Title:                  But hope that is seen ... 
Author:                 dlynn 
Feedback:               dlynn1...@my-deja.com 
Category:               vignette, Scully angst, 
                        3rd person POV, Sc/Sk friendship 
Distribution:           Xemplary, yes. Please, don't 
                        forward to Gossamer; I'll take 
                        care of that. 
Spoilers:               Post-episode 'This is Not 
                        Happening.' Slight one for 8X18. 
Rating:                 G 

Summary:                But hope that is seen is no hope       
                        at all. Who hopes for what he 
                        already has? But if we hope for 
                        what we do not yet have, we wait 
                        for it patiently. 
                        Romans 8: 24-25 
Disclaimers:            I wish they were mine ... sigh. 
Author's notes:         This is a sequel to In Rama a 
                        Voice Was Heard. You need to   
                        read that story first in order 
                        to understand this. You can find 
                        "Rama" at my web site, listed 
                        under post-episodes. 


Dlynn's novel length, stand-alone, and post-episode 
stories can be found at http://home.mpinet.net/laster 


She comes back to the hospital -- again, by means of the 
emergency room. A tall, imposing man, who commands 
respect with stern conviction, carries Dana through the 
glass double doors as though she weighs no more than a 
child and is just as precious to him. His authoritative 
voice barks orders like a drill sergeant assembling his 
troops, and as I mop up exam room one, I feel his 
urgency flood the air. This man demands action. Now. 


He lays Dana upon the gurney, more tenderly than if he 
holds a newborn babe. As the doctor and nurses begin 
taking her vitals, hooking up an intravenous line, and 
getting all the important stats from him, he tenderly 
reaches forward and brushes her hair away from her face. 
Then he pulls back ... as though he doesn't have the right 
to touch her. 


Puzzling .... 


"How far along is she?" Dr. Hanson asks while the nurse 
pulls the baby monitor to the bed and begins strapping 
the leads to her abdomen. Dana's heartbeat -- a gentle 
"blip, blip" -- partners with a second, much faster 
beat. My own heart leaps as mother and baby dance 
together. 


"I ... I'm not sure. Sixteen, eighteen weeks," the man 
whispers, rubbing at his face with a shaking hand. His 
worried countenance groans confusion and fear. Visibly, 
he wants to be able to help, and it frustrates him that 
he doesn't have more to give.  "Her ... um, her medical 
records should be on file from the last time she was 
here." 


His large hand clasps hers. His fingers stroke at her 
pale skin and awkwardly glide across the prominent veins 
in her hands. 


"Sir, you'll have to leave now. Please, sir, there's 
nothing more you can do, and we need you to wait in the 
waiting room." Marla, a nurse as brusque as Dana's 
protector, places her hand upon his shoulder, determined 
to lead him from the room. "I promise to come get you as 
soon as we know anything, okay?" 


Marla's size and demeanor is every inch as formidable as 
his, and her determination can be more than daunting. 
Apparently, he considers his options and comes to that 
exact conclusion, even as he tells Marla how things will 
be. 


"Anything. Any change at all, I expect to be notified 
immediately," he says, his gaze holding Marla's in a 
standoff between two strong wills, his resolve only 
acquiescing because she concurs with his request. 


She nods her head in agreement. "I promise ... 
immediately. Anything." 


"Good." He squeezes Dana's fingers one last time, 
noticeably worried about breaking the connection with 
her. He slips her hand beneath the thin cotton blanket, 
tucking her in, and then lets Marla guide him from Exam 
room two.   


"Mulder?" I whisper to myself, wondering about the man 
Dana and I had prayed for only a few months ago. 


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 


Accompanied by squeaky wheels, I steer my pail into the 
maintenance closet at the end of the hall. After hanging 
the mop, and dumping the dirty, bleach water into the 
laundry tub, I wash my hands, trying to remove the 
disinfectant smell. I smooth my hands against my 
polyester and cotton uniform, and leave the room. 


He paces the waiting room like a tiger held behind glass 
in a twelve by twelve foot observation room. The 
incessant pacing ... over and over, oblivious to all and 
focused solely on putting one foot in front of the other 
serves no purpose other than to keep his agitation at 
bay. If he stops, he will probably smash something. 


"Mulder?" I ask, quelling my natural fear at speaking 
with such an imposing figure. "Are you Mulder?" 


As if I'd hit him with a two by four, he stops his 
incessant march. He bends at the waist, places his hands 
upon his knees, and takes in several deep breaths. He 
doesn't even raise his head as he answers. 


"No, I'm not Mulder." 


Feeling terribly stupid about my assumption, I turn to 
leave, feeling as though I am intruding in this man's 
life. I'm just an orderly, a maintenance worker who 
happened to be there for Dana when she needed someone to 
talk to months ago. I'm not a friend; I'm not even an 
acquaintance. Just a stranger ... drawn into her life 
during her agonized night of contemplation. 


"I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to intrude. I just ... I 
thought you might be Mulder." 


Standing erect again, he walks toward me. "How do you 
know about Mulder, Miss ...?" 


"Uh ... I'm Mrs. Lassiter. I met Dana a couple of months 
ago." I answer, not sure how much I should say to this 
man, without betraying Dana's confidence. She'd been so 
vulnerable that night; I have no right to speak out of 
turn. 


