DISCLAIMER JAZZ:  "The X-Files" and its characters are the
creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten
Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting.  I am, of course,
using them without permission.  No copyright infringement is
intended.  All other concepts or ideas herein are mine.

SUMMARY: There's more to the story.  Picks up exactly where
"This is Not Happening" ends.
TITLE: Pulse
AUTHOR: Elizabeth Boyd-Tran <elizabeth@tranfamily.net>
RATING: (PG)
CLASSIFICATIONS: (SA)
KEYWORDS: M/S UST, Post-Ep
SPOILERS: Through US 8 (already aired)
ARCHIVE: Yes, Please, Everywhere!:) Just tell me, please.
WEBSITE: http://www.tranfamily.net/stories.html

PULSE
by
Elizabeth Boyd-Tran <elizabeth@tranfamily.net>
Copyright (c) 2001



10:35pm


The smell of the makeshift compound--of dirt and sweat and
fear and dampness--would be with her for the rest of her
life.  All mixed up with the light and the cold horror and
the pregnancy and the ever-present edge of nausea.

The wood planks pressed into her knees, pressed the cold
against them, the cloth damp from where she had knelt in
the grass.

*You're afraid to find him...*

Oh, Sweet Jesus, yes.  This is Not Happening.

She didn't know how long she knelt in the cramped little
room.  Because time wasn't making sense anymore.  Nothing
was making sense.  The light was all wrong.  Distances were
fuzzy, and she couldn't quite judge how big or small she
was against the landscape of the night.

"This is not happening, this is not...happening..."

She was gasping for breath, and the cold air burned in her
lungs.  Her legs were weak.

It didn't matter there were people in the room behind her.
Their presence was lost to her.  None of them attempted an
approach.

With every breath she tried to move, but there was no where
to go, nothing to say, nothing to do...  She was clawing at
the air for a handhold, but everything was gone.

*****

10:40pm

When his eyes came into focus, Walter Skinner was staring
at the ground.  Specifically, at a gnarled and peeling twig
protruding from beneath the toe of his shoe.  Half a beat
passed before he became cognizant enough to take stock of
his surroundings.  His hands were propped on his knees, as
though he had stopped for breath.  Had he been running??
Yes.  Chasing something...but not very far.  He lifted his
head and squinted through the blurry darkness and the mist
on his glasses.  Nothing lay in his path.  Why had he
stopped?

Before he could sort through the haze, the crunch of dead
leaves signaled an approach from behind.  Straightening,
turning, he caught the familiar silhouette of Agent Doggett
pushing through the trees.

"Assistant Director?"  His voice was throaty.  Whether from
the damp air or grief or confusion he didn't know.

"Yes?"  Skinner was grateful for the composure in his own
voice.  Nothing betrayed of his wavering clarity.  But as
Doggett moved into a thread of moonlight, Skinner's own
inner confusion was reflected on the younger man's
countenance.

"Where did...I...Did you...did you follow Scully?"

Scully.  Of course.  Image of her blue-lit figure running
for her life (*his* life) against the intrusive white
police light.  A child fleeing through the landscape of her
nightmare.  "Yes, she was headed back to the cabin."  The
answer was clear.  Yet his words did not explain why he had
stopped, and both men knew this.

Doggett grimaced, ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair.
"I was..."  He cleared his throat, voice still thready.  "I
thought--" he glanced about trying to catch his bearings.
He looked at his watch.  "I--what the...?!"

"What is it, Agent Doggett?"  Skinner looked at his own
watch.  10:41pm.

"Well, I...it's just, I looked at my watch just a minute
ago, standing by the body.  I was calculating in my mind
the possible time of death, and I just...I thought it was
just after 10:30 when I was standin' there.  And then I
turned to follow you, and..."

He was frowning, still panting from his run.

For a moment, their eyes met, sharing the incomprehension.
Then, as if their thoughts had been shared aloud, both
shifted from the logistics to the necessities.  "Scully..."

And they were running again.  Toward the compound, and they
knew not what else.

*****

10:41pm

It registered dimly that there should have been someone
behind her.  That the longer legs of the two men who had
been shadowing her for days like she was Austrian crystal,
had had more than enough time to catch up.

She hadn't looked back.  They might have been standing a
safe distance away, unable or unwilling to come to her now.
It didn't matter.  All she could think of was to get back.
To get to Mulder before they took him way.  To curl up on
the cold earth against his body, and just let the world
spin around them for a while.

She didn't remember lying down.  But the wood beneath her
cheek was rough.  Her leg was twisted uncomfortably beneath
her.

She made it to her feet and stumbled back through the
compound.  The silent figures were like shadows against the
walls, watching her unsteady progress toward the door.  No
one moved to follow.  None of them must have been Skinner
or Doggett.

