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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years

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oregon rain

pilot fic, part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files

summary: March 8, 1993, a conversation in a hotel room.

He wasn’t supposed to like her.

They’d told him that he was getting a new partner—a spy, he had scoffed when he heard, it had to be, taking Diana away was the first step in weakening the Files’ foundation—and he had been prepared not to like her. He had been preparing himself to turn her away, drive her off with sarcastic quips and ridiculous theories. But she surprises him. Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully, with her thesis and her confidence and her whip-quick retorts. Her eyes are cool when she looks at him, ice-blue, and take-no-shit looks in them. He knows he won’t be able to get away with anything with her, not the way he has before. He shouldn’t like her. It is dangerous to like her, and he can’t put his finger on why he likes her. Maybe it’s something in the way he can occasionally get her to smile, or laugh a little. She’s green, green as hell, but she’s smart and she’s actually matching him in terms of alternate theories. She’s skeptical as hell, but she wants to solve this case just as badly as he does.

If it weren’t for the skepticism, he could maybe believe that she’ll last more than a week.

He’s in his hotel room when the power goes out, emailing some contacts about the evidence they’ve found. Time loss, he’s been thinking a little giddily ever since they left the road side. This is some of the best evidence he’s had of alien abduction. For the first time, he lets himself imagine that he might be close to his sister. He’s on the verge of calling the Gunmen to see if they have any similar stories when the power goes out.

Mulder blows air out of his mouth with frustration and puts the receiver down. Of course. Just his luck. After a few minutes of rummaging around in the dark room, he finds a large candle and lights it, setting it on his bedside table. He’ll go through the X-rays and pictures again, looking for similarities to other things he’s seen. He’s still feeling eager, despite the pretty spy in the next room over. This is it, he thinks, and grins. He’s met with abductees before, investigated UFO activity, but never somewhere with this much evidence. Turbulence, time loss, the bumps at the small of the back… This is the closest he’s gotten in years.

He’s so lost in thought that he almost doesn’t hear the knock at the door. But it comes again, sharp and insistent and maybe a little frantic. Wondering if this has anything to do with the case—if it’s some informant, or that girl from the cemetery who tried to keep her father from antagonizing them—Mulder stands, candle in hand, and goes to answer the door. He’s honesty not expecting to see Scully there, wrapped in a red robe, her hair growing wavy as it dries from the rain and her eyes wide with what can only be described as fear. “Hi,” he says, genuinely surprised.

“I want you to look at something,” she says, and yes, there is just a bit of fear in her voice.

“Come on in,” says Mulder, caught off guard.

Scully enters, stepping a few paces into the room and then stopping and standing turned away from him. While Mulder is closing the door, she’s unknotting her red robe and letting it drop; not all the way, she holds it so it covers her legs, but enough that her bra and underwear is exposed. Mulder stays what he is; he can’t tell what it is Scully wants, but if it’s a hookup, he’s going to have to say no. He doesn’t want another Diana, and he definitely isn’t sure if he trusts her yet. Spies are supposed to be likeable, right? They’re supposed to be smart and witty and just vulnerable enough to make you want to like them.

Scully looks back over her shoulder, uncertain, and motions with her chin to the small of her back. Mulder kneels behind her, suddenly understanding when he sees what’s at the base of Scully’s back. Three marks clustered above the waistband of her underwear, not unlike to the ones found on Karen Swenson and Peggy O’Dell. But at the same time, not overly similar. There are three, for one, and the placement looks different. They’re a different shade of pink than the other ones. He touches the space underneath the marks curiously with the tips of his fingers.

“What are they?” Scully asks, fear in her voice.

This could be a way of throwing him off, making him think that she isn’t a spy. But still, if Scully felt them on the small of her back, she has no way of seeing them for herself. And she seems genuinely scared, genuinely confused. Mulder draws a little closer to Scully’s arching bare back, trying to discern if they are what he thinks they are.

“Mulder, what are they?” Scully demands, more insistent this time.

He smiles a little when he sees it. The same as marks he’s found scattered over his arms. “Mosquito bites,” he says, looking up at her. He’s a little relieved—if this is part of her spy tactic, then she is bad at it. There is a distinct difference between those marks on the kids and mosquito bites, although both are raised bumps. They can’t fool him that easily.

“Are you sure?” she asks, looking at him over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, surprisingly good-naturedly, as he stands. That part of him that can’t help but like her. She sighs with relief, pulling her robe back on. “I got eaten up a lot myself out there,” Mulder adds, trying to reassure her. But she’s already catching him off guard, turning and leaning into him, burying herself into his shoulder.

