Summary:  A post MM story.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. CC does.
Category: SA/Rated: PG

Note:  This is a revised version of an piece that I previously posted in late
February under the psuedonym *Kate Rane*.  

WELLS
by CiCi Lean, 1997
------------------
canny409@aol.com

I remember the story about the little girl who tumbled into a well.

For fourteen days and fifteen nights the town gathered over a tiny hole, the
one that held a tinier jewel, their prayers and whispered hopes washing over
the wet grasses and the sound of the mechanical equipment used in desperation
to retrieve her. Finally, when they felt
they had no other choice, they asked whom among the gathered would be willing
to chance the journey down a thin rope to the unknown, to try their hand at a
miracle.

Two men raised their hands.

The first one, a young man, with trembling eyes and lips, insisted that he be
the one to descend to retrieve her.  He argued his youth and stature to the
rescuers, claiming that the rope would hold him more surely and he would have
the strength that the older man lacked, to face whatever lay before him.

The second one, the older one with a tired face, but sharp eyes, argued his
experience and knowledge of the world, the battlefield and grief. He would be
more prepared than the youth to face the harsh reality that probably lay
ahead.

The gathered thought and finally handed the rope to older man, thinking not
of his chances of success, but rather weighing the loss of one versus the
other.

The older man thanked them and walked over to the owner of the well, who had
been silent up till now.

"You know how to retrieve this child, don't you?" the older man asked,
knowing the answer already.

"Certainly.." said the well's owner, smiling.

"But it will cost you...."

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

There is air here.

But why can't I breathe?

Dana Scully tried to control each intake of air and keep perfectly still as
the magnetic waves washed over each part of her being and probed for signs of
invasion.  Keeping still would insure the best picture, the best hope and the
greatest chance of defeating the cancer that held her prisoner, a prisoner of
her own body.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply once, keenly aware of
the rise and fall of her own chest and hearing her heart beat; she wished for
a moment's respite.

//Don't move.//

The MRI machine was supposed to be her savior, strange how much it resembled
a coffin.  She had laid back and they slid her in, the medical attendant's
faces smiling their goodbyes as she entered its tomb-like space.  They had
offered her headphones to ease the claustrophobia, just to remind her, the
person trapped within, that she was not dead yet, just being checked.

Checked for death.

But she had refused them and now regretted the decision too late.  So in
silence she lay; hearing only the hum of the scanners and the echo of her own
life shunting against the capsule walls.  She dare not even bite her lip in
distress, wondering if a blink would blur the picture, her hope.  She had the
almost overwhelming desire to touch the cold ceiling of her prison, to run
her hands over the unresponsive metal and feel its parameters.  Instead  she
contented herself with tapping a finger against the flat bed, and imagining
she was moving freely.

//Do not move.//

She had been in there only moments, but days would have passed more quickly.
If only she could turn around, look to each side, perhaps scratch her nose.
 But was this not the preparation for death?  When you are dead you can do
none of these things, none of the small comforts and actions we take for
granted every second.  And all those wonderful things we see and do each day,
when we are dead, can we
ever recapture them?

But then again, there is no need to.

But I am not dead, thought Scully.  I am merely trapped.  Trapped in a well,
this well of machinery, this well that is my own body.  And there is hope.
 There has to be hope.

That someone will come for me.

That someone will care.

And Dana Scully took a long, lasting breath before willing herself to sleep.

OXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOXOX


Scully sat on the examining table of the doctor's office, fighting the desire
to kick her legs back and forth as they dangled above the step stool that led
to the solid ground.  It had been another twenty minutes atop the forty-five
she had spent in the MRI and she began to wish for bed.  Just think, if I had
listened to you, Dad, I'd be on the other side of this office.  I'd be the
artist, practicing the art of medicine.  I would not be its canvas.

The patient.

