What follows is a series of vignettes that I began over a year ago, and never completed. Many thanks to everyone who wrote asking for more -- your notes inspired me more than you could ever know. A lot has happened on the show since then, but I have kept true to the universe that I originally created in order to tell the story I wanted to tell. For this reason, the timeline here begins sometime before "Leonard Betts" and everything that followed. This series -- which began with what I thought would be a single, stand-alone vignette -- became a bit of an experiment. I wanted to see if I could tell a story in sequential fragments that were almost snapshots, in that each section only captures a small part of the whole, and each is told from a different point of view. As with any experiment you never know if you're concocting something interesting or are on the verge of blowing up the lab -- I hope that here I succeeded in the former and not the latter. :) Each segment of this series is a single vignette; though they need to be read in sequence for the story to make sense, I prefer to think of each as its own individual piece. For this reason they have all been given their own subtitle, are labeled in single parts, and are individually rated. If you're counting, there are 21 parts altogether, and I'm sending them out in groups of 7 at a time. Note: Because each vignette tells only a piece of the story, there are sections that jump forward in time. I've tried to indicate the passage of time where appropriate, but it is still something to be aware of as you read. Here comes the required information: Title: CHIAROSCURO (1/1) Author: Blueswirl @aol.com Classification: V,A, MSR Rating: PG Keyword: Mulder/Scully Spoilers: 4th Season, Pre-"Leonard Betts" Summary: The past cannot help but have an irrevocable effect on the present. Distribution: Please distribute to the EMXC, XF Fanfic List, ATXC and Gossamer. Feel free to post this story on any other archive or web page as long as my name remains attached. Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead: The characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods., Fox Inc. and most importantly to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. I'm using them for this story without permission. So sue me. Feedback: I love it more than you could ever know. Please drop me a line -- good, bad, whatever! -- at Blueswirl@aol.com. CHIAROSCURO (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) With quiet, furtive motions Dana Scully pulled the rocking chair over to the blank spot in front of the window. It was dark in the living room, the only illumination a combination of streetlight and moonlight that filtered in through the shuttered glass. Once the chair was in place, she moved to the window and released the catch, allowing two of the shuttered panels to fall back and reveal the night that surrounded the house. Those simple tasks completed, she made her way back to the rocking chair and curled up against the pillows that cushioned its wood, tucking her bare feet beneath her in an attempt to keep them warm. Her actions were those of habit, the ingrained steps of a practiced ritual. She leaned back in the chair, pressing her shoulders against its firmness, the slight motion enough to begin the rocking. Back and forth the chair moved and she with it; an endless cycle soothing in its repetition. Tonight there was at least a small variation in the pattern. The night before seemed an eternity ago, far enough in the past to have already become a dim memory. Tonight, it was raining. The drops fell against the windowpane in a rhythmic pattern, ceaseless in their intensity. Last night was behind her. Tonight, it rained. That was enough to mark the evening as significant. It took so little, these days, to mark anything as significant. The legs of the chair moved against the wood, a barely audible squeak emerging each time she rocked forward and back. The sound was comforting in its constancy. Dana drew in a deep breath, the exhale escaping her lips like a prayer. Seconds became minutes that threatened to tip over into an hour and still she sat, absorbed by nothing more than the first rain of the season. Winter had come early this year. After a time, her motions unhurried, she reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out the piece of paper, unfolding it gently and smoothing it with her hand. An ordinary piece of bond letterhead that she cradled in her palm as though it were trimmed with gold. There was no need to read the words printed there. They were already etched inside her eyelids, a permanent reminder of their existence. Yet she traced them idly with a finger, another gesture born of ritual and habit. *Judge Not Lest Ye Be Judged* Six simple words, strung together in a simple sentence. A simple sentence that haunted her every waking moment. Suddenly the paper felt hot enough to burn. With quick, precise movements she folded it back up, tucking it safely out of sight. The rain slowed, the drops hitting the glass with less regularity, and it was then that Dana heard him approach. His steps were quiet on the wood floor but she heard him nonetheless. Briefly she closed her eyes, vaguely hoping that if she appeared to be sleeping he would go back to bed. Would leave her