Subject:	xfc: NEW:  My Favorite Word, 1 of 1
From:	mish_rose@yahoo.com (Mish)
Date:	19 Jul 2000 13:40:02 -0700

My Favorite Word
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Classification: S, some A
Rating: PG-13 for language
Distribution: Gossamer, Spookys, okay.  Anywhere else
okay, but I'd like to know!
Spoilers:  Requiem
Disclaimer: I've tried wishing on stars, four-leaf
clovers, heads-up pennies - they still don't belong to
me.

Summary: A connection is made, an awakening realized.

Thanks to Galia, my Mistress of Fanfic, this story and
others may be found at:

http://galias.arjika.com/mishfic.htm

Author's notes at end.



"Mulder."

A voice.  Not one in my head, like before.  This one I
can hear.  I try to say something, but nothing comes
out.  The question is in my head and I think it
anyway.

"What's a Mulder?"

The real voice doesn't say nothing, but my mind hears
a thought voice say, "I'm a Mulder."

It scares me and I don't say anymore.

"I know you're there," it says again.  "Do you hear
them like I hear them, too?"

"Who?"  Who are them?  Who are you?  Who am I?

"I'm Mulder."  This is so scary.  He can hear me even
when I don't say nothing.  "And the correct phrase is
‘don't say anything.'"

He sounds like he know what's going on.

"‘Knows.'"

He knows what's going on.  I'm happy to hear that. 
"Who are them?"

"*They* are the ones who took us away, the aliens."

"Aliens?"

"The ones we can hear thinking around us.  You can
hear them like me, can't you?"

"Yes.  Do they do things to you like they do to me?"

"The tests?  Can you see what they're doing?"

"No, I can't see anything, but I can hear everything."

"Me too," he tells me.  "And I can hear your thoughts
as well.  At first, I thought you were one of them."

"Me too," I tell him, so glad to have somebody that
knows.  "But I don't think we're the only ones here."

"Do you hear someone else?  Because I can't."

"Yes."

"Have you tried talking to them?"

"Yes, but it don't work."

A word - ‘doesn't' - comes at me, but he says, "I
can't hear them.  Who is it?  Do you know?"

"It's a woman."  I don't know how I know that, but I
do.  "And she talks with her...."  The word is not
there.

"Mouth?"

"Yes!  Not like we do, you know?"

I feel him try, but he can't.  I feel him try again,
through me, but he can't.  He can only hear the
faceless people and me.

"What is she saying?"

"Mulder."

"All right, we both know that's my name," he says, not
happy.  "What is *she* saying?"

"‘Mulder.'  She says ‘Mulder.'  A lot.  I think she
knows who you are.  Does she know who I am, too?"

His mind stops for a bit, then I hear a thought.

"Oh my God...."

A new word comes at me and I say, "Scully."


**********

It doesn't take me long to pick up on the language. 
Not much else to do here.  Sleep, eat, turn over in my
nest.  Mulder helps me a lot.  He tells me how we came
to be where we are, how the faceless people took us
away.  It's a good thing he knows, because I don't
know.


**********


"I want to talk to you about her." 

He gets quiet; I don't know if that's good or bad.  A
stream of new words fills my head and I get quiet,
too.  I think quiet is good, but I don't know.  All I
know is it helps me to learn, helps me to make words
in my head.

"How do you know who she is?  How did you know her
name?"  His words are sharp - his quiet gone.  "Are
you someone we know?"

"I don't know.  I don't even know who I am."

"But you must remember *something* -"

"No!  I told you I just don't know!"  I'm thinking
maybe it wasn't such a good thing to tell him that I
could hear her; now that he realizes that he knows
her, he won't leave me alone.

"Does she know you're eavesdropping?  Does she?"

"Eaves... what?"

"Listening to her!  Does she know you're listening to
her?"

"You're scaring me!"

