Calendar Girl II: Marking Time
by Jori
After the events of Requiem, Scully is faced with being without Mulder and with a new partner, a woman Mulder knows and Scully only met once before. Although this is technically a continuation of the Calendar Girl I series, it can be read on its own. Just keep in mind that Mulder and Scully have been lovers since December of 1998 in my world! NC-17
Read the stories of Calendar Girl I, including Six Billion where Scully's new partner is introduced.
****************
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
May 26, 2000
2:35 p.m.
I'm so very tired. The only good thing about being this tired is I get to shut my eyes and remember moments I didn't realize would be so precious to me. I can hear conversations. Not just bits of them, but whole entire hours and days. Everything that we said is still locked in my mind, haunting me or comforting me, depending on how I feel at the moment. Now I know how it must have hurt for Mulder to be able to remember every last detail of little incidents the rest of us would forget in hours.
Blame it on the pregnancy. Every sense I have is heightened, and that sensitivity invades my dreams, allowing me to feel him here. To listen to his voice and replay our days together.
I rest my head on his desk willing him to walk back through that door but all I get is memories . . . .
"How are you feeling?" I asked as you drove through the city streets toward Alexandria. You didn't appear to be in a hurry to get anywhere, but rather most of the traffic passed you by, a whir of tail lights getting there as fast as they could. Everything in our lives had been moving so fast over those few days and now it was time for us to slow down and absorb what had happened.
"I've had better days," you said bluntly as you focused only on the road ahead and nothing else. "I shouldn't say that. I'll be okay, Scully. I now know what I've always wanted to know."
"That doesn't make it any easier," I said as I watched the oncoming headlights fly by us on the other side of the road. "These last few days have been hard on both of us, Mulder. I think it will take some time to recover from this."
I closed my eyes to fight off the image of all those children buried in shallow graves. Fight off the image of performing an autopsy on your mother. It was the hardest autopsy I had ever done, but I had to for you. I'm the only one you trusted with that duty and I wanted you to believe in what was found.
"Did you want me to take you home?" you asked. I looked at you briefly and couldn't read your expression in the soft light from the dashboard. You acted as if you were at peace with all of this, but could peace come that quickly?
"Only if you want to be alone," I said, willing to respect whatever you wanted. If you needed time and space, then I would give it to you. Time alone can be so precious under the right circumstance.
"No. Not really," you said, finally looking at me for just a second.
"Good," I said in response. We had been apart every night since I told you the truth about your mother. I missed you. We missed other things. I didn't know if you would remember. Not that I ever expected hearts and flowers from you. We were beyond that. I guess what I missed was that our life together would never be normal enough for chocolate-filled satin boxes and roses delivered in green glass vases. I didn't want them, just the quiet assurance that goes with them.
"I'm sorry about Valentine's Day. I did actually have plans . . ."
"It doesn't matter. Through all of this, it really wasn't important, Mulder," I said, reassuring you I hadn't turned into someone who needed Cupid. I put my hand on yours, clutching your fingers in mine.
"It should be important," you said, sounding angry at yourself. I was sure it had more to do with than just a forgotten holiday.
"Last year, we had a great Valentine's Day. This year, we were . . . busy. It just happens," I said as you pulled the car into a space in front of your apartment. We both got out and silently walked to the entrance.
"I'll make it up to you," you said as you pulled open the front door, your voice so low it made me melt. I thought of telling you what your voice could do to me, but I didn't. I just gave you a smile and followed you in and up to your apartment.
"There is always my birthday," I said as you slid the key into your lock. "You can make it up to me then. Dinner, dancing, champagne. I'll expect it all."
You laughed. I laughed, too, at the notion you and I would ever slow down enough to enjoy a night out with all those so called 'romantic' things.
"How about I start making it up to you now?" you said, as you pulled me through the door and shut it behind us. "How about I make it up to you right here?"
"If you're up to it," I said, but before you even answered with some dry comeback, your mouth was on mine, hungry to find something to make the last few days only a memory.
Your warm hands slid up my shirt, feeling my body for the first time in days. I wanted to be what made you forget if even for just a moment.
I could feel you grind against me, everything moving so fast. We didn't move from up against the door, but instead your hands pulled my shirt over my head and then removed my bra, sending it flying . . . somewhere.
I held my breath as you dipped your head down, your lips moving across my nipples, your tongue darting out until each was a hardened nub of aroused flesh. You sank to your knees and I could finally breathe again as I watched your fingers unfasten my pants and shimmy them down over my hips. I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of my pants and you tugged my panties down. I was standing naked before you and all you could do was sit back on your heels and look at me.
The utter admiration that was in your eyes made me tingle. No, I couldn't be self conscious in front of you if I tried. You knew every inch of me and it made it all the better.
"I want you," I said, pulling you back up to your feet. Your fingers delved between my thighs as my hands went to your button fly, popping them open as quickly as I could. You struggled to get your shirt off without moving those fingers from me and I appreciated it greatly.
Finally, we both were naked and ready and my legs wrapped around your hips as you sunk into me so slowly I thought I would die from waiting. My arms were wrapped around your neck and I pulled your face toward me for another kiss.
Our bodies moved against each other, and the door rocked behind us. Anyone who walked by on the other side would know what was going on. I didn't care.
Even though it was winter, we were covered in sweat within minutes, our bodies sticking together wherever we touched. My back sticking against the door.
The sudden waves of pleasure swept through my body first and you followed soon, releasing everything inside of me. Never careful. All that time and we were never careful.
You brought me back to earth even though I wanted to stay in your arms forever. Then you did just that. Wrapped me in your arms as we stood together, swaying in time to nothing.
"Will that start to make up for it," you asked . . .