alone and grant her this moment of privacy. As quickly as the thought entered her head, it vanished. She knew he wouldn't leave, and she didn't really want him to. He was the only one who could comfort her. She needed him, and he needed her. They had no one else to depend on. They were in this together. Together, they would be strong. Together, they would survive. Without turning her head, she remarked, "It's late." "I couldn't sleep," he answered, his voice hushed. "Me neither." Another sigh escaped with the words, and it gave her the energy to turn and face him. The room was full of shadows and he was cloaked beneath them. The old t-shirt he was wearing looked black in the darkness though she knew it was green. His hair was rumpled from sleep and he ran a hand through it self-consciously as he met her gaze. It was too dark to see his eyes, but she could read the worry in his face, his endless abiding concern for her. The darkness permeated the room, threatened to swallow them up and consume them entirely. It hadn't always been there, this aching bleakness like a wound between them. There used to be laughter and teasing, shared secrets and dreams. Yet there was still faith. There would always be faith. Dimmed now, perhaps, but not yet gone. She realized how lost she would be without him. "It's cold." He ventured forth the cautious observation, awaiting her response. Dana nodded. "It's the rain," she replied, a needless explanation. He walked up so that he was standing just behind her. She couldn't see him then, and turned back to the window. She knew without asking that he too had become captivated by the motion of the water against the glass, by the blurred glimpse of the garden beyond. He put a hand on the arm of the chair, causing it to rock again, gently. They both fell silent then, as though the rain required they acknowledge its existence with a mute homage. The quiet between them wasn't uncomfortable, accustomed as they were to communicating without words. The rain had picked up and filled the space between them before he spoke again. "Want me to go away?" "No," she answered. "Why don't you sit with me awhile?" He came around from behind the chair and stretched both arms out to her, allowing her to boost him up into her lap. She groaned a little with the effort and something about that made her smile. Just a little, but it was enough. "You're getting big," she told him. He nodded, his forehead wrinkling a bit with concentration. "I am big," he replied. "I'll be five soon." "That's true," she agreed, settling him into a more comfortable position, cradling his shoulders with her arm. "How soon?" Dana paused as though she were giving the matter serious thought. As though the answer wasn't at the forefront of her consciousness. "Well," she said, "today's the second of October. And your birthday is the ninth. How many more days do you have to wait?" He looked up at her, blue eyes a shade darker than her own, and she could almost see his mind working behind them. Such a serious, beautiful boy. "Seven," he finally announced. "Seven days." "You're exactly right," she confirmed, smoothing her fingers over the stubborn cowlick in his brown hair. It was only in the bright sun that you could see the reddish undertones, and for that Dana was glad. In her humble opinion, red hair was a curse that she was glad her son had been spared. "Seven days is a long time," he declared. "Daddy should be home by then." She didn't offer a response to that and he didn't demand one. Instead, she cuddled him closer as she coaxed the chair to rock again, unwilling to admit the truth. Unwilling to admit that seven days had passed seven times already, and there was still no word. It was the feel of his small hand on her cheek that caused her to realize she was crying. Silent tears that he wordlessly brushed away with his chubby fingers. She took his palm in her hand and kissed it, then drew it close to her heart and rested it there. After a while, the rain stopped completely. The rising sun bathed the rocking chair with light, flooding the sleeping figures with the dawn of a new day. "It isn't so much that hard times are coming; the change observed is mostly soft times going." - Unknown Note: The funky punctuation (and lack thereof) in this section is intentional, and is =not= due to a problem with posting or your computer download. CHIAROSCURO 2: INTERLUDE by Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) * THIS IS YOUR DAY OF RECKONING * Enough, I've had enough.... please, stop.... * THIS IS THE DAY THAT YOU WILL PAY * This day, that day, they're all the same, aren't they? How many goddamn days? How many has it been? All the same in the tunnel of your mind... How many will it take until you're satisfied? How many? Just end it, if you're going to end it, just end it. Please, please... if you do nothing else.... * LISTEN TO ME * No more, no more, no more.... -- Okay, that's enough, it's time for bed now -- -- Oh, please, Daddy, just a little bit more story, please please -- Those eyes, those big blue eyes. How could anyone resist blue eyes like those? Not me, never me... but it's late. Too late... * HEAR WHAT I HAVE TO SAY TO YOU, SINNER * -- Go to sleep, we'll read more tomorrow -- -- Can I ask you a question, Daddy? -- -- One question, then time for