He gets very still; I feel his mind creep into my own.
 He's looking for something... he thinks I'm not
telling him the truth.  He's trying to listen to her
himself, but he can't.  And it's making him...
something I don't know yet.

"I feel... that you hear her," he says at last.  "But
that's all.  Damn.  Why the hell can't I hear her? 
Why you?"

He's making me scared again.  "Please leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, Buddy, but I need to know -"

"I don't care what you want.  I don't want to know."

"But think about it, Buddy," he says, softer now.  "I
know you're confused and so am I... but you can hear
the voice of someone very close to me.  You don't know
why, but you know who she is to me.  You feel it - or
you wouldn't have said anything.  Why is that?"

It just is.  And there's nothing I can say or do to
make him see.  I don't want to talk about it anymore. 
I feel myself close in.

"Okay, Buddy, okay," he says, "we won't talk about it
anymore.  Just don't shut me out... please.  And don't
shut her out, either.  I don't... care why you can
hear her.  Just keep hearing her.  For me."

I like hearing her.  Even if she can't talk back to
me, I think she's nice.

"Okay, but you have to do something for me."

"Anything."

"I don't have many words," I tell him.  "Give me
words."


**********


He sighs.  Is a sigh good or bad?

"Buddy?"

"Yes?" I answer, kicking at the too warm blanket-like
thing that covers my legs.  Blanket.  Yes, that's the
word.

"What's going on where you are?"

"What do you mean?"  I'm just as much in the dark as
he is.

"I know you can't see... hell, I can't either, for
that matter," he mutters.  "Shi -."  He stops before
he can finish the word, like I would be offended or
something.

"‘Sokay.  I hear that a lot."

"*Shit?*  You hear *shit?*"

"What are you doing now, Mulder?  It feels different."

"That's a smile, Buddy.  It's when you show your teeth
because you're happy, or you find something funny."

He smiles over the words.  I've decided I like a smile
better than a sigh.

"So, you hear ‘shit' all the time, do you?"  He's
still smiling.

"Yeah."  What's the big deal?  "I hear *fuck* too," I
add with a smile.  Yes, smiling is many good.

"That's ‘smiling is *very* good', Buddy," he corrects
me.

"Okay, *very* good."

"And you do *not* hear ‘fuck' all the time," he adds.

"Sure I do, Mulder."  He told me that ‘Mulder' was his
name, that's why she says it a lot.  Suits him, you
know.  He told me that ‘Buddy' suited me, so I figure
Mulder suits him.  "You say it all the time.  Even
before we'd started talking, I heard you say it. 
Mostly during the tests."

He's silent for a few moments, then, "But she doesn't
say it, does she?"  Now he's sad.

Sure she does.  But something tells me to stop the
words before they come out.  I know he can feel my
thoughts, but I've learned a way to keep him out. 
It's easy; I know he does it to me sometimes and it
wasn't hard to learn it from him.

I don't think he'd like to hear that she says that
word.  Instead, I say what I hear her say most often.

"No.  Her favorite word is ‘Iloveyou.'"

I must have said something funny, because he starts to
smile.

"Buddy, ‘Iloveyou' is not a word.  It's three words."

Ha - ha.  He thinks he's so smart.  But I'm smarter.

"Well, then she has four favorite words," I state,
turning over in my resting spot.  At least I think I
turn over; I can't really tell.

"Those are just three," he snaps back.

"The four one is ‘Mulder.'"

The quiet is weird.  I've gotten so used to him
talking, I kind of miss his thought voice.

"Mulder?"

"Fourth, Buddy.  Fourth, not four."

"Fourth, then."  I don't mind when he corrects me;
it's good.  "Mulder, does everyone have favorite
words?"

"I suppose so."  His answer is small.

"What are your favorite words?"

"I only have one."  He stops for a little while. 
"‘Scully.'"

Her name.  That doesn't seem like a favorite word. 
Words are so fun, why would anyone want to have only
one they really like?

"Because it's everything to me," he says.  "I'm tired,
Buddy.  I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay."