He stumbles back with the shock of her weight against his, his hand without the candle coming up tentatively to her shoulder. He can’t even remember the last time someone hugged him. His mom at Thanksgiving, maybe, but that feels unlikely; Thanksgiving is too close to his sister. Scully is breathing shakily into his shoulder, trembling; he turns her nose tentatively into her hair. “You okay?” he asks, patting her shoulder twice for comfort.

Scully takes in one last breath before pulling away, says, “Yes,” in a steadier voice that reveals her embarrassment.

“You’re shaking,” he says, and she is, pulling the robe tighter around her as she trembles.

“I need to sit down,” she says, turning and going to one of the chairs by the table near the window.

“Take your time,” he says, sitting in the chair on the other side.

—

Dana is shaking, furious with herself. She tucks damp hair behind her ear frantically, her chin pressed to her chest. This is it, this is how she fucks up her first field assignment: by freaking out for no reason and dropping her robe in front of her new partner. Her face is hot and red with embarrassment. She twists her hands in her robe to stop their shaking.

“Can I get you some water?” Mulder is asking.

He’s a lot less annoying than he is in the field, she notes. Last night, with that whole run thing, and now, actually not wanting to strangle him tonight. She rubs a hand over her mouth reluctantly. “Mulder, I’m sorry,” she says firmly. “This is horribly unprofessional…”

He laughs a little, and she turns towards him, caught off guard. “Not on the X-Files, it’s not,” he says.

Annoyed, she says, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“No, Scully, it’s not like that,” he says, still a little amused. “That’s not what I mean. I mean that if you found something that matched the M.O. of this case, you were right to check it to see if it was the same thing. The whole point of the X-Files is to try and explain the unexplained.” He says the last part in that stupid eerie voice he used when he asked her if she believed in aliens.

She rolls her eyes, feeling a bit steadier now, loosens her hold on her robe. “And I’m sure that always involves taking half your clothes off,” she says in a sharp, dry tone. The rain is spitting at the window outside, pounding the window behind her head. She pushes hair behind her ears.

“I’m not judging you for anything, Scully,” Mulder says, and his voice is surprisingly sincere. “This is part of the work. I swear. And I know it must have been unnerving to feel those marks back there. I would’ve been in your room asking you to take a look if it’d been me.”

Dana combs through her hair with her fingers, giving the rug at her feet a stern look. “I’m sure you would have,” she says, giving herself that, at least. “That’s not too far off from spray painting X’s on the side of the road.”

“Oh, that again,” Mulder says, a little haughtily, and she chuckles a little. She feels better now, at least; Mulder’s dumb jokes are more calming than she’ll ever admit.

She gets to her feet, pushing her hair back again and knotting her robe hard so it doesn’t slip open. “I’m heading back to my room,” she says.

“Okay.” Mulder stands, going to the door. “Sure you don’t want to stick around?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows. “We could tell ghost stories. In a blackout, by candlelight; we have the perfect setting and everything.”

She can’t tell if he’s being genuine, if he really wants her to stay, or if he’s teasing, but either way, she won’t accept. She shakes her head, says, “Pass,” the way she did last night. He’s looking at her with some amusement in his eyes, not being annoying or spouting crazy theories, just sincere, so she adds, “Thank you, though, Mulder. For looking at the marks.”

“What else are partners for?” He reaches over her head and opens the door, so that she has to walk under his arm to leave. Okay, so maybe he is still a little annoying. But she likes him. She didn’t expect to like him, or at least not this much. Not when they gave her the assignment; she’d thought, Oh boy, I’m in for it. And it would seem that she is. But she still likes him more than she expected. She offers him a small smile before he closes the door behind her.

She gets back to her room before she remembers: her key is lying on her bedside table, where she left it when she ran out of the room. She’d forgotten all about it. “Shit,” she swears out loud, yanking at the doorknob. No give. She’s locked out of her hotel room, and now she’s embarrassed all over again. She’s probably the greenest agent Mulder has ever seen. She shakes hair away from her face in frustration. Turns around and heads back to Mulder’s room.

She can hear him moving around inside. She raps on the door, calls out, “Mulder, it’s me. Can I come back in?”

The door opens under her hand, and Mulder’s grinning. “Scully, it’s been so long,” he says with mock surprise.

One corner of her mouth turns up voluntarily; she looks down at the ground. “I’m an idiot,” she says. “I’m locked out of my room. I forgot the key when I came over here. Can I call the front desk from your room?”

