Progeny (2/9) by Zephathah Disclaimers and such in part 1. Do not archive at Gossamer. Missing chapters available at http://zephathah.tripod.com/ ________________________________ Chapter 2 ________________________________ The ride home was silent. Mulder drove; Scully sat on the passenger's side, head tilted back, eyes closed but trembling, trying to hold it all in. He pulled up in front of her apartment building and was around the car to open her door almost before she'd realized they'd stopped. She stepped out of the car without looking at him, barely seeming to recognize he was there. She climbed the steps slowly, stopping at the door but not turning to wait for him. She made no move to pull out her keys. She was just trying to keep herself together long enough to get to the sanctuary of her apartment; she didn't have enough energy to consider anything else. But she didn't have to, because she knew Mulder was there, knew he would do what needed to be done until she was back in control of herself - and knew he would never mention this... *neediness* unless she brought it up first. He unlocked the door for her and ushered her inside, calling the elevator and standing quietly by her side while they waited for it. When they reached her apartment, Mulder again unlocked the door for her. Neither turned on the lights. She stood silently as he helped her off with her coat and hung it in the closet. She didn't stir while he removed his own coat, draping it across the couch. "Scully?" His voice seemed to break her out of a reverie, and she looked at him, startled. Oh God, she could see the pain in his eyes, too, pain and something more, calling to her, and she couldn't stand it anymore. She felt the mask breaking, the tears threatening. When he reached out to her she retreated, then ran towards her bedroom as the sobs began to wrack her body. She flung herself on the bed, but it was too big, too exposed, so she crawled across to the other side. Down onto the floor, between the night table and the corner of the room, she squeezed herself into the tiny space, sobbing, sobbing, she couldn't stop sobbing. Her cries were harsh and furious, her voice unrecognizable to her own ears. It was uncontrollable; she didn't care who heard her. No one else mattered - no one else even existed except her and the children They'd stolen from her. Why did They do this to her? Why did it have to hurt so much? Already, her voice was hoarse and her throat raw from sobbing and screaming. It was a horrible pressure and she couldn't get it out, it just kept coming from somewhere inside her and it would come up through her lungs and she was sobbing and screaming and no one could understand what this was like. She banged her head back against the wall because that kind of hurt was better than the hurt inside, better than the pain she couldn't do anything about. She wanted to stop thinking about her heart that was breaking, wanted to stop feeling it. She didn't want to have to deal with the pain because the pain consumed her, it controlled her life and she wanted it out. She wanted it all out; she wanted the awful, burning pressure to go away. She wanted to breathe without expecting the next breath to come out a sob because something reminded her why she wasn't whole anymore, why her heart was broken. It couldn't handle the heartache anymore, so it broke, and the shards pierced her, reminding her with every breath how much it hurt to be a wretch with a broken heart. Her heart physically ached in her chest and made her lungs heave and there was nothing she could do, nothing. Nothing to stop the pain except scream herself hoarse and sob until she ran out of breath. She pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to become as small as possible, trying to protect herself, as if she could disappear from the pain that surrounded her. But there was no escape, there would never be an escape, because it was inside her. The memories taunted her, showed her what she could never have, showed her the terrible price they'd paid for the Truth, showed her the twisted existence forced upon her children, who should have been loved and wanted and above all *hers*. It would never be, it *could* never be. They'd left her empty, then tortured her further by allowing her to see the experiments on what They'd taken from her. Emily's face wouldn't leave her, that angel face of the child she hadn't been able to save. And now another one, another face to haunt her. Did this one even have a name? Had she possessed even the minimal family that Emily had? Had the child ever known love, ever felt the warmth of a mother's arms? She would never know, and she would never, ever have the chance to be that mother, to hold her own child in her arms. She twisted her hands in her hair, pulling at it, needing to do something to stop the horrible parade of faces and futures that would never be. If she could just feel physical pain, that would make the other pain go away, bury it before it buried her. She was rocking violently now, fistfuls of hair clenched above her forehead, fingernails digging into her palms. The tears burned as they fell, her eyes felt swollen and hot; she was screaming, wanting it all out, just get it all out, get it out of me, *I don't want this life anymore*. And still, she sobbed. She couldn't breathe and her throat was raw but she didn't care, she wanted it out. She was tired of it, tired of the burden, tired