I don't mind if he wants to rest.  It will give me
time to figure out what my favorite word is.

Maybe I'll pick ‘Scully' too.


**********


"Mulder, what is love?"

"Whoa, Buddy, you know how to pick ‘em, huh?"

"Just tell me, okay?"

"It's when you care for someone a lot.  You want to
make them happy.  They make *you* happy."

"Does Scully make you happy?"

Oh, oh!  What... I've never felt anything like that...
from Mulder... oh my!  It's like...

"Fireworks?" he asks.

Yes, yes... whatever that is... yes!  And, and...

"Warmth?  Joy?"

I kick at my blanket; it's getting hot.

"Your heart beats faster, your smile gets bigger, your
hands want to touch her...."

Yes!  If this is what love is, I like it!

"Does that answer your question, Buddy?"

Oh, yes!


**********


"Budman!"

"Shut up!  I don't feel like talking today!"  I just
want him to leave me alone.  Seems like everyone here
is shouting at me all day, never even letting me sleep
good.

"C'mon, sport.  Talk to me.  I'm lonesome."

"Don't call me sport."  I'm grouchy and my resting
place is getting small all of a sudden.  Probably
because Mulder told me what ‘claustrophobic' was
yesterday.  Now I wish I'd never heard *that* word
before.

"What should I call you then?"

"How should I know?  My name is Buddy.  Call me that."
 Geez, some people are so stupid.

"Oooh, someone got up on the wrong side of the bed
today."

Mulder can be such an asshole sometimes.  How did she
ever put up with him?

"Okay then, Mulder," I say finally, knowing that the
road to peace and quiet is long and curvy.  One that
means I have to give in for just a while and let him
drive.  "Talk.  But don't expect me to answer you."

He's itching to talk to me about something;  I can
feel him fidget across the void between us.

"Buddy, why do you suppose we can talk to one
another?"

I thought he was going to ask me about hearing her
again.  I'm glad he didn't.

It's a question I've asked myself many times.  The
others like us, hidden away in cocoons, can't do the
same.  I've tried to talk to them; so has Mulder.

"We're not really talking, Mulder.  At least I don't
think we are.  Your lips move when you talk, don't
they?"  I know my lips aren't moving.

"We may not be physically speaking, Buddy, but we're
certainly communicating."  Smart-ass.  That's another
word I've picked up along the journey.  "In our minds,
we have a connection.  You know what I mean."

Yes I do, not that I feel much like making the
connection today.  Things are not right in my world. 
I don't know what is wrong, but something definitely
is.

"I don't know why," I tell him, anticipating his next
question.  Not really wanting to hear it, actually. 
Wonder if there's a word for that?

"Why can you hear her and I can't?"

Something flutters in my physical self.  Whatever it
is, it makes me feel worse, like a hand is squeezing
my heart.  I knew he would ask me that again.

"I don't know.  I just do."

"But why?"  He's beginning to get me all nervous again
with his always picking at me.  Or whatever you call
it.

"Maybe for the same reason I didn't know much language
until you spoke to me, Mulder," I reply, my brain
becoming warmer with the same bad feeling I'd had when
he started a little while ago.

"Anger, Buddy.  It's called anger."

Anger.  So that's what this upset is.  "My stomach
hurts."  I know I have a stomach, and though it feels
like it's miles away, I know it hurts.

"It's because you're angry and upset, Buddy."  Mulder
has calmed down; I can feel his mind filling up with
another new thing.  "And this is regret.  I'm sorry
for upsetting you."

"Did they make me this way?"  The faceless people, the
ones who poke at us and run machines over us.  Mulder
told me they have faces; he tried to describe them to
me, but I can't picture them.  I wish I could see.  To
me they will always be faceless.

"Make you what way?"

"Make me stupid."  I know what stupid is, too.  Mulder
likes to call himself stupid when he thinks I'm not
listening.

"You're not stupid, Buddy," he replies.  "I think they
just made you forget.  You have to relearn
everything."

