Title: Frail Gesture
Author: Tara Avery
Email: tavery@ntonline.com <mailto:tavery@ntonline.com>
Rating: PG13 (swearing)
Spoilers: Everything through season six, including Arcadia, is suspect. This
includes the movie.
Category: S A
Keywords: UST, Scully/Mulder POV, Mulder and Scully Torture
Summary: Mulder and Scully re-examine their relationship and a tragic event
helps them realize the depth of their bond.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully aren't mine, and I'm not making any money from
them. The whole X-Files thang belongs to CC Fox 1013.
Archive: Certainly, but let me know where it's going plllleeeeassse :)
Feedback: Oh please please please? :) Words can't really express how much
feedback means to me.

****************************
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

e.e. cummings
****************************

Frail Gesture (1/5)
Tara Avery

We are not who we were, Fox Mulder.

I have been sitting at the kitchen table with my head in my hands for longer
than I care to remember. It's a Friday night. We're not on assignment. I
have nothing else to do. I meant to watch TV or file my nails, but I sat
down at the table and found I couldn't move. There is a cold, forgotten mug
of tea at my right, too-sweet with honey and bloated with tears. I am
haunted by memories of you. Smart-ass but not *too* smart-ass and caring
without being an idiot or a liar. I am haunted by memories of myself, young
and so eager and so in love and so terrified of losing you. Do you remember,
Mulder, after they split us up the first time, and I left the note on your
picture of Samantha? I needed to see you, I needed to know you were all
right. I needed to be with you. I never thought, never in a million years,
thought that I would care so much about anyone. That was back when I'd jump
on a plane at the merest hint that you might be getting yourself into
trouble.

Now... now we've been split up, shut down, reassigned, and then put back
together again. We've been taunted with the truth, given the truth, and had
the truth taken away.

I feel like Humpty Dumpty. I feel like all the fucking king's men will never
put me back the way I was. They will never put us back together again,
Mulder.

I still care about you, Mulder. But it's different. We crossed a line
somewhere and we forgot to deal with the consequences That's my take,
anyway.

I have a newspaper clipping, kept and saved, yellowed around the edges, as
newspaper does. It's a candid photo some staff photographer snapped when
neither of us was looking at the camera. It was one of our first
high-profile cases, when we were so much younger. Simpler. I don't remember
which case in particular; I didn't keep the actual news story. Just the
picture. In our line of work stories lie more often than pictures do.

I am looking up at you with the instant admiration of the short; I must have
been wearing flat shoes rather than heels. I seem shorter than usual.
Perhaps it's the angle of the camera. You are pointing, describing
something, some far-fetched theory, perhaps. Or something you see in the
distance. But you're looking down at me, straight into my face, into my
eyes. I have one hand on your arm, and the look on my face is torn between
belief and disbelief. As I have often been in the past six years. I don't
remember now what we were discussing.

I don't have a record of our relationship, Mulder. I'm not the type who
keeps scrapbooks of solved cases... besides, if there's one thing I've
learned working on the X-Files, it's that hard evidence, written evidence,
is liable to disappear. My apartment has received plenty of unwelcome
visitors in the past six years--I certainly don't need to give anyone *more*
incentive for breaking and entering and destroying and kidnapping.

So I don't keep a record of our relationship.

But I do have this picture. I don't know what possessed me to keep
it--perhaps the fact that at the time I had no pictures of the two of us
together. I still don't have many. Perhaps it was the young, naive,
pre-abductee Dana Scully attempting to maintain some sort of record. Maybe I
just wanted proof that we were something real. Maybe I keep it now because I
want to remember that young, naive, pre-abductee Dana Scully.

I think I kept it because of the look on my face and the look on yours.

You are deadpan in the picture, Mulder. Nothing has changed. You're always
deadpan. But you are looking straight into my eyes, into my soul, and I know
you cared what I thought. I have to admit I'm not so sure of that anymore.
You aren't arguing with me, or even trying to persuade me to your way of
thinking. This picture is my remaining proof, my hard evidence, that at one
time we were partners... that's a funny thing to say, I know. We still work
together. We still file reports together, sitting across from Skinner,
sometimes abashed, sometimes confident. We're still co-workers. But we
ceased being *partners* and I'm not sure when. But I'm sure it's important.

The photograph used to make me happy, you know. Now I take it out and wonder
where we went wrong.

When I was a little girl I went ice skating on a little frozen stream that
meandered through whichever navy base we called home at the time. Bill told
me not to go, because the ice wasn't frozen through yet. I didn't believe
him. I picked up my little skates, tightened my little scarf, and completely
ignored my older brother.

I fell through the ice, Mulder. And it was so cold. I came face to face with
death that day--the first time of many. I could see hands reaching through
the fissure, reaching down to find me, but as hard as I tried I couldn't
grab them. The current pulled me down, pulled me away from life and warmth
and the hands.

My father was stronger than the current... he pulled me up, crushed me to
his chest and sobbed as he drove me to the hospital. I never forgot what it
was like to be helpless like that. I never forgot that vulnerability. I
never forgot that through my own stupidity I caused someone else a hell of a
lot of pain. I think, sometimes, you could learn from that story. But I know
you'd mistake the lesson for guilt.

When I think about our partnership, Mulder, I feel as though we are two
people that have fallen through the ice and are trapped in different
currents. We *used* to be each others' guiding hands... hands to pull us out
of danger, to protect, even to chastise when the moment was appropriate. We
have fallen through the ice, and there is no one *no one* to pull us out
again.

Mulder, we don't make eye contact when we speak to each other anymore.

We are not who we were.

*****

Scully, I know about guilt. I know that a lot of the time I blame myself
when there is nothing for me to logically feel guilty *about*. I know it
all, have drilled it all into my head, hell I even know the psychological
reasons behind it.

In this case, knowing is *not* half the battle.

The room is dark. This is no different from the many other nights I have
spent alone here and I have to admit that on one hand this is what is
natural to me. Dark. Alone. Morose. Somber Mulder.

Scully, I miss you.

That's a funny thing to say, I know. I still see you at work. We still
investigate the paranormal far from home, sleeping in the same motel, with
just a wall and a door between us.

