From: Bbtreehaus@aol.com
Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2001 23:54:27 EST
Subject: "The Bond" 1/1
Source: direct

Title:  "The Bond"  1/1
Author:  B.F.Simon
Rating:  PG--A mild expletive or two, adult situations.
Timeline:  Season 8, several months after the events in "Requiem"
Spoilers:  Much homage is paid to "One Breath." 
Disclaimer:  Mulder, Scully & the X-Files belong to Chris Carter and Fox. I'm 
just borrowing them for a little ride through my imagination.
Summary:  An unabashedly sentimental, shippy, angsty short fic about Mulder's 
return from beyond. I felt compelled to pen my own hoped-for version of 
events before 1013  messes it all up permanently.

******************************************************************************


I reach for his hand, intertwining my fingers with his. My thumb
caresses his pale, cold flesh. I squeeze his hand gently, then
tightly, searching for a response. There is none. I lift the hand and
press his palm against my lips, hoping that somehow some small part of
him can sense the depth of love I imbue in my kiss... 

But outwardly, he gives me no sign. For days now it has been like
this. Five days, to be exact--or has it been six? For me, they all run
together, one anguished hour flowing into the next, as I wait, hope
and pray for him to awaken. Through my tears and whispered words, I
have implored him to come out of his deep sleep and find his way back
to me...to no avail. 

Fox Mulder lies in a hospital bed, comatose, in critical condition.
There are no responses to stimuli, no awareness of environment. In
plain English, he is dying... from the same biological poison that
almost killed me six years ago. A toxin of abnormal proteins, produced
by branch DNA. Side effects of insideous experiments, performed on him
without his consent.

My teeth clench in helpless anger at the cruelty of it--my partner, my
best friend, my lover...my raison d'etre. Subjected to brutal torture,
then dumped off here at Georgetown Memorial Hospital and left to die. 
This man, an intelligent, thinking, feeling human being, disposed of
with no dignity or consideration, as if he were nothing more than some
expendable lab rat. 

I take a deep breath and let it out, fighting to quell my anger. I
know that my fury and my outrage cannot be channeled into anything
useful or productive; I learned this lesson the night he was brought
here. My phone had jangled me out of a deep, sound sleep (a rare event
for me these past few months; but ironically, I was dreaming of
Mulder). Assistant Director Walter Skinner, my supervisor at the
F.B.I., was on the line, breaking the bittersweet news of Mulder's
return. 

I drove over here like a maniac, zig-zagging through traffic, running
red lights, taking turns on two wheels...only to arrive at intensive
care to find Mulder lying in a tangle of tubes and wires. Unconscious.
Oblivious to everything. For a moment my heart stopped, and my knees
began to buckle. 

Strong hands clasped my shoulders to steady me. I turned my head to
see Skinner holding me up. I'd been so intent on Mulder that I hadn't
even noticed him standing there. His grip kept me from stumbling, but
it also galvanized me. "Who brought him here?" I asked. 

"Dana..." he began softly. 

"Who brought him here?" I demanded again, much more vociferously this
time. "Was it the F.B.I? Paramedics? The military?" 

"Agent Scully!" Skinner reprimanded me firmly, but my Irish ire would
not be extinguished so easily. I caught sight of the E.R. doctor just
then and advanced on him. "How did he get here?!" I interrogated him
harshly. He only started at me--nonplussed, I suppose, by the sight of
this short, pregnant woman screaming at him. "HOW DID HE GET HERE?!" I
yelled again. "What the hell is going on here? ANSWER ME!!" 

By this time, Skinner had caught up to me again, locking his fingers
around my arms and steering me out of the I.C.U. until I could calm
down and be rational. But even as he dragged me off, I continued to
spew hostilities at the hapless doctor. "Who did this to him?! I want
to see the admission forms! You'd better not be hiding anything from
me!!...." 

With that, Skinner hauled me off to a quiet waiting room, but my
bluster was already spent. My anger was quickly dissolving into tears
of frustration. Sobbing, I collapsed against Walter Skinner, silently
grateful for his paternal arms around me. 

Some time later, my mother would tell me that Mulder had flown into
the same kind of tirade when he'd first caught sight of me after my
own abduction. Somehow, that doesn't surprise me much. Over the last
seven to eight years, a strange sort of symbiosis has taken place
between us. So much of what Mulder is has become an intrinsic part of
me. He IS me...and I am him. 