Suddenly, I feel better.  My stomach stops hurting and
I smile.  "There's one thing I can do that you can't,
Mulder."

"What's that?"  He knows already, but he goes along.

"I can hear her.  That's good, isn't it?"  I don't
know why I can hear her and he can't, but it makes me
feel like I'm worth something.  And maybe I shouldn't
be bringing it up again, but I realize now it helps
him to talk about it.  "And I can tell you what she's
saying."  I'm so proud of myself.  I'm not stupid if I
can do this.

"Yes, Buddy, that's good."  His mind voice is soft and
sad.  "And her name is Scully.  Remember that."

"Scully."  His favorite word.  From what I've learned
of her, it's a very good favorite word.  I'm still
giving mine some thought.  "I wish I could give Scully
messages from you Mulder, but I don't think I can."

"That's okay," he sighs, and grows quiet.  I've found
out that when he gets quiet it means he wants to have
a serious discussion. "Is she all right?"

With a lurch, my stomach starts hurting again.

"What?  What is it?"  Mulder feels my pain across the
blackness.

"She was... angry today, Mulder."  Now that I know the
word, I hate using it.

"Did someone hurt her?  Did they?  Tell me!"  His
words come faster and faster, a big jumble of anger
and panic - yes, panic, another new thing.  It gets so
I can't understand him.  I shut down immediately until
he stops yelling.

"Buddy?  Please tell me what's going on."  He sounds
so pitiful.

"She's not hurt, Mulder.  She was angry with someone
named Skinner."

Silence.  It's not what he expected.

After a few moments he asks, "Why?"

"Because he wants her to have another partner." 
That's a word I've never heard before today.  "What's
a partner?"

My stomach is on fire.  Mulder hasn't replied to my
question, but it occurs to me he's answering anyway. 
His silent answer is my pain.

Partner means pain.  Go away, go away, I tell the
word.

"It's okay, Buddy," he says finally.  "Partner is a
good thing."

"It is?"  I don't know if I believe that, from the way
this feels.

"Yeah."  He's smiling now, a small, salty smile that
drapes across me.  "Scully will always be my partner."

So *that's* what it means.  When you love someone,
they become your partner.

This language thing is confusing, but well worth the
effort.


**********


"Chocolate."

"Chocolate."

"Bubble baths."

"Bubble baths.  Oh, that one sounds fun."

"It is, Buddy, believe me."

"What else?"  Tell me more, tell me more, Mulder. 
"What else does she like?  Puppies?  Cats?  Elephants?
 Birds?"

"Slow down, Buddy," he laughs.  "One question at a
time."

I'm still trying to find my favorite word.  I don't
think Mulder would like it if I picked Scully, so
maybe I can pick something she likes.

"She likes you, doesn't she?"

He smiles, a very big smile, from the feel of it. 
"Sometimes, yeah."

"Why sometimes?  I thought she loved you."  Love and
like are very similar things, that much I do know.

"She does," he replies.  "But that doesn't mean that
she likes me all the time.  It's difficult to explain,
Buddy."

"Try."

He thinks for a minute, then says, "People in love
still do things that upset one another.  That's when
you feel you don't like them very much.  You disagree,
you fight, you wonder why you ever fell in love with
them in the first place.  But you still love them."

"Give me an example."  I'm going to understand this, I
will.

"Okay," he says, and I sense his sadness trying to
surface, but he pushes it back down.  "For example, I
don't think she likes me very much right now."

"Why?  What did you do?"

"I left her behind.  Even though she knew where I was
going, she didn't expect me to not come back."

"But that's not your fault, Mulder.  We both know we
don't want to be here.  She can't blame you if they
won't let you go."

"The point is," he sighs, "I never should have left
her in the first place."

I search my feelings for something I can comfort him
with; the best I can do is, "She's not angry with you,
Mulder.  She was at first, but not anymore.  She just
wants you to come home."