There is *so* much more than a wall and a door between us. Even I can see
that, and God knows I have a particular talent of blindness when it comes to
our relationship. I take you for granted and cherish you at the same time.

At first I thought it was my slip-up in the hallway last summer... I thought
that was the fatal mistake. But it couldn't have been... we were still
*together* after that, even more, perhaps, than we were before that. I have
to say that in those weeks of recovery after Antarctica I felt... I felt
like I did before Emily. Before you shut me out. Pushed me away.

I blame myself for that. I'm sure *that* won't surprise you.

Something changed *after* Antarctica. Was it Diana? Was it the loss of
Gibson Praise? Was it my drugged 'I love you' after the Bermuda Triangle
incident? Was it my fucked-up question of trust?

When did I lose you, Scully?

Because I did. I can see that now. I think it was because I questioned the
trust between us. I can't believe I was that stupid, but I was. And because
of my goddamned memory I can remember the exact turn of your countenance,
the precise frequency of your pain. I know you hang on because of some sense
of honor and duty and desire for justice, but our bond, the adhesive power
that made Mulder and Scully a force to be reckoned with has dissipated into
a sad muddle of Scully-contempt and dumb-ass Mulder-humor My stomach turns
every time you raise your eyebrow, every time you scoff, every time your
mouth tightens and turns down as if to tell me what a buffoon I've become.

I know it, Scully. I just don't know how to stop.

Ask my mother. Ask my childhood psychiatrist. It's a goddamned defense
mechanism, humor It always has been. As soon as I get too close, too pained,
too painful... dumb-ass Mulder makes his appearance. It tortures me to know
that I am defending against you, Scully. In my whole life there has never
been anyone as important to me as you are. Even now, even in the middle of
whatever darkness we are lost in. I wasn't lying when I said you were my one
in five billion.

Sitting in the dark I contemplate a number of options. What I'd like most of
all is to call you, but that would only hurt both of us. You don't want to
talk to me as much as I do want to talk to you. I could watch porn, but I
rifled through the latest Playboy three hours ago and the large-breasted
whores made me feel cold and sick. I could go for a run--burn away the pain,
the shadows, until only tiredness remains.

Maybe I'll be able to fall asleep after that, but I won't count on it.

This has been a bad year, Scully. It keeps getting worse--which is also a
funny thing to say, since we've got the X-Files back and everything should
be back on track. You almost died this year, Scully. I imagined you, the
blood pulsing out between your slender surgeon fingers, thick and desperate.
When I heard that you were shot I felt like I did when I got the message on
my answering machine where you were screaming my name as Duane Barry stalked
you. Helpless. Lost. Like an twelve year old watching his sister being taken
away.

Only it is a little bit worse with you. I'm older now, Scully, supposedly
wiser. I'm armed. I'm trained. I should have been there to protect you. I am
your partner, after all. I'm supposed to be.

You see where the guilt kicks in.

I have spent this year fighting the feelings I have for you. I thought,
once, that they were reciprocal, but I'm slowly beginning to doubt that. The
closer I *want* to be, the more foolish I act, and the colder you get. It's
a never-ending battle, Scully. A never-ending game of push and shove.

That run is sounding better and better.

*****

Cont. in Part 2

Title: Frail Gesture (2/5)
Author: Tara Avery
Email: tavery@ntonline.com
Rating: PG13

For all other info, disclaimers, shameless pleas for feedback see the first
part.

******************
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously)her first rose
e.e. cummings
******************

Frail Gesture (2/5)
Tara Avery

There is a bouquet fading on my table. I bought it before the last field
excursion in the hopes that I might have the chance to enjoy it. I didn't.
The irises have melted in that peculiar way of irises, petals fading inward,
congealing. The eucalyptus is hardy, still giving off a warm, powerful
scent that masks the decay of the other blossoms. The white and purple
tulips have bent themselves over in self-deprecation, sacrificing themselves
to the tabletop while their petals fall, leaving only long, sinuous stamen
and yellow pollen like skeletons. The most tragic are the roses, whose
petals have long since fallen. There is a crisply preserved white rose
petal right in front of my unwavering eyes, rocking slightly in the breeze
from the open kitchen window. It's the same color as the newspaper
clipping. I want to press all the petals together, smashing them, crushing
them and the sentimental photograph in an act of anger, of revenge, but I
don't have the strength. I am so weary. I'm too weary to tidy a dead
bouquet, Mulder, and I haven't done anything all night except stare at my
thumbnails and the grain of the table.

I want to call you. I want to tell you the story about falling in the icy
river with the same fluid trust that led you to tell me about your sister's
abduction on the very first night of our very first case. It's funny to
think that I ran into your room and dropped my robe without a second thought
that night. I'd never think of doing that now. I'd be afraid we wouldn't
end the evening with a hug and a story. We aren't those people anymore,
Mulder.

The clock is steadily ticking, second after arduous second, relentless. I
watch the red light flicker from 3:21 to 3:22. I hope you're sleeping right
now--I wish I was.

I know if I called right now you'd pretend you weren't sleeping, you'd
pretend to be alert. You'd ask me what was wrong. You'd ask if I was in
danger. You'd smother me with questions until I didn't even remember why I
was calling.

I wonder whether all your questions show the depth of your caring or the
depth of your guilt.

Mulder, I wonder sometimes whether or not we got too close. You know those
Magic Eye 3D pictures? You have to hold them away from your face in order
to see the whole picture--what if we aren't far enough away to see the whole
picture? What if we have blinded ourselves in each other?

I like to pretend that I'm skeptical without being cynical, but I'm not.
Not always, anyway.

I get up from the table, swaying on legs tired from sitting, and move around
in the blind darkness of my apartment. There are shadows dancing on my
wall. I stare at the clock--3:38--and I stare at my curtains, lank like
drowned hair. I stare, transfixed, at the shadows, the flickering limbs of
trees transposed on my darkness-painted walls. I turn on the CD player.
Accompanied by the mourning wail of a solo violin I push back the curtains
and open the window because I am too warm and I'm starting to feel
claustrophobic. Crouching at the window I dig the heels of my hands into my
eye sockets and try to remember a time when I did not fear. It is almost
impossible. If someone had told me when I was an fresh young FBI initiate
that at thirty-five I would be lonely and frightened, unmarried and barren,
I would have raised an offended eyebrow and never given it a second
thought.

