TITLE: Reflections of a Rainy Night
AUTHOR: Dlynn
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: Vignette,UST,DAL
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: dlynn1550@my-deja.com
FEEDBACK: I've never written anything before so be gentle.
SPOILERS: Red and Black, Christmas Carol, Emily
SUMMARY: An innocent question leads Mulder into 
contemplation.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: When I first wrote this, I did not know 
about xfc-atxc so I didn't post here. I thought I'd post it 
to the group now that I've found you. Not only is this my 
first foray into fan fiction, this is my first attempt at 
creative writing since high school english class. I won't 
even tell you how long ago that was. 
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Mulder and Scully or anything 
pertaining to the X-FILES. I realize that all things X 
belong to Fox , Chris Carter and 1013.

Reflections of a Rainy Night

Mulder stood quietly at the hotel window. He pushed back 
the stiff, beige drapes the few inches needed to peer out 
into the hotel's small parking lot. He could see the cars 
and trucks lined up in neat little rows, each with signs 
signifying the driving habits  of their occupants.  The 
rain still drizzled down in a fine mist he could only see 
when he looked at it through the outdoor floodlight's harsh 
glare.  The rain droplets were spattered on the hood of the 
car directly in front of his window.  It was there his eyes 
settled.  

He had noticed the vehicle earlier  in the day. Now with 
the darkness nestled around him, he was drawn back to look 
more closely. It was a midnight blue minivan, streaked and 
dirty with highway mud. But it was well cared for as 
attested by the new wax job. The droplets gathered in neat 
little spherical blobs on the hood.

Bringing his hand once more to the hotel window, he noticed 
the large glass pane appeared to be sweating. It was that 
streaky condensation which always exists when the humidity 
outside clashes with cool air-conditioned air. He trailed 
his hand slowly over its cold, hard surface, feeling the 
moisture beneath the calluses of his palm. He gently turned 
his hand over, flexing the fingers and examining the 
moisture collected at their tips, mesmerized as if he had 
never seen such a thing.

After staring for several seconds at his hand, like it was 
some new mystery yet to be discovered, he laid it gently 
back down on the window glass.  Bringing his eyes up again 
to the dreary parking lot in front of him, he stared.

The blue minivan was still there, still glistening with the 
fine rain sheen. He let his eyes travel over the vehicle. 
Even when he wasn't consciously making the effort, he still 
used an investigator's eyes. 

He noticed the large plastic, car top carrier shell 
strapped to the top. He saw, in either haste or weariness, 
the driver hadn't completely latched the lid. The van's 
dashboard was strewn with little pieces of slick, yellow 
paper, probably candy wrappers that  hadn't made it into 
the trash. There was change, and bobby pins and some little 
piece of ribbon with a nipple attached. Oh. one of those 
pacifier things with the little clips to clamp to baby's 
shirt. It helped expedite matters when one needed to put " 
a cork in it". 

The car seat was visible, attached snuggly to the middle 
seat. An orange stuffed animal was in it.  He was perched 
on his head, his furry little orange legs sticking up under 
the safety seat shoulder harness.  He appeared to have been 
unceremoniously dropped. Assuredly someone would need to 
fetch him before too long if his less than pristine 
condition was testament to how well loved the little Muppet  
was ---"Elmo" that was it!  

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He 
remembered how Scully wanted to just  "check out" the local  
Wal-Mart several weeks ago in search of some elusive tickle 
monster. Her whole family was on its trail in order to 
fulfill young Mathew's Christmas list. Never mind her 
nephew was currently less than a year old and probably 
didn't know an Elmo from a Big Bird. That was beside the 
point. the chase was on. He understood probably better than 
most the thrill of the chase.

Bringing his thoughts back inside his room, Mulder glanced 
down at a small round wooden table. On top of it were the 
tell tale signs of his less than perfect housekeeping 
habits. There were jumbled papers that had been rifled 
through way too many times; styrofoam cups, some empty and 
tipped over and others with dark, noxious looking liquid 
residue he'd hate to run by any lab. 

There were pencils with little teeth marks, looking like 
tiny mice had gnawed them. A pile of sunflower seed hulls 
had gotten interspersed with the papers and cups. Trailing 
off the edge of the table, they were scattered throughout 
the shag fibers of the dingy carpet. There were corners of  
pictures sticking out beneath the stacks of papers. 
Glossies of  "crime scene" photos that were too abhorrent 
to leave out where one had to see them all the time.

He gently reached under the precarious pile, pulling out 
one of the photos. In the dim light from the parking lot, 
he could just barely see the badly burned form of a mother 
and child. It was another one of  those group human 
bonfires, like the one at Ruskin Dam where he had almost 
lost Scully. This was  black and white proof of the world 
coming to an end in  such small increments society at large 
was still ignorant to the potential horrors that lay ahead. 