Someone knocks on the door and I raise my head up off the desk. I would have jumped, but somewhere in my over sensitive conscious, I heard footsteps moving down the hallway. Heels, so I knew it wasn't Mulder. Besides, that would be too easy. I'm going to have to search for him. He's not going to just walk through the door.
"Agent Scully?" the woman who was knocking asks, but she already knows who I am. And I vaguely remember who she is.
I stretch my stiff neck and try to smile, but it falls flat. She doesn't seem to mind. She offers me a smile anyway.
"Um . . .yes. Agent . . .?" I ask. Her name is lost to me. How can I remember every word Mulder and I said to each other in the last few months, but I can't remember this woman's name.
"Agent Nicole Larson," she says, extending her hand. I shake it and pull my hand back quickly. Human contact is still hard. I really don't want anyone touching me right now. I rest my hand on my belly before realizing that looks so . . . pregnant and instead I fold them on Mulder's desk.
"Right. From Omaha. I'm sorry," I say, embarrassed that I forgot so quickly. That was just last October. Mulder's birthday. We got back together over an incident so horrible that I would rather not think about it again.
"Omaha was a while ago. I was transferred to Miami for a while and now I'm here," she says, sitting down in the chair opposite of me without invitation.
"Here?" I ask, wondering what she's doing here and why she didn't call first for Mulder. Maybe she was just in the building and thought she'd drop by. "If you are here to see Agent Mulder, you, well . . ." Missed him? That isn't quite right.
"I already know. Assistant Director Skinner brought me up to speed," she says. Her smile is too sympathetic and I don't like it. I don't like being treated like the sad widow who everybody needs to smile at as they ask polite questions about my welfare. He's not dead. Besides that, does everybody know about us? I suppose they do. They can't all be blind.
"What exactly did the Assistant Director bring you up to speed on?" I ask, sounding far more aggravated than I should.
"Fox's disappearance. Or, rather, his abduction."
Fox. My aggravation level rises even higher and I know it shouldn't. They were friends a long time ago and she called him Fox the last time they saw each other. She's not just doing it to be polite or make this easier on me. She is not patronizing me with her casual use of 'Fox.'
"Why?"
"Why what?" she asks. She has stopped smiling at me, which I'm thankful for.
"Why did you need to know about Mulder?" I ask, leaning forward and straightening out his pile of pencils. I haven't moved much in the weeks I've been alone down here. I just can't. It was our office, but his 'space.' He felt at home here. I only felt at home with him.
She looks down at her lap and straightens out her suit jacket. She's dressed quite differently from the last time I saw her out in the field. She's very attractive and her suit hangs on her perfectly, with just the right number of buttons undone to attract a little attention. Her long, brown hair is sun bleached and lighter than it was in Omaha and is pulled up neatly. She looks extremely professional. Like someone who just interviewed for a job. . .
"Dana, I'm going to be your partner," she says quietly as she looks back up at me. Respectfully. But I don't care. I don't want another damn partner. I want it all to be over and for Mulder to be back. I only want one partner.
"I don't understand. I have a partner," I say, facing her down. She doesn't blink but continues watching me, as if she's waiting for me to crack and cry that I need help. That I need someone to help save me from this whole mess Mulder created. Damn him.
I will not cry about this supposed step forward in my life. I have only cried at night, when I'm all alone . . . but not really alone. I can't be all alone now, can I? I lean back in his chair and try to figure out what to do with my hands. I pick up the one stray sunflower seed that I like to play with and pick at it with my fingernails.
"Dana, I'm not here to replace him. I'm here to help you," she says, her voice filled with an unexpected softness. "A.D. Skinner thought it was time you had a little help."
"I need to speak to him about this."
I go to get out of the chair and she gives me a frustrated sigh. "Listen, Dana. This is rather unexpected for me, too. I was called last night at my home in Miami and told to get on an airplane. I heard strange gossip through the grapevine about 'Spooky' Mulder finally getting his wish and visiting his little green friends in space, but I didn't want to believe it until I was told otherwise this morning. You know what? I still don't believe it. What I do believe is you and I are going to find him, no matter what it takes."
By the time she's done, I find myself sitting back down in the chair.
"Why don't you believe it?" I ask, puzzled. I thought she was sympathetic to Mulder's cause, but I could have interpreted that wrong.
"Dana . . ."
"Where do you think he went? Do you think he just left?" I ask, my voice rising in pitch. Damn this pregnancy. It has made me emotional at times and I just can't stand it. And I'm tired of her using my first name so easily. I'm tired of so many things.
"No, Dana, I don't. I know about your relationship. And I also know Fox would never leave someone he loves or someone who needed him," she says, her eyes lowering away from mine.
"I've got to go," I say, finally standing up.
"Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any cigarettes? I didn't get a chance to stop since I arrived in DC and I'm dying," she says, fidgeting with her suit again.
I open the top drawer of Mulder's desk and pull out that package he kept around just in case his urge for nicotine overcame any dirty looks from me. She catches them as I toss them her way and stands up, too, following me out the door.
I make sure it is locked before I go anywhere.
***************
"I need to speak to him." I say to Kimberly and she gives me that sad smile that I've grown to expect from everybody. Wait until they see that I'm pregnant and 'widowed' and then it will get really intolerable. Then again, maybe it is part of the office buzz I'm not privy to down in the basement.
"Go ahead," she says after she buzzes him and lets him know I'm waiting. I'm sure he must have expected this.
"Thank you," I say as I head toward Skinner's office door. I can feel Kimberly's smile come back to her face as she watches me go and I ignore it. What else can I do? Scream to the whole world that he isn't dead and that he'll be back soon? Would they even believe me?
"Agent Scully . . ." he says, rising up to meet me.