She had nearly crossed the threshold, when logic kicked in
again.  Things were clearer for a moment.  She spun on her
heel.

"*Where did he go?*" she demanded.  The sea of somber faces
swam before her, floating like bodiless ghosts in the
unnatural light.

No one spoke. She stepped forward, emerging as Agent Scully
once more.  "*WHERE IS HE?*  You do speak English, some of
you?  Has he vanished before?  Does he come and go?  Can
you *contact* him?"

Silence.  One of the younger girls was looking at her
soulfully, unshed tears in her eyes.  Scully looked away,
chose one of the stony-faced men.  "*MY FRIEND IS DYING OUT
THERE! CAN YOU HELP HIM?*"

She felt a hand on her shoulder.  "Scully..."

Skinner.

"No..."  She shrugged him off.  Took a step to the side.

"Dana, I think you should come outside--"

"*JEREMIAH SMITH.  DO YOU KNOW WHERE HE IS?!*"  Skinner's
hand met her shoulder again, and she jerked hard to free
herself, her suit jacket falling.  "Don't touch me!"  The
harshness in her words would have sent a lesser man out of
the room.  Skinner stood, like the rock he could be.  A
hint of helplessness flashed in his pale eyes.

She took a moment and stared at the dingy floor, then
stared down the room again, picking and choosing the faces
that seemed the weakest, the most likely to give.

She knew if she didn't slow her breathing she was going to
be sick.  And that was probably inevitable sometime in the
next few hours.  But not now.  Not yet.  She didn't have the
stamina to take the weakness that followed.


*****

10:41pm

Monica Reyes was sitting in the damp grass, the tail of her
trench coat flipped out behind her, offering no protection.
She couldn't remember choosing to be where she was.  She
only remembered taking a last glance at Agent Mulder, then
turning to walk after John.

She was still at the scene, Agents and local law
enforcement milled around her.  There was always a sense of
awkwardness and aimlessness once the body had been found.
This wasn't their job anymore.  They were people of action.
They stopped tragedies like this from happening.  Once hope
had slipped through their fingers, they lost their sense of
direction.

But tonight's confusion was something more.

Reyes pushed to her feet, her heels sinking into the soft
ground.  She brushed at her slacks and straightened her
coat.  A member of the SWAT team passed in front of her.
He stared at his watch, then looked up at his co-worker.
"I'm Goddamn positive, man.  Just a second ago my watch
said 10:32.  I know cause I told Angela 10:30 we'd be out
of here.  That's nine minutes missing.  I don't...is it my
watch, man?  What does yours say?"

Agent Reyes glanced reflexively at her own watch, but she'd
been too lost in the chaos to be tracking the time.  She
scanned the Agents and Officers around her, studying their
expressions, gestures.  The words "nine minutes" waved past
her ears once or twice more.

She looked up at the sky, squinting at the excess of
country starlight.  When she lowered her gaze, the shadows
seemed even deeper, making it hard to focus.  Hard to be
sure of the rustle of foliage at the edge of the clearing.

Then she *was* sure.

"Oh, my God..."

*****

10:43pm


The ringing of Doggett's cell phone seemed incongruous.  A
sound relating to another life, another time.  Not this one,
not this moment, when he was standing helplessly in an
uneven doorway, watching a beautiful woman in a broken down
shack, living her own version of his private nightmare.

Scully's face had crumpled the third time Skinner had
touched her, and her knees had nearly let go.  Skinner was
beside her, helping her walk, maybe helping her stand.

Doggett was sick.

If for no other reason than to silence the intrusive noise,
he fell back a few steps and pressed the phone to his ear,
his gaze still locked on the struggle in front of him.
"Doggett.  Yeah."

"Agent Doggett..." Reyes's voice was thin.

"Monica?  What's goin' on?"

Scully's voice trailed through his brain as he tried to
concentrate on the phone call...*"He brought me back from
all but dead...how can I give up..?."*  Skinner murmuring
meaningless comforts.

"Agent Doggett, I think you need to get back out here."

"Why?  What's wrong?"

"Just come back.  And bring Agent Scully."

Doggett lowered his voice, though Scully wasn't hearing him.
Maybe she wasn't even hearing Skinner.  "No, I don't think I
should--"

"John.  Get her back here.  Now."

Dead air like a vacuum against his ear.  Christ.  If Monica
was seeking to test his faith in their friendship, she sure
was doing a bang-up job.  He didn't know where to look for
the strength to step forward and ask Agent Scully to return
to the scene.  And he had his doubts A.D. Skinner would
cooperate without a fight.

He wanted to run away.

*****

10:45pm

She didn't think she could run anymore.