Even with as much as he and Scully knew, there were still 
so many questions. There were so many truths to uncover, an 
overwhelming feeling time was speeding up to break neck 
speed heading toward a cataclysmic ending. There was no way 
to slow it down. No way to say "hey wait a minute. I've got 
to catch up here!".

Surprisingly, it wasn't the "weight of the world" kind of 
burden keeping him awake tonight. It was a burden of a more 
personal nature. He was not grieving for those poor souls 
caught up like lemmings in the upcoming holocaust, in a 
battle for which they had no control over their actions or 
their lives. He was grieving the loss of control in his own 
life.

It wasn't like he had a lot of choice anymore. In fact, 
ever since that fateful night over 25 years ago when a 
young boys' innocence was yanked from him as surely as the 
younger sister "he lost", he'd really had no choice. Oh 
sure, he could have given into the darkness, dropped deep 
into the alluring comfort of depression or worse yet 
succumbed to mind numbing indifference, placing Samantha in 
a box with barely recognizable memories of song fragments, 
fairy tales or ghost stories... a specter only haunting him 
in the darkest hours of dreaming.

But he chose. He made a conscious choice to survive, 
however dysfunctional his life may seem to those who think 
they know him. He had his intellect, his education, and his 
tenure with the bureau. He had his memories, fragmented and 
suspect though they might be. He had the x-files, his quest 
for the truth, his railings against the shadows and he had 
Scully. In a world so totally out of control, where order 
was only an illusion, Mulder felt that he had been  holding 
his own.

The grainy photo fell gently from his hand to the floor, 
landing midst the empty seed shells. Turning once more 
toward the window, he saw the outer door next to his slam 
open. He could hear frustrated voices over the din of a 
crying baby, the piercing glare of that room's overhead 
lights escaping into the blackness in front of his window 
perch.

 A harried, young man sprinted into the drizzle, hastily 
unlocking the sliding door on the mini van. He reached 
inside, grabbing the Elmo doll by his foot and eased back 
out of the van. Grinning, he held it over his head like a 
trophy and yelled back toward the room, 
"Hey, I found it!"  He trotted once more to the open door, 
back into the warmth of the room, triumphantly returning 
with his treasure. As the door softly closed behind him, 
the small amount of light that had permeated the gloom 
disappeared, leaving the dreariness behind. 

His thoughts focused again on the rain outside. It was 
picking up. The droplets were beginning to bounce off 
metal, glass and concrete. No longer a fine mist, but 
spattering, stinging precipitation,  much like the showers 
that had soaked he and Scully earlier in the day. It had 
been a cold, piercing rain pelting them out at the crime 
site, one of those dismal afternoons where you were chilled 
to the bone and nothing  you did seemed to warm  you up.
Ruefully he noted that it could have been 75 blissfully 
sunny degrees and they still would have suffered from the 
aches of a frozen spirit. Not only did they have to deal 
with the horror of another mass burning but also, the 
anniversary of Emily's death. One year ago Scully found and 
lost a daughter in only the space of a week. She was the 
daughter that never should have been, probably her one and 
only chance at biological motherhood.

He knew the day was difficult for her. She didn't let on in 
such a way the casual observer would have seen anything 
other than the professional agent she was. But the casual 
observer didn't know what to look for, didn't know the 
extra tightness around the mouth, the haunted sadness in 
the eyes was far more than just empathy for so many whom 
had horrifically died. 
 
The tragedy of the day was profound on so many levels. It 
was another vicious reminder of her vulnerability, their 
vulnerability. Another reminder of  the gray area they 
traversed.  Nothing was black and white anymore. 
Consequences for actions, choosing the lesser of two evils 
was becoming so much of who they were. Daily they were 
reminded of the gradual ways control had begun to 
disappear. Such subtle small instances, in hindsight 
foreshadowing  the increasingly painful decisions that had 
to be made.

Her decision to join him in the basement was subsequently 
followed by her abduction at the hands of a shadow 
government. Her cancer was miraculously cured but at the 
expense of her free will. She worried about being "called" 
again due to the chip in her neck. He walked a fine line 
between informants, the syndicate, the FBI, conspiracies, 
the resistance and his own conscience. Ethics and morality 
were getting so muddled up with expediency. He feared that 
ignorance would not only be the death of he and Scully but 
also of their world.

In the middle of all of that; in the middle of dealing with 
global issues, there was also the intimate personal 
tragedies coloring their lives. There never seemed to be 
time to dwell on these. Sometimes he wondered how much they 
could continue to handle before they lost it. How much 
could two lives endure, how much betrayal  and pain could 
they suffer, without collapsing from the weight.  To work 
through the nightmares,  might be psychologically 
beneficial, but who had the time to afford to this self-
healing.
 
So they shoved it all down, pushing every monster, every 
betrayal and tragedy deep into the inner recesses of their 
minds. All it added was one more layer of distrust, one 
more emotional wall separating them  from the rest of the 
world. 