"A partner?" I say, as I close the door behind me and cross my arms over my chest. I blink back any tears that might be forming in my eyes as I stare at the only other person who knows I'm pregnant besides my mother and my high risk OB/GYN.
"Yes, a partner. Scully, it's time that you accepted some help on this and I can't constantly be there looking out for you or any one of my agents," he says, as he walks over to me.
"Obviously." I let the words slip out before I can stop them. He just looks away from me and opens his mouth as if he's going to say something but he's at a loss for words.
"Would you like to sit down?" he finally asks, looking me over, his eyes stopping on my mid-section.
"No. I'm fine standing," I say. The constant dizziness has passed and actually, right now I feel nothing except moody and exhausted. There is no vomiting at 6 a.m. No sudden urge to eat burritos with guacamole all night. Just nothing that would even let on that I'm a few months pregnant.
"Please work with Agent Larson. She's a good agent. Bright. Second in her class at the Academy . . ."
"Second to Mulder?" I ask. He doesn't have to answer. "He's not dead, sir."
The more time that goes by, the more people begin to assume that he's not coming back. I can see it in everyone's eyes when they look at me. I'm starting to see it in Skinner's. Damn him. He knows what happened and if he starts doubting it, I'll have no where to turn.
"I know he's not dead, Agent Scully. I know better than anyone what happened to him. I brought in Agent Larson because she's familiar with Mulder's work. She has as much field experience as you do, yet she's not connected to all of this. She might be able to get people to speak to her who are wary of you and your connection to Mulder," he says.
I close my eyes as a moment of doubt passes over me. I can take it better in the darkness of my mind than I can with him watching me.
"What use is it? He's not hidden away in some basement somewhere and we just have to stumble upon the person who might have seen him last. He's . . . out there. He's gone. And now I have a partner who gets to go on this snipe hunt with me," I say, tightening my arms over my chest.
"There's no such thing as a snipe," he says, a passing smile moving over his face quickly. "Agent Scully, work with her. You might find out you have more in common than you think."
I wrinkle up my brow, wondering what the hell he means by that.
"Sit down. Please?" he asks, taking me by the elbow and leading me toward a chair. He sits behind his desk, folding his hands over a pile of paperwork. "Her partner was killed in January."
"Mulder's not dead," I say again as if it is my personal mantra now. If I keep repeating it, everybody will get it into their heads.
"And she wasn't . . . involved with her partner. But still, I think the two of you can find some common ground," he says, leaning back in his chair.
I glance away from him, desperate to avoid his overly concerned look. It wasn't his life that was torn apart. It was mine. No one is going to care as much as me about the outcome of these events.
"She doesn't believe," I say, my voice so low I could hardly hear myself.
"Do you?" he asks, and I look back at him.
"Do I have a choice anymore?" I start to ask, still fighting the urge I have to choke up and cry. "I tried so hard for so long to do what was expected of me, to find the scientific rational for the unexplainable, yet here I am at the end with my hand forced in such a way that I can do nothing but believe. But now is not the time for me to have to deal with someone who doesn't . . ."
"I'm sure Agent Mulder said those very same words at some point. And look how well the two of you got along," he says, smiling again. He's known for months about our relationship, but it was never used against us as far as I know. It wasn't even used when the accounting department wanted to take us apart.
"Why a woman? Were you worried that something would happen with a male partner?" I ask, and he looks away. He has no right to doubt my faithfulness to any relationship I'm involved in.
"The thought never crossed my mind, Agent Scully. She was available and she fit the job profile well. At least in my opinion. It has nothing to do with your relationship with Agent Mulder. I would have never doubted the loyalty that was there," he says, flinching as he realizes he just put it into the past tense.
"It's okay, sir," I say when he looks at me with apologetic eyes. He still feels guilty for this. Ever since we cried together in the hospital, we've been walking on eggshells around each other. We can't help it. It is our way of avoiding blame. I should have never let him go without me. Skinner should have done a better job watching out for him. He knows Mulder just stumbles upon things. Just usually nothing this big. "Does she know?"
I rub my hand over my stomach quickly and he shakes his head no. I didn't think he'd tell anyone, but I wanted to be sure.
"Please work with her, Scully. It might help to bring in some fresh ideas from someone far more objective about this loss than the two of us," he says, his voice tinged with sadness. Yes, he lost something, too. An agent under his charge. Half of one of his departments. A friend.
"Yes, sir," I say, standing up out of the chair. Someday soon, I won't be able to do that with such ease. Someday, I might even need help. Damn him for not being here.
"If there is anything you need . . ." he calls after me as I go to leave. I'm bypassing the reception area. I don't want to meet the disheartening stare of his secretary.
"Thank you, sir. I'll be fine," I say as I leave.
I wish I could really believe that myself.
*****************
She is standing outside the office, leaning against the wall opposite the door. She doesn't move when I approach her but rather just stares at the single nameplate hanging there.
"I'm sorry, Agent Larson. Would you like to come in and sit down we can try this again?" I ask, interrupting her daydream. Her eyes slowly refocus toward me and she offers me a smile. Not the same patronizing one I've been greeted with constantly as of late.
"I'm not here to replace him, you know," she says. I can tell she wants to say more, but maybe now isn't the time. We don't know each other. I don't even know if I can trust her completely yet. Just because she knew Mulder a long time ago doesn't mean she's safe. Actually, I don't know who to trust right now.
"I know," I say as I unlock the door and let her in. This time, she takes a better look around, her eyes moving quickly over all the items he has hanging on the walls. She even goes behind the desk to read a newspaper clipping that has been there for almost a year now. Something about lights over some mountain in Washington State.
