I look his way for support.  I haven't asked often, just a quick 
hug here and there when I know he can't stand to stay away from me 
any longer.  Always, he is ready, with those wonderful, strong arms of 
his drawing me into an all encompassing embrace. 

Our loss is something that my logical mind knows will inevitably bring 
us closer, but at the present my very real aching heart is keeping him at 
a distance.  I have turned my head on several occasions where he would 
offer more than just a kiss goodnight.  To his credit he has taken it in 
stride.  Thank God he knows me so well.  I am counting on it to get us 
through this awful period.

He grieves for the baby that will never be, of this I have no doubt, 
though he hasn't said one word about how he is feeling about this 
whole chain of events. He has swallowed all of the pain that I know he 
is feeling and reverted to being the partner I have known for the last 
few years, deeply committed, supportive and true.   But, even though 
last week Dr. Chappel told us that physical relations could resume, not 
once has Mulder pushed me for anything I might not be ready to give.  
And I'm still not sure when I will be ready.

I want him.  God knows I want him.  It frightens me, because this kind 
of longing is what brought about this kind of pain.  Whereas before I 
never had to consider the possibility of a product of such a union, now 
I'm afraid of the consequences of our making love.

But I doubt it will ever happen again; three miracles do not occur in 
one woman's lifetime.  When I start to think this way I withdraw further 
into depression, and longing for what we could have had and now never 
will.

I pull up to my apartment, park, get out and lock the car behind me.  At 
the moment all I can think about is the sweet oblivion of a nice warm 
soak in a scented tub, followed by an early bed.  Perhaps if I pave the 
way for sleep a little better I'll be less plagued with unsettled dreams.  
This is my theory as I enter my empty apartment and make my way 
toward my bedroom, starting the water in the tub as I pass the 
bathroom.  

Stripping quickly, I hang my clothes in the closet and toss my 
underwear in the hamper before padding naked into the bathroom.  I 
look at myself in the mirror as I pile my hair up, wondering whatever 
happened to that earthy, sensual woman I used to be.  Beaten into 
submission, I think tiredly.  In sad need of a break.  I sigh heavily and 
step into the bath, my woeful exhalations turning to soft groans of 
muted comfort as the warm, scented water envelops my body.

For the first time in what seems like forever I relax against the bath 
cushion, turning my mind off and blotting out the world outside my 
bathroom door.  
 
I must have dozed a bit because I gradually become aware of the 
sounds of an Irish fiddle coming from the living room, of the smell of 
fresh baked bread and the muted clatter of someone messing around in 
my kitchen.  Mulder, I think, and smile despite my weariness.  I pull 
the stopper from the cooling tub, rise and take the waiting towel from 
the rack beside me, wrapping it around my body before I step out into 
the bedroom.

I'm surprised to discover candles flickering on the bedside table and 
from the dresser across the room and pleased by the sight of red and 
white rose petals strewn across the bed.  And there is an exquisite ivory 
dress draped across the comforter, its gossamer folds soft and flowing, 
the bodice covered with embroidery in a thread slightly lighter in shade 
so that the little swirls seem to shimmer.  Smiling, I run my fingers 
along the soft fabric, holding the garment up in front of me and 
admiring the view reflected from the full-length mirror in the corner.

The dress is scooped in the front and dips low in the back and I don't 
see how I can possibly wear any undergarments without marring the 
effect.  Throwing caution to the wind, I drop my towel and slip the 
dress over my head, settling it into place.  I take the clip from my hair 
and shake it out so that it frames my face in soft disarray.   Liking what 
I see, I turn away from the mirror and walk barefoot down the hall and 
stand in the doorway of the living room.

There are fresh flowers on every table, beautiful, bold gladiolas in 
vibrant yellow, red and orange.  Tall stalks of wheat are propped up on 
either side of the fireplace.  Baskets of bright yellow squash and green 
zucchini are beside one of the stalks, more baskets on the other side, 
these filled to the brim with big red apples mixed in with walnuts and 
pecans.

I look in the direction of the kitchen where Mulder is emerging with a 
bowl of what appears to be strawberries and blueberries in one hand, a 
bottle of sparkling cider and two glasses in the other.  He stops stone 
still when he sees me and I watch as his eyes roam up and down my 
body, from the top of my tousled head to the tips of my painted 
toenails, peeking out shyly from the long skirt of the dress.  He 
journeys back up my body until his gaze rests on my face and I smile at 
the look in his eyes, that of a man in love with the woman he sees.  Me.  
All of me, emotional baggage notwithstanding.

"Hey," he calls softly, his eyes broadcasting his pleasure at my attire.