I pretend I'm not frightened. I pretend I'm not afraid that I am slowly
losing my best friend.

There is an emotional part of me that has been neglected so long I can't
remember what it was like. To be held. To be needed. To fall asleep with
an arm draped over my waist like a blanket. To go on a goddamned date and
have someone else bring me the goddamned flowers. I have become Special
Agent Dana Scully the pathologist machine. I am precise. I am clear. I am
a knife. I am not a human being.

But I *am*, and that's the problem. I can't hide behind my profession or my
doctorate or my goddamned eyebrow anymore.

I want to feel your hand on the small of my back. I want to feel your lips
on my forehead, on my temple. I want our intimacy back. And if I can't
retrieve that lost closeness...

I don't want to call you, because if, by some miracle, you *are* sleeping, I
don't want to wake you. I know how rarely you sleep. But if I see a light
when I drive by, or some shadow on the wall, or the flicker of the TV set, I
think it's time I look you in the eye, Mulder. It's time to face the truth.
I need to make some serious decisions... I can't lie, Mulder. I'm thinking
of leaving--and no kisses or bees will stop me. I just can't... I won't
play this game anymore.

*****

The feel of hard pavement beneath my feet numbs me to the emotions that
drove me from my apartment in the first place. Sweat trickles down my back
as an icy-cold reminder that it's the middle of the night in March, and I'm
not adequately dressed for the weather. I've been running for an hour
without watching the passing streets. Solitary. It's Friday night so even
now there are still people meandering about drunkenly. Cars pass
occasionally. For the most part I am alone.

For once I wish I weren't.

A small park, with fully equipped playground, beckons me toward rest. I
think I ran in a circle because this park isn't too far from my apartment.
Seating myself on the bottom of the slide, I allow myself to return to the
darkness of my thoughts.

I am killing you, Scully. The more I think about it, the more I realize it
must be true. When you came to me six years ago you were bright and
beautiful and vibrant and young. I have watched the past six years age you
irreparably, hollowing you until all the spark of your youth has been
pressed down, pressed out beneath the thin paper of your skin. The darkness
of what I have done to you damns me.

I know it's not all my fault. I know that much of it is.

Your eyes have darkened, faded like the eyes of a painting, until I can
hardly bear to look at them. There are shadows in the depths of your eyes
that even your "I'm fine" can't banish. Shadows of things you would never
have seen if you'd never agreed to be my partner. I have opened the way for
a thousand griefs, a thousand things lost that can never be recovered. I
opened Pandora's box, Scully, and the demons all latched onto you.

I suppose they knew that was the only way to hurt me.

With my head in my hands I let myself grieve without tears for everything
that might have been... for everything that was. I remain that way, hunched
over on the end of the slide, until the sweat dries cold on my back and I am
wracked by shivering. There is only so much relief to be found in pain,
Scully. There is only so much guilt and torture and pain even I can handle.
My watch informs me that it's nearly five in the morning, so I begin the
long lope back home to get ready for work.

Why do I feel like a soldier preparing to do battle?

Again, the hard pavement is something of a comfort... it is something that
never changes, that I can always count on. The shocks reverberating up the
muscles of my legs relax me into a familiar numbness.

Your car is parked outside my building. The recognition strikes me in two
ways almost simultaneously--you're here... and I wasn't. In anxiety, I cut
across the street to meet you. Looking forward, I catch the reflection of
fear in your eyes, fear and distress, and I don't think I ever realized
until this moment how much I depend on eye contact to unite us.

*****

I see you come loping around the corner just as I am about to turn the key
in the ignition and head home to get ready for work. There is an instant
surge of relief, regret and longing that surges through me the moment I
recognize your long strides, comfortable in the distance you are covering.
>From this distance I can imagine that everything is the same between us,
Mulder. I am tempted to drive away before you recognize me, but just as I
move to the keys, you look up, you see me, and you smile.

It's the smile that disarms me. You look like a child given a new toy on
Christmas morning, full of light and hope and innocence. And I can't bear
to take that away from you by turning away.

Mulder.

Mulder?

For God's sake, Mulder!

You are oblivious and the world explodes in the screech of wheels, a car
horn, and you, in a tangle of limbs, being thrown into the air. The world
explodes in a smear of blood and in the instant before my doctor's distance
kicks in I can feel my heart breaking along with your limbs.

The sound that is torn from my throat is otherworldly and horrifying. I am
reminded of the sorrowing solo violin I listened to in my apartment. I hear
myself as though from a great distance and can only think of the banshee's
wail.

But a banshee is a harbinger of death, Mulder, and I will not, cannot see
you die. Not here. Not like this.

The driver of the car is beside you before I am, but only by a moment. She
is young, dressed to the nines, with her blonde hair in disarray and tears
on her cheeks. She smells of alcohol. She smells of death. She looks up
at me, recognizes me as the origin of the wail she just heard, and begins to
sob anew.

I tell her to get in the car and stay there.

I call the paramedics, pressing the fingers and doling out facts like a
zombie.

You are broken on the pavement, Mulder, like a doll. You look strange and
shattered, unmoving. A smear of blood surrounds you like an aura and I
don't know where to start.

The blood feels like silk under my small hands. They are too small; I can't

contain all this hurt. If my hands were bigger I could press harder, I
could cup all the shattered pieces of you and hold you together with more
than the sheer force of my will.

After being so close to resigning just two hours ago, I wonder now if I will
have to carry this crusade on my own.

I press harder with my too-small hands and I choke on my tears. Now is the
time for decisive action, now is the time for Agent Scully. Or at least for
Agent Scully's medical training.

By some miracle--or perhaps some cruel fate--you are not unconscious. The
sound of your voice is not natural... it is like my banshee scream, and it
frightens me. "Scully..."

I focus on your eyes, dilated, hesitant. I want to shake you and tell you
to stay with me, but I can't. I'm afraid of the angles of your body on the
unforgiving pavement. I can hardly look at you without falling into the
river of my own fear, my own regrets. I feel a twinge of the guilt you are
always struggling with.