bed -- -- It's not fair that Charlie can only bring one person to the chocolate factory with his golden ticket, he found the money and bought the chocolate, he waited and waited and now he can only bring one person with him, that's not fair. How come he can only bring one? -- -- Those are the rules of the game, you can't change the rules -- -- Why not? -- * DO YOU NOT THINK YOU SHOULD PAY FOR YOUR SINS? * So simple, to be a child. Everything so clear and simple. Life is never clear. Never simple. -- Because, that's how it works -- -- Why? Why does it work that way -- * DO YOU THINK THAT YOU ALONE ARE ALLOWED TO JUDGE? * How do you explain choice, sacrifice, regret? How can I make him understand? -- Sometimes, you just have to choose. That's the way it works. -- * YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR PRIDE AND YOUR VANITY * -- How did Charlie choose? -- -- He chose his Grandpa Joe because he loved him so much -- -- Like you and Mommy love me? -- -- Exactly like that. Now, it's time for bed -- Kiss him goodnight. His hug is so strong, so warm, his embrace so genuine. How did I ever get to be so lucky? * YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR ARROGANCE * -- Daddy? -- -- What? -- -- Did you and Mommy choose me? -- Oh, if only he knew the choices we made. If only he knew. The choices we made. *YOU MUST PAY FOR YOUR SINS * -- Yes, we chose you. Out of all the little boys, we chose you because you were the very best. Now go to sleep -- -- Goodnight, Daddy -- -- Goodnight, sweet dreams -- There is nothing more fragile than the life of a child. Nothing, nothing. How did I ever get to be so lucky? -- Daddy -- -- It's time for bed -- -- How did you choose Mommy? Because she was the very best of all the Mommys? -- * JUDGE NOT LEST YE BE JUDGED * She chose me. For reasons that I can't explain, even now. Despite her better judgment, she chose me. Despite my better judgment, I let her. Dana, my beautiful Dana. My beloved... -- Yes, because she was the very best Mommy. And because I loved her, just as much as I love you. Now go to sleep, or no story tomorrow -- -- Night, Daddy -- -- Goodnight -- -- Daddy -- -- I'm closing the door -- -- Did Mommy choose you too? -- -- Yes, Mommy did -- * YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO ACT AS JUDGE AND JURY * -- Do you, Dana Katherine Scully, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband? -- -- I do -- She said the words, she means them, I know she does. She means them as much as I do. For always, for ever. -- For richer and for poorer, for better and for worse -- That's the joke, that's the kicker, the fact that worse always follows better. Just when you think that everything is fine, that everything for once is never better, the worse arrives. No more, please... no more... * YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER * -- I now pronounce you man and wife -- * ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? LISTEN TO ME, SINNER! * -- You may kiss the bride -- So beautiful, my God she's so beautiful. Hair like blazing fire, eyes blue like the sky, lips so soft and warm dear God I could drown in her kiss dear God she's mine all mine forever... How did I ever get to be so lucky? Nothing ever lasts. Nothing. Everything dies... * THIS IS THE HOUR OF YOUR RECKONING * Dana, oh God I love you, I love you so much and I'm sorry, so sorry, please God if you can hear me forgive me, I love you... Please, help me... end this.... "Not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves." - Henry David Thoreau CHIAROSCURO 3: COVENANT (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner unlocked his car on the passenger side, fumbling awkwardly to keep the door open as he gently laid the box down on the seat. He shut the door and moved around to the other side, carefully easing his tall frame behind the steering wheel. Pulling out of the carport, he was assaulted by the sunlight. Its cold harshness filled the automobile, frighteningly vivid after the darkness of the garage. Glare reflected off of his glasses and he threw down the visor in a feeble attempt to shield himself from the brilliance. It was an ineffectual effort, and Skinner found himself squinting as he maneuvered the car down the street. The words danced across his consciousness. Nowhere to hide. He rolled down the window, allowing a brisk rush of air to enter the car, and then tuned the radio to the jazz station that he favored. The sweet blare of a saxophone caressed his ears and he punched the volume button several times until the bass line threatened to devour him. With the window down, Skinner could hear the sound of the tires rubbing against the asphalt, a rhythmic counterpoint to the mournful jazz. Bright sun, cool breeze. Surrounded by sound, he was alone. Focused on the rise and fall of melody, on the breaths between the notes. Absolved of any responsibility beyond keeping the car between the dashed white lines. Freedom in solitude, rare precious moments without obligation. Without duty. No one is ever truly free, he mused as he drove. Everyone is anchored by something, tethered to someone. The simplest agreement, the most casual bond can blossom into a whole much greater than the sum of its parts. Leaving you forever accountable. The thought pulsed endlessly