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