TITLE: Everything I Dreamed About When I Was a Child

AUTHOR: J. Nelson

RATING: G

SUMMARY: If Scully had told Mulder she couldn't have
children, how did she tell him?

SPOILERS: Kind of sort of for One Breath, Never Again,
Memento Mori and Redux II.  This takes place after
Redux II and before the events of Christmas Carol and
Emily.

CATEGORY: Vignette, Angst

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana
Scully belong to FOX and Chris Carter and 1013
Productions. No monetary gain is being made from this
piece. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. 
Dr. Slocombe belongs to me, and in real life she's a
GP and a marvelous friend. Tara MacLean can be found
on Nettwerk Productions.  Lyrics used without
permission.

DEDICATION: Always for Kelly.  But as well for Alexia,
Leslie, Sue and Barb who tirelessly and without
complaint support and nurture my obsession, er
interest, in the X-Files.


Everything I Dreamed About When I Was a Child

And if I fall
I will find a way back to my hands
I'm the only one who can help me find my feet again
Sweet little fighter
Sweet little scar
Sweet little fire in my heart

If I fall
 - Tara MacLean - Passenger

As a child she would lie in her bed, swathed lovingly
in flannel and maternal kisses, envisioning the inky
outlines dancing about in her bedroom to be monsters. 
Behemoths prepared to devour her and spirit her away
from the secure and loving embrace of her parents'
bosom.  Illusions of imminent endangerment would pound
insistently at her heart, furiously dampening any
chances of a slumber filled with dreams of apple
cheeked dollies with blonde tresses and sun soaked
days pushing those blue-eyed babies in their prams. 
Soon the weight of the day would press upon her
conscious, and she would cease to dread the ogres of
the darkened room.  She would then drift off into the
twilight, arms firmly clutching her aspirations and
her dolly.

As an adult, draped in silk and the companionable
silence of the condition of being one, Dana Scully had
ceased to see the fiends of the nether world in the
blackness of her bedroom.  They now dwelt securely in
her waking hours, audaciously announcing their
presence and insinuating themselves into her day to
day routine.  She was cognizant of their manner and
demeanor, often reporting on these in detail to her
superior, A.D. Skinner.

As a child, her greatest consternation at nightfall
had been the threat of kidnaping by the unseen forces
that had floated above the canopy of her bed.  As an
adult, they had mysteriously materialized, beckoning
haunting images of forceful confinement, surrealistic
surgical theaters, and the lonely ache for the
tranquil sleep of death.

Scully silently ruminated on her initial and brief
excursion into her partner Fox Mulder's career
consuming X-Files.  She was reticent to admit that
those forays into the unbelievable and unprovable had
warranted her name being permanently recorded in those
files, twice.  She shifted her weight in the chair,
uncomfortable not because the interior designer had
decided on form over function, but because she
anxiously awaited the return of the physician she
happened upon only once a year.  A loathsome, yet
necessary visit, Scully had been summoned to the
stylish yet inarticulate inner sanctum of the doctor's
office to await a bitter injustice.

"Dr. Scully?" the silver-haired doctor asked.

Startled, she uncharacteristically jumped, snapping
her head to attention.  "I'm sorry, Dr. Slocombe, I
didn't hear you come in."

He smiled, his reading glasses dangerously perched on
the tip of his nose, peering inquisitively over their
tops, looking silly and serious all at once.  "Too
many years in practice have made me quiet as a church
mouse."  He chuckled, the crinkles at the corner of
his mouth and eyes endearing and comforting.

Scully replied in kind, though her smile was not as
brilliant, the corners of her mouth turned up
in nervousness and anxiousness.  "Are those the test
results?"

The grandfatherly smile disappeared, swallowed up in
worry lines that had once danced lovingly across his
careworn face, masquerading as laughter and merriment.

Before he could speak though, she looked down at her
lap and enquired in a soft whisper. "There'll be no
children, will there?"  As she anticipated his reply,
she worried the crepe of her suit jacket between her
index finger and thumb, concentrating on the solace
she found in the raspy, yet smooth fabric, that kept
at bay the harsh and jarring reality that stood before
her.

His words crept from his lips, soft and soothing,
meant to console and comfort, yet grim and bleak, like
the winter storms that blanketed her beloved
Washington.  "No children Dana."

She had left his office shortly thereafter, a
whirlwind of medical jargon, symptoms and possible
treatments tumultuously blowing through her thoughts. 
At the eye of the storm remained her one constant.