Mulder gently reached down,  picking up the discarded 
picture from the floor, laying it face down on  top of the 
table. Haunting him was the visage of the mother, bent 
protectively over her child.

"How long have you been standing there?," he sighed rising 
and facing the window again. He could hear her soft breaths 
coming  from the doorway between their adjoining rooms. He 
had on a subconscious level been aware of her presence for 
some time. Whether it had been a "feeling" or his brain's 
awareness of  her delicate perfume, he had known she was 
there. He just hadn't been ready to recognize it yet.

"Awhile," she replied, moving farther into the room, far 
enough for her to be seen  in the diffused light of the 
window but still distanced from him. It was as if she were 
afraid of getting too close.

"What do you see out there, Mulder," Scully queried. "What 
holds you tonight and keeps you from sleep?"

"Ah, Scully. You know me. Since when do I need an excuse 
not to visit with the sandman. He and I haven't been on 
speaking terms in quite some time. How do you spell 
insomnia?..M..U..L."

"Mulder you're avoiding."

"Scully you're "mothering..he trailed off, letting the 
words just hang there.

"I'm sorry Scully," he apologized slowly turning from the 
window to face his partner. He could kick himself for 
inflicting the hurt she quickly tried to cover up by 
organizing  his haphazard mess on the table.
 
"That was another example of me having the sensitivity of a 
turnip where your feelings are concerned."

"Well maybe Mr. Potato head", she affectionately recalled, 
alluding to the potato faces he had made for Emily just 
last year. "Mulder, don't beat yourself up. I'm .

"fine", he finished for her with a smirk.

She chuckled, pushing a strand of auburn hair behind her 
ear. 

"Yes , Mulder, I'm fine. I won't say that the last few days 
haven't been difficult.. but Mulder, thoughts of Emily are 
always with me. Today isn't any different from any other 
day with regards to that."

Mulder walked toward her, putting his hand gently over the 
back of her neck, briefly touching the spot where her 
implant was imbedded. Resignedly dropping his hand to his 
side, he said, "Yes, but it's not every day you have to 
deal with those memories as well as confronting  the 
possible consequences of having that thing a part of your 
body."

"No, Mulder, it's been a hell of a day. You're right."
Scully  reached down to the table. Picking up the photo 
that had so fascinated him. "I won't lie to you. Seeing all 
this again just makes me feel sick and scared and 
vulnerable and so many other emotions that I can't begin to 
quantify them all. And yes, my feelings about Emily are all 
jumbled up in there somewhere but you know that.," she 
finished.

"This," she gestured at the window and the thunderous 
downpour wreaking havoc outside, "is not about all that 
though. This is about you, Mulder. There's more going on 
tonight than your usual guilt trip where I'm concerned. 
You've been this way since this afternoon."

Scully tentatively reached out, placing her hand on his 
forearm, touching the soft fleece of his sweatshirt. She 
raised her face to his, forcing him to meet her eyes, to 
stare into their compassionate blue countenance.

"What did the coroner say to you this afternoon?" Scully 
felt the tremor in his arm as he pulled away from her. He 
walked back to the window just as a lightening flash 
illuminated the room and his face enough to see his pained 
expression.

"I know there was something," she pressed. "I was coming to 
talk with you just as you were finishing up with her. You 
blew right by me as though I weren't there. And I know damn 
well you saw me."

Mulder continued gazing out the window, not really with any 
cognizance as to what he was seeing. The silence from her 
unanswered questions filled the room but Scully waited. She 
seated herself on the edge of his bed trying to get 
comfortable. As the quiet loomed between them, she scooted 
herself farther up pulling one of the pillows  out from 
beneath the spread. She lay down on her stomach, situating 
the pillow up under her crossed arms. She rested her head 
while she watched and waited for him.

He knew that he would eventually have to give in. She was 
going to lay there and wait. More times than not they 
avoided the emotional minefields of their lives. Knowing 
each time they revealed a little more of themselves, it 
only made it harder to deny the strength of their feelings 
toward one another. And for reasons he couldn't even 
remember, he knew he should keep that distance from her, 
not allow himself to sink into the comfort that she could 
offer.

Mulder turned abruptly. He pulled the curtains tightly 
closed, effectively blocking out any light save for the 
narrow glowing band spilling over the edges of the drapes 
where they came together less than perfectly. The sliver of 
light was no more than a night light but it was sufficient 
for him to at least dimly view her face. He slid his long 
body down the wall, resting with his back against the door, 
facing the bed where she reclined patiently. He dangled his 
hands over his bent knees and looked up at her.                                                                                        
"Hey Scully?"

"Yes Mulder."

"Do you remember?" he started.

"Our first case. It was the night I careened into your 
hotel room in the middle of a storm scared to death I was 
going to be the next abduction victim," she finished for 
him.