"Don't say anything, Mulder. You need to conserve what strength you've got.
Focus on me. Let me do the fighting for both of us."

I am holding the pieces of you in my hands. The paramedics will be here
soon. They will come with oxygen and an ambulance. They will take you away
and you'll come back whole.

You are shuddering underneath the pressure of my palms.

"Mulder, please. Stay here."

Your eyes roll, searching wildly for several seconds before they latch onto
mine again. Your breathing is labored, and the blood is still welling
between my fingers.

"Mulder. Hold on. The ambulance is on its way."

I can feel you fall into unconsciousness as the sirens begin to wail. I
wish that the ambulance did not sound so much like a banshee.

*****

Cont. in part 3.

Title: Frail Gesture (3/5)
Author: Tara Avery
Email: tavery@ntonline.com
Rating: PG13

For all other info, disclaimers, shameless pleas for feedback see the first
part.

******************
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
e.e.cummings
******************

Frail Gesture (3/5)
Tara Avery
tavery@ntonline.com

******

My world implodes just as I realize it *is* you in the car... and you're not
leaving. I see your hand reaching forward, reaching out--I reach for you
too.

My world implodes.

In the split second before the pain I swear I hear my mother's voice
scolding me... something about looking both ways before I cross the street.

My world implodes and in that split second before the pain I see your heart
break. When the pain starts I can only think that it is *your* pain I'm
feeling, *your* pain which disables me. Why would I have any reason to feel
pain? You're here, Scully... and maybe that means I have another chance...
maybe you haven't given up on me yet.

My world--that was so vast only a few moments ago--is small now, small as a
squint, small as the pavement under my body. I can see the searing lights
of a car... I'm blinded by them. I think I hear a banshee, Scully. You're
Irish--maybe you'd even believe the story of the banshee... they're
harbingers of death, death within a family, death of a loved one. As far as
the supernatural realm goes, I've always felt the banshee got the short end
of the stick... who would want to be that harbinger? Who deserves that
torture? Perhaps it's not that different from a life in the FBI or the
police force... aren't we always telling people their loved ones have died?
have been massacred? have been raped, brutalized, wounded, maimed?

Scully, there's a woman screaming, and I think it's you... but that's
foolish, isn't it? Your training will have kicked in by now. You'll be
distant. You'll be "I'm fine". Maybe it's someone else after all. It does
seem strange to think it was you...

Scully... my world is so small. I can't see anything but the headlights and
the pavement under my head.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I'm so sorry, so sorry, what were you doing running out
like that? I'm so sorrysosorrysosorry..." The words chase themselves away
from my understanding. I can't make any noise of response--and I don't want
to. The pain is growing sharper now, Scully... I'm not so sure it's *your*
pain anymore... I think something terrible has happened to me. I think
something horrible is going on. I can't move.

The pain eases a little when I feel your hands pressing against the source
of my hurt. Scully, don't cry. Scully, it will be okay. We're together,
Scully, everything works out when we're together. I open my mouth to say
these things, but nothing comes out. As hard as I try I can't seem to force
enough air into my lungs.

Please, God, let me say just one of those things and I'll forgive you for
all the times you weren't there for me in the past. Please, please, God.

"Scully..."

It's funny how I never realized you were an angel, Scully. All these years
I've taken you for granted. Until now. How goddamned stupid is that?

"Don't say anything, Mulder. You need to conserve what strength you've got.
Focus on me. Let me do the fighting for both of us."

I know you'll fight, Scully... you're always fighting for both of us.
Especially recently... and God how I want to tell you how much I regret my
recent behavior You have always been the strong one, Scully. My Scully.
Would you hate it that I think of you as *my* Scully?

I want to tell you that I'm having one of *those* experiences... I am
honestly seeing my whole life flash before my eyes. Samantha and my broken
family... Oxford and my broken heart... Violent Crimes and my broken soul.
Scully, there was no healing in my life until you. You're *not* just a
doctor... you're a Healer. I want to take you in my arms and tell you about
this strange epiphany, but all I can do is struggle to breathe. Most of all
I want to apologize for every time I've been a bastard, every time I never
gave you the benefit of the doubt, every time I took you for granted.

Every time I didn't trust you. I shudder at that thought most of all. I
can't begin to imagine the agony I've put you through.

"Mulder, please. Stay here."

I can see now how stupid I've been, Scully... I can see how stupid... but
the darkness. The darkness is so welcoming. The patch of pavement is
shrinking.

Why didn't I look to see if there was oncoming traffic?

Why didn't I buy you a desk? Why didn't I buy you presents for every
birthday, Christmas, anniversary of that wonderful day when you joined the
X-Files, or better yet... the day you were returned after you're
abduction... why didn't I buy you presents just because?

Why haven't I made it clear how much I love you, Scully, and how much you
mean to me? Why did I make the mistake of waiting so long?

"Mulder. Hold on. The ambulance is on its way."

I hear that banshee again, goddamnit. Leave me alone! Let me be! I'm not
finished here yet! I'm not... I'm not finished...

Well, I won't let her have me. I'm not finished.

I need to let you know that the jokes were just a defense mechanism... I
need to explain myself to you... oh, God, Scully don't leave me...

I'm choking on the darkness. My world is shrinking, Scully, and I can't
stop it... please, make it stop... Scully.... Scully?

Scully? Where are you? Where are you!?

*****

There is something wrong about this entire scene, Mulder--I know you'd spot
it... but I can't seem to figure it out. There is something wrong with the
men loading you into the back of the ambulance, something wrong with the
ambulance itself. There is something wrong with you. Your angles are
wrong. Your eyes are closed. This shouldn't be happening.

There is too much emotion. I want to turn it off... I need to turn off this
faucet of pain, or I won't be able to do my job properly. Who is this
strange emotional creature that used to be Dana Scully? I've seen you
wounded before... I've seen you dying... but this is strange. Too strange.
Too senseless.

I crawl into the back of the ambulance with you, and the technicians ignore
me. I tell them who I am, I give my credentials. They ignore me. They're
too busy hooking you up to their various machines. They're too busy saving
your life. My hands are covered in your blood.