behind his eyes. Nowhere to hide. Skinner didn't have far to go, but he was late, so he applied himself diligently to the business of driving. He'd given his word, and it was the only thing that kept him from turning the car around and heading back the way he'd come. He knew the route by heart, having traveled this particular stretch of highway many, many times. It was especially beautiful today. The trees that lined the road were a panoply of brilliant colors, reds and yellows and oranges mixing in a wild profusion. All too soon, he spotted the exit. Away from the steady thrum of freeway traffic, he could actually hear the leaves as they swirled against his car. The streets were wide, well manicured lawns edged by sidewalks with proper curbs. Freshly painted houses with contrasting trim, columns of brick and stone mixed with weatherbeaten wood. A Norman Rockwell version of suburbia, stunning in its simple perfection. Against this tableau of normalcy, Walter Skinner felt a little out of place. Towards the end of the third block he slowed, looking for a spot to leave the car. He found one fairly close by and parked, walking back towards a small colonial-style house, the box wedged firmly beneath one arm. A gaily printed sign taped to the front door informed him that his destination was through the side gate, around back, and he duly followed instructions. The relatively small house came attached to a fairly big backyard, complete with a tall, treehouse-friendly oak in the center of the yard. At the moment, the tree seemed to be the focal point of a frantic game; a dozen small children dressed for the weather in bright sweaters and jackets were shouting gleefully as they ran and chased one another round the yard. Two long picnic tables were covered with paper tablecloths that trumpeted 'Happy Birthday' in festive colors, matching the balloons and streamers which adorned the side of the house. Another smaller table boasted an impressive array of presents resplendent with curly ribbon. Two women stood nearby, similar in stature and wearing nearly identical smiles that widened as he approached. Despite the differences in their coloring and their ages, Dana and Margaret Scully had the same classic features, and Skinner knew their shared qualities transcended the merely physical. Dana was one of the most confident and independent women he had ever known, and when he had first met her mother, years ago, he had immediately realized from whom Dana had inherited her poise and strength. Moving gracefully across the leaf-strewn lawn, Dana met him halfway, taking the gift from his arms and giving him a sweet hug. "Glad you could make it, sir," she greeted him, her actions belying the formality of her words. He was no longer her supervisor -- she'd been at Quantico for nearly six years now -- yet she continued to address him as formally as she always had. Not that Mulder was any different; if anything, he'd been more respectful in recent years, back in the Violent Crimes Division, than he'd ever been as his subordinate. Skinner could still remember the serious look on Mulder's face when he'd come to his office and asked for a private word with him. "I have a request to make of you, sir," Mulder had said, his earnest expression underlining the intensity of his words. "Dana and I would like you to be the godfather to our baby." Skinner had been stunned by the statement, surprised that his former charges would consider him for such a portentous responsibility. It wasn't as though they were family, after all. "It's important to us," Mulder had continued, emphasizing each syllable. "We trust you to look after our child... if need be." The words had been crystal clear, their meaning obvious. The X-Files had been closed, for all intents and purposes. Mulder and Scully had voluntarily accepted new assignments. Yet there remained a lingering fear that there were those who still bore them malice. That there were those who might discover the existence of the child and attempt to use the baby against them. Skinner had understood that fear, and in understanding it had vowed to do all that he could to stop it from becoming a reality. And he'd kept up his end of the bargain, done his duty by his godson. It was his own secret pledge to protect the parents that he'd failed to keep. These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant as he returned the small woman's gentle embrace. "I wouldn't have missed this," he assured her. "I don't know about that," she teased him, her coppery ponytail swaying to the side as she cocked her head to glance at him. "Somehow I think you've got other things on your agenda." "Nothing this important," he told her, surprised that it was true. Glancing out at the shouting children, Skinner's eyes found his godson, churning across the lawn with startling speed. "He's getting so big," he remarked. "I know," she answered, her voice full of maternal pride. "It happens so fast." They reached the table where Margaret was waiting and he embraced her briefly as Dana put down the gift he'd brought. "It's good to see you, Walter," she told him, and though he saw a hint of sorrow in her eyes he believed she meant it. To Dana, she said, "I think it's about time we serve some cake." "I'll help you, Mom," Dana responded quickly, but her