I watch her from across the room, wondering how this is going to work. And if it does, where are we going to start?
"Listen," she says, turning quickly towards me. "This was all unexpected and I have no place to stay yet and I doubt I'm going to find an apartment over Memorial Day weekend. Do you have any suggestions for a hotel?"
I close my eyes for a second, images of my friend the auditor coming in so clearly. He actually had the nerve to call me back in after Mulder's abduction to question me about certain charges we made in Oregon. I'm sure he's going to have a thing or two to say about the expense of adding a new person to this project.
"We have a limited budget down here right now," I say, opening my eyes again to find her staring at me. We remain like that for a few seconds until she looks around again.
"Trust me, I've slept with roaches before. I was in South Florida, remember? I just need to find something temporary until I can find a place to move my stuff. It doesn't have to be the Ritz," she says. She picks up Mulder's basketball from the corner and bounces it once or twice.
"I have a better idea. I'm paying the rent on Mulder's place right now. You can stay there for the time being until you find something more comfortable. He actually doesn't pay a ridiculous amount for rent. Probably since he's been there since the 80s, so I can talk to the building manager about you staying there for a while," I say. She stops bouncing the ball and looks at me again. Neither of us says anything for a long, uncomfortable period of time.
"Are you sure? I know it is only temporary, but I don't want to intrude on someplace that you find . . . personal. I don't want you to think I'm taking over, but at least someone else will be paying for it for a while."
I think about it for a minute, and she bounces the ball again. What difference does it make at this point if she takes over where he lived, too? Besides, there are better things to do with the money he set aside just 'in case.' I spent a good portion of it in Africa last year and his mother's life insurance of course was null and void once it was determined she killed herself. All he could put back in his fund was the money she had earned or saved in various places.
Now I'm going to need money to save him again, but I don't know how much. I don't even know how.
"It will be fine. You can feed the fish," I finally say.
"You sure? I'm not good at keeping things alive . . ." she starts to say but her voice falls off quickly. She tucks the ball against her hip and bites her bottom lip.
"I'm sorry about your partner. Forgive me, what was his name again? Agent . . .?" I ask. If I couldn't remember her name, then I know I'll never remember his.
"Breen. Tony Breen," she says, offering no further details about his death. Either she isn't ready or she knows I can find out for myself.
"I'm sorry," I say again, not knowing what else to do. Then I give her that same pitiful smile everybody has been giving me and when she looks away I admonish myself for doing it. Damn it. I should know better.
"Thanks," she says turning away to look at a picture of Mulder and me on the wall. We have so few together and I thought about taking it home, but I prefer it here. Right where he put it while I was out of the office one afternoon. She turns to me abruptly, her expression completely different than it was a few seconds ago. "Well, should we get to work?
"Why don't I show you where you'll be staying first? Then we can get to work," I say, just wanting to get out of this office for a while. Not that where we I'm taking her is going to be any better.
But right now, I just really need to get out of here.
***********
Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
5:20 p.m.
I open the door and am greeted with stagnant air that smells of mildew. It turns my stomach instantly and as soon as I shut the door, I lean back against it, trying to control my queasiness. Now would not be a good time to start vomiting and looking like a stereotypical pregnant woman. I just don't want to explain it yet. I rock back against the door gently. It still makes those same sounds, as if he and I were together right now, like we were in my dream from earlier.
"You okay?" Agent Larson asks as she looks around the apartment. She picks up some book that Mulder had left out on the table and she smiles as she looks at the title on the spine.
"I'm fine. Just a little warm in here," I say as I go to adjust the thermostat.
"Actually, compared to when the air conditioning went out in my apartment in Miami, this isn't half bad," she says, placing the book back down and exploring further.
I try to track down the source of the mildew odor and link it to something in the bathroom. A formerly wet towel was left in the corner and now that it gotten warm in here, it reeks. Damn. I turn away from the room quickly before the odor gets to me. It shouldn't. I've smelled far worse things in my profession, but right now, this is pretty bad.
"Agent Larson . . ."
"Nicole," she says as she comes out of the kitchen area. "Please call me Nicole or Nick or anything but Agent Larson. We are going to be working a lot of hours together. I think you can call me by my first name no matter what kind of phobias your usual partner has about that."
"You call him by his first name," I say and she just shrugs.
"I knew him back before he was even called 'Spooky' so I guess that's why. It doesn't mean anything. I'll call him whatever you want me to," she says, as she walks over to his desk. His computer was taken by the FBI right after he disappeared but they never found anything on it of use. The phone is tapped by the boys in case someone calls, but so far the only calls Mulder has gotten are from long distance salespeople and one breathy female plying her wares.
I watch her as she peers around, picking up a few items here and there and examining them casually. I'm leaving her alone here. She'll be able to go through anything she wants and I'm not sure if that bothers me yet or not. I'm the one who suggested this. It shouldn't bother me.
"Damn," she says as she looks into the fish tank. "That would be a problem."
"What?" I ask as I move toward her. I look into the fish tank and all the inhabitants are dead. She places her hand on the tank and pulls it away.
"I think there was a heating problem. Boiled fish on Friday?" she jokes, as she looks for where the unit is plugged in. The tank reeks now, one more smell mingling with the mildew and heat.
I wish I could joke about it. Mulder has lost a lot of fish and we've always had a laugh at the fish's expense as he sent it down toward its watery grave. But this time, it seems personal. Nicole looks at me after she pulls the plug and I struggle to keep the tears from flowing. These fish died on me just to prove that I can't take care of anything. Damn each one of them. If I can't keep track of Mulder and I can't guarantee the survival of a couple of simple goldfish, what am I going to do with a baby? Not just any baby but one that a million people will probably be taking aim at for one reason or another?