The E.R. physician, Dr. Christensen, came in a few minutes later to
speak with us; I had cooled down at that point--at least outwardly.
But I knew, even before he could form the words, exactly what he would
tell me: that none of the hospital staff seemed to know how Mulder had
arrived....that they had run every kind of test on him...that there
were no degenerative or metabolic disorders. And aside from what I
know to be telltale abduction scars on his face, wrists and legs,
there was no evidence of any traumatic injury. In short, the medical
personnel were stumped. 

With no viable course of treatment available to us, Dr. Christensen
reluctantly took my suggestion to try designer antibiotics on him. At
first the results seemed promising. But Mulder's ordeal left his
immune system all but destroyed. He has nothing left in him to fight
this thing. Each day his condition worsens. He is weakening, and the
prognosis is grim. 

Skinner, my mother and the Lone Gunmen have all taken turns keeping a
bedside vigil with me. The support and the profound love of my family
and friends is what has kept me going. I feel more deeply grateful to
them than I can express with words; they have been my sole source of
comfort. They remind me to eat and to rest, to take care of myself and
the baby. Even John Doggett put in an appearance, which I know was
difficult and awkward for him. I sincerely thanked him for the
gesture. 

I sit here alone now. It's dark and quiet as I clasp Mulder's hand to
my face. I hold his fingers tightly, as if I could infuse my very life
force into him by a sheer act of will.

The baby must be picking up on all of this. It feels as if he's
turning somersaults inside me. What a strange sensation this
is--another human creature, moving and alive inside my body... 

I haven't told Mulder about the baby, incredible as it may seem. I've
told him all about my on-going work on the X-Files...how the Yankees
won another World Series title...described the Lone Gunmen's latest
exploits. And I've poured out my soul to him, trying to put into words
the elusive, intangible feelings of my heart.  However, I withheld the
news of his impending fatherhood, thinking that the idea might
overwhelm him as he fought for his recovery. I kept believing that
Mulder WOULD recover, and that I could tell him once he was whole and
strong again... 

But Dr. Christensen feels that Mulder could go at any time now. I've
been denying it. I didn't want to believe him; but the doctor in
me--the cool-headed, rational scientist--has finally, reluctantly,
conceded that he is right. 

And my world is bleak this night. Empty. 

But I can't wait any longer, or he will never know. I brush some
errant strands of hair from his forehead and caress his still,
unmoving face.  "Mulder...I have to tell you...about a little
miracle." I laugh a little nervously, shaking my head in incredulity.
"Even after all these months, my renewed fertility is still a mystery
to me. I can't explain it. But...from out of our lovemaking, you've
given me the most precious gift I could ever have--a part of
yourself." I lay a hand over my curved torso. "It's been my only joy
while you were gone--feeling our baby growing inside me each day..." 

I'm fighting tears now, but I continue. "I think you already know I'll
be a good mother. Loving. And attentive. But...I do have one daunting
fear, though--that our child won't grow up knowing the wonderful man
who is his father..." The tears roll freely down my cheeks now, and I
move Mulder's hand down to my swollen belly. "Here...I want you to
meet him..." 

...Oh my God, the baby is kicking again--hard. His tiny foot juts out
of my abdomen and gently prods his father's hand. I smile through my
tears. "That's your unborn child, Mulder. He's telling you ' hello.' "
He keeps right on kicking, reaching out beyond his tiny world within
the womb. 

I'm startled as Mulder's hand twitches against my belly. It's only a
reflex action--he has them from time to time. Still, I lay my hand
over his. He twitches again, his fingers pressing lightly against my
belly. I raise my gaze to his face. Maybe it's just the lighting in
here, or maybe it's only my imagination--but it almost looks like
Mulder is clenching his jaw, the way he does when he's deep in
thought. 

Is there a part of his mind, I wonder, that's still able to construe
sentient thoughts? Where is Mulder's soul right now, at this very
moment? What is he thinking about? My fingers trace the contour of his
cheek, and... 

I feel the jaw muscle flex again... 

Now I KNOW it's not my imagination. As I look down upon his face, his
brow furrows just a little, and--oh my God...his eyelids begin to
flutter...

"Mulder..." I try to shout his name, but the word emerges as a choked
whisper. 

He opens his eyes fully, and stares up at my tear-streaked face. A
tiny smile forms on his lips.

Somewhere behind me, a nurse is yelling, "Call Dr. Christensen!" Right
now, though, I can't even tell whether I'm laughing or crying... 

All I am aware of is Mulder's gentle smile--and his hand pressed
against me, lightly caressing his unborn baby son... 


                                               ***THE END***



Many thanks to Edna, RJ, Jody, Eliza and especially Nita for
beta-reading, critiques and encouragement. 
And big hugs and loving thanks to my sister, Elizabeth Warren.
Feedback: Bbtreehaus@AOL.com