mother brushed her off with a wave of her hand. "You keep an eye on the kids," Margaret instructed as she headed towards the house. "I've got it under control." A pause, then, "Can I bring you anything to drink, Walter?" Skinner shook his head. He didn't think he could even manage water right now. Margaret vanished inside, leaving them alone, and Skinner felt the heavy silence descend. He waited as long as he was able, choosing instead to study the woman who stood beside him. She was wearing an oversized flannel shirt, its muted brown plaid a harmonious compliment to her shiny auburn hair. She looked like a college co-ed in her jeans and tennis shoes, but the shadows in her wide blue eyes told him differently. Reminded him of everything she'd seen, everything she'd endured. She'd been regarding him as well, and it was she who looked away first. Somehow that simple break in eye contact helped him find his voice. "It's been two months," he said quietly, turning his own gaze away. "I know," she answered, her eyes fixed on the tumble of children playing in the yard. "We've gone over the area where the other two agents were found with a fine tooth comb, and come up empty handed." His shoulders twitched, a helpless semblance of a shrug. "Every lead has been a dead end. We've got nothing." "Nothing," she echoed, her voice hollow. "I don't have a choice about this," Skinner continued, wishing the opposite were true. "Bureau regulations dictate that without the discovery of new evidence, the amount of manpower devoted to the investigation must be scaled back." "I understand," she told him, the words heavy. "We're not giving up." For some reason, it was important for him to say the words aloud. "I'm not giving up." It was then that she regarded him once more, her eyes a cold, unflinching ice blue that made him think of steel, of steamer ships built to weather the most fearsome ocean terrors. "I'll *never* give up." Four simple words. Words that spoke of her brilliant defiance of rules and regulations. Words that signalled her magnificent scorn of the myriad obstacles that blocked her path. She was beholden to nothing but her own faith. Bound by nothing but her love for the man whom she'd chosen to share her life. At that moment, Skinner envied her almost as much as he admired her. The spell was broken by Margaret's return from the kitchen, bearing a three-layer cake covered in frosting, five sparkling candles gracing the top. "Anyone for some birthday cake?" she called, raising her voice above the din of the shouting children. It didn't take more than that to bring squeals of delight and thundering feet from the excited party guests, who raced like a benevolent tornado towards the tables. Dana's face lost its ruthless expression as her son scampered towards them, a broad grin on his face. "Hey, Uncle Walter!" he shouted, throwing them a wave. "Mommy, you have to come watch!" "I'm coming," Dana answered, and Skinner followed as she walked over to join the crowd gathered around the frothy cake. Skinner stood beside Margaret and watched as Dana scooped her son up by the waist, holding him suspended above the cake, the better to do his job as the birthday boy. "Now don't forget to make a wish," she reminded him, and he nodded enthusiastically, scrunching his eyes shut for a long moment before exhaling a long breath that extinguished all the candles. He couldn't be sure from the angle at which he stood, but Skinner thought he saw Dana's eyes flutter shut for a moment as well, as though she had made a wish of her own. "In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus CHIAROSCURO 4: INVERSION (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Everything is going just as he had hoped that it would. Perhaps that is a bit of a simplification -- he hasn't quite expected things to take as long as they have, but he believes in the old adage that the best things come to those who wait. And wait he has. He has waited, and suffered. He has been penitent, and restitution is now his due. The best things come to those who wait. He looks in the mirror as he swirls the shaving cream across his features. Not a young man, any longer, but by no means can he be considered old. His skin bears few wrinkles, and his hair is still full and thick, the blond strands carrying not a trace of gray. If pressed, he would describe the line of his jaw as noble, but the topic has never come up. His face now covered in foamy lather, he removes the straight razor from its case and dangles it by its edge into the water-filled basin. He is tall, not as tall as some, but by no means could he be considered short. The lines of his body have been hardened and toned with repetitive exercise. Punishment of the body, he believes, is good for the soul. It clears the mind and hones the psyche and makes him ready. Ready to reclaim the life that has been stolen from him. With a steady hand, he guides the razor against his skin with smooth, firm strokes. His name is Virgil. Not that anyone has much occasion to call him by his name. He has led a solitary life for quite some time, long enough to have actually become accustomed to the silence. Silence is golden, at least that is what he has always been told. There is beauty in that statement, he thinks. He considers himself quite an expert