"Dana, they were just fish. I'm sure Fox will understand. It isn't like you boiled a bunch of preschoolers in a fiery lake of bubbling acid," she says. She opens the tank and begins to scoop the casualties out, letting their little bodies plop into the trash can and it just makes the tears start flowing. She doesn't say anything else to me. Just lets me alone with my storm-tossed emotions.
I'm going to have to tell her someday. It isn't something I can hide forever. I'm just not ready for it yet. Not until I know her better and most certainly not until I can determine if she can be trusted.
She finishes up and pulls the little plastic garbage bag out of the trash can and sets it by the front door. I'll have to show her where to take the trash. And where to find the tools in case the faucet in the bathroom starts leaking again. And how to work the complicated cable splicer Frohike set up in Mulder's bedroom. And so many other things I just never thought about.
"The bedroom is back there. I'll get you fresh sheets," I say as I follow her to his room. She flips on the lights and looks around at the mess.
"Well, it's certainly homey. Good thing I didn't become a big Miami Heat fan," she says, sitting on the edge of the rumpled-up bed and looking at all of Mulder's Knicks memorabilia. I spent every night here right after it happened, wrapping myself up in his blankets and just wishing it would all get better. Then I began to force myself to sleep at my place again. I didn't live here before. I shouldn't feel the need to live here just because . . . he's gone.
"Feel free to make room for yourself in the closet once your stuff arrives," I say, opening the door and pushing his suits to the side. His laundry hamper is overflowing and I should do something about it. I just didn't want to change a thing. "I'll take the laundry home with me so you don't have to smell sweaty socks forever."
"Thanks," she says. I pull some sheets down from a shelf in the closet and toss them in her direction. She just sits with them on her lap as she looks around.
"Just be glad you missed the mirrors over the bed phase," I say, with a unexpected laugh.
"Oh? That must have been fun," she says, smiling back at me, looking like someone who wants to be my friend. Girl talk. I'm engaging in girl talk. I hardly even remember what it is like.
"Actually, I hated it," I say, shutting my eyes as the memories sweep over me. What in the hell was wrong with me then? If I knew then what I know now, I would have just left them up there. Let him be a voyeur as we made love. I just didn't know it would all come to an end like this.
Damn it, Dana. It isn't the end. I just isn't.
"Well, to each their own, I guess," she says, still smiling. There is something more to her life she's not telling me about but I can't remember everything Mulder told me about her. The last few weeks have been to stressful and I just can't concentrate on anybody else but Mulder, the baby and me.
"I guess," I say softly as I try to think of what else she'll need.
"Pillows," she says as if she's reading my mind. "Or a pillow. I thought I'd be staying in a hotel for a few days so I didn't bring mine and I see that there aren't any here."
She doesn't question why. Just nods toward the head of the bed.
"I, uh, yeah. Pillows," I mumble as I try to explain. They are all at my apartment now. Every last one of them. The scent of him faded quickly on any piece of clothes I had that he had worn but it still remains on the pillows. I surround myself with them at night, letting the dreams flood over me as I cling on tight to a damn pillow. Some nights, it is all I've got to cling to.
"Dana, you don't have to explain. I understand. A few years ago, I lost someone very important to me. She was with the DEA and she got killed in a bust gone bad. I swear that her pillow went with me everywhere I went for the next year. Then on one trip, I forgot it. Eventually, I forgot to even take it to bed with me. I didn't forget her. I just didn't need anything else besides my memories of her," she says quietly. "But you are a long way from that happening."
That's when I remember the thing Mulder told me that I had forgotten. She was far more interested in me then she was in him, despite what I thought at the time. He only made some small comment about it in a bar before we went back to the hotel. He seemed chagrined that a woman would be attracted to me and not him. His big male ego rearing its ugly head. I certainly don't care what she takes to bed at night. I simply forgot.
"He's not dead," I whisper again. I should get it tattooed across my forehead.
"I know that," she says, sounding tired of my constant repetition of those few words. "If he was dead, do you think I would have been shipped up here to help you find him?"
"I don't know anymore."
"Go home. Get some rest. How about I give you a call in the morning and we'll get started on "Where in the universe is Fox Mulder?" she says, and I try to smile at her joke but I can't. It isn't something that can be laughed about yet. The day he comes home to me, I'll laugh. "We have a long holiday weekend ahead of us which is good. It will give us some time to strategize."
She stands up and starts to strip the bed down, tossing the dirty sheets in the direction of the rest of the laundry.
"There's a Wal-Mart just a few miles away. I can give you directions and you can get yourself a decent pillow. The only one here is the one on the chair out in the living room and it isn't that comfortable," I say as she throws the bedding on quickly. She's as lazy about the corners as Mulder.
"Thanks, Dana. Is there anything else I should know?" she asks as she sits back down on the bed. It is strange, the idea of another woman sleeping in Mulder's bed. Maybe I should have offered her my apartment instead and I could have stayed here.
"Yes. Don't say anything on the phone that you don't want printed up in the 'Magic Bullet."
*******************
Scully's Apartment
Georgetown
8:17 p.m.
I pull the blankets over my head, losing myself in the darkness. I know this isn't good, this sadness I let envelope me every evening, but I can't control it. I want to be happy for the baby. He needs me to be happy. To hear laughter and to hear joy in my voice. Or to hear my voice at all. I find that I say nothing most days, especially on weekends. Mom will call and we will talk for a few minutes, but then I retreat back into silence. Without Mulder, who am I supposed to talk to?
I know. I'm supposed to talk to you, my dear little baby. To sing you songs and read you Dr. Seuss and Winnie the Pooh and play some Mozart so you'll be smarter than I know you are already going to be. I will get better. I promise. Tomorrow I'll go to the bookstore and buy stories to read. 'The little Engine that Could' and 'Sylvester and the Magic Pebble.' Stories my mom used to read to me. I will spend every evening letting you hear my voice.