"I know she does.  I want to go home, too."  Our
talking is tiring him out, I can tell.

"Rest, Mulder.  We'll talk later, okay?"

"Okay."

Damn.  I still didn't pick out my favorite word.

"Mulder?"

It's too late, he's already asleep.  If I remember
next time, I'll have to ask him what ‘pregnant' means.

From the way Scully feels, it must not be a favorite
thing of hers.  But I really don't know.  Sometimes
she says the word like she's happy, sometimes not. 
She gets really unhappy when she pukes, whatever that
is.

Maybe I'll just keep my mind shut on that subject.



**********


Invincibility, that's the word for it.  I feel it grow
upon me with every conversation I have with Mulder. 
Conversations that become almost non-stop.  We have no
reason to eat; apparently nourishment is being
provided.  There are down times, yes.  Periods of
sleep or rest when I can't hear him.  I suppose he
leaves me alone, too, when I drift.

We gave up long ago on identifying where we are and
who our captors are.  It's a futile search for answers
and we both know it.  All we know is that we're both
in some sort of suspended animation, our human selves
unfazed by outside stimuli.  We still react, but
mostly to each other's feelings.  It's good that we
are not physically affected by the tests.

Boredom is a problem.  Not for me, for him.  He is
restless most of the time, constantly talking to me. 
I talk when I need to, but I'm much better at
listening.

Instead, I'd rather soak up his knowledge like a
sponge.  I am amazed at the endless amount of words
and feelings that spring from him.  We make a perfect
pair; Mulder loves to talk and I love to listen.

Weeks and months have gone by; I have no conception of
time and space, but he remembers and gives it to me.
Sunshine and colors.  The ticking of a clock. 
Seconds, minutes and hours of theory and fact. 
Despite my incapacitation, I am entranced.

That is the only word for it.  Entranced.

We talk of Einstein and Newton, Madonna and Elvis. 
Explain them to me, I told him.  You have millions of
words.

"What do you look like?"

He laughs and I feel silly.

"You sure you wanna know?"

"Yes.  I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."  I have no
idea what I look like, but I have a pretty good idea
of the human anatomy.  Who cares what I look like? 
Curiosity blooms within me about the man who makes
this imprisonment bearable.

"Well, I have brown hair and eyes that change color."

"Hazel?"  I feel his surprise.  "Scully thinks of them
as hazel," I explain.

At the mention of her name, he becomes subdued, but
continues.  "She tells me when I'm sad my eyes are
brown.  When I'm happy, they're green."

"Cool."  It‘s the only word to describe my awe.  "What
else?"

"Cool, huh?" he smirks.  "Well, my nose isn't so cool.
 It's big.  Very big."

"So what's wrong with that?"

"Buddy, if you end up having a big nose, you'll see
what I mean."

"Your features are genetic, aren't they Mulder?"

"Yes they are," he replies, the schoolmaster once
again.  He has told me that we all have a mom and dad,
and brothers and sisters.  And that families share
some of the same features.

"My mom and dad must be beautiful then, because I feel
beautiful."  He doesn't answer.  "Mulder, I'm going to
see my mom and dad again, won't I?"

"Yes you will, Buddy.  I promise you."  The strength
of his voice makes me bold.  But before I can come up
with my next question, he launches into a
light-hearted speech on the joys of a sport called
basketball.

Even though we don't speak when we rest, I can still
feel his dreams.  Sometimes I see them, too.  The
total relaxation of his mind allows me to see pictures
from him now and then.  I don't want to tell him this
because I know he can't do the same with me and I
don't want him to be sad because of it.

Scully is there a lot in his dream world; so is
basketball.  I let him go on for a while because I
don't have the heart to tell him I already understand
the game.

After some time passes though, I grow restless.  Eager
to continue where we left off.

"What does she look like?" I ask quietly, interrupting
his dissertation on the finer points of a three point
shot.  I've even seen her in his dreams, but I want to
hear him describe her to me.  The way he sees things
has become very important to me.