on all things beautiful. Like the woman. She is beautiful by any standards, but particularly by his own. He is an aficionado of the unique. For him, ordinary will not do. He has suffered greatly, and knows that his reward will be just. He dips the razor back into the water, careful not to splash any of the liquid on his body. Rinsing it clear of the shaving cream, he admires its pristine steel surface before applying it again to his face. His mind is occupied with a vision of the sky at sunset, colored by a dazzling array of flaming reds and oranges. The fervent image of passion, scorching him deep within. Nature's dreams made carnal, images etched in flesh. It has been a long, long time. He is nearly finished when the sharp edge of the razor cuts his jaw, a clean even slice that brings droplets of blood to the surface of his skin. Red, blood red. An endless sea of red. The pain stings him with surprise, like stumbling across a scorpion's bite while crossing desert sand, disturbing his peaceful reverie. The pain blinks across his consciousness, reminding him of the man. The man who waxes and wanes yet will not perish. The persistence of life, he muses, is indeed an amazing thing. Was he himself not living proof of that? The best things come to those who wait.... He is happy now that Fate has changed his original plan. Pleased that his course has altered. There is more than one way to skin a cat, he thinks. And this way he will be rewarded with the most perfect of treasures. He reaches out to his image in the mirror with one pointed finger, touching the blood there first before bringing his hand to his face. The droplets have already begun to coagulate, yet they split apart like an atom at his touch. Warm, smooth and warm. Tender, like the caress of a lover. He brings a crimson bead to his lips and tastes his life, savoring its bitter tang against his tongue. Sweet, tempting and sweet. Rich, like the taste of a lover. He closes his eyes and thinks of her, thinks of her smooth warm rich tender tempting sweetness. Thinks of scattered dead leaves and the laughter of children and bright burning candles. Thinks of his love. His life. Begun anew. Lazarus, allowed to walk again amongst the living. A phoenix, freed from the ashes of his past. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon.... Finished now, he brings a towel to his face, inhaling its clean fresh smell. He rubs the scratchy cotton against his skin, abrading its tender surface. He looks at himself in the mirror. And he smiles. "Very little is needed to make a happy life. It is all within yourself, in your way of thinking." - Marcus Aurelius Note: There's some more funky punctuation in this one -- it is intentional, and is =not= due to a problem with posting or your computer download. CHIAROSCURO 5: COURAGE (1/1) Blueswirl@aol.com 6/98 chiar-oscu-ro: the quality of being veiled or partly in shadow (Webster's, definition #5) Dana Scully walked through the house on automatic pilot, checking to make sure that all of the doors and windows were locked, that the burners were off on the stove, that the refrigerator door was firmly shut. The regular nighttime routine, nothing forgotten, nothing left to chance. She was bone-tired, her physical and emotional reserves near empty, despite the fact that it was barely past nine o'clock. The birthday party had sapped all of her energy. She hadn't realized how difficult it would be to go through it without him. She could feel the tears begin behind her eyes, an angry burning tingle that threatened to become a deluge, and she fought the temptation to succumb to her grief. Not now, she told herself. Not now... When she had thought that Mulder had been killed in that boxcar in New Mexico, so long ago, she had believed that she would never again know such pain. That she would never again feel as though her heart had been torn loose from its moorings, to dangle helplessly untethered in the cavern of her body. Now she knew that what she had felt then was but a fraction of true despair. That had merely been a glimpse of real loss. Then, Mulder had merely been her partner and her friend. Now he was so much more. Her lover, her husband, her soulmate. The father of her child. The center of her world. Without him, she didn't know how her world could ever be the same. Walking through the house, she marveled as she often did that she owned it, that she had become a grown-up in ways she had never thought she would. Marrying Mulder had been odd and unexpected in its own way; she had never quite imagined she would be a wife, and certainly never his. If anyone had told her when she'd first met him that they were destined to be married, she would have laughed at the absurdity of the idea. Now, she couldn't imagine living without him. Dana could still remember the day, nearly a year after their wedding, that she had come home to the brownstone apartment they were sharing in Georgetown. It was January, snowing hard, and she had been late. Mulder had been waiting for her, and she could still picture the relief on his face when she'd rushed in the door. -- Dana, where have you been? I was worried about you, I called your office -- She had been so excited she hadn't even stopped to take off her coat. -- Mulder, Mulder we're going to have a baby, we're having