“Sure.” He steps aside and lets her in. Dana crosses the room to the phone, trying to avoid his eyes. She dials the front desk, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder. She loses composure, and her eyes steal across the flickery candlelit room to Mulder. He’s standing against the table, arms crossed over his blue shirt. “If you can’t get them, I’ll pick the lock,” he says, and he sounds serious. “I’ve broken into a lot of government facilities.”

“I hope you’re kidding,” says Dana sternly, her eyes stealing away. The phone is still ringing. It rings five more times before it clicks off. She sighs, setting it back down. “No answer,” she says. “I guess they’re busy with the blackout.”

“Guess so.” Mulder is still watching her, arms still crossed. Dana clears her throat, looking at the ground.

“Why don’t you just stay here tonight?” Mulder offers. He stands, motioning to the bed. “You can have the bed if you want. I don’t sleep a lot anyway.”

“Oh, no, Mulder, you don’t have to do that,” she says immediately.

“No, seriously.” He crosses the room, opening the closet and grabbing a blanket from the top shelf. “You should get some sleep anyway, it’s late.” He tosses the blanket at the bed. “Long day tomorrow.”

“I’ll bet,” Dana says uncertainly. She is tired; she was planning to go to sleep after the shower she never got to stay. “If you’re really sure…” she starts.

“Go right ahead. What else are partners for?” He gathers up a stack of papers and moves it to the desk.

Dana walks to the bed, climbing on top gingerly. She feels strange, trying to go to sleep in front of her new partner. It’s the way she always feels the first time someone new spends the night: on display. She never quite got used to Ethan’s presence, which is likely part of the reason he is not her boyfriend as of a few days ago. “Thanks a lot, Mulder,” she says, pulling the blanket over her lap.

“Of course.” He stacks the papers evenly, grabs his wallet off of the desk. “I’m going to run to the vending machine. You want anything?”

“I’m good.” Dana lies down on top of the comforter, pulling the blanket over her shoulder. She wishes she had something to wear besides her robe; she’s going to wake up hot and sweaty.

“Get some sleep,” Mulder offers. The door opens, bringing in a rush of cool spring air, the smell of rain.

Dana rolls onto her side, facing the door as it closes. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep. Her mind is racing. She presses her lips together and tries to remember how she got here: on a ridiculous case from some shitty B-movie, in her partner’s hotel room on his bed in her robe. This is incredibly unprofessional. She didn’t expect to like him this much.

—

The vending machines are dark, but one spits out a candy bar when Mulder inserts five quarters. He shoves half of it in his mouth absently as he leaves the dark room, shoving back hair damp with rainwater. His new plan is to go for a run; he can grab his running shoes and give Scully some time to sleep. He’s expecting her to already be half asleep when he gets back to the room, but she’s still awake, eyes still opened, facing the door with her arm folded under her head. “Still awake?” he asks, taking another bite of the candy bar. Maybe a guy who’s essentially an insomniac isn’t the best judge of how long it takes people to fall asleep.

“Yes.” Scully rises up on one elbow to look at him. “I can’t sleep,” she says sheepishly. She looks embarrassed, the way she has all night; in the candlelight, he can see the freckles across her nose. He swallows. He leaves the shoes by the door, the candy on the table, and goes to the bed.

“Want to talk about the case?” he offers, sitting by her head so that they’re facing each other. “I could present some evidence of similar cases.” He grins in a way that is intending to be inviting, lies his hand flat on the bed; for some reason, he really wants her to believe him. He wasn’t supposed to like her, this potential spy. But this case could be something. And she is helping him solve it.

Dana leans on her hand, balanced on her elbow. “We could,” she agrees half-heartedly.

“Or we could tell ghost stories,” Mulder offers again, mostly kidding. “Or secrets. Play Truth or Dare.”

“We’re not eleven, Mulder,” she says with amusement. He scoffs, leaning his head back against the bed dramatically. She chuckles a little, tracing a thread in the comforter with the tip of her finger. “I do have a question, though,” she adds.

“What is it?” he asks, looking back at her. He thinks he might already know.

He can count every single one of her freckles when she’s this close. She swallows, says, “I’ve followed your career, Mulder, and despite your… reputation at Quantico, you were on the fast track to becoming extremely successful. I mean, you helped catch Monty Propps, of all things, and you were widely respected as a profiler. So, I guess I want to know… why did you want to leave it all behind? What was so important about the X-Files? What peaked your interest?”