"Hey yourself," I return, coming toward him and taking the bowl of 
berries from him.  They are deep blue and fiery red, plump and 
undoubtedly juicy, and I pop a blue one in my mouth before I can stop 
myself.  "Mmmmm!"

Delighted with the unexpected treat I pick up another to share with him.  
He opens his mouth obediently and takes the strawberry I put to his 
lips, my fingers coming away tingling from the lightest touch of his 
tongue.  "What's the occasion?" I ask as I follow him into the living 
room, where he places the cider and glasses on the table, then takes the 
bowl of berries and sits it down beside them.

"Lughnasadh," he replies, and goes on to enlighten me further.  "Also 
known in Celtic countries as the first feast of the harvest, the other two 
being Mabon - what we know as the Autumnal Equinox - and Samhain, 
or Hallowe'en."  He delivers his little oral dissertation during a trip 
back into the kitchen and concludes upon his return a moment later 
with a wicker basket bearing a loaf of fresh baked bread, its aroma 
wafting deliciously through the apartment.  He sets it down on the 
coffee table, looks back up at me.

"On or about August 2nd, actually the entire month in Ireland, the first 
harvest is observed by feasting upon the fruits of Mother Earth."

He gestures to the coffee table, now brimming with nature's bounty.  
"Bread, fresh fruit, cider."  He tilts his head toward the flowers and the 
decorations that adorn the hearth, smiles almost shyly.  "A simple feast, 
but a feast nonetheless."

I must be getting used to these little productions of his, because I'm 
more amused by his resourcefulness than annoyed at his uninvited - 
though not unwelcome - presence.  I duck my head a moment, trying 
hard to stifle the grin as I picture Mulder in an apron with flour all over 
him.  "Mulder," I admonish, looking back up at him straight-faced, 
"surely you don't expect me to believe you baked bread for me.  I've 
seen you in the kitchen, remember?"

He slaps his hand against his chest dramatically.  "I'm cut to the quick, 
Scully.  Here I was thinking you liked my muffins."

I let the remark slide.  "Actually, Mulder, it's just that I don't buy the 
idea that you baked that loaf of bread."  He gives me that one-sided, 
sort of twisted grin and I know I have him.  "Come on, 'fess up."

He has the grace to look sheepish.  "Okay, okay," he concedes.  "I 
cheated.  I got it from the bakery down the street and just heated it up 
once I got here."  At my smirk he defends himself.  "Hey, it *smells* 
like the real deal Holyfield, doesn't it?"

I lean down and sniff appraisingly.  "Oh, yeah," I agree, suddenly 
hungry and feeling more alive than I've felt in weeks.  "Smells good 
enough to eat."

He nuzzles my shoulder for a moment, doing his own olfactory 
exploration.  "So do you," he murmurs, just before pulling away from 
me and ushering me to sit on the couch, where he proceeds to pour 
cider into our glasses.

He raises his glass in salute and I raise my own.  I think for a moment 
he may propose a toast but he remains silent, his eyes intensely focused 
on mine.  I gaze back at him, my pulse quickening, trying to read the 
intent behind his little surprise.

"Relax, Scully," he says softly, his cat-eyes glinting at me.  "There is 
no grand design, here.  I don't plan to jump your bones - not unless you 
ask me to."  This he delivers with a ghost of his little boy smile, which I 
can't help returning.  Little Boy Mulder will get me every time.

"To you, then, Mulder," I tell him.  "And to me."  I swallow the sudden 
lump in my throat before continuing.  "And to the memory of what we 
created and lost."

"And to the promise of future creations," he finishes, drinking before I 
can protest, his eyes never leaving mine, daring me to disagree.

I take a sip of the cider, swirling the tangy stuff around in my mouth 
before I swallow, savoring its spicy sweetness.

"You know, Mulder," I finally say, fiddling with the glass, twirling it 
round and round in my hand as I keep my eyes downcast, studying the 
swirling motion.  "There isn't much likelihood of there being any more 
creations.  Miracles just don't happen that frequently."

"They don't happen at all unless you believe that they *can* happen," 
he reminds me, setting his glass on the coffee table and leaning forward 
to cut two thick slices of the still-warm bread. He hands one to me and 
takes a huge bite out of his.  Watching his eyes close with pleasure, I 
bite into my own slice.  Oh, my, this is good.  I had forgotten how 
heavenly fresh baked bread really is.

We eat in silence for a while, alternately feeding each other berries, 
bread and cider, using the food as an excuse not to elaborate on his 
words or mine.  The CD he has put in the player continues to pump out 
lively Celtic music and I find my feet tapping to some of the tunes. 