He had stood before her cramped workspace, incredulous
in her lack of response to his inquiry into her
health.  "Come on, Scully, why did you have another
doctor's appointment so soon after your last one?"

She had continued to pound away at the keyboard of her
laptop, refusing to look up from her notes, silently
chastising the child before her for his rude
interruption of her meticulous train of thought. 
"Mulder, I need to work on this report."

She had continued to expound on her thoughts, careful
not to look up, careful not to see the depth of
concern and worry on his face.  Determined not to fall
into the hazel profoundness of his cautious
attentiveness, because she knew once she peered into
their murky depths, she would drown, unable to grasp
for her life preserver of control and circumspection.

Mulder had leaned toward her then and pushed down her
laptop to close it.  As she snatched her hands from
its jaws, she crossed her arms in defiance and
frustration and looked toward the closed door.  It
courted her, invited her to stand up and grasp its
handle, firmly pulling it open and allowing it to push
her soundly into the corridor, toward her car, toward
her home, away from the ceaseless interrogation of the
ever-determined profiler before her.

"Don't keep this from me, Scully."

"Keep what from you, Mulder?"  She had defensively and
defiantly replied, thoughts of escape sharp and fresh
moments before, now dulled by his selfish insistence.

"This, Scully.  This lack of trust.  We've sung this
song before, Scully, and it doesn't have a good beat
and it's not easy to dance to."  He leaned in closer,
invading her space, raiding what little composure and
privacy she tenuously clung to.  "Tell me, Scully,
tell me."  His voice had softened, the tautness of his
worry lessened, the harshness of his earlier inquiry
gently and delicately tempered with concern and subtle
declarations of adoration and love.

She had looked at him then, prepared to cast her soul
into the fathomless depths of his devotion. The
devotion that radiated before her left her in awe,
acutely aware she could no longer sing the old standby
of 'I'm fine', leaving her with the realization that
her repotoire needed to be retooled and quickly at
that.

She pushed her chair back, careful not to reach for
him, standing and walking toward the familiarity of
the oak cabinets, finding comfort in their commonness
in her everyday work life and the work that
represented Mulder's life.  The life that had
inextricably become hers.

"It wasn't the oncologist that I went to see today,
Mulder."  She paused, the tip of her tongue delicately
tasting the corner of her upper lip, always a sign of
the inner debate that raged within her.

"It was with a gynecologist who deals with issues of
infertility."

She heard his gasp, audible in its disbelief, audible
in its self-flagellation, audible in its grief.

She wanted to say the correct words.  She didn't want
to alarm him.  She didn't want to accuse him.  She
only wanted to console him.

She thought back to her blissful days of childhood,
full of laughter, abundant in cuddles, hugs and
kisses.  Long days filled with childlike wants and
desires of when one has reached the magical state of
adulthood.  Hazy, sumptuous and lazy summer days of
playing house and throwing tea parties for
disinterested dollies and sweet, cottony-stuffed
bears.  Imagined illnesses, fanciful conversations and
fantastic scenarios, all revolving around the end
result. Babies.  Lots and lots of babies.

She turned suddenly as his hand brushed her hair from
her neck.  She smiled and turned back. She felt him
behind her, unobtrusively supporting her, willing
herself not to lean into his tower of comfort and
love.  Eventually giving up the good fight she
endeavored to pursue, she hesitantly allowed herself
to be absorbed into his pillar of relief from the
ghouls and archfiends that tore her dreams of family
from her waking hours.

He leaned toward her and whispered in a grief-soaked
whisper "Scully . . ."

She leaned back further and reached behind her for his
hand, grasping it, weaving her fingers with his,
pulling taught the tapestry of their friendship and
mutual love.

"Mulder . . ." she began, gently tightening her grip
on his warm and loving hand.

She paused, tears welling up, brimming on her
eyelashes, threatening to fall over their length and
course down her face.

"Everything I dreamed about when I was a child . . ."
she softly sighed.

"Yes, Scully?"  he replied in a tear-drenched voice,
rubbing his thumb over hers, stroking into her skin
his never-ending love, his time indefinite and tacit
promise to carry her burdens and sustain the weight of
her loads.

As the dam of her resolve broke and succumbed to the
fast rising level of her dreams and desires that had
been cruelly dashed about on the sharp rocks of
injustice, she mournfully replied "is gone."

END

J. Nelson