The police have arrived. The stupid woman is still sobbing... she doesn't
like the sound of her rights being read. She doesn't like the
breath-analysis which has come back with a blinking red light. At this
moment I don't give a good goddamn what she feels. If you die...

I sob involuntarily--it is one of those dry, heaving sobs that robs your
lungs and leaves you breathless, nothing so embarrassing as tears. The
realization... the severity of your plight has struck me, Mulder. Full in
the face. Like a slap.

You can't die, Mulder. There are too many things we still have to do.
There is too much that needs to be said.

I hold your limp hand as the ambulance begins its race against death. With
my other hand I find Skinner's number in my cell's memory and let it ring.

"Hello?"

There is a touch of fear in his voice--it's the fear every human being feels
upon being woken out of deep sleep by the shrill cry of a telephone.

"It's me, sir. Scully."

"Agent Scully, what's going on?" He is instantly alert--he's like you in
that respect, Mulder. Oh, God, Mulder.

"There's been an accident, sir. Agent Mulder... Agent Mulder is in critical
condition. Sir," and my voice cracks. My voice. Cracks. I force the
words past numb lips. "Sir, it doesn't look good. He lost consciousness at
the scene, but hasn't lost his heartbeat, thank God."

"Gunshot?"

"Car accident, sir. He was hit. By a drunk woman. By a woman. Drunk."

"Dana..."

I can't answer because I am mortified of his obvious pity and of giving in
to these traitorous tears. *This is not me!*

"Dana... I'll be there. He'll pull through."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," I say coldly after I've told him the
hospital we're heading for and hung up.

I am trapped, Mulder, pulled forward by the tide of these unbelievable,
inexorable events. I look down at you and am reminded of Juliet looking
down at Romeo in the garden. Something about looking as though he were a
corpse already. You'd remember the exact quote... you and your photographic
memory. You look like the faded image of my treasured photograph, Mulder,
yellowed and fading and dying before my eyes. I touch your face to remind
myself that you are not dead... but your skin is hot and brittle beneath my
questing fingers. Papery. I am terrified that this will be the last image
I have of you... a paper soul burning up in curls of flame.

There is something poetic in that. Something metaphorical. Something
beautiful. It is my frail tribute to you, Mulder. My frail gesture of love
that you probably wouldn't understand.

You are covered in blood... and, looking down at myself, I realize I mirror
your appearance. I feel so unworthy, Mulder, so unworthy to accept your
foolish sacrifice. It is for nothing--can't you see that? There are no
shadows here, no conspiracies... I feel a million years away from everything
that has become familiar in the past six years. I am trying--so hard--to
refrain from dwelling in memories of the past, but it's so difficult.

I press my cold fingers into your temples--earning a dark look from one of
the technicians I can tell they don't trust me. And perhaps it is for good
reason--I left my training behind somewhere... I am a breath away from
hysterics.

There are too many emotions. I need you to pull through, Mulder. I need
this to be made right.

Skinner is waiting in the emergency room and I waste a moment wondering how
he beat the ambulance. He takes my hands as they wheel you past me. I want
to go with you... I want to throw myself into the task of restoring you to
health, but rationally I know I'm not allowed. Rationally. That doesn't
stop the desire from welling up inside me. I might have forced myself into
the operating room if not for Skinner.

"Dana. You may be a doctor, but you've got no idea how to diagnose
yourself. Sit."

A contrite nurse brings me a coarse blue blanket that has the hospital name
and emblem imprinted on one silky hem. Skinner tucks the blanket around me
and I want to talk to him, but I can't seem to find any words.

"I need to know how bad it is, sir. I need to know how bad it is. I need
to know--"

"I'll find out what I can. You just rest there or I'll have you admitted
for treatment right alongside your partner."

It is the first wrong thing he's said since I first called him, but it hurts
nonetheless. There is nothing I want more than to be with you right now,
Mulder. When worse comes to worse... have you noticed? When worse comes to
worse and one of us is hospitalized... is dying... there is nothing more
important than the situation at hand. I have almost forgotten how apathetic
and dark I was feeling earlier this evening... because it is all unimportant
in the face of death, Mulder. And this helplessness is agony. I know now
some fraction of what you felt when Peyton Ritter shot me and you could do
nothing.

"I'm sorry, Dana."

"Will you find out what you can?"

He nods solemnly, like a man given a quest... a knight on a crusade,
perhaps.

I close my eyes because there is no other answer to give, no other path to
take.

*****

Cont. in part 4.


Title: Frail Gesture (4/5)
Author: Tara Avery
Email: tavery@ntonline.com
Rating: PG13

For all other info, disclaimers, shameless pleas for feedback see the first
part.

***************
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
e.e. cummings
***************

Frail Gesture (4/5)
Tara Avery
tavery@ntonline.com

******

You know, Scully, I've never been a big subscriber to the whole idea of life
after death and all that assorted bullshit, but now... I'm beginning to find
some perspective. I spend half my time *inside* myself, trapped somehow,
trying to get out. When I'm inside I can hear the doctors... I can hear
them worrying, fretting themselves over what has become of my body. I'm
starting to piece together what happened to me in the street, Scully, and it
scares me like hell. I wish you were here, giving orders, shouting with
that calm doctor severity that I have come to associate with
Scully-in-command. Scully in control. When Scully is in control nothing
bad will happen.

Naive, isn't it?

The other half of the time--the time I'm not *inside*--I'm... I don't know
where I am. Some place unfamiliar. Some place that makes me think about
life after death. Like a waiting room. Like purgatory. There is a
wretched medical smell in this place and also the smell of roses. The smell
of you is here too, Scully. That's how I know it's not completely bad. I
can still hear voices in this place... but they're far away, like voices
heard through water. Muffled and hollow. I don't understand them. I feel
like I'm stuck in the bottom of a pit, and there is a really simple way to
get out, only I don't know what it is. I imagine this is how insanity must
feel.

Scully... I can feel the weakness seeping into my bones like a poison. I
remember you telling me once that often a patient dies because he has given
up the will to live... and although that may be true, I think this strange
weakness-poison might have something to do with it as well. I'm pitting my
whole soul against the shadows, but they're still winning. Scully. I don't
know how long I can hold out. There is still so much... so much I need to
do... so much I need to say. But the weakness is like cancer... invasive
and insidious. I know you can understand the fight against cancer. It's
just so goddamned hard. But I'm trying.