"Ah, you were so cute Scully." 
"I was naive Mulder. I had no idea of the "real life 
monsters" that exist. I let your passion for your work 
inspire ghost stories in my mind. I didn't give them any 
more credence than a footnote in my field journal of the 
ravings of my "brilliant, albeit crackpot" partner. I had 
no idea the man yelling "the sky is falling, the sky is 
falling" was a prophet.

" Ewhh! Scully I always hated that story, Foxy Loxy, 
remember?" Mulder said with a disgusted look on his face.

Scully scrunched her pillow up a little more trying to get 
more comfortable as she peered at Mulder in the darkness.
"Quit stalling, Mulder. Just talk to me. I know it's a new 
concept between us. Two reasonably intelligent people 
should be able to practice a little verbal communication. 
The way we suppress and repress everything of importance in 
our lives would keep the mental health community rolling in 
dough for years to come.

"You  know I love you don't you," Mulder began with 
hesitation in his voice. "I mean I may be verbally 
challenged when it comes to conveying it, but you do know , 
right?"

"Yes," Scully replied with equal deliberation. "But it is 
nice to hear it anyway."

Mulder rubbed his hand over his face, rubbing the grime of 
the day into his pores. He pinched the bridge of his nose, 
squinting like he was trying to avoid a bright light. There 
was nothing but muted darkness.
  
"Well, hell, while I'm playing true confessions, maybe I 
should enumerate on your various attributes," Mulder 
playfully leered as if he had just noticed the presence of 
his partner decked out in her green silk pajamas lying 
across from him.

"Mulder", Scully admonished. "Behave."

He looked up, dejavu from that first case where they had 
settled down to talk for the first time, he sitting on the 
floor, she stretched out above him on the hotel bed. He 
remembered how he had told her about Samantha, trying to 
shock her, see if she'd react as most people did with 
patronizing disbelief. 

"Mulder", Scully said pulling him out of his reverie. 
"Give."

Resignedly, he began. Not quite sure if he could make it 
all come out right but willing to risk it, to take a chance 
for once. For a man who faced monsters and aliens on a 
daily basis, facing Scully and his  inner most emotions was 
downright terrifying.

"The coroner came up to me as I was examining the bodies of 
the mother and child from that photo you were looking at. I 
guess I had been staring at them for awhile. She noticed my 
reflection and asked me if I had children," he began 
looking Scully fully in the eye for perhaps the first time 
since she walked in the room.

"With the life I lead, with the dysfunctional family I come 
from, and my search for Sam, I guess I really haven't 
allowed myself to dwell on the fact I might someday have a 
life past all this," he paused, moving his arm around the 
room to encompass it in all its tacky Motel 6 glory. 
"It's not as though I've felt pulled to procreate, Scully, 
let's face it, the only connection I feel with salmon is 
having them grilled with a little butter and lemon. No I 
haven't felt drawn to pass on the Mulder gene pool. God, 
what a joke."

Scully reached her hand down off the bed dangling it within 
Mulder's reach. He slid over slightly so he could reach it. 
He grasped firmly on to its cool, smoothness as though it 
were a lifeline. She held on tightly, saying nothing, 
allowing him to continue at his own pace. She wanted to 
assure him that she was ok, this conversation was not too 
much for her. 

Actually it was long overdue. She knew where he was headed. 
She'd already been there. She had dealt with all of this 
during the last year as she grieved for Emily and mourned 
the future children she would never have-not only her 
future but.

"We'll never be able to have children Scully," he whispered 
looking up at her with glistening eyes.

"No, Mulder, we won't," she answered. It never occurred to 
her to play dumb about what he was intimating, to pretend 
she didn't understand he wanted to give her children, his 
children. 

" I guess..ah.. I just hadn't processed the fact that 
you're being..that you not being able to have," he 
stumbled.

Scully smiled wistfully at his discomfort, twisting her 
body until she was sitting up on the end of the bed. She 
pulled him gently up beside her, wrapping her arms around 
him, holding on for dear life. 

Pressing her face into his shoulder, she said, "You can say 
it Mulder. I'm sterile. The bastards have made me barren 
and you have just come to realize."
 
"I'm barren too." Mulder finished, pushing away slightly so 
he could look down into her eyes. 

"They've stolen our children."

"Yes, Mulder, our children," she echoed, pulling him back 
with her onto the bed. She kept him wrapped in her arms, 
pulling the blankets over them. She settled them down 
within the soft cocoon. 

The rain outside was diminishing.  She could barely make 
out the spatters in the night. She heard the faint sounds 
of a baby crying through the wall from the room behind 
their headboard. She felt the tired presence of Mulder, 
lying comforted in her arms. 

They needed to talk, it was past time. Conspiracies and 
global apocalypse be damned. But not tonight. 

fin