En L'aire by Branwell

Rating: G

Category: V, A

Spoilers: Through "This Is Not Happening"

Archiving permission: Anyone may archive this. Just keep my
name with it.

Disclaimer: Chris Carter, Gillian Anderson and Ten Thirteen
productions created and own the characters you recognize.
My writing is for fun, not profit.

Setting: Season 8 is hip-deep in timeline problems. If
Scully found out she was pregnant in June, I think she'd be
pretty far along in December. This takes place seven months
post Requiem, four months post TINH.

Summary: It's been months since that night in Montana.

Thanks: I owe thanks to Deep Background.

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Scully jumped as a hand slid up from her ankle to her
stockinged calf.

"You have smooooth legs, Aunt Dana," came a loud whisper
from somewhere below her knees.

Mattie was already bored with "The Nutcracker Suite."

Scully took her nephew's chubby hand in a firm grip. There
would be trouble if she let him continue his progress
beneath the seats until he reached his grandmother. She
leaned over and spoke quietly into the darkness bounded by
green plush upholstery.

"Do you remember? Grandma didn't like it when you went
under the pew at church?"

She felt his resistance slacken. Mattie's ruffled blond
head popped up beside her. At the same moment Tara took his
other hand. Mattie sank into the empty seat between them
with a theatrical slump.

Scully wondered if her mother had forgotten her own Sunday
morning ordeals, when she struggled alone to keep order
among four pre-schoolers. Perhaps her mother thought Tara
had it easy with only one child to manage. There was no
excuse for laxity when the odds were even.

On stage the young dancers spun in swirls of rose, maroon,
Prussian blue and white. They waved toy swords and dolls in
broad gestures. The music was almost too lush with emotion,
syrupy with strings and fat with harmonies.

Mattie was not impressed. He discovered that if he raised
his legs, his seat folded him into a compact, giggling "V."

It took the bright explosions of Herr Drosselmeyer's magic
to rivet her nephew's attention. He bounced with excitement
at the flashes of fire and smoke that signaled the
presentation of gifts. He resumed his fidgeting while the
party-goers danced their way off-stage.

His interest revived when Clara fell asleep and the magic
began. Scully enjoyed the wide-eyed shine in Mattie's eyes
when the Christmas tree swelled toward the ceiling like a
dream of surfeit. He stayed alert for the invasion of the
Mouse King and his army.

Scully thought that the Mouse King costume was too
frightening for a show aimed at children.

The dancer's sinuous movements made her think of a snake,
not a mouse. His silvery body suit seemed to glisten with
cool moisture. The ungainly head turned in slow, ominous
surveys of the stage, as he commanded his mouse warriors
against the toy soldiers.

It was the oval black eyes that made Scully most
uncomfortable. They should have glittered, flat and glassy.
Instead they gleamed, humid and penetrable, like the eyes
of a living creature.

The Nutcracker Prince entered the fray with a brave leap.
Scully noticed that he had long legs for a ballet dancer.
Moving with the fluid grace of a smaller man, he reeled and
bent under blows from the Mouse King's sword. Scully could
hear the dancer's panting as the duel took on an edge of
desperation.

Even in extremity the Nutcracker's face remained stiff -- a
mask of features exaggerated beyond human expression.

She worried about the children in the audience and their
terror. How could they be sure that the conflict was make-
believe?

The Nutcracker fell at last in a pose of agonized defeat,
frozen in the white glare of a spotlight. Clara stood by,
ready to save him with a thrown slipper. The Mouse King's
huge head swung around toward the audience.

Scully lurched to her feet. She squeezed Mattie's hand and
whispered in his ear. "Let's go out and get you a
chocolate-covered Oreo."

Mattie blinked with surprise, but recovered quickly. "OK,"
he agreed.

"He's scared. I'm taking him to the lobby," Scully murmured
to Tara as they edged their way out. It was difficult to
squeeze her pregnant belly politely past the people seated
in their row.

Scully knew her sister-in-law wouldn't aggravate the
audience around them by delaying her for an explanation.

Mattie pulled her up the aisle, bursting to release the
energy he'd accumulated during the last half-hour. He
skipped with joy on seeing the empty expanse of marble in
the lobby. When he launched himself across it, he slid for
a satisfying ten feet.

The woman behind the refreshment counter gave Scully a
knowing smile. Scully returned it mechanically, and
approached her to buy the promised treat. Mattie instantly
darted over to supervise.

"I'm thirsty, Aunt Dana," he confided. "Can I have a Coke?"

Scully was already regretting her impulse. Mattie's pale
blue turtleneck would suffer from the chocolaty dessert.
Soda was the ultimate anti-health drink.

She didn't have the will to refuse. Her will had crumbled
months ago, along with her hope. Since then she'd allowed
events to sweep her along, like a scrap of paper in a gale.

Which was really how it had always been, she reminded
herself. She'd stopped fighting because she'd lost the
illusion that she had the power to control anything.

She'd be a terrible mother.