of the pain, the loneliness, the fear. All she wanted was to live her life without the constant threat of renewed anguish. Why couldn't she just have her life? Why? Please, let me have my life. I can't do this anymore; I can't take it. I can't take it. Let it be over. I want it all over. **** Mulder watched Scully run out of the room; he could see the sobs already convulsing her body. He'd give her time to vent and rage. He didn't want her to hold anything back because of his presence. But this was his pain, too - how could it not be, when his partner, his best friend, was at this moment in such agony that he felt it in his gut, felt it piercing his heart? Her cries tore through him. His fists clenched, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the misery and grief he heard in her sobs. He couldn't just leave her alone; he had to at least watch over her while she spilled out her torment in the only way she could. And so he walked slowly, reluctantly to her bedroom and took up a position just outside the open door. He stood silent guard, tears streaming down his face as she screamed herself hoarse from the pain. She looked so small, huddled in the corner. How had she held on for so long? His partner, the strongest person he knew, was being ripped apart by the pain, and there was nothing he could do about it. He leaned his forehead against the doorjamb and closed his eyes briefly before forcing them open, forcing them to see past his own tears and bear witness to her angry, desperate heartbreak. Then she was tearing at her hair and knocking her head against the wall, and the utter desolation in her cries drew him into the room before he could make a conscious decision to move. He was afraid the pain would break her, and now he thought he'd been wrong - she didn't need time to be alone. She needed a place where she knew she was safe and loved, where she knew it was okay to let it all go, it was okay to break, because someone else would be there to catch her as she fell, because someone else understood, understood about the pain. He crossed to her and gently gathered her in his arms, to let her know he was here and he knew, he knew how it felt to have your heart torn in two. He would hold her as long as she needed, as long as it took for the stabbing pain to dull into something that could be borne. He would hold her together until they could rebuild the pieces. **** Someone was pulling at her shoulders, and she didn't have the strength to resist. Then the arms were around her, holding her close as she sobbed into his shirt, clutching at him, pleading with him, "I want it to be over, I want it to be over, I want it to be over," in a voice that broke his heart. He stroked her back and hair, smoothing its tangles, pressing soft kisses onto the top of her head, murmuring a counterpoint to her chant. "I know, Scully. I know you do. We'll get through this. You'll be ok. I know, Scully. We'll be ok." They stayed there on the floor of her bedroom, Mulder holding Scully in his arms, rocking her back and forth as he soothed her with meaningless, comforting noises, until the sobs came in hiccups as her burning lungs slowly regained their rhythm. She shivered and leaned into his body; its warmth surrounded her until at last she lay quiescent, her head turned against his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. ******** She was exhausted. She had no dispute with exhaustion, though, because now she was too tired for the pain to be more than a heaviness weighing down her heart. When the last of her tears had fallen, Mulder gathered her closer into his arms, lifting her from the floor and laying her gently on the bed. He left her there for a moment before returning with a damp washcloth from the bathroom. Scully's eyes fluttered open when his weight shifted the mattress beneath her. She watched him with half-closed eyes as he wiped away the streaks of dried tears from her face. He looked so serious, as if washing her clean, the coolness of the washcloth soothing her burning eyes and skin, was the most important task in the world. Her skin was flushed and hot, and after he'd run the washcloth along her hairline and down her neck to the collar of her shirt, he left the room again, this time for several minutes. She could hear noises from the kitchen but paid no attention. Time passed without her taking note of it. When he entered the room balancing a large bowl filled with water and a towel from her linen closet, she hadn't shifted at all. He placed the towel at the foot of the bed and the bowl on the night table, then went into her bathroom and retrieved her pajamas from the hook behind the door. He left the pajamas by the towel and bent to remove her shoes and socks. The shoes he lined up neatly in the closet; the socks he tossed in the hamper by her dresser. He returned to sit by her side, giving her a long, questioning look that she answered, unblinking. His eyes looked pained, and she knew his pain was for her sake. When his long fingers began to calmly and steadily unbutton her blouse, she continued to watch him from beneath heavy eyelids. A fleeting thought passed through her tired mind; she was glad he understood she was entirely in his hands right now, that she trusted him to do what she couldn't do for herself. He reached for the washcloth, submerging it in the bowl. He twisted the excess water from the cloth, then brushed it across her