The doctor entered the room, with weary eyes and chart in hand.  She watched
as he obviously fought to remember her name out of the dozens he had seen in
the last forty-eight hours, absently checking her vitals and shaking his
head.  She could see the words in his silence.

//My god, she is young.//

And Dr. Dana Scully felt fear.

He finally nodded and tried to explain the test results to her, but she
merely gestured for the file to decide for herself.  She blinked at the
results, the cold smear that lay across her forehead, the blackened spot that
marked her like Cain, and would surely not leave her, even unto death.  And
she began to hate it, like a living entity, an unwelcome guest into the most
private of chambers.  She thrust it back into his hands, and let his rambling
words and explanations cover her and soothe her own judgment.

"We might be able to shrink it."

"There is a possibility of reduction."

"Attempts to make it operable..."

None of these statements were true or real, but she needed to hear them as
much as the man, the human being in front of her, needed to say them.  A
doctor is an artist of life, but by nature must be a harbinger of death.
 Scully felt the tears come to her eyes, not for herself, but for this man
who knew her fate as well as she did, but wanted her to live, for himself,
his own soul.  She found peace in the
unexpected connection, nodded and prepared to leave.  He helped her from the
table with gratitude. He knew the favor she had done him by listening.

"Thank you, doctor." she had said.

And she meant it.

OXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Leaving the clinic was always the best part of each visit.  The goodbyes to
the nurses, their bright smiles at any acknowledgement, the paperwork
signatures, the small transactions of everyday life keeping the balance.  But
today Scully was tired, and it showed.  A nurse named Marie gently took her
elbow and assisted her out, instinctively knowing her help would not be
refused.  Nurses grant themselves their own favorites, to rejoice in their
recovery and to mourn losses that perhaps only they themselves will ever
notice.  It is a painful sacrifice, this entrusting of love, and its rewards
seem scant in
the rush of daily living, but there is One who will not forget.

But Scully had to sit before leaving.

She joined the others in the waiting room again and saw the people of every
age, race and gender, some looking fit and well, others at the final stages
of their lives, even if they've only been among the living for a few years.
 She saw the turbans to hide the baldness, the turtlenecks in spring to hide
the discolorations.  The limping gaits of
children who should be running and the elderly-looking creatures, drained of
all energy, some of them younger than she.  Her nurse still sat in the chair
next to her, her hand firmly under her elbow and following Scully's eyes, she
would tighten her grip when the children or the teenagers, all fighting the
same invader, would come into view.

Oh, if I could be the only one, she thought.  And then the traitorous
thought.

//If only I could be spared.//

But Scully allowed herself to smile at Marie and rise.  I have to go, to
work, to live.

"Will you be all right?" Marie asked fretfully. "Maybe I should call a taxi."

Scully shook her head and then considered.  Maybe I should take a taxi.  I
don't feel that well. And as if on cue, the clinic doors opened and she saw
an unusual sight.

Mulder and Skinner, entering at the same time, zeroing in on her like two
homing beacons searching for sky.  Scully smiled at their entrance, serious
and simultaneous.  They stood side by side, two guards ready to take over the
watch. Mulder nodded at Marie, and she nodded back in the unspoken language
of the care giver and left them for her work.  Scully smiled wanly at both of
them and allowed Mulder to take her arm as Skinner watched.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" Mulder joked as he
lead her out the clinic doors, to the cold sunshine. He linked his arm
tightly through her own and lead her to his car.

Scully merely smiled at him and was grateful for his presence.

But Walter Skinner hesitated back for a moment, still in the room of the sick
and dying. He watched Mulder and Scully through the glass doors and as they
became smaller in the distance, he noticed how distinctive the smell of the
smoke on his jacket was and wondered if anyone had noticed.  There are so
many cancers, he thought.  Some
obvious in their intent and purpose and others more insideous and deep.

But he had made a deal.  A deal with the owner of the well.

And was willing to pay the cost.

***************
Fini.

All comments are very welcome. 
Hit reply. Canny409@aol.com