I just wish you could hear your father's voice as clearly as I can. It echoes through my mind and I wish it filled your world, too. I can't make it be heard. It would be my one wish for you, little one. To have Daddy here with Mommy. I can see him talking to my belly, telling you tales about crop circles and how great the New York Knicks are.
The darkness finally carries me off to where I really want to be. Takes me where I can hear his voice . . . .
You woke up crying. I knew the last few days had been too much to bear without some fallout. I sat in your bed, cradling your head on my lap as you cried, letting it all out.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Mulder. I know how much you wanted to find her alive," I whispered to you in the darkness. "I wish I could will her to be alive if only for you."
"All these years, Scully. I searched for someone who wasn't there all these years," you said, sniffling now. "If someone would have just told me. . ."
"Shh . . . you had to search for her, Mulder. It wasn't a waste of time because look what it has done? It brought me to you," I said, as I closed my eyes and thought about all the other paths my life could have taken without you. I didn't ever want to meet up with those paths again. This one was the right one. I even knew it then.
"And how many times have you almost died because of it? What have you lost because they lied about my sister?" you said, sitting up beside me. "What have you lost because I wouldn't give it up?"
I looked away from you, and stared blankly at the spot on my lap you just vacated. "I won't fight with you, Mulder. We've both lost a lot because of what they did. Things I'll . . . we'll never get back. But we have survived. We have each other."
You lifted my chin up so I was staring into your eyes. They still sparkled with tears. I pulled you closer so I could kiss you, to kiss the tears away. So I could kiss your face. So I could hear you moan when I ran my tongue across your lips and parted them so I could taste you.
I moved my mouth down your face and across your jaw, and the stubble brushed against my lips as I did so. You tasted like salt left from your tears and under that, you tasted like you. Undescribable in words yet a taste I wanted to savor forever. Your hands held on to me, steadying me as I slowly descended to where I wanted to be. I slid my tongue across each flat nipple, waiting for them to peak before I moved on. I trailed kisses down your stomach, finding just the right spot to make you quiver.
Pushing back, you leaned against the headboard and I made you lift your hips so I could tug down your pajama bottoms. No words had to be spoken. Making love to you was like a well-rehearsed dance.
My tongue swirled around the tip of your erection as I teased you into making that little sound I adore. I wrapped my hand around your thickness, sliding it up and down in rhythm to the actions of my tongue and I enjoyed tasting and touching you at the same time.
Your hands had let go of me as you grabbed onto the sheets, holding on for dear life. I could hear the fabric straining from the pressure of your fingertips and I loved that I could do that to you.
I wrapped my lips around you and took you in my mouth, savoring our moment of extreme intimacy. I felt you fight the urge to thrust up and I looked at your face quickly as I swiped a piece of my hair our of my face and tucked it behind my ear. You looked like you were someplace close to heaven. We made our own heaven, all those days and nights where we stole moments to be together. Stole them from the FBI and its auditors. Stole them from things that might have been more important. Stole them from the future.
My hand moved across your muscular thigh as I continued to take you in my mouth. I loved the feel of your body almost as much as I loved the scent and taste. I knew when it was through and you and I were sated, I would wait for you to sleep so I could touch you. It was what I always did. You just didn't know it.
I felt your body tense as I played you with my tongue. You were so close. Your fingers dug into the sheets deeper, holding on so tight.
"Scully, oh please . . ." you moaned and then you filled my mouth with thick, salty arcs of fluid. I drank you in, taking in one more taste. One more sensation of you I never wanted to be without.
Satisfied, you fell back down to earth and down to the bed, pulling me near. Your mouth was on mine, still filled with the taste of you, as you kissed me hard and long. Kissed me until you couldn't stay awake any longer.
"Scully . . . don't ever leave me. I love you," you whispered before you drifted off to sleep.
Leave you? How could I? How could I ever think of leaving you? I ran my hand up across the muscles in your arm, slack now with sleep. I touched you . . .
*RING*
*RING*
The phone. It drags my mind and dreams away from Mulder. Putting me back in my own bed almost all alone.
I grab for it hurriedly, hoping beyond hope that the news is good. At first I avoided answering it at all, afraid of what someone could be telling me on the other end of the line, but now I believe that hearing anything has got to be better than this unbearable lack of knowing.
"Dana?" a female voice asks before I have a chance to say anything. Confused and still groggy with sleep, I reach to turn on the lamp, casting a wide, yellow glow over the entire room. I look at the clock. I've been asleep for two hours. It can't be possible.
"This is Dana Scully," I creak, my throat parched from sleep.
"Dana, this is Nicole. I just got a strange phone call here. I think you might want to hear about it," she says, sounding wide awake as compared to me.
"Yes, Agent Scully. I think someone wants to talk," a male voice says as soon as she's done talking. I have to think about it for a second before I recognize him as Frohike.
"Frohike, what are you doing there?" I ask, even more confused now.
"You could have told me you cooked the fish before I drove over here to feed them," Frohike answers. They must both be on separate extensions, talking to me at the same time. Oh, God. I forgot to tell him other things, too.
"Or that there was some 'chickadee' living here," Nicole says flatly. Frohike probably already hit on her a million times since he got there. I can't believe I didn't call off the wolf pack before I fell asleep.
"I'm sorry, Nicole. He's harmless . . ."
"That's what you think," Frohike says, interrupting me.
" . . . usually. And he can show you how to operate the TV in the bedroom. Just skip a few channels in the 30s. Now, what was this phone call?" I finish, wanting them to get to the point. Wanting to get rid of them so I can sleep again.
