11/22/01
Title: Betwixt and Between
Author: ML
Email: msnsc21@aol.com
Distribution: Ephemeral, Gossamer, yes; if you've archived 
me before, yes; otherwise, please just let me know and leave 
headers, email addy, etc. attached. Thanks!
Spoilers: DeadAlive, Three Words
Rating: PG
Classification: Vignette, Scully POV 
Summary: Companion piece to "Lock-out Time."  Takes place some 
time during Three Words.

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, they belong to Chris 
Carter, TenThirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  I mean no infringement, 
and I'm making no money.

Extra-special thanks to Shoshana, who gave me an idea to continue 
from "Lock-out Time."  Thanks, hon!

====

Betwixt and Between
by ML

...he rose up, quaking, and for the first time since he stood 
on the window ledge, he remembered a lady who had been very fond 
of him... "I suppose," said Peter huskily, "I suppose I can still 
fly?"

You see, he had lost faith.

"Poor little half-and-half!"  said Solomon... "You shall be a 
Betwixt-and-Between..."

-from "Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens" by J.M. Barrie

x-x-x-x

Scully startles awake and lies listening.  Is that really the 
phone, or the echo of one from her dream?

Dreams and nightmares aren't uncommon for her, but they've gotten 
worse since the beginning of her pregnancy.  How much this is due 
to her condition, and how much due to the traumatic events occurring 
at the same time, she couldn't say.

The visions were the worst.  Visions of Mulder being tortured, 
visions of him dead.  And the very last vision she'd had of him,
standing, just standing in the dimness of her room in Montana.  
It reminded her of the vision she'd had of her father the night 
he died.  Though she hadn't wanted to believe it, when she saw 
Mulder standing there, she'd known at some level that he was dead.

When she hears it ring again, Scully begins to believe it really 
is the phone.  She fumbles for it at her bedside, leaning awkwardly 
because of her girth.  She hasn't gotten many late-night calls since 
Mulder's abduction and subsequent return.  In fact, the first one 
she'd gotten in months was the one summoning her to Annapolis after 
Mulder had been exhumed.  She remembers the sense of unreality and 
disorientation when she got the call, still uncertain as she drove 
through the night that it was real.  Until she actually saw Skinner 
in the corridor, she'd been afraid she'd show up at the hospital 
only to find that no one had called her, it was just another 
nightmare.

Too many nights she'd awakened in the middle of the night, heart 
pounding, sure she'd heard the phone, feeling the echo of it in 
her ears.  She'd longed so for the familiar, "Hey Scully, it's 
me," that sometimes she'd been sure she heard it.

She clicks the phone on and says, "hello?", not at all sure, even 
now, that anyone will answer on the other end.

For a moment, no one does.

"Scully?"  The voice sounds small, far away, someone calling from 
another life, another dimension.  "Scully, it's me."

"Mulder," she breathes back.  She'd ask what's wrong, but she 
already knows.  She lies in the dark with the phone at her ear, 
just listening to his breathing and her heartbeats.

"Scully?" he says again after several heartbeats.

"I'm here, Mulder," she whispers, as if speaking aloud might scare 
him away.

Several more heartbeats.

"I'm sorry I bothered you," she hears him say.  His voice sounds 
rusty, unused to speaking.

"Mulder, it's okay," she says quickly.  Don't hang up, she thinks. 
Please don't hang up.

"I just.  I just wanted to hear your voice," he says.

She almost can't speak after hearing this, but manages, "Okay," 
and then can't think of anything else to say.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Count the heartbeats.  The silence between them presses on her 
ears.

"Scully..." his voice is so soft, it's barely even a whisper.

"I'm here, Mulder," she repeats.  "I'm right here."

"Scully."  She hears a slight throat clearing on his end.  
"Scully, would it be okay if I came over?  I know it's late..."

"Yes," she says quickly, before he can backpedal.  Her heartbeat 
quickens.  She can feel tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.  
"Yes."

"Okay."  The line goes dead.  

Scully holds the receiver to her ear even after the dialtone starts. 
Mulder did ask to come over, didn't he?  This wasn't another dream, 
was it?  

She levers herself out of bed and shuffles into the kitchen to make 
some tea.  She gets down two mugs, and finds some of the tea she 
knows Mulder likes.  She will go on the assumption that Mulder 
really is coming over; it will give her something to do.  She won't 
be able to go back to sleep anyway, dream or no dream.

It wasn't just a dream, was it?

The only thing she has to go by is that it's nothing like any of 
the dreams she's had lately.  Mulder has been in them, but not 
really as a participant.

After Mulder's funeral, the tenor of her dreams had changed.  Some 
people might consider them good dreams, but to Scully, they were 
threaded through with melancholy.

She dreamed of a family, her family.  Mother, child, and...father, 
or at least father-figure.  In a house, in a room, tucking in a 
child, reading him a story, while someone, a man, stood behind her, 
close enough for her to feel his warmth.  She could never see his 
face, but she knew it couldn't be Mulder.

She knew this because Mulder was usually standing in the shadows, 
gazing on this family tableau.  He never said anything, just 
looked.  But Scully felt the accusation and the guilt nonetheless.  
"You didn't wait for me," the apparition seemed to say.  "You 
moved on."

