TITLE: Under A Juniper Tree

AUTHOR: Aloysia Virgata

DISTRIBUTION/FEEDBACK: aloysia.virgata@yahoo.com. Please 
ask before archiving.

RATING: PG 

CLASSIFICATION: Vignette 

SUMMARY: A child's corpse is the heaviest weight, but one 
can learn to bear it. One can learn to bear anything.  
 
SPOILERS: Christmas Carol, Emily  
 
DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of 
agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while 
operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For 
recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. 
And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for 
your direct flight from canon to fanfic.  
 
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A while back, I solicited requests for 
"Five Times..." fics on my LJ. I got many fabulous 
suggestions. Amyhit suggested "Five Times Scully Scares 
Mulder." I started writing the fic, but this was the only 
segment of it that came out how I wanted. It's a touch 
longer than a drabble. Both the title of the story and the 
mantra of Scully's roommate come from T.S. Eliot's Ash 
Wednesday. Thanks to Scarlet Baldy for looking this over on 
vacation. 
 
*** 
 
It had been his idea to go for a run. Get her out of the 
house, away from the smell of funeral flowers and baby's 
breath, and pump some sea air into her Navy brat lungs. She 
was clearly fraying around the edges, her face still 
pinched from cancer and grief. The squalling of baby 
Matthew was like a klaxon and Mulder noticed that it didn't 
make her flinch anymore. But her jaw was still tight when 
she held him.  
 
Scully stands on the corner with him, leaning against a 
lamp post as she screws the cap back on her water bottle. 
She wears Tara's old UCLA sweatshirt and a pair of leggings 
that bag at the knees. Even San Diego mornings are cold in 
the nascent days of the year, and Scully is still more 
fragile than she cares to admit. Her rapid breath puffs in 
little clouds, her thin chest rising and falling quickly 
below the embroidered fleece. She tucks the water bottle 
back into the pouch on the front of the sweatshirt, feeling 
marsupial and hollow.  
 
"You okay?" Mulder asks her, not liking the bright color 
too high in her cheeks. He watches her furtively for 
nosebleeds, as is his habit.  
 
She wipes at her damp forehead with her sleeve and shrugs.  
 
"We'd better turn around," he says, consulting his watch as 
though it is an objective authority to which he can appeal 
for a ruling. "Showering before the flight home would be 
the decent thing to do, and you still haven't packed."  
 
She shrugs again. She has no opinions on trivial things 
right now. White coffin with the white satin lining, the 
ivory colored peonies, and throw in a few dozen of the 
little tea roses. These are the last decisions she can 
remember making. She went for the run because Mulder 
suggested it. She wore the shirt because her mother told 
her to. She drank water because her body demanded it. 
Mulder glances at her sidelong as she tightens the laces of 
her running shoes. The flatness of her affect chews at him, 
seeming more like scar tissue than a healing wound. She is 
turning into a chilly white thing he doesn't like to look 
at. But there is nothing to say, no platitudes to offer, 
and she'd made it abundantly clear at the hospital that he 
was riding shotgun on this one. He just wants to get her 
home where she ease back into normality. Maybe talk to that 
Kosseff woman again.  
 
She straightens up, staring past him, an unfocused 
expression on her face, and he sees her thumb running over 
her fingernails. It's her give when she's anxious and he 
has not mentioned it because if he did, she'd tuck it away 
into a dark corner of her labyrinthine soul.  
 
He turns to see what has captured her interest, expecting a 
small blonde girl, but there's nothing there of obvious 
note. Her mouth moves, and there is a curl of red hair 
stuck to her dry lower lip. He leans forward to catch what 
she's saying, and picks up the scent of Bill and Tara's 
fabric softener, Bill and Tara's shampoo.  
 
"Teachustocareandnotocare," she murmurs, the words running 
together and scarcely louder than a breath. It was the 
mantra of her roommate in med school, an English major who 
had found her true calling in diseases of the endocrine 
system. Scully's gone away inside her head now, years back, 
to the first time she held a dead baby. The rubbery ribs 
hadn't required a bone saw. She'd sliced through them with 
a scalpel and, with infinite care, cut the fragile blue-
lipped creature to pieces. She'd printed the chubby 
fingers, zipped the bag back up, and carried the small 
bundle to the fridge. A child's corpse is the heaviest 
weight, but one can learn to bear it. One can learn to bear 
anything.  
 
"Scully," Mulder says gently, and taps her shoulder.  
 
There is no reply, but her right thumb twists into the 
cuticle of her ring finger and tears away a tiny strip of 
skin. If it hurts her, she does not show it. A bead of 
blood rises and then spills down the nail.  
 
He repeats her name, louder this time, and penetrates the 
mist behind her eyes.  
 
She blinks dazedly. "Hmm?"  
 
"We need to get going."  
 
"Yeah," she says. She turns from him and begins to run, 
avoiding the places where tree roots have heaved the 
concrete upwards. Dead branches clutter the sidewalk and 
crunch beneath her feet. Her hair escapes the elastic band, 
bouncing behind her, and he remembers when she used to wear 
it long around her girlish face, chasing nightmares through 
the woods.  
 
He catches up, matching his loping stride to hers, and they 
run down streets of identical houses. They breathe hard, 
hearts racing and feet hitting the pavement in a steady 
rhythm. A flock of blackbirds startles at their approach, 
rising up in a flurry of wings and then wheeling through 
the pallid sky before settling on a series of telephone 
wires. They call to one another in their hoarse voices and 
Mulder finds their group consciousness unsettling. He runs 
beneath them, hoping they will not stir.  
 
Scully rounds the corner ahead of him, her lungs burning 
with the morning air. She imagines them full of sand, 
imagines herself drowning in it, and she stumbles and 
coughs. She recovers before he reaches her and is off 
again, wanting Mulder to go away. He needs to leave her 
alone because she knows that she has it within her to take 
her comfort in his bed and the warmth of his living body. 
She knows that if she does, she'll leave his sheets cold 
and empty before he wakes. She will steal his breath like a 
cat.  
 
She crushes the thought like an empty soda can, running 
miles past it until she reaches her brother's house and 
slows to walk up the steps. The support post of the porch 
has flaking paint, but she leans against it anyway. Her 
legs are trembling from running too far and too fast and 
Christ, here's Mulder looking at her like a teacup he's 
accidentally smashed to the floor.  
 
"I'm going to take a shower and then pack," she informs 
him, giving him her back as she walks to the door. The 
brass knob is cold against her palm and, when she turns 
it, she feels Mulder's hand on her elbow.  
 
"Scully, when we get back to DC, you should consider talking to 
someone about all of this." He feels better for having said it, 
for letting her know he sees her pain, but, at the same time, not 
intruding on it. He's learning to navigate the jagged rocks of her 
coastline.  
 
She pauses and turns to regard him, looking bemused. She 
thought he understood. "When we get back to DC," she says 
slowly, "none of this ever happened." There's a note of 
condescension in her voice.  
 
He stares down at her, into Emily's dead blue eyes, and her 
face is the face of a stranger. 

***