a baby, I'm pregnant -- She could still see the way that his face had lit up, a burst of bright sunshine dancing in his eyes. He had grabbed her and picked her up and spun her around, snow and ice flying off of her coat and scarf to leave wet spots on the rug. He had held her close and kissed her and for those brief moments they had just been another happy newlywed couple, thinking about nothing else but the promise of life and love. It wasn't until later that the doubts and fears had surfaced. Shaking her head to clear the dark memories away, Dana wandered into the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door, reaching aimlessly for the bottle of white wine tucked away on a side shelf. The bottle was cold in her hand and the sensation too closely mirrored the coldness in her heart, so she put it back. She vaguely remembered a bottle of Macallan lurking in one of the cupboards and made finding it her mission. The third cupboard was the charm and there was still a good bit of scotch left inside. She took down one of the highball glasses that had been part of a wedding gift and filled it halfway, topping it off with a couple cubes of ice. She took a long swallow, savoring the burn the liquid left down the back of her throat. Dana rarely drank, but there were times that she welcomed the numbness that alcohol provided. With the glass in her hand, she made her way up the stairs and down the hall. The door to her son's room was open, light streaming into the hallway like a beacon, beckoning her forward. She paused just inside the door, looking at the piles of books and games and toys strewn over the carpet. He had his father's sensibilities when it came to keeping things tidy. The owner of this jumbled mess was hanging off the edge of his bed, dressed in the tee shirt and sweat pants he used as pajamas. In his right hand he held a large plastic helicopter, the rotors of which he turned with his left as he piloted it through imaginary maneuvers, its journey fueled by the buzzing motor sound that he made with his mouth. Dana watched him silently, enchanted by the way that his imagination worked. He was like his father in that way, too. The two of them could spend hours on the floor of this bedroom, making up stories and games and acting them out together. When they were playing, it was sometimes hard to tell where the father ended and the son began. Finally, with reluctance born of her desire to stand and watch him all night long, she interrupted his game. "Ryan," she told him, "it's way past your bedtime." He looked up then, the copter noise sputtering to a stop as he grinned at her mischievously. "I can't go to bed," he explained. "I'm a pilot on a secret mission." "Well, that I understand." She nodded, acknowledging the seriousness of his task as she stepped into the room and crouched down beside him, putting the glass on the floor by the bed. "But you know what happens if a pilot gets too tired?" "No, what?" "He can't fly the helicopter straight, and then he might crash, and that would be the end of the secret mission." He bit his bottom lip as he considered her words, a habit that Mulder always said he'd inherited from her. "Does that mean that pilots have a bedtime too?" "Of course," she replied. "Everyone has a bedtime. Some bedtimes are just later than others. But everybody needs sleep." "Okay." Satisfied with her explanation, he handed her the toy copter and scrambled up to the head of his bed, scooting down beneath the flannel sheets. They were emblazoned with a variety of old-style railroad cars, model trains being one of his 'very favorite' things. "Uncle Walter gives the best presents," he announced. "He does," Dana agreed, spinning the rotor on top of the copter before putting it down on the nightstand by the bed. "Now you get some sleep." She leaned in and gave him a kiss, and Ryan scrunched up his face. "You taste funny, Mommy," he told her. "Like medicine." Dana laughed. "I guess I do," she admitted, picking up the glass of scotch and holding it in her hand. "A little medicine for grown ups." "Are you sick, Mommy?" She shook her head. "No, not really." "Then you shouldn't be having any medicine," he declared, pulling his stuffed bunny close to him for emphasis. "I guess you're right," Dana conceded. "You're pretty smart, you know that?" "I know," he yawned. "Love you, Mommy." "I love you too, sweetheart." She ran a hand through his hair and put another kiss on his forehead. He closed his eyes and curled up on his side as she tucked the covers up around him and his nighttime companion. "Sleep well." She smiled as she walked to the door and turned out the light. His voice stopped her as she moved to shut the door. "Mommy, can we save a piece of birthday cake for Daddy?" She couldn't answer, her tongue locked by a sudden painful lump in her throat. "I think he would want it -- he likes chocolate as much as me." His words brought a bittersweet grin to her face. "That he does." She paused, then said, "I'll put some in the freezer." "Thanks, Mommy." His words a faint murmur on his way to sleep. She went back down to the kitchen and cut a large slice of cake, sealing it carefully in plastic before placing it inside the freezer, helplessly aware of the futility of the gesture. Then she dumped the rest of the scotch down