Title: Lucid Moments Author: Alelou Feedback: Alelou123@aol.com (feedback of any ilk is welcome) Rating: PG-13 for language Spoilers: Big ones for DeadAlive and previous episodes Category: Major angst, M/S Distribution: Gossamer and anywhere with headers attached Disclaimer: These characters belong to CC, 1013 & Fox. Summary: Various impossibilities are reconciled with a reality that is even less desirable. Author's Notes: Jamie's comment about formaldehyde and this entire whacked-out season inspired this one. Do not read this if you want one of my patented happy endings. However, I am incapable of being totally bleak (at least until I see the season finale). Mulder smells. Decomposing bodies generally reek in a way that makes the average human gag. It's an inescapable fact of death. As bacteria consume dead flesh, they generate a high, sickly-sweet odor. But that's not the way Mulder smells. No, this is a Mulder-After-Sweating-Two-Days-Without-a-Shower smell, mixed in with a few hospital smells. It's quite familiar, really. Yeasty, salty, musky. Very Mulder. A Mulder who's very much alive. Something's wrong here. You can't be buried in the ground for a month and smell like this. I don't care what alien viruses happen to join the dance of decay. I'm sitting here while he sleeps and miraculously breathes air into lungs that were empty and cold and his once silent heart pumps blood through a network of arteries and veins that should no longer be capable of circulation. I guess this means they didn't use formaldehyde? I don't remember saying, hey, no formaldehyde for my dead alien-abducted partner. I didn't want an autopsy, but I didn't make a fuss otherwise. What would have been the point? The thing is, this just really, really can't be happening. I shiver and feel myself break out in a clammy cold sweat as the realization sinks in. This is, in fact, impossible. Flat out impossible. I suppose maybe if Jesus Christ himself had walked in and said, "Arise," there might be some explanation for how Mulder is lying here breathing. But I haven't seen anyone even approximately meeting the description around here ... not even Jeremiah Smith. A clone? I suppose it's possible. He seemed so real when he woke. He knew me. But who knows what they can do, these people. So it's possible. Or maybe he's actually an alien? It happened to Billy Miles, also inexplicably. What if they can come back in different forms? Maybe there are different aliens? But why bother with the whole being-buried-in-the-ground business if you don't have to? Hardly a very convenient way to colonize a planet. If it's not him, what if it's me? Maybe that huge fungus that had us left a few spores in my lungs and they've sprouted? Or we're still there, buried in the ground? Maybe I never woke up from the bee sting? Never woke up from the last gunshot wound? It would explain this strange pregnancy that can't have happened and never seems to progress. It would explain how I never quite seem to get around to looking for Mulder ... not to mention the impossibility of Mulder lying here breathing in front of me. It might explain that inxplicable illness I didn't know about, and the ship I finally saw, and the reappearance of Jeremiah Smith. It might even explain John Doggett and the strange little Indian on the cart and the slug messiah. Can I even be sure that I lost Mulder? Maybe he lost me. Maybe I finally went insane. If not, this is looking like it might be a good time. xxx "She's mumbling something," Maggie Scully says. "Uh?" Mulder starts awake from where he's been dozing in the side chair. "Come on, Dana, wake up," Maggie urges. "Why not let her sleep?" Mulder asks bleakly. Maggie brushes her daughter's hair repetitively. "I want whatever time I can have," she says fiercely. He nods miserably. "I'll be back in a few minutes," he says, pulling himself to his feet stiffly. xxx I wake up to the sound of my mother crooning my name. When I open my eyes, she smiles, looking a lot older than I remembered. "Hey, sweetie," she says. "Hi, Mom." I feel strange. Woozy. "How do you feel?" "What happened to me?" "You passed out in the woods near here, while you and Fox were on a case." "In Oregon?" Oh. Well, of course, in Oregon. "Where's Mulder?" I demand. "He'll be back in a few moments. He's been here the whole time, believe me." I stare at her. "How long?" She looks as if she'd like to avoid the question. "Two days," she says. I'm still trying to figure that one out when Mulder comes back in with a doctor in tow. Mulder looks gaunt and worried and unbathed. But he's here. He's alive. I sigh in relief and smile at him. His smile back is more of a grimace. My heart begins to thump as I realize there's something very wrong here. "Scully, this is Dr. John