"When she was here before?" he asks, his eyes 
compassionate even as he leads me with his questions. 
Something ... there is something in this man I feel I can 
trust. Clearly, he cares for Dana. 


"Yes, we talked ... in the chapel." 


"About Mulder?" He turns his head away from me as he and 
gazes out the venetian blinds at the murky afternoon. 
"She told you about Mulder." 


"She ... we--" 


He turns back to me, stalling my flustered stutters. 
"I'm Walter Skinner. Assistant Director Walter Skinner 
with the FBI. I'm Dana's boss." 


"And Mulder? Her partner, has he been found?" I ask, 
knowing the answer before he answers. The grief sits 
between us like a dark shroud. 


"We buried him today," he spits out the words like they 
taste foul and make him ill to his stomach. "She fainted 
after the service, on the way to her car. I didn't think 
... I scooped her up and brought her here." 


Cold, unforgiving hard plastic hits the back of my legs 
as I sink onto a waiting room chair. Mulder can't be 
dead, not the man Dana spoke of ... the man whose life 
embodied conviction and passion. The man I saw so 
clearly in a dream ... a dream that I know will come true. 


"...the man she loves more than her life--" I murmur, not 
realizing I speak aloud. 


"No!" Assistant Director Skinner snaps. "She's strong; 
she's stronger than anyone I know. She won't give up ... 
she won't. She has too much to live--" 


He stops, realizing how much he'd almost revealed. I 
guess I'll let him off the hook. 


I see the fear in his eyes, even though he's sure of his 
words. I reach between us and take his hand, squeezing 
his fingers just as he'd held hers earlier. 


"You mean the baby, Mr. Skinner? Mulder's baby?" 


His hand twitches within mine, and then he turns to me, 
saying, "She will live for THAT child. She will not give 
up. Her ... her faith will sustain her." 


"Mr. Skinner are you a man of faith?" I ask, astounded 
by my continued boldness. "A praying man?" 


His head shakes yes, his eyes red-rimmed and teary ... 
signs of his distress that I hadn't noticed earlier. 


"Then pray for her, Mr. Skinner. Pray that she stays the 
course ... that she allows her God to sustain her because 
I assure you, she has a most difficult road ahead." 


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 


Even as I stand at Dana's door, I wonder why I'm here. 
I'm an old woman ... someone who has no more right to talk 
to her than any stranger, no matter what words we shared 
that night in the chapel. But I can no more turn away 
from her tonight, then I did last time. 


Carefully, I slip open the door and walk into her room. 
Except for the muted television that bleeds a hushed 
light throughout the room, all is dark and quiet. She 
lays there, supine, staring straight ahead at the 
television, although I know she doesn't see a thing. 
She's blinded by her grief. 


"Dana?" I whisper, stepping into the television's soft 
light. "It's Marty, honey. Marty Lassiter." 


The smallest flicker of recognition cross her face as 
she blinks, but doesn't speak. I walk farther into the 
room and seat myself in an old green reclining chair. 
I'm prepared to wait on her ... for as long as she needs 
me. If only to stand witness to her grief, I will 
remain. And to tell her what I must ... what I know is 
true, however bizarre it may sound. 


Quiet minutes stand between us, and thus we sit ... in 
silence, until I hear her sheets rustling. 


If I had exhaled at the time she chose to spoke, I would 
never have heard her; her voice barely whispers in the 
dark. 


"Marty, he's gone ... Mulder, I... he's gone." Her grief is 
so tangible that it shakes my very soul. "Our prayers ... 
nothing came of them. Nothing." 


I move quietly from my chair and sit beside her on the 
bed. I fight the urge to gather her up in my arms. My 
embrace is not what she seeks or needs. 


"Dana, you must continue to fight. You must ... for your 
baby, for Mulder's baby." 


She startles with my words. I see her re-playing our 
previous time together, searching for words she knows 
she didn't say aloud. "I never told you that this is 
Mulder's baby." 


"I know ... you didn't. And I've debated whether or not to 
even tell you this because ... frankly, I don't understand 
it." 


"What?" 


"Last time ... after we talked and prayed, I had a dream--" 


"A dream?" 


"Yes ... I dreamed about you and Mulder. I saw you both -- 
he's tall, with dark hair, a slightly … um off-kilter 
nose, and hazel eyes, right?" 


"Yes ... he is," her voice breaks with her words. "He does 
... he did look like that." 


"Well ... in my dream, and Dana, I can't begin to explain 
it in light of what you've told me, but I know deep 
within me that ... it will come true. Somehow." 


Surely, she'll ask me to leave now. I sound like some 
batty old woman whose been sniffing too much ammonia. 


"Go on," she says. 


"You and Mulder ... you're both there at your child's 
birth. I. Have. No. Doubt." 


Dana stares at me; her eyes bore into me as though she 
tries to see within my soul, searching for something ... 
some hope to grasp. 


"One thing I know, Dana, above all else. Keep praying. 
Don't stop. It's not over. I don't know how, but I do 
know ... Mulder and you ... are not over." 


She turns from me, staring out the window, where the 
murky afternoon has become a dreary night, and she 
murmurs, "I want to believe." 


"Never give up hope for a miracle." 


She turns to me, tears glistening in her eyes, and 
holds out her arms. I pull her close and stroke her 
hair. She murmurs ... over and over ... 'never give 
up hope....' 


~*~*~*~*~*~ the end ~*~*~*~*~*~*