Oddly, it's nothing she's even considered for a minute during 
waking hours.  She'd decided that without Mulder, she'd rather go 
it alone.  She couldn't imagine any kind of life with someone else, 
and she wondered if that's why the man in her dreams is never 
distinct, no more than a male presence who is not Mulder, and 
therefore negligible.

Dream interpretation has never been Scully's interest; Melissa 
used to dabble in it, years ago, and would cajole Scully into 
telling her dreams.  The ones Scully remembered weren't anything 
unusual.  The subconscious fear of forgetting a locker combination, 
or walking into the wrong class, or some weird adventure with a 
friend or a boy she had a crush on.  Melissa's interpretations of 
them were pretty mundane, though she always tried to jazz them up 
with mysterious hints and predictions.  It was all good fun, and 
Scully didn't give Melissa's interpretations much credence.  These 
dreams trouble Scully, however.  Especially now that Mulder is 
back.

Are these dreams she's been having now her subconscious desires, 
or her fears?  Are they her wishes for herself, or someone else's 
wishes?  And if it's what she wants, why does it make her so sad?

She turns on the tap, letting the stream of cold water run over 
her hand for a long time before she fills the kettle.

Mulder has been distant since his return and Scully isn't sure what 
to do about it.  She's given him his space, though she's tried to 
let him know how glad she is that he's back.

He told her he didn't know where he fit in.  As if she'd chosen to 
move on without him.  As if he could see her dreams, somehow, and 
felt betrayed by them.  He's never said it or even implied it, but 
she wonders if he blames her for burying him.  She blames herself. 
Though she examined him over and over again, she'd come up with 
the same answer every time.  Mulder was dead, and in fact appeared 
to have been dead for days.  She still feels guilty.  What did she 
miss?  How could she have overlooked even the slightest sign of 
life?

She sways a little against the kitchen counter, sudden grief and 
the effects of sleeplessness temporarily overtaking her.  She bites 
back a sob, pressing her knuckles against her mouth to keep it in, 
even though there's no one to hear her.

She needs to compose herself before Mulder gets here.  She needs to 
be strong for him.  She doesn't want to appear needy.  He has too 
much to deal with and he doesn't need to feel any sense of 
obligation to her.

Her hand feels cool and she presses it against her cheeks, one and 
then the other, and against the back of her neck.

She paces through the living room and back into the kitchen, hands 
rubbing absently over her rounded belly.  How long has it been 
since Mulder called?  Scully tries to calculate how long it could 
take for a taxi to pick him up.  She knows how long the drive 
should take from previous experience.

The knock on the door startles her.  Until she heard it, she had 
been almost certain she'd dreamed his call.  She tries not to rush 
to the door and yank it open.  She takes a deep breath and turns 
the knob.

He stands with his hand raised as if to knock again.  His eyes 
are shadowed against the dim light of the hallway.  His cheeks 
are stubbled.  He's still so painfully thin.  She resists the urge 
to put her arms around him, and instead stands aside so he can 
enter.  He gives her not a smile, really, but a slight lifting of 
the corners of his mouth as he comes in.  His arm brushes very 
lightly against her stomach; he can hardly help it, she's so big.  
She feels a slight tremor and isn't sure if it's the baby's 
response, or hers.

She's glad to see that the scars on Mulder's cheeks are fading more 
every time she sees him.  She's sure that the other physical scars, 
both external and internal, are too.

All the same, it worries her a little.  Is he really himself?  She 
believes it in her heart, but her mind sometimes rebels, despite 
what she's seen and experienced.  She will only admit to the 
slightest fear that he is not what he seems, that some part of 
him is still in the grip of something alien.  She wonders if her 
restraint in touching him is only because she's respecting his 
wishes, or because of that tiny fear, too.

Maybe Mulder is still afraid of that, too.

"Come in," she says unnecessarily, since he's already in.  She 
gestures toward the couch.  "I'm just making some tea, I'll be 
right back."

He nods and shuffles over to the couch.  It's painful to see him 
moving so tentatively, where he's always been so confident in the 
past.

Scully stays in the kitchen waiting for the water to boil, giving 
herself time to compose herself.  What should she say to him?  
What is he going to say to her?  

I will not cry, she tells herself.  I need to be strong.

Never mind that in the back of her mind, she thinks, when will 
it be okay for me to feel again?  

When she returns to the living room with the tea, Mulder is sitting 
with his eyes closed.  As she approaches the couch, she realizes 
that he is asleep.  She quietly sets the mugs down and curls up as 
well as she can on the other end of the couch, watching him.

After a while, she feels drowsy, too, and closes her eyes, laying 
her head on the armrest.

When she wakes up in the morning, she finds that she's still on 
the couch, but she's been moved so that her legs are now stretched 
out along the cushions.  She also has a blanket tucked around her.

The mugs, with tea untouched, sit on the table next to her.  And 
Mulder is sleeping in the big armchair, his legs propped up on 
the hassock.  He's found another blanket for himself and his head 
lolls against the back of the chair. 

Scully finds herself almost overwhelmed with tears again.  He's 
still here; last night wasn't a dream after all.  Not that 
anything has been resolved or even spoken of, but she has hope 
that it can be. 

end.

Thanks for reading! Feedback is welcomed at: 
msnsc21@aol.com 

find my other stories at:
http://www.kimpart.com/mlfic.html