collarbone, down to the edge of her bra. Taking each hand in turn, he unbuttoned the cuff at her wrist and pushed the sleeve to her elbow. He washed her lower arm from elbow to wrist, across the back of her hand, turning it over to stroke down the inside of her arm. He dunked the washcloth and wrung it out again. Gently, he ran the cloth from the bottom of her bra across the firm muscles of her stomach, along her sides down to the curve of her hips. Draping the cloth over the edge of the bowl, he took the towel from the end of the bed and, with both hands, patted the dampness from her skin. He dropped the towel into his lap, then tucked his hands under her shoulders to pull her upright, slipping her arms out of her blouse. He leaned her against him and turned to lay the shirt on the bed below her feet. She stirred, then, shifting her head until it was nestled comfortably between his neck and shoulder. Her arms fell loosely around his middle. He picked up the washcloth and swept it over her shoulders, down her upper arms, then up again and across her neck, where sweaty strands of hair clung to her skin. Placing the cloth back in the bowl, he rested his hands gently on her back, running his fingers over her ribcage until they paused at the strap of her bra. She hummed softly, affirmatively, into his neck, and he grasped the elastic strap to unhook it. He picked up the cloth from the water and squeezed it with one hand, letting the fingers of his other hand trail down her spine. The cloth still dripped slightly, and he let the drops trickle down her back before washing them away. He used strong, circular strokes over the muscles of her shoulders and ribs, down her spine to where her back began to curve into her buttocks, over her endlessly circling tattoo. He put the cloth back in the bowl and took up the towel to rub her dry. When he stretched his arm across her back to dry the opposite side, he rested his hand for a moment against her shoulder blade and gave a gentle squeeze, which she returned by pressing her head more firmly into his shoulder for the briefest of moments. Then the towel went on the night table, and, with her help, he slipped the straps of her bra off her shoulders and arms until the fabric lay between them in her lap. He held her steady with one hand and leaned back slightly so her weight lay more fully on him as he extended his arm to grab her pajama top. He guided her arm through one sleeve, wrapping the shirt around her back and helping her other arm find its way into the top. Supporting her neck, he laid her back down on the pillow and picked up the bra, putting it with her blouse at the end of the bed. He began to button her pajama top, and she looked at him with fully open eyes now. A single tear slipped from the corner of one eye, gravity pulling it towards her temple. The shirt buttoned, Mulder wiped the tear away with a callused thumb, then caressed her temple with the back of his fingers. She closed her eyes and settled more deeply into the pillow. He scooted back slightly on the bed to unbuckle her belt and unbutton and unzip her pants, then stood up to pull them off her hips and down her legs, leaving her underwear in place. He retrieved the washcloth from the bowl, twisting it in his hands before running it down one thigh, then the other, lifting each knee to get all around her legs. He drew the cloth down to wash the dip behind each knee; his hand wrapped around each calf muscle as he cleansed it. He washed her shins, dunking and wringing the cloth again before washing each foot, carefully cleaning between each toe. He moved back to the night table, dropping the washcloth in the bowl, taking the towel back, and bending over her legs to dry them one at a time. He tossed the towel to the other side of the bed, to be hung up later. He gathered up the legs of the pajama bottoms so he could slip her feet into them, then drew the soft pants up to her waist. She lifted her hips slightly so he could pull them on all the way. He draped her clothes across the back of a chair, took the washcloth and towel to her bathroom, then returned the bowl to the kitchen. Coming back to the bed, he turned down the covers on the opposite side from where she lay. He kneeled with one knee on the bed to reach her, slipping his arms under her shoulders and knees to lift her over the comforter and onto the smooth sheets. He tucked her legs under the covers, then pulled them over her body, gathering them around her shoulders. He sat down next to her, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and watched as she slipped into sleep. He would stay the night, what was left of it, stand guard over her dreams until morning, until it was time to face Skinner. He and the couch were well-acquainted, but tonight it was too far away. For a moment he remained sitting with her hip warm against his, watching her even breaths, wishing she didn't have to wake up to the horror that awaited her. Her face was finally at peace - for now. He stood and crossed to the other side of the bed, lying down on the comforter next to her as softly as he could. He would stay close, to be nearby when the nightmares came to her. ******** end part 2/9 of Progeny Missing chapters available at http://zephathah.tripod.com/ Extra special thanks for the beta on this chapter - Shoshana and T, you're wonderful. I'm glad I bowed to your wisdom on this one. Please send feedback to zephathah@yahoo.com