Yet Scully stumbled forward over the uneven ground, cold
air ripping through her lungs.  It flashed through her mind
once again that she shouldn't be jostling the baby this
much, and she tried to ignore the vague tingle of awareness
she had begun to feel each time she tuned into life essence
within her.

All she could do was move forward.

Skinner and Doggett were a few steps behind.  They could
have caught her in a heartbeat, but they had given up
trying.  They were just shadowing her now, letting events
unfold and hoping to be nearby if they were needed.

The fog from her own warm breath blurred her vision as she
ran.

The lights from the crime scene weren't far ahead, spilling
over onto the beaten path at her feet.


*****


10:46pm


Doggett was moving forward on nothing but inertia.  All he
could see before him was the barren brown grass of the field
by the frozen river, and the shards of glass and metal
littering the ground beside the warehouse.  Where the kids
had been throwing stones at the windows.  Where the kids had
seen something stuffed in behind an oil can at the back of
the building.  Something with hands, an X-Men shirt sleeve,
and size 8 high-tops.

He was blindly following the coattails of A.D. Skinner, and
the hoarse breaths of Agent Scully, lost in the trees ahead.

It was almost dizzying when they broke into the clearing.

He had to force his vision to match up with reality.
Montana.  Here.  Now.  Agent Mulder lying cold beneath a
utility blanket.

But he couldn't see Mulder anymore.  His eyes has moved
instinctively to the location of the body, but the ground
there was clear.  Had forensics already arrived on the
scene??  No, nothing could have happened so quickly.

"What?  What is it??"  Agent Scully's voice.  She was face
to face with Monica Reyes, flattening the taller woman with
the intensity of her stare.

"Agent Scully, I think you need to--"

"*What is it?!*"

Monica's voice caught in her throat, but her gaze slipped to
the side and Scully was instantly following.  She locked
onto a gathering of people a few yards away.

Scully was moving before Doggett could take a breath.
Skinner was only a step behind her.

Doggett jogged forward, now scanning the field for Mulder, a
knot in his stomach anticipating what further horrors this
night might hold.  His only clear thought was 'why wasn't
Skinner grabbing hold of Scully's arm?'  Why wasn't he
stopping her, slowing her down, before she stumbled upon
whatever it was without a shield, a shawl, any kind of
protection.

He was desperate to make this stop.

But Scully was out of his reach and shoving forward through
the bodies that were parting ahead of her like water through
his fingers.

The world slipped into slow motion.

Doggett could hear the steady beats of time as it passed.
Each individual second drummed its imprint upon his mind
like a sensory flashcard.

Scully took a step forward, her black heel pressing through
the winter-dead grass.

Her long blazer swung out like a cape.

The last of the men in black jackets moved from Doggett's
line of view.  The figure on the ground shifted from shadow
to form.  A man.  Bundled tight in brown FBI blankets, his
head and shoulders propped on a heap of jackets.  His eyes
half open.

Scully's breath caught in her throat.  He heard the catch
through the silence that had swallowed the world, heard the
hoarse gasp that signaled her next attempt at breath.

Her fingers rose, and he watched their progress, silhouetted
against the headlights of a SWAT van, trembling like a
butterfly in the morning mist.

The whispered word that was more breath than voice, carried
across the void of the clearing.  "*Scully...*"

Fox Mulder's eyelashes fluttered closed.  But his cheek
muscles twitched with the tremendous effort he was exerting.

Mulder's hand rose from the endless folds of blanket.

Scully's black figure sank before him, graceful in its
decent, genuflecting before a revelation.

Against the misted headlights, ten fingers connected.

*BAM!*

Time was up to speed again.

"Jesus Christ, he's alive..."  Someone pushed past Doggett,
flipping open a cell phone.

"Look at his skin, it was shredded, man, he's barely
scratched..."

"Where the hell are the EMTs?"

Black coats moved around him like birds, spurring him into
action.  "Don't move him!  Director Skinner?  How far away
is the hospital?"

*****

10:48pm

"How far away are the paramedics?"

Mulder was slipping in and out.  Slipping from
consciousness to nothingness in her arms, his pulse uneven
beneath her fingers.

"Fifteen minutes, give or take."  She didn't even know who
had spoken.

"That's too long.  We need a car."

Skinner was stooped over her now, fatherly in his concern.
"Scully, we shouldn't move him, you know that.  He's better
off waiting for the medics, they can help him on the way to
the hospital, we can't."

"There's only one main road out of here, right?"

"Yeah, but--"

"So we can head toward the ambulance.  Cut the time in
half."

"Scully, I don't think we should--"

"Are you gonna help, or do I move him myself?"