Mattie ate two bites of the cookie before he decided to
lick off all the chocolate. Then he took it apart and
scooped off the icing with his fingers. Most of the cookie
remained on the plate in crumbs when he lost interest and
abandoned it.

Scully grabbed his hands at the last second, before he
could wipe the stickiness onto his shirt. She pulled out a
wet wipe and worked until only an antiseptic lemon scent
remained on Mattie's fingers.

He took a long drink of Coke and headed for the brass
railing that ran up the center of the lobby stairs. Mattie
clung and shinnied along the round pipe as though he'd been
born in a tree.

Scully remembered watching Melissa perform frightening
feats on the monkey bars when they were children. She
hadn't been showing off. It had never crossed Melissa's
mind that she was in any danger. She had perfect confidence
in her skills.

Misplaced confidence, as it turned out. She was dead, like
Mulder.

Scully tried to get comfortable on the marble bench beside
the stairway. Her hips ached with the softening of her
ligaments, and her high-rising uterus crowded her lungs and
stomach.

She no longer remembered why she had fought so hard for
this pregnancy. Something coiled within her, waiting to be
born. She had nothing to offer but an empty heart and a
world of senseless suffering.

A deliberate, flexing movement inside her lifted the fabric
of her black, knit smock. Her gaze moved beyond the mound
of her belly to the green-veined marble floor.

Several obstetricians had examined her sonograms and blood
test results. They'd done independent analyses of her
amniocentesis results.

All she could think of were the thousands of ways she could
be duped into believing whatever someone wanted her to
believe about this pregnancy.

She remembered the teeming carp in the stagnant pond out by
the base shooting range. They lunged to the surface for
bits of bread with one, rippling movement of their muscular
bodies. She and her sister and brothers threw stale bread
to the fish while they waited their turns. Only one at a
time could practice shooting under their father's careful
supervision.

Bill told her that the carp never stopped growing. They
just kept eating, and getting bigger and bigger, until they
died of old age.

Even after the birth she wouldn't be sure if there had been
a switch of babies. Or creatures. The changeling legend in
reverse.

She hurried over to attend to Mattie when he swung down
from the railing and started coughing. The chocolate and
Coke came back up in a few miserable heaves, streaking his
shirt with wet brown stains.

Scully alternated between drying his tears and using more
wet-wipes to scrape as much mess as possible off his shirt.
Then she looked at the floor and estimated that she'd need
three paper towels to clean it up.

A sweet-faced, gray-haired usher hurried over with a wet
sponge. As she swiped systematically at the marble, she
tried to distract Mattie. "Do you want a baby brother or
sister, dear?" she cooed.

Mattie burped in answer and Scully thrust a tissue under
his chin.

"He's my nephew," Scully corrected quickly. "I don't know
what it's going to be."

"How nice and old-fashioned. You're going to be surprised,"
the woman murmured approvingly.

"Thank you so much," Scully responded with automatic
courtesy. "I shouldn't have let him hang upside down after
eating."

"Never mind, dear. You'll learn."

Mattie still hiccupped, and his lower lip quivered.

"Let's go look at the pretty things," Scully suggested to
her nephew. She stretched her mouth in a smile at the kind
usher, and led Mattie across the lobby.

Pink and lavender netting swathed the counter opposite in a
display as sumptuous as a Victorian valentine. The
merchandise was all aimed at young females - - leotards,
leggings, shoe bags, scarves, and jewelry. Most items came
in pink or lavender.

Mattie liked the ballerina in the jewelry box because she
moved. She wore a real gauze tutu, and twirled over a
mirror to a digital version of "The Dance of Sugarplum
Fairy."

Scully had resigned herself to buying Mattie a distraction,
but his choice made her pause. She thought of Bill's face
when he saw his son enthralled by a dancing doll in a pink
jewelry box.

"Look at the nutcrackers, Mattie." She led him around the
corner to look at the row of bright figures, vivid in
uniforms of glossy red or blue paint. They glared at
nothing, faces bold with shiny black eyebrows and whiskers.
"Aren't they fierce?" she encouraged.

When her nephew cautiously inserted his pointer finger into
the mouth of one, Scully gently lifted the lever in its
back. Mattie jumped and pulled his finger back with a
giggle when the mouth closed on it.

"Can I have one, Aunt Dana?" he asked, while he pressed a
finger against the sharpness of the small wooden sword in
the nutcracker's fist.

"Have you been a good boy?" she asked, her hand already
reaching into her purse for the money.

He nodded, pumping the nutcracker's lever up and down until
it pinched his finger into redness.

The nutcracker conducted battles up and down the stairs,
and around the marble benches, until intermission brought a
crowd into the lobby. When Scully's mother and Tara found
them, she saw their faces tighten with concern at the sight
of Mattie's stained shirt.

"What happened, Dana?" her mother spoke first. "Is Mattie
all right?"

"It was just an accident, Mom. He spit up some Coke. He's
fine now."