*****

When I wake up, I curse myself for falling asleep. Who am I to fall asleep
at a time like this, when you might be dying? When you might have died
already? I have a terrible crick in my neck from falling asleep sitting up
and I feel worse than I would have if I hadn't slept at all.

Skinner is sitting on the chair across from me, leafing through one of the
inoffensive nature magazines that invariably appears in hospital waiting
rooms. They provide nature magazines, I think, to take away from the
diseases. No medical journals here, they say. No reinforcement of the
darkness that has brought you here in the first place. He's not reading any
of the articles--not catching up on where to go camping this summer. He's
staring at the magazine because there is nothing else to do but wait... and
waiting with nothing to distract the mind is dangerous work indeed.

"Is he out of surgery?"

"Not yet." He looks startled to see me awake. I frown slightly.

"Internal bleeding?"

"Some."

"Did they have to open him up?" I keep my eyes open as long as I can
without blinking; even the moment of darkness allows me to see Mulder in
gory detail, chest cracked open, some alien doctor with her hands touching
his heart, his lungs.

"Yes. They're draining the chest cavity."

"How long ago?" These questions are not as hard as I imagined they would
be. I am just a doctor asking for an update... not a partner, not a
friend... just a doctor. Keeping abreast of the situation.

"A few hours. We'll get news soon, Scully. You did the right
thing--falling asleep."

He doesn't know how wrong he is, but I can't bring myself to correct him. I
feel much worse for sleeping... it's an added guilt on my shoulders. An
added pain.

"You must be hungry--I'll get something from the cafeteria for you, if you
like."

I want to cry. Not because Mulder is dying somewhere so close and yet so
far away... I want to cry because Skinner's kindness is strangely out of
place. If this accident hadn't intervened we would all be in a meeting
right now... Mulder sauntering in "fashionably" late... me growling about
having to sit in the meeting an hour longer than usual because of his
"fashionable" tardiness... Skinner spearing us both with his gaze of
authority. There is something too... father-like about him now.
Frightening. Undeserved.

"No, I'll go myself. I should move around. I'm thinking too much."

As I stand, the blue blanket falls in a pool of pilled felt around me. I
bend down to pick it up, to return it to its carefully folded pile, but ...
I don't. I leave it where it is. Everything here is too regulated, too
angled...

<You are broken on the pavement, Mulder, like a doll. You look strange and
shattered, unmoving. A smear of blood surrounds you like an aura and I
don't know where to start... I'm afraid of the angles of your body on the
unforgiving pavement.>

"Scully?"

I look up, away from the memory, away from the images that haunt me.

"Your hands."

I look down, back, back into the memory, pressing you with my hands, my
too-small hands. My hands are covered in your blood.

There is a small bathroom just off the waiting room. I scrub at my hands
with harsh hospital soap, divesting myself of the blood and the memories.
Although I had wished to avoid it I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I am horrified. I haven't looked this horrible... this lost... since the
cancer. I imagine I can see myself shrinking, shrinking into myself.
Somewhere I have a reservoir of strength, Mulder, but even I can't go on
forever. And I can't bear this not-knowing. At least with the cancer I
knew I was going to die and I faced it head on. I can't face these events
head on, Mulder, because they keep jerking away, keep hiding. They're
playing a cruel game of hide and seek and I'm trapped in a hall of funhouse
mirrors. And I need to find you at the end.

I drain the blood-stained water with hollow efficiency. With all the
strength I have I open my purse and withdraw the picture--the newspaper
photograph. I brought it with me to show you--to prove to you with concrete
evidence that we were once partners. It seems a shallow thing that I
planned to do... shallow and dark and not like me. I wanted to hurt you
tonight, Mulder. I wanted to make you feel like I did. But that's not what
this picture is about. I tuck it back inside my purse with reverence.

This hospital is like all other hospitals, Mulder, and I wander the halls
like a ghost. I suppose I am looking aimlessly for the cafeteria, but I
don't really feel hungry. I wanted to walk through the maternity ward--I
wanted to see the babies I will never have--but the head nurse stopped me.
She told me I would frighten the babies... the new mothers. She said "This
is no place to bring death, young lady."

This is no place to bring death.

I find the gift shop and buy some ridiculously overpriced flowers. They're
beautiful, in their own way. Not faded into death, like the flowers on my
kitchen table at home. You might appreciate them if you wake. At least
you'll know I care.

My phone rings. Another nurse gives me a dirty look--I suppose she thinks
I'm creating a disturbance. Hospitals are so frightening in their
uniformity... their regulated coldness. I answer.

"He's pulled through the surgery, Scully. They just moved him to the ICU."

"I'll be there in a minute."

For the first time since I saw you hurtling through the air, I can feel a
surge of life spring like electricity along my veins. I catch myself
smiling, and I clutch the flowers closer. Who was I to doubt your powers of
recovery, Mulder? You've always been there... you've always pulled through.
It's who you are. You're a fighter. We both are. I think I just forgot
that I was a fighter too.

*****

I can hear your voice, Scully, but I can't answer you. I can't even make
out all of the words. I want so badly to reach out to you, to tell you that
I'm fighting for you... but I can't move. I'm still lost in this strange
darkness. This is nothing like the other times I've been hospitalized. I
feel closer and farther away at the same time. You're demanding information
from the doctor... you're using the "I don't have time for this bullshit"
voice that makes me grin. I love it when you use that voice--unless, of
course, you're using it on me.

I can hear your voice!

I gather that the doctor leaves... suddenly you're not talking anymore.

I want you to stay here, Scully... I need you to be here when I wake up. I
need to... I need to apologize for everything I've ever done to hurt you...
*really* hurt you.

"Hey, Mulder. You probably can't hear me... I don't know why I imagine you
would. You look like shit, Mulder. You look like hell."

Thanks, Scully. Trust you to be painfully honest even with a man near
death.

"But I miss you. Hell. Skinner's here--he's been wonderful. Supportive."

As long as you don't get any funny ideas, Scully... *I* think our AD has a
crush on you...

I think you'd laugh at that if I could tell you.