"A man called here. I think he thought I was you, Dana. All he said was a series of letters and numbers. A location, I believe. Here. Let me get the paper I wrote it down on," she says and I hear her set the phone down.
"How are you feeling, Agent Scully?" Frohike asks. He doesn't know the truth. He just knows I was sick for a few weeks. I didn't tell the boys because I didn't want them doting over me. My mother is enough some days. And I'm sure part of the reason Skinner felt a need to find me a partner is so someone is always watching over me.
"I'm feeling better," I say, telling a half-truth. Physically, I am better. Emotionally, I'm still at the bottom.
"You know you can call us at any time, day or night . . ."
"Thank you, Frohike," I say and we don't say another word for a few seconds. We both know how hard this is. We both want him back, just for very different reasons.
"I got it," Nicole says, shaking me out of my quiet reverie. "The man told me ANC, section 3, lot number 2229-B, map grid P-13 on Saturday afternoon at 3 p.m. Does that mean anything to you?"
I think for a second. I've heard numbers like that many times . . . usually with my father looking for someone . . . dead.
"Arlington National Cemetery. The rest are the exact location of the burial site. Frohike, get on your cell phone and get with Langly. Find out who's buried in that plot," I say, sounding almost like a woman with some authority again and not just someone trudging through an oatmeal-textured life.
"Yes, ma'am," he says and I hear him hang up the receiver.
"Nicole, did he say anything else? What did his voice sound like," I ask, knowing she's trained just as well as I am to pick up on anything unusual.
"It was distorted. Like he was in a crowd. Your little friend here has someone working on tracing it, but so far they've come up with nothing. He asked if I was you and before I could claim otherwise, he started listing those numbers. I was doing paperwork when . . .um . . ."
"Frohike?" I ask, trying to fill in the blanks of her story.
"Yes. When Frohike showed up, so luckily I had my pen in hand when he called. He repeated it twice and hung up. That's all. Frohike here started tracing it immediately," she says, still sounding annoyed by his presence.
"Agent Scully," Frohike says, interrupting us. "Langly isn't having much luck with the search. If he's not famous, it might take a while to run it. Or if he was just interred in the last few days. We'll try to find it before morning."
"Thanks," I say but neither Nicole or Frohike say anything on the other end. "Frohike, show her how to use the TV and then get out, okay? I don't want to hear anything bad about you in the morning."
"Understood, my little delectable morsel of FBI Agent . . ."
I hear Nicole groan loudly right before she hangs both lines up.
**************
FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
May 27, 2000
1:19 p.m.
Nicole isn't here yet. I'm almost thankful. I check my e-mail hoping Frohike found something out about this 'meeting' but all he can tell us is that it is a plot where a funeral was held in the last two months and the occupant is a name I have either never heard or don't recall. There is nothing special about the man as far as anyone can tell.
I keep ending up at Arlington every year, it seems. Last year, Mulder came face to face with ghosts from the past there and this year, I get to face down the future. It is the only clear lead I've had so far and I wasn't even there to answer the phone when it came in. They thought she was me. I can only imagine what they think now.
Sitting down at Mulder's desk, I take out one of the many books I bought this morning on my way to work and begin thumbing through the brightly illustrated pages. It is a children's story, for the baby. I have to divide my time better. Learn to shift my focus from the baby's father to the baby. I have to do it for the baby.
It isn't easy to read a story out loud to an empty room, but the baby needs to know I'm here. Needs to hear more than my heartbeat in that warm, liquid world where he resides.
Charlie loved this book. I remember Melissa reading it to both of us until I was old enough to read it to him myself. I can still hear his laughter as we came to the end of the story, always happy with the positive outcome. Which is why I picked it up again.
"Sylvester Duncan lived with his mother and father at Acorn Road in Oatsdale. One of his hobbies was collecting pebbles of unusual shape and color . . ." I begin and then the words just flow. It is almost as if you are here in my arms already, my baby. I haven't even felt you move yet, but you are everything to me. I close my eyes at that thought. Everything is shifting. The focus is shifting easier than I ever imagined. It is almost inevitable, this mother-child bond. It is stronger than anything on earth.
Continuing with the story, I tell the tale about a small donkey who wishes for the wrong thing and is separated from his family. About his parents missed him and eventually found him. About how he was never that far away at all. They just didn't know where to look for him.
"After a month of searching the same places over and over again, and inquiring of the same animals over and over again, Mr. and Mrs. Duncan no longer knew what to do. They concluded that something dreadful must have happened and that they would probably never see their son again. Though all the time he was less than a mile away . . ."
I speak these words to you, my baby, all the while wishing it was your father's voice you could hear. Then I remember, somewhere in this office, there is a tape. Mulder had to give a presentation a while ago and he taped what he was going to say. I need to find it.
Digging through the collection of stuff that has gathered in here since it became our office again, I finally find it and hope Mulder didn't tape over it. I don't want to play those other tapes . . . the one of him discussing Samantha's abduction as he knew it then. I want these tapes. The ones where he laughed at his mistakes and I laughed in the background at how absurd some of the things he was proposing sounded as he said them aloud. Now I know better.
I take the tape and the player to his desk only to discover I can't press the play button. My finger hovers over it, brushing against the little forward arrow, but I'm not sure I'm ready for this. Do it, Dana, I tell myself. It is the same voice that rolls through your head constantly. It won't be any different.
Finally, I press it and his voice booms through the room. I don't turn it down for that would defeat the purpose.