Doggett," Mulder says, gesturing to the man at his side, before he sinks back into his chair next to me and clasps my left hand. Mom hasn't let go of the other one. "How do you feel, Miss Scully?" the doctor asks, in a rasping voice that seems somehow familiar. "What's the matter with me?" I ask, but with a cold spreading sense of horror I realize I already know. "It's back, isn't it? The cancer." Mulder chokes back tears at my left while Mom sniffles on my right. "I'm afraid so," the doctor says. "The tumor is still relatively small, but it's growing into your cerebellum. The flight may have contributed to some swelling that caused you to pass out. Tell me, have you been suffering at all from headaches, perhaps even hallucinations?" A man on the cross winking at me. A man reaching into my chest for my heart. A vision in a Buddhist temple. A partner abducted and tortured by aliens. A mysterious neurological illness in a notoriously healthy man. An impossible pregnancy. Fuck. "That bastard took the chip out, didn't he?" I whisper. "That must have been part of his agenda all along." The doctor and my mother exchange concerned glances. "It's not there anymore," Mulder confirms, his voice bitter. I'm relieved that at least one person knows what I'm talking about. Of course, this whole thing could be just another dream, I suppose. "How are you feeling right now?" the doctor asks me. "I'm not sure what's real anymore," I confess. Mulder bows his head and clutches my hand harder. "How long do I have?" I ask the doctor, wondering if this is just another bad dream I'm living through. He hesitates. "As you know, I can only give you an inexact estimate, but I would guess you have less than six months without treatment. With radiation treatments to keep the tumor in check, you may gain additional time, but there are likely to be some unpleasant side- effects. As I believe you know, there are no satisfactory surgical or chemical options with a tumor in this location. We can certainly try the experimental therapy your oncologist used the last time, but he was not at all sanguine that it was what led to your remission. In any case, however, Dana, as time goes by you're going to have fewer periods of lucidity." "Has it metastasized?" "There's no sign of that. But, frankly, I wouldn't say that you need concern yourself greatly with that issue at this point," the doctor said. "And I'm not pregnant," I say to nobody in particular. They look at each other in veiled consternation. No, of course not. Of course not. "We need another chip," I say to Mulder, as if he could go out and get one as easily as buying a loaf of bread. Mulder agrees, "Yes, that's what we need," but he looks haunted and grim. xxx "What is it?" I ask him, later, after Mom has left for a meal and a shower and he's gotten past the Scully I'm So Sorry stuff. "Spender was found dead two days ago," he said. "And Skinner has just been asked for major cuts in our budget." "So I didn't just hallucinate that audit." "No," he says, with a small smile. "Did I hallucinate the part where you assaulted the auditor?" "No, but I was exaggerating. I did try insulting him, but I don't think he got it." We've been holding hands for hours. Nothing like mortal illness to bring out the latent affection in this relationship. I squeeze his hand and he squeezes mine back. "Why did you ask him if you were pregnant?" Mulder asks quietly, smoothing my hair back possessively. I lean into his hand. "I'm not late or anything. I had this long, involved dream while I was out, I guess. In it, I fainted because I was pregnant. And you were the father, Mulder, I'm happy to say, but unfortunately you were abducted by aliens so you didn't even know it." "Oh," he says, looking bemused. "You would tell me if you were ill, wouldn't you, Mulder?" I ask. "Of course I would," he says, looking concerned again. "So you're not ill." "No, but I think I'm beginning to lose my hair," he says. "And at this point I could probably use about 30 years of therapy. Where's this coming from, Scully?" "Dreams," I sigh. "Bad dreams." xxx "So does my disability pay come out of our now even more limited budget?" I ask later. "Nah, the Bureau has insurance for that," Mulder mumbles. "Well, good," I say. "I swear if that bastard wasn't dead already, I'd kill him," Mulder hisses. "I'm glad you aren't the kind of man who actually does that," I say. "But on the other hand, at this point I'd probably volunteer to help you do it. How did he die?" "The nurse said Krycek pushed him down the stairs in his wheelchair." "Nice." "Mmm," Mulder agrees. "Krycek has, of course, disappeared." We sit there in silence for a few moments. "We're so screwed," I say. Mulder squeezes my hand. "We'll find a way, Scully." THE END