"Mulder, why'd you have to do something this stupid? I mean, you're the
king of doing stupid things, but this tops it all. This tops stealing my
car keys so I'd go ghostbusting with you. This tops all the dumb-ass moves
you pulled as Rob Petrie. This *even* tops running off to the Bermuda
Triangle and almost getting yourself killed. This... *this* is fucking
pointless and that's what makes it *stupid*."

I hover between shock that you just swore--I mean, I was always sure you
*could* swear, I'd just never really heard it--and the fact that you're
berating me. Berating me! Only you, Scully.

"But Mulder, just... you have to get better. You have to wake up. I know
it doesn't look good right now, but you have to get better. I swear to
God... no matter how many drugs they've got you on... I'll believe you this
time if you say you love me. I promise. I won't say 'oh, brother' again.
Just wake up. You're my best friend, Mulder. You're more than that. I
just... I can't lose you. Not yet."

Oh, God, you're crying. You don't cry. Not often. I imagine if you've
ever cried over *me* before, they were tears of frustration... and all that
stuff about not saying 'oh, brother'? Does that mean what I think it means?
It's very confusing here, Scully. I'm losing your voice.

I wish it didn't feel like I was losing you. I reach out and touch nothing
but darkness.

*****

Cont in part 5.

Title: Frail Gesture (5/5)
Author: Tara Avery
Email: tavery@ntonline.com
Rating: PG13

For all other info, disclaimers, shameless pleas for feedback see the first
part.

*******************
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
e.e. cummings
*******************

Author's wee note: I'll have a more extensive note at the end... I just
wanted to take this moment to thank all of you who made this journey with
me. Thank you. And thanks, too, to e.e. cummings for his brilliant poem
"somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond" who gave me my title, and a
lot of my inspiration.

*****

Frail Gesture (5/5)
Tara Avery
tavery@ntonline.com

*****

The flowers I bought in that frantic haze of three days ago are fading
quickly now, Mulder. When I went home yesterday I finally threw out the old
bouquet I had on my kitchen table--they were dry, sparse sticks, choking
without water. I threw them away and I felt as though I were having an
epiphany. I came back here.

The flowers are fading, Mulder. The lilies were the first to go, their
long, narrow petals brown and curled into themselves. The tulips didn't
last much longer. The last of the roses is valiantly attempting to hang on,
but I don't know how much longer it will last. Gladiolas are strange
flowers... they continue to blossom higher and higher up the stem, while the
lower flowers crumple into loose, wrinkled flaps of faded color.

What kind of offering *was* this? I brought you dead plants, cut, bleeding
from their broken stems. I brought you shallow hopes, trapped in a
cut-crystal vase that cost more than it was worth. I brought you death,
Mulder, and you've taken a turn for the worst.

This is no place to bring death, Mulder, and what have I done?

I wish I could take back the last three days, Mulder. I wish I could look
at you now with the same strength I had before... in those moments right
after you came out of surgery. You have only slipped farther and farther
away... every time I see you, every time I enter this room, you are farther
away. You look more and more like a photograph--something faded and dark,
not quite recognizable as what was.

I want to see you smile. Even that little leering smile you get when you're
making a veiled pass at me. Even the "I'm thinking don't disturb me" smile.

I've tried everything I can think of. The doctors are afraid for you, and I
make them nervous. They know they can't lie to me, Mulder. They know *I'd*
know they were lying. I know how badly you're hurt. It does you credit
that you've survived as long as you have. In this strange inner monologue,
this conversation with myself and with you, I realize I am thinking of you
as a dead man.

I'm a doctor, Mulder, and I know how hurt you are.

It doesn't stop me from thinking endlessly about what I would say if you
woke up. It doesn't stop me from thinking endlessly about what I will say
if you don't.

I spend my days at your side. Skinner gave me time off. I keep thinking
about that time you were hit by a car before... do you remember? We were
chasing that abortion-clinic doctor. You just bounced back, Mulder. You
were at work the next goddamned day! Why the hell can't you just open your
eyes *now*? Why can't you just wake up? You *always* bounce back. You
flatline and you bounce back. You nearly die of hypothermia and you *bounce
back*! What's so different this time? What's so wrong?

I want to curl up next to you, press myself into you, give you part of my
life, my warmth... but I can't do that. We are, despite all things to the
contrary, two separate entities, you and I.

You... you've fallen through the ice, but my hands are too small, my
strength too feeble.

I never thought I'd have to say that about myself.

"The Neverending Story"--have you seen it, Mulder? It's a children's movie,
but I saw it with my Godson once. "Come, Auntie Dana, see. Watch."

They look like big, good, strong hands. Don't they?

It's funny that at times like these I can remember every word from a
children's movie I saw once, but I can't seem to recall the exact color of
your eyes when you're excited about a new case.

"They look like big, good, strong, hands. Don't they? I always thought
that's what they were. My little friends. The little man with his racing
snail, the Nighthob, even the stupid bat. I couldn't hold on to them. The
Nothing pulled them right out of my hands. I failed."

When I hold your hand, Mulder, I can feel you being pulled away from me, and
I know how that stupid movie character must have felt. Nothing I do can
keep you here. The Nothing is pulling you right out of my grasp.

It's a little ironic, isn't it... that the Nothing in the movie was
disbelief. It seems like a proper symbol, doesn't it?

Everything feels irrelevant when compared to the fact that you are lying
cold and still on the bed in front of me, blanketed in tubes, surrounded by
machinery.

"Excuse me?" A nurse pops her head in the room and smiles. Her name is
Beth, I think. "Excuse me, Dr. Scully, but Mr. Mulder has another visitor."

"Who? His mother?"

"Uh... no, no. She's a young woman. Does Mr. Mulder have a girlfriend?
Fiancée?"

My lips quirk into a tiny smile. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh. Well. It is visiting hours. I'm going to send her in."

"I'm not going to leave, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Oh. No. No, I'm sure it's all right."

The door doesn't have time to fully close behind her before a thin, blonde
girl enters, head bowed. When she looks up and sees who "Dr. Scully" is, I
can see fear and panic and horror cross her face in an instant.

"I'm sorry," she says.