Because of my vastly improved vocabulary, I've
graduated from words like sad and sorrowful to
melancholy.  The vibes he's giving off now can only be
described as melancholy.

"I told you she was pretty," he replies with an
indulgent sigh.  "What more do you need to hear?"

"Give me a face to color the voice, Mulder," I plead. 
"Please."

He is uncomfortable with my plea, but I persist.

"Let me hold on to her like you do."

"You have family, Buddy.  I know you do."  He is
selfish with her face and form.  "You'll remember them
eventually."

He must feel my pout, because I feel his instant
capitulation.

"She's not very big," he begins.  "But I hesitate to
describe her as tiny.  She really hates that."

"I know," I beam, happy that he's giving me what I
want.  More so, it is making him happy just speaking
of her.  His smile is rapidly changing from wistful to
proud.

"She has red hair -"

"Like fire or like ketchup?" I interrupt.  He hates
fire and loves ketchup.  I hope it's ketchup.

"Neither," he laughs, "more like a sunset.  Kind of
red-orange.  She's very fair, with blue eyes and -"

"What color blue?"  I am determined to make him be as
specific as possible.  He catches on immediately.

"Blue like a cloudless sky.  Blue like the Caribbean
Sea.  Blue like the North Carolina Tarheels blue," he
finishes with a flourish.

"Ah.  Tarheels blue," I reply, remembering Mulder's
dream of last resting period, when he was their
starting point guard.  He must have been quite an
athlete in college.  Do people dream of things they've
done or things they want to do?  I block out those
thoughts, though.  Someday I'll ask him about it, but
not now.  I'm on to something better.  "I understand. 
What else?"

"Let's see... her smile is infrequent, but brilliant
when it makes an appearance.  She shows gums."

"Big, huh?" I chuckle.

"Yeah, big and warm.  Makes me wanna -"

"Wanna what?"

His thought stream muddles for a second with
reluctance.  "How old are you anyway, Buddy?"

Little does he know I've learned more than basketball
in his dreams.

"Old enough, Mulder," I reply.  At least I assume I'm
an adult.  I feel like one more and more, with every
day that passes.  "I don't need the lecture on sex,
you know."

"Good, then you'll understand when I say that those
feelings are none of your business."

I answer his stern statement with, "Of course, Mulder.
 I'm sorry if I offended you.  Please, go on."

He waits a moment and I feel the seriousness grow
within him.  "You know what I miss most about her,
Buddy?"

"What?"

"The smell of her.  The smell of Scully."

I can't say anything to that.  Whatever they'd taken
away, whatever Mulder had given back to me... none of
it was the sense of smell.  I know I have a sense of
smell, but I have no remembrance of it, no knowledge
of it.  Hearing is easy, mind sight a snap.  Even with
my limited movements, I can still feel, touch my
surroundings.  But to be able to discern scent?  It
must be wonderful.

I find myself becoming melancholy.

Mulder doesn't sense my sadness and he continues. 
"She wears this perfume... I don't know the name of
it, but it's just... her.  And it's not just the
perfume, either.  I know her hair smells clean, her
clothes smell like fresh-washed linen.  Her breath is
minty and her skin... warm and natural, a mixture of
scents that's just... Scully."

For all my new found learning, it doesn't take me long
to regress.

"Mulder, my stomach hurts.  Can we stop now?"

"Sure, Buddy," he says.  "My throat kind of hurts,
too.  It's okay.  It's a good kind of hurt."

"I don't know about that, Mulder.  How can hurt be
good?"

"This is not hurt, Buddy.  This is love."

So love doesn't always feel like fireworks.


**********


This hurt is *not* love.

It tears through me, scaring me into immobility.  What
is happening?  The tests have become so routine, I've
managed to rest through most of them, although they
are more frequent now.  Mulder has been spared in the
past few days and spends his time talking me through
them.  Soothing me and talking to me about Scully.

But he isn't talking now.  He's screaming.