Tara knelt beside her son, trying to comfort him with a
hug. He resisted, intent on his one-soldier military
campaign.

"I'm sorry about his shirt, Tara," Scully apologized.

"Oh, don't worry about it. It'll come out. He'll be too big
for that shirt in a few months anyway. Don't give it
another thought."

Tara was well into the second week of her visit to her
hustand's family. She still tiptoed around Scully as
carefully as if she were touring a spider web museum.

She had attempted a few, casual half-hugs around Scully's
stiff shoulders. She left magazines lying open to stories
of human triumph over adversity. Her Christmas gift to
Scully had been an inspirational book called "Embraced by
Angels." "There's goodness out there too," she whispered
anxiously, as Scully removed blue foil wrapping paper
etched with silver angels.

Scully had smiled her appreciation for Tara's good
intentions. She spared her sister-in-law the truth about
angels, and why seraphim weren't comforting icons for a
mysteriously pregnant woman.

At least Tara knew better than to tell her that everything
would be all right after the baby came.

Mattie stuck his lower lip out at the prospect of returning
to his seat for the rest of the ballet. Tara watched
Scully's face for cues.

Scully shrugged. "I don't mind staying out here with him.
My legs were starting to cramp up anyway."

Her mother and Tara nodded in understanding.

Mattie continued his play during most of the second act,
thoroughly polishing the marble floor with the knees of his
Dockers. Finally he retired to a spot on the bench next to
Scully, and demanded a story.

She stumbled through "Goldilocks and the Three Bears,"
making frequent mistakes with the voices. Baby Bear
muttered his disappointment over his empty porridge bowl in
a low, throaty growl, and Mama Bear squeaked in protest at
her unmade bed. Mattie didn't notice. His eyes drooped. He
leaned heavily on Scully until he fell into his mother's
arms at the end of the show.

The walk to the car was a cold bustle through chilly
darkness around half-frozen puddles. Tara carried Mattie,
who lacked the energy to complain about being babied. The
adults shivered at their contact with the frigid fabric of
the seats. They exclaimed at the outrage of cold weather in
winter. When the heater kicked in, the conversation shifted
to the lateness of the hour, and the amazing lack of
traffic at eleven P.M.

Scully didn't make a fuss when Tara let Mattie ride on her
lap, instead of strapping him into his car seat.

When Scully pulled into the driveway, her mother made her
usual suggestion. "Dana, honey, it's so late. Why don't you
spend the night, instead of driving back to Georgetown?"

Tonight Scully heard a different answer than the usual come
out of her mouth. "No thanks, Mom. I'm not sleepy."

"But honey, I hate to think of you there all alone . . .
Wouldn't you sleep better with your family around you?"

Scully couldn't argue with her. She sat silent behind the
wheel, while her mother helped Tara struggle out of the car
with her sleeping son in her arms.

It was the first time Scully had resisted a direction from
anyone since that night in Montana.

Mattie woke up when Tara shifted him to an upright
position. First he grumbled sleepily. Then he raised his
voice in a penetrating whine. "Where's my nutcracker,
Mommy? Where is it?"

Tara bent awkwardly through the open door and glanced over
the empty seat.

"Maybe you dropped it on the way to the car, honey," she
suggested. "Hush. Never mind. You got lots of new toys for
Christmas. You'll forget all about it."

"No. Nooo. He's lost," Mattie wailed. "What if he's
scared?"

Distracted by the need to pacify Mattie, her mother forgot
to press Scully to stay the night. Scully found herself
retracing her way through the maze of empty suburban
streets, and didn't remember saying her goodnights.

The drive on the highway to Georgetown passed smoothly,
like a long slide down a familiar chute.

Scully had told her mother the truth. She wasn't sleepy,
although she always slept poorly now.

It had been a great relief when the discomfort of her
pregnancy made deep sleep impossible. Once in a while,
during the first weeks after Montana, she fell so deeply
unconscious that the pain of her loss seeped away into some
hidden mental reservoir. When she woke, it was with a
disorienting shock of dread. Each time, the horror of that
night came flooding back like an acid infusion into her
body and brain.

Now it was impossible to find an easy position in bed. She
woke frequently, and sometimes had to do stretches in the
middle of the night to relieve muscle spasms.

She never forgot, so she never had to remember.

Scully found a parking space on the street half a block
from her own apartment. She sat in the dark cage of the
car, not moving to leave it until cold began to creep up
her legs like a seepage of icy water.

As she turned to shut the front door, a flash of red on the
floor in the back seat caught her eye. Mattie's painted toy
stuck out from under the front seat, just a tiny bit.

Scully yanked the back door open and grabbed the
nutcracker, as though he lay in imminent peril. She
clutched the staring wooden figure to her chest, warming it
in her hands.

But all she could think was "He's lost. He's lost, and so
am I."

---------------------------------------------------

End of "En l'aire"

En l'aire - A movement thus qualified is performed with the
relevant leg raised from the ground.
I think the surviving member of a partnership like Mulder's
and Scully's could only feel off balance.

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