Title: Monsters In The Dark
Author: Becka F.
E-mail: petitebec@gmail.com (formerly 
xfgurl@hotmail.com)

Classification: V, missing scene from I
Want To Believe
Spoilers: I Want To Believe (2008)
Archive: Just ask!
Disclaimer: Seriously FOX, are you going to 
sue me?

Author's notes: I've been out of commission 
for a while.  Since the series ended.  I've 
missed it.  I've missed the characters, and 
how they moved me.  Inspiration has been 
hard to come by.  Thank you CC for IWTB.

Summary: Margaret Fearon's son is dying from 
a devastating illness, and all I want in 
this exact moment is for her to recognize 
that we share something other than 
desperately wanting to see Christian get 
better.


~*~*~


Monsters In The Dark
By Becka F.


~*~*~


After the first procedure on Christian 
today, I gave him an ultimatum.

The darkness or me.

And I've been hating myself for it ever 
since.  

I sigh heavily and slip on my coat, slamming 
the locker door closed a little harder than 
I mean to.

I blame no one but myself for getting him 
involved.  

And I've been hating myself for that the 
most.


I gave him an ultimatum today.

The darkness or me.

I thought I could convince him to forget who 
he was.  Just for a little while.  Just 
until this darkness passes and we can go 
home again.

I knew better.  I've known better.


[Good luck to you too, Mulder.]


~*~


[Don't give up.]

Father Joe's words.  The man to me is vile 
to the highest degree, but I can't get him 
out of my head.

It's late.

It's late, and all I want to do is go home.

The very thought going back to those dorms 
sends a familiar shiver down my spine.

But I need to know.

Father Joe's words.  I need to know what 
they mean.


Maybe if I did, I could go home again.


~*~


At the top of the stairs, Mary's image in 
stained glass casts a comforting glow to the 
floor below.

I pretend I don't see her.

Not today.

I veer sharply to the left and head down the
stairs, nearly bumping right into Mr. and 
Mrs. Fearon - Christian's parents - who were 
just leaving his room.

I see it in their eyes immediately.

Confusion.  Despair.  Fear.  They are lost.  
They are losing hope.

They are giving up.

[Don't do this.]

They want to discontinue treatment, they 
tell me.  And while they swear it's their 
decision, I know that Father Ybarra had a 
hand in this.

"If you were a mother, you'd understand."

Don't do this to me today, God.

My eyes pierce back and bore into the 
desperate young mother's.

For a split second - a moment in time that 
is so miniscule that no one but me would
even notice - I hesitate.

[Don't do it, Dana.]

She glares back at me, and for a second, I 
swear she sees it in my eyes.

That recognition.  That faint light we all 
share.

But she doesn't.  

All she sees is her own desperation.  All 
she can perceive is the abject powerlessness 
that comes only from having to watch your 
child suffer at the hands of a vicious, 
painful and devastating illness.

And just like any mother whose only child is 
slipping away from her, she sees nothing 
else.

Margaret Fearon's son is dying from an 
incurable brain disease, and all I want in 
this exact moment is for her to recognize 
that we share something other than 
desperately wanting to see Christian get 
better.

The thought is positively nauseating.

[This isn't how you should think of 
William.]

So I say nothing.  Instead, I fall into my 
usual tirade of desperately trying to 
convince another set of heartbroken parents 
to continue treatment.  

Or in this case, give a new treatment a 
fighting chance. 

That's what doctors do.

[What if it did work?]

And what if I could save this boy?

I do understand, Margaret.

That's what mothers do.

By all definitions I am both doctor and 
mother.

Except one.


~*~


I stare blankly down the dismally-lit 
corridor after the Fearons.  I've never 
quite gotten used to how dark Our Lady of 
Sorrows is.

[I don't want to give up now.]

My own words echo in my head.  Over and over 
again.

I listen as ventilators and monitors keeping 
sick children alive rhythmically surround 
me, like a metronome keeping time with my 
heartbeat.  

Except there's no music in these hallways.


I'm still chasing monsters in the dark too, 
Mulder.


~*~


The red 'exit' sign beckons me.

[Come outside.  You can't save any more 
children today.]

A familiar voice snaps me out of it.

"Dr. Scully?"

It's muffled and weak, but it's 
unmistakable.  

Christian isn't sleeping after all.

I hastily don a gown and gloves and enter 
his room, hoping he wouldn't inquire as to 
why I was just standing out there, 
temporarily rooted to the floor.

"Hi sweetheart," I reply, putting on my 
bravest smile.  "Still thinking about how 
you're going to get out of here?"

"I don't like this room," he mumbles, 
referring to the new private room I had him 
moved into after the procedure, as a 
precautionary measure against infection.

"Why not?"

"It's dark ... scary," he replies, his words 
still slightly distorted.  He blinks slowly 
and winces in pain as he tries to sit up.  
He can barely move - his head swollen from 
the procedure and bandaged tightly around 
the lesion near his temple.

His eyes dart wildly around the room, 
prompting me to come closer.  As I approach 
the edge of his bed, he instantly relaxes.

I reach out and gently stroke his hair - 
allowing a few wispy strands sticking out 
from underneath his bandage to flow through 
my fingers.  

"You need to try and stay as still as you 
can for me, okay?"  I tell him.

"Okay." He smiles up at me, and my brave 
smile suddenly threatens to betray me.  "Can 
you check the room for me, Dr. Scully?"

"For what, Christian?"

He looks up at me sheepishly.

"Monsters."

"Monsters?  There had better be no monsters 
in my hospital."

But just to make sure, I check.

Under the bed.

In the closet. 

Behind the door.

After completing my inspection, I brush my 
hands together, dusting them off from the 
hunt, and return to his bedside.

"It's official.  There are no monsters in 
here."

I wish that were the truth.  I wish it were 
so much.


God, there are so many monsters in here.


He smiles up at me again.  This time, his 
eyelids flutter.  I can see him trying to 
form words, but it becomes more difficult 
for him when he gets tired.

After what seems like an eternity, he 
manages to get it out.

"You understand," he whispers softly, almost 
incoherently.

But I hear him.

"She thinks that you don't, but you do."

He sees that light.

I want nothing more in this instant to reach 
down and grab him and hold him.  I want to 
wrap him up tightly in my arms and never let 
him go.  

And thank him.

Thank him for his innocence, his simplicity, 
his incomparable, inherent intuition that so 
many of these incredible children share.

My hope for my own son is that he is just 
like this incredible little boy.  That he 
too wakes up every day in a world full of 
pain and suffering, still managing to bring 
warmth and light to every single person he 
touches.

"I'm not giving up on you," I whisper, just 
as he closes his eyes.  I fight the urge to 
crumble and let the monsters under the bed 
devour me whole.

And yet in the very same instant, I know 
that I won't.  I can't.

Moments ago, what I needed more than 
anything was to know what Father Joe meant.

Now, I think I know.  


[Never give up.]


I won't, Christian.

Mulder.

William.


I promise.



~*end*~



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