It isn't my pain I'm feeling, it's his.  His panic and
fright take hold of me, paralyzing me.

"No!" he keeps yelling, not at me but at them. 
They're moving him, taking him away from where he's
been for so long.

"Mulder!" I scream his name, trying in vain to free
myself from my unwanted stillness.  It's no use;  my
arms and legs won't move.  I keep talking, trying to
calm him like he's done for me so many times.

"Mulder, it's okay.  I'm here.  Tell me what they're
doing to you."

"I don't know," he replies, not as frantic as he'd
been moments ago.  He is reacting to my attempt to
relax him and in turn, I find myself becoming more at
peace.  We need to keep ourselves in control; he'd
taught me that long ago.  A level head rules in any
situation.

"I think they're moving you, Mulder," I tell him,
sensing his need for the truth.  "I don't think
they'll hurt you."

"I'm scared, Buddy."  It is the first time he's ever
said that to me.  The first time I've even felt it
coming from him.  "I can feel you slipping away from
me."

Actually, when he says it, I finally realize what that
feeling is.  Dread.  I've never felt dread before, not
even for the tests.  Now I know that our time together
is coming to an end.  Wherever they are taking him, we
won't be able to speak to each other anymore.  But I
refuse to give in to my panic.  Strength that I've
gained from him over the months comes to the
forefront.

"Maybe they're taking you home, Mulder."

"I don't know," he says, his voice becoming more
distant.  "I can't feel what they're thinking anymore.
 I think they're erasing... sweeping my mind... I
don't want to forget Scully.  I don't want to forget
you."

"You'll see Scully again, Mulder.  I promise you.  And
you'll see me... I promise you that I'll know you when
I see you.  Even if you don't remember me, I'll
remember you."

My words seem to bring him peace.

"Mulder?"

No answer.  I try again.

"Mulder?"

He's gone.  For the first time since I've been here, I
know what it is to cry.


**********


The days pass with agonizing slowness.  To keep myself
occupied, I go over everything Mulder has taught me. 
Especially the things he's told me about himself and
Scully.

I can still hear her, though her words are mostly
indistinct now.  I think Mulder's presence had
something to do with the connection between Scully and
me.  Without him, it isn't as strong.  He would have
been pleased to know this.  He would smile.

Sometimes, I worry that it's not her and that scares
me.  But then I hear his name and I know it's her. 
Just the tone of her voice when she says it tells me. 
A sad, plaintive note of longing that I know I'll
never forget as long as I live.

Mulder didn't go home.  Scully's voice tells me so. 
He's in some place called Akohma.  At least I think
that's how it's spelled.

It must not be very far from Scully, because she can
see him now and touch him.  But it makes her sad,
because he can't do the same.

I wonder sometimes if they took him away because they
knew we had a connection.  Why didn't they take me
away instead?

I never got the chance to tell him I'd picked out my
favorite word.  He probably would have laughed when I
told him it was ‘Mulder.'

My life is not happy now.  I'm losing words every day.
 My thoughts are mostly pictures, things I don't want
to let go of.

I play basketball in my head; I try to picture Mulder
playing with me.  We play for the Tarheels blue.  I
hold Scully's hand in my own and she smiles at me,
gums and all.  I dream of seeing my mom and dad and my
brothers and sisters.

All I can do to keep sane, I do.  Until the day they
come for me.  I knew they would eventually.


**********


"No!"

I remember hearing Mulder scream that word and it
bursts from me like it had from him, with pain and
panic.

"Leave me alone!"

But they don't listen.  They pull at me, those unseen
hands.  A roaring fills my head, blocking out all
else.

I'm losing everything, like Mulder had.  They are
taking me where they have taken him.  Akohma... I hope
with all my heart.  It becomes the only comforting
thought in my mind.  I'm going to see Mulder again.

Mulder, I keep repeating to myself.  See Mulder again.
 Hear Mulder again.  This time, I hope I am able to
touch him.