". . . and then the SETI project has begun to examine further . . . what are you smiling at?" his voice asks and I can hear him laugh. I don't even remember what brought a smile to my face but it is bringing it back again now. Smiles and tears all at the same time. I rest my head on his desk next to the player and just listen to us banter back and forth as Mulder got nowhere with what he was trying to do. I believe he finished it after I left.
I open my eyes only to find someone staring at me from the doorway.
"Are you okay?" Nicole asks and I hurry to shut off the tape and put the books away.
"I . . . I'm fine. I just found this and I, uh . . ." I say, before realizing it is none of her damn business anyway. "Are you ready to go?"
"Whenever you are," she says, leaning against the doorframe with her hands tucked casually in her pockets.
"Let's go see what this is about," I say as I go by her. She moves out of the way so I can lock the door. So far, she hasn't asked for a key.
*****************
Arlington National Cemetery
2:30 p.m.
We park in the lot by the visitor center and begin our search for section 3, lot number 2229-B, map grid P-13 with a few questions to the staff. They hand us a map with the site marked to Nicole and we begin our trek out there.
Neither of us says anything to the other. Any ability I had for casual conversation seems to have been lost as of late. The weather and politics just don't seem to mean anything right now. I wish I could chit chat, but I seem incapable of initiating it.
"Where did Fox ever find that Frohike person?" Nicole asks, breaking the silence.
"That is a very long story. You should ask Frohike about it. He tells a much better version of it than Mulder ever does. And you only met one of the Three Amigos. It really only gets interesting when you have the three of them calling the shots," I say, remembering my 'trip' through Las Vegas with them all too clearly.
"And you keep them around for what purpose?" Nicole ask, sounding doubtful about the boys' ability to do anything useful.
"I used to ask Mulder that very question, but they are faithful to the end and have come to our rescue more than once. Plus they are the only ones who really know how to get that cable in Mulder's apartment to work . . ."
"Those channels you told me to skip? They were rather interesting," she says with a smile, and I look at her out of the corner of my eye. "Certainly lets you know what men think with."
"And I wish I had some of those thoughts around here right now."
It slips out of my mouth without thinking. She and I laugh, but she laughs a little too loudly and some people resting flowers against a headstone turn to stare at us. She just waves at them and they turn around quickly.
She strikes me as being comfortable about most anything. In some strange way, she reminds me of what Mulder might have been like had he not stumbled onto the X-Files. Comfortable and easy going instead of paranoid. It could have all been different.
We approach the burial site and slow down as we notice a young man wearing what I recognize to be a naval academy midshipman uniform pacing around nervously. He looks over his shoulder several times before noticing us. He looks like he's ready to run away any second now.
"Hello," Nicole says, offering him a glowing smile that puts him slightly more at ease. She is taller than him . . . taller than both of us . . . and he is presently admiring all of that height.
"Are you Agent Scully?" he asks her with a great deal of hope in his voice.
"I'm Agent Scully," I respond and he finally takes his eyes off Nicole and looks at me. "What is it you had to tell us?"
He looks at the headstone on the gravesite he's pacing over. Captain Andrew Michael Lawton. I still don't recognize the name but he died this year. The little American flag in front of the grave marker waves in the gentle breeze, moving in time with the rest of them placed out here for the holiday.
"My name is Tim. That's my dad. He was a test pilot for the Navy. Or rather, he was a naval aviator who tested experimental aircraft for the United States government. From what we were able to gather from the broken bits of information the DOD would give us, he was killed in Oregon somewhere near a little town called Bellefleur. I see you've heard of it," he says as both Nicole and I collectively suck in a breath.
I should have recognized the name. It was in the papers when we were in Bellefleur and I'm sure it was in one of the reports Mulder had started to write. It is the name of the pilot he complained he couldn't find any information about.
"I'm sorry about your loss, Tim," I say, staring him in the eyes. There is something incredibly angry behind their soft brownness and I'm not sure he knows anything or if he's venting to someone he thinks shares a common bond.
"Funny thing is, Agent Scully, it isn't the first time we've lost him," he says with a laugh. "He's disappeared before, only to come back home a few months later sicker than a dog, but always with an excuse as to why he had to be gone. Life of a test pilot and all. Of course, the Navy never went as far as burying him before, so no one was sure if he was coming back this time."
"What can we do for you, Tim?" Nicole asks him bluntly as she looks at her watch. He takes his eyes off of me long enough to give her a startled glance before focusing on me again.
"I'm getting to that. The thing is, Agent Scully, they would never let us see his body. I know what you are thinking . . . there was no body left after that crash, but they wouldn't even show us a fragment of his remains. They said it had to be sealed off," he says, crossing his arms in front of him.
"I'm sure they had their reasons," I say, wanting him to tell me more. I had no better luck getting to the Navy's report on the crash than Mulder did since it was top secret. The boys couldn't even hack their way to it.
"That's what I kept telling myself until Wednesday. I got a phone call. They went through a lot of trouble finding me since it was graduation day and the place was crazy. My older brother, Ted, graduated and the call was for him, but the message got mixed up and I ended up with the call," he says.
"Who was on the phone?" Nicole asks, slowly becoming more interested in his story.
"I think it was from my dad. It sounded like my dad," he says. His expression becomes pinched as he tries to finish his story. He sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
"What did your dad say?" I ask, my mind not yet able to put together what this all might mean. Was his father abducted and now returned? If he was, that could only mean one thing . . .
"He said that I was supposed to call you. He even gave me that phone number. He said that only you would be able to help 'them,' whatever that means. He said to tell you they are closer than you can even imagine."
**************
Return to the main Calendar Girl II page.
Read the next part in the series, Calendar Girl II: Seeing You.
The story quoted in part is the Caldecott Medal Winner 'Sylvester and the Magic Pebble' by William Steig, published in 1969. No copyright infringement intended.