By the time we finish off the berries it has switched to Lorena 
McKinnett, through whose hauntingly original music I am transported 
back to the land of my ancestors, to an Ireland ruled on the surface by 
the High Kings and beneath by the Tuatha de Danaan, the Children of 
Dana.   To a land whose last great leader was Lugh of the Shining 
Spirit.  A wondrous land where miracles came true on a daily basis and 
barren queens gave birth to new generations through the strength of 
their beliefs.

Finally, Mulder wipes his hands on his napkin, stands up and extends a 
hand in invitation.  I take it and move into his arms as he pulls me away 
from the coffee table.  We don't really dance, just sort of sway to the 
hypnotic rhythm of "The Bonny Swan", lapsing into the comfortable 
silence we have always been able to enjoy.

The song ends and we continue to sway, my head against his heart, his 
arms around me at shoulder and waist.  His cheek is resting against the 
top of my head and his breath stirs the hair at my temple as he speaks.

"Know what else Lughnasadh represents, Scully?"

Probably way back in the recesses of my memory I could pull the 
significance of the festival from my college days, but I know Mulder 
enjoys wearing his professor hat, so I shake my head just enough to 
encourage him.

"Lughnasadh is all about changes in our lives, and how we deal with 
them through the choices we make."  He pulls back from me, looks 
deeply into my eyes and I see the uncertainty in his.  "Do you regret the 
choices you made six months ago, when we decided to - um - expand 
our relationship?"

My heart lurches.  I can feel the tears building up beneath my lids and I 
reach with one hand to caress his cheek.  "Mulder, no!" I assure him, 
my voice catching on the denial.  "Never!"

I see the relief that springs to his eyes at my words, just before he 
closes them, as if giving thanks.  I burrow back up against him, 
pressing my face into the hollow of his chest where I can feel the 
accelerated thumping of his heart.  I feel his lips in the hair on top of 
my head and I snuggle further into the arms that now tighten around 
me.

"Even when those changes and those choices result in something that is 
painful?"  The tremble in his voice suggests his greatest fear, and I 
admire his courage at opening himself to the possibility that I could 
answer differently from how he wants me to.

I look back along the path we have taken over the last six months, one 
half of a year, one half of a whole, like we are whenever we're apart.  I 
don't want to go back to that other existence, the one of a year ago 
when I would ache all over with want for him, with the need to share 
my heart, offer up my body and open my soul to him.  We have 
traveled far on this road, this road that our choices led us to take.

"Even then, Mulder," I confess.  For suddenly I know it, beyond a 
shadow of a doubt, that I could, and would, face it again, the chance of 
bearing our own, even the fear of losing again.  " Even if I knew then 
what I know now, I wouldn't change a day."  

He heaves a mighty sigh, relief emanating from every pore in his body.  
We continue to move to the sultry music, lost in our individual musings 
until finally he speaks again.  "You know what else the ancient Celts 
believed about Lughnasadh, Scully?" he asks, his voice husky and low.

"What?" I take the bait, smiling against his tee shirt.

"That this is the season when the sun consummates its union with the 
Earth and produces the first fruits of the harvest.  Like we did, Scully.  
And like we'll harvest again.  In our own time.  In our own season."

Now I do cry, bittersweet but cleansing tears of loss and of love, and he 
kisses them tenderly as I shed them, his own wetting his face and 
trickling down the side of his nose.  His brow is creased with the effort 
to contain the emotions and I brush my fingers across it, trying to ease 
the ache of his grief, seeking a way to assuage my own.

And suddenly I have it.  The only remedy for what ails us, for what has 
torn us apart and is now pulling us back together again.  The only way 
for us to completely heal.

"Mulder, take me to bed." 

*********************************

We spent last evening dancing in one way or another, both celebrating 
and bidding farewell to the first harvest of our union.  By the time we 
fell asleep in each other's arms, we had learned enough about healing to 
welcome the possibility of further fruition, when our season is right.  
All in good time, I think as I open my eyes and look down at the fragile 
beauty of my partner, my love.

She sleeps deeply, peacefully, the night having passed with no sounds 
of disquiet, and I smile now in gratitude to Whoever for giving us sense 
enough to work through this heartbreak.  For making us strong enough 
to bear the pain of our loss.  For giving us the courage to trust in 
ourselves to make things right.

In ancient times, Lughnasadh lasted for one month, fifteen days before 
the first of August, and fifteen days after.  It was supposed to 
commemorate birth and death, and the first harvest of the fruits of the 
land.  The obvious inference is not lost on me, that as the new season 
would bring the rebirth of the Earth's bounty, so would the souls of 
those departed also arise to be reborn.

The Festival of Lugh marks the first of three harvests of the agricultural 
year.  Scully and I have just weathered our first harvest.

As I hold her closer to me, nuzzling my lips in her hair and inhaling the 
scent of our own union, I find myself looking forward to seeing what 
other seeds we can sow.




-END-