the sink, watching the amber liquid spiral down the drain. Afterwards, up in her own room, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. The lines and shadows around her eyes made her look haggard and old and a weary sigh escaped her lips. "Everybody needs sleep," she muttered, knowing the words were true but unsure how to make it happen. It didn't take her long to get ready for bed and she crawled in beneath the covers on the right-hand side, the side that had the clock on the nightstand. Her side. The bed felt large and empty as it always did without him in it, a vast expanse of wasted space. Spurred on by her loneliness, a late-night conversation filtered through her memory. -- Mulder, are you sure that this is what you want? -- -- Believe me, Dana, I want this baby, I do -- -- But what if... -- -- Whatever happens, we'll handle it. We'll take every precaution, take every test, and if -- -- What if something goes wrong? What if They did something to me? -- -- Then we'll deal with it. Dana, you mean more to me than anything. I won't lose you, I can't lose you, even if it means we never have any children of our own -- -- I know... but I want this baby, Mulder. I want our baby.... -- -- I do too... I do -- They had been right to worry. Regardless of whether They had done something to cause it or not, hers was never an easy pregnancy and it only got worse. She had spent the last two months of it confined to bed, the first six weeks at home and the last two in the hospital. A faint smile crept over Dana's face at the memory of Mulder, doing his best to wait on her hand and foot. Cooking up an endless variety of bad meals in the kitchen until her mother arrived to take over that chore. Bringing her books and magazines and then reading them to her when she was in too much pain to focus on the words. Holding her hand and stroking her hair and talking her to sleep night after night. With the contractions had come the bleeding and for Dana, a blessed loss of consciousness. She didn't remember anything about the surgery that had resulted in her son's birth. She had been unaware of the agony that Mulder and her mother and the rest of their family had shared, waiting for the doctors to emerge from behind the doors of the operating room with news. It was only later that she learned of the question that Mulder had been asked, of the decision that he had made. They had asked him, if it came to a point of choosing between the life of the mother or the child, whom they should try to save. Her mother told her later that he hadn't hesitated for an instant. "My wife," he had said. "You have to save my wife." But they'd been lucky, hadn't they? Her recovery had been slow, but she eventually came back to herself. And they had brought a beautiful baby boy home from the hospital, nearly nine pounds when he came into the world with a shock of thick brown hair and sparkling blue eyes. Ryan William Mulder. The middle name had been a given; it honored both of his grandfathers as well as his father, but they'd wanted him to have a first name all his own. Ryan was a good, solid Irish name; it meant "little king", which seemed appropriate for their only child. For they both knew, after all that had happened, there would be no more. But that didn't matter, for they were a happy family of three, and as each day passed as blessedly serene as the previous one, their fears began to slip away. Though they still discussed them, from time to time. -- Do you think They know about him? -- -- I'm sure They do, Dana. But we're not a threat to Them anymore. We've made sure of that -- -- Sometimes I still worry. I worry that he might be in danger, someday -- -- Don't worry. I'm not going to let anything happen to you, or to our son -- But what about you, Mulder? What about you?? I need you, Mulder. I need you to be safe. Tossing restlessly under the covers, thinking these thoughts, Dana was surprised by the ring of the telephone. A yawn escaped her as she turned on her side, reaching blindly for the receiver. She found it and brought it to her ear and mumbled, "Hello?" There was silence on the line, but it wasn't absolute. Faint breathing told her that the caller was there, present but mute. "Hello?" she repeated, leaning up on her elbow and turning on the bedside light. The numbers on the digital clock read 11:21. "Is someone there?" The silence continued, frightening her in its completeness. "Who is this?" she demanded, wondering if she should hang up the phone. "It's not too late." The words rasped across the line like harsh sandpaper. Panic filled her, twisted up in tiny threads of hope. "What's not too late? Who is this?" "It's not too late to save him. There is a chance. But time is running out." Dana sat bolt upright, tossing the sheets aside. "Who *is* this?" There was no response. Pushing her hair out of her face with an anxious hand, she pleaded with the unknown caller. "Tell me. Please. I'll do anything...." "You may have to." "What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?" - Vincent Van Gogh Thanks for reading. Feedback *always* appreciated at Blueswirl@aol.com. = The Blueswirl Stories = Revolving Satellites Platonic Tangible Inadequate Chiaroscuro Chiaroscuro 2: Interlude Chiaroscuro 3: Covenant Chiaroscuro 4: Inversion Chiaroscuro 5: Courage