She heard his resigned sigh, but she didn't care.  All that
mattered was that there were strong hands beneath Mulder.
Several pairs, one of them Doggett's.  And Mulder was
moving, and she wasn't even carrying any of his weight,
just grasping at his hand and stroking his hair *she was
touching Mulder's hair*, and there was a car ahead with the
back door open and ready.  Then he was inside and she was
running around the outside of the car, grasping at the
driver's door.

"No."  A firm hand hit her shoulder as her fingers snatched
the keys from the driver's seat.  "I draw the line at you
driving.  Get in the back."

Scully held onto Skinner's gaze for half a beat.  She would
have fought longer, but forces were sucking her back toward
Mulder like an enormous rubber band.  She gave a quick,
decisive nod.  Then, looking past Skinner's shoulder, she
said firmly, "Doggett.  Drive."  And tossed him the keys.

She had hardly landed in the back seat before the car was
in motion.  She heard a soft, "Hang on," beneath Doggett's
breath, and there were a thousand possible meanings to his
words, and at least three people he could have been
speaking them to.

Moonlight flashed through the trees like strobe lights as
they bounced along the dirt path that was nothing like a
road.  She had managed to slip her thighs beneath Mulder's
shoulders.  His head rested in her lap, where she could try
to cushion some of the shocks.

The fingers of her right hand were stroking his cheek while
her left fingers kept tabs on his pulse.  On the weak side,
but steadier now.

She was shaking.  She closed her eyes against the dizziness
and cradled Mulder closer, inhaling.  *Pulse.  2, 3, 4...*
Somewhere, beneath the scents of dirt and damp and
chemicals and old metal, beneath the scent of old
newspapers rising from the car floor and the dull burned
smell of the revving heater--lay the scent she had been
living for for so long now...  The scent that was fading on
the unwashed shirt tucked beneath her pillow.  The scent in
the leather jacket on the coat tree beside the basement
office door.

*Mulder*...

*****


3:27am


John Doggett's vision was blurring.  His eyes burned from
exhaustion, too much fluorescent light, and the smoke
residue on Agent Reyes' jacket.

He was wandering back past the rear entrance to the ER,
through the lounge area with the lousy vending machines, to
the row of semi-private cubicles on the right side of the
ICU.  He caught sight of the A.D. Skinner's profile,
telling him where Room 3b must be located.

Skinner gave him a small nod as he approached.  Doggett
stepped up beside his superior, following his quietly
intense gaze through the picture window of Room 3b.

Silence made sense now.

A single bed lay in the cramped cubicle beneath the
mercifully dimmed night-shift lights.  Upon the bed, a
quietly sleeping Fox Mulder.  IV in his hand, bandages on
his head, his arm, other places lost beneath the blanket.
But he was breathing fine on his own.  The rise and fall of
his pulse on the green glow of the monitor was even and
deep.  His expression was that of a child safe in his own
bed.  Content.

There was an obvious reason why.

Nestled in against Agent Mulder's quiet body, back against
his chest, face toward the window, lay Agent Scully, lost
in an equally peaceful sleep.

"Jesus," Doggett said softly.  "I bet she hasn't slept that
well in four months."

Skinner didn't answer, but Doggett could hear his throat
muscles working as he swallowed.

After a quiet minute, Skinner asked, "Get anything more out
of the others?  Do we know what happened?"

Doggett shrugged.  "We're still putting together the
pieces.  Seems pretty widely agreed that there are...nine
minutes unaccounted for.  Could have been some sort of
airborne tranquilizer, I suppose, or..." he trailed off,
brow furrowed in confusion.

Skinner just took it in stride.  "Agent Mulder doesn't
remember anything but voices around him, and then seeing
Scully...  She hasn't told him how we found him yet."

"Did we, Sir?"

Skinner finally turned his way.  "Did we what, Agent
Doggett?"

"Did we find a dead body, sir?  I mean, are we nuts here,
or did we just not look hard enough?  Is it possible he was
alive when we found him, just...cold, or unconscious,
or..."  He fell to silence under Skinner's steady gaze.

Doggett looked back toward the sleeping figures.  Mulder
shifted just slightly, draped his arm further across Agent
Scully's midriff.  This was right.  For once.  For once a
hospital was acknowledging that sometimes a little human
contact could perform more miracles than all the medical
equipment in the world.  Or maybe Agent Scully had just
screamed at them until they let her stay.

"Did Agent Scully find this...Jeremiah Smith back at the
cabin?  Was he...I mean, is it possible that he had gone
out to the clearing?  That he...I mean, I'm not saying I
believe he had the power to--"

"There are some questions that will never truly be
answered, Agent Doggett.  Sometimes just being willing to
ask the questions is enough."

Doggett watched Skinner's profile for a moment, then
nodded.  Through the window, Agent Scully slept on.  Mulder
beside her.  Child inside her.

Maybe it *was* enough.  For tonight.

For tonight.

*****

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