Despite the pain, I hang on for a while, trying to
listen to the noise around me.  Trying to make sense
of it.

Mulder would have known what was happening.  He would
have told me the truth.

Scully's voice is louder now, but all she says is his
name.  Over and over.  Maybe she can finally hear me
and she's telling me I'm going to talk to him again.

I'm coming, Scully.  Tell Mulder I'm coming.

Blinding light fills my head, though I can't open my
eyes.  The noise suddenly stops with the onset of the
light.


**********


I'm not where I was anymore.  I'm free, though very
unsteady.  I can move my arms and legs, but I still
can't speak.  I think I've been in this new place for
two weeks or more.

But I don't think it's the place called Akohma.

It is hard at first, this new world I've been put
into.  But I learn quickly, especially when I realize
I can still hear Scully's voice.  I am happy when I
also realize I can feel her.  She can touch me and I
can touch her.  It makes me cry a lot.

And she smells good, just like Mulder had said.  It
doesn't take long for me to learn her scent.  The only
thing wrong is that her words no longer make any
sense.  They are soothing, yes.  But they are still
jumbled, like they'd been right before I'd left my
resting place.  I think something happened to my
language; but she stills says Mulder's name and it
makes me happy when I hear it.

All I know is, I'm happy.  Even without Mulder, I'm
happy.

Scully takes care of me.  Actually, lots of people
take care of me.  There's a woman like her; a woman
that sounds a lot like her but isn't her.  She's good,
like Scully.  She touches my hands and holds me like
Scully does but she smells different.  I like her too,
though not as much as Scully.

And I'm happy.  I still can't say it, my lips don't
work so good.  But I'm happy.


**********


New hands pick me up today.  Big, rough hands that
smell unlike anything I've ever smelled before.  One
goes behind my head and the other cradles my rear end.
 At first I'm scared, then I'm not.  Lots of hands
have held me in the past two months.

I still can't speak, but I know what's going on.  The
words get stronger when those new hands touch me.  I
know language will come back to me eventually.   It's
just a matter of time now.

And I can open my eyes, too.  Scully looks just like
Mulder had said she would.  She's beautiful; I try to
keep my eyes open all the time so I can look at her. 
But I sleep a lot, so it is difficult.

But today?  I don't care if I ever sleep again.

I hold my breath as those new hands touch me.

It's him.  I know it is.

"Come on, open your eyes," he says.  "You can do it."

I'd know that voice anywhere.

"Open your eyes for me."

So I do.  He is beautiful, just like Scully.

And his nose is big and his eyes are green.

"Hey, Buddy," he says with a smile.  "Nice to meet
you."

I bring my small hand up and touch his face.  He is
crying but that's okay.  So am I.

When I get language back, I will tell him that I
remember him. And that I've picked out my favorite
word.  For a long time, I thought it would be
‘Mulder.'  But it won't.

It's going to be ‘Dad.'


END


I'm such a sap - I wrote this damn thing and I still
cry every time I read it.  Let me know if it made you
cry (unless it was tears of agony) - and tell me your
favorite word... mine is ‘feedback', I think.... <g>

mish_rose@yahoo.com

Author's Notes: I sincerely hope this story hasn't
already been done - I searched through the
post-Requiem fics and my apologies if I've treaded on
familiar ground.  It wasn't intentional!

My knowledge of pregnancy and childbirth is sorely
lacking as well, so please forgive the assumptions
I've made on Buddy's development.  But I think he
would be a special child, don't you agree? <g>

Once again, my many thanks to Musea for holding my
hand and giving me such lovely shoulders to cry on. 
You all inspire me and I don't know what I'd do
without you.  And Aud - I really like the term
‘fetusfic' - maybe we've started a whole new genre
here, who knows?

And to Galia, my mistress of fanfic - hang in there,
sweetie... I know I am!

For Mom - the Mulder to my Buddy.  You made me
invincible.  Let me now help you be invincible.