It is a weak apology. It's paper-thin... it's as fragile as a rose petal.
It brings tears to my eyes. I had not realized how much I wanted an
apology... it's the next best thing to having you wake up, Mulder.

"Is he... is he going to..."

"Die?" The word is hard, cold... a fact, an icicle. I say it without
allowing myself to comprehend the connotations. "It's not looking good."

"You're a doctor."

She says it like a talisman against darkness, and I realize she wants you to
live because if you don't her sentence will be that much steeper.

"You made a mistake." It's a statement of fact rather than an accusation.

"I know--"

"No." My voice has descended into "dangerous" mode. It frightens me, but
not as much as it frightens her. She deserves it. "No. You don't know.
You are responsible for this."

"He ran out into--"

"You are the driver. In a battle of car and human, you see who wins. The
driver is responsible... you have to take responsibility for this. You were
drunk and you were driving *way* too fast. Why did you come here? To
accuse him?"

"I wanted to see if he was all right. I wanted to apologize."

I nod. She turns to go and I feel the slightest bit guilty for making her
feel even worse.

"*Who* is he?" She says when she reaches the door, her back still facing
me, her shoulders bent and head low. I think she's crying.

My voice softens. "His name is Fox Mulder. He's an FBI Agent. He's my
partner."

"I really am sorry."

"I know... so does he."

She leaves. I sit down at your side, Mulder, because there is no where else
I can go.

*****

It feels like years since I heard your voice, Scully. I can hear you
murmuring with another woman, but I can't follow the conversation. I follow
the sound as though it is a rope leading back to the light... the darkness
is very tempting. But I need to get out of it. I need to get out of here.
I need to get back to you.

*****

They're nervous because you've been unconscious for a week, Mulder. If you
can hear me in there you'll take my advice and wake up. You're only making
this harder on yourself.

I replaced your dead bouquet with a stuffed green alien. I thought he might
give you a reason to live.

*****

"Sc-Sc-u-ll-y?" I know you're in the room, but the first thing I see when I
finally manage to open my eyes is a stuffed green alien with huge eyes and a
little smile. I would mirror the smile, but my face hurts too much.

"Mulder?"

Your voice is so small... I want to reassure you. I want to admonish you
for the sadness you must have felt. You should know by now that I can't
*die* while I have you to return to. You reach out with one hand and touch
my face as though you think I might be a figment of your imagination.

I turn my head very slowly, trying to ignore the pain. You're sitting on
the other side of the bed, frozen. The book you were reading slides off
your lap and onto the floor. You look like a deer caught in the headlights.

I am frightened by how thin you look, how sick.

"Mulder?"

Oh, hell, Scully, don't cry. I open my mouth and struggle with my vocal
cords, but no sound emerges. You grabs a glass of water from the table and
tilt my head back so I can sip. I want to kiss you for your thoughtfulness.

"Thanks." Shit. I sound like hell.

"You don't have to talk. You've been through some serious trauma, Mulder.
You're not even supposed to be alive."

I will not be a smart-ass. "Su--sure. I. Am."

An ashamed smile wavers across your face. "You know that's not what I
meant."

"I know." I ponder my next question before settling on, "How long?"

"Two weeks. Two weeks yesterday."

We remain silent for a long time. "I should get a doctor, Mulder."

"You are."

"I should get one of your doctors here."

"Scully, stay. I missed you. I came back for you."

You freeze at the door and turn slowly to face me. Your face is real with
emotion.

"Thank you, Mulder."

*****

You are in a fine mood today, Mulder. Two broken legs seem to agree with
you.

"You know you have beautiful hands, Scully."

I find myself smiling at that comment, even though it reminds me of hot
blood slipping through gaps between fingers too small. They look like big,
good, strong hands, don't they? "You're only saying that because these
hands have been wheeling you around for two weeks."

"Oh, you're loving it, I know. If anyone doubted that you were Mrs. Spooky
before, they certainly aren't now."

"Careful, Mulder, or I'll take you up on that."

You smile over your shoulder at me. A real smile. We have had more real
smiles in the past two weeks than we have had in the past two years, it
seems.

"Hey, Scully, I need to tell you something important. I thought of it when
I was unconscious. A lot. We had a falling out over Diana... I know we
did. I was foolish. I doubted your loyalty, your trust... something I
should never have done. I was an idiot, Scully. I can see that now.
Nothing like a car to shake up some memories."

I lean forward and kiss the top of your head. I know this is the last
reaction you expected--it was completely strange for me too. "Thank you,
Mulder. For acknowledging it."

"Thanks for kissing my head."

"My pleasure. Now where do you want to go for lunch today?"

"That little diner. Is that okay?"

"Sure."

"Scully?"

"Mmm?"

"I just think we need to talk some things out. I... was thinking that we
let things brush by. We pretend it never happened, sweep it up, clear up
the evidence, make it clean. We're lying to ourselves. I... we... came
really close to losing everything back there. Before and after the
accident."

I stop, examine your face and find only sincerity there. "I seem to have
misplaced my Mulder somewhere. You look a lot like him, but..."

"I'm nicer than that Mulder, Scully. I know some things he doesn't know.
I've had some experiences he never had. Never learned from."

My eyes grow hot with tears. "This feels right, Mulder."

You thumb away my stray tears and smile. "I realized what I might have
lost, Scully. It's not worth it..."

"Mulder... I want to... I need to tell you a story... about a photograph...
about falling through the ice... about flowers... about recovery... about
frail gestures... about love."

He looks at me with interest.

I push his wheelchair into the diner and begin to talk.

*****

The happy ending!

Author's Note:

Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who read this story. Although I could live
with Mulder NOT being hit by a car... I really think the poor agents need to
become friends again. :( Thank you and hugs to everyone who sent
feedback... although I didn't reply to the feedback messages sent on
previous parts, I'll be sending return mail on everything sent now--now that
my story is finished. :) Thank you thank you thank you! Here is the poem I
borrowed my title from:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

e.e. cummings

Tara Avery
tavery@ntonline.com
ICQ 2570912
www.ntonline.com/tavery/index.htm
for X-Files fanfic: http://www.angelfire.com/bc/TaraAvery/fanfic.html
"Cowards die many times before their deaths -- the valiant never taste of
death but once." ~Shakespeare

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