Mulder signs, looking away from her, rocking his head against the edge of the bed. “Ahhh, the quintessential question,” he says. Always gets asked eventually.

“I suppose so,” says Scully.

He doesn’t tell many people about this, about Samantha, about his history. He certainly never planned to tell Scully. If she’s really a spy, then she already knows all this. If she’s really a spy, she could be trying to make him vulnerable. The way she had been vulnerable. This could be her tactic, Their way of finding his soft underbelly. He could be risking everything to tell her.

“Mulder?” Scully asks. He supposes he’s been silent for a while. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

He clears his throat, remembers the weight of her body against his. Her hair smelled sweet; he supposes it’s her shampoo or something. He wasn’t supposed to like her this much. He could be risking everything, but maybe he isn’t. And anyways, if she’s working for Them, she’ll already know this.

“You’re not… overstepping,” he says to the other side of the room. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He clears his throat again. “It’s because of my sister.”

“Your sister?” Scully asks. Her voice is soft and sincere.

“Yeah,” Mulder says. He takes a deep breath before beginning, the story he’s been telling for twenty years now. “I was twelve when it happened. My sister was eight…”

#xf fanfic #i wrote this

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sunflowerseedsandscience · 7 years

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Someday Your Child May Cry

16. Sight

It’s not all immediately sunshine and roses between them, after Arcadia, after an emotional appointment with Dr. Sabarwal, who confirms Scully’s pregnancy the week after they get back to DC. They’re still cautious and wary around one another, and occasionally, Scully still finds herself snapping at him, or questioning his judgement perhaps a bit more harshly than she might have before the Diana fiasco. The case in California with Karen Berquist, certainly, causes some of those emotions to come flooding back, but for the most part, Scully manages to deal with them. She’s getting more and more confident, lately, that things between them are going to be just fine- an impression that’s encouraged by the amount of time Mulder tries to spend kissing her.

And then comes Philip Padgett.

If it weren’t for the events of the past several months, Scully would have simply assumed that Mulder’s response to Padgett was nothing more than his usual over-protectiveness. But now, she can’t help but feel that his jealousy is almost in retribution for her own reaction to everything that has happened with Diana. It grates on her, his presumption at barging into Padgett’s apartment with his gun drawn, trying to hide his possessiveness behind concern for her well-being. When he has the nerve to actually ask her whether she had slept with Padgett or not, it takes every ounce of her self-control to keep calm, to keep her temper in check.

By the time Mulder leaves her in his apartment, struggling to pull on her boots, while he tears off to the basement in pursuit of their suspect, they’re hardly speaking to each other at all.

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

Scully lies motionless on the floor, her skin stained with blood, and for the space of a heartbeat, Mulder stands frozen in the doorway of his apartment as the world falls away around him. He steadies himself against the doorframe as lightheadedness overcomes him, the edges of his vision actually darkening… and then he’s flying across the room to her side.

She is white, so white, her already-pale skin nearly translucent, and the blood, God, there is so much blood, can she possibly be alive? Her chest isn’t moving, and in the face of the enormity of it, the very idea of her loss, like this, after everything, now….

He suddenly remembers the way he’s acted today, the things he’s insinuated about her. He’d never said that he was sorry for not trusting her, and it’s insane to be thinking about that now, to be lamenting that he’d never apologized for doubting her, as though his apology would make her any less-

No. His mind refuses to even permit the word. Not in relation to Scully.

All of this flashes through his mind in the breath of time between him arriving at her side, and his knees hitting the floor by her ribs. Dimly, he feels the blood, her blood, soaking into the knees of his jeans, as he reaches out for her.

With a shudder and a gasp, her eyes open.

For a moment, she doesn’t seem to recognize him, and she jerks her arms back against his hold, her eyes full of panic and terror, but he keeps a firm grip on her until she sees that it’s only him. She doesn’t calm, though; instead, she dissolves into the most violent sobs he’s ever heard from her, worse than when she’d been saved from Pfaster’s clutches, worse than when her mind had been tricked into thinking he had betrayed her, worse, even, than after Emily’s funeral, when she’d cried into his suit jacket outside of the church for nearly a half hour.

Mulder bends down as far as he can, even though the angle is excruciating for his back and knees, mindful of the fact that she could be gravely injured, and slides his arms carefully around her, helping her to sit up. She clutches at him with a desperation that nearly breaks his heart. Her hands scrabble at the back of his shirt, move higher, past his collar, and he suddenly feels a sharp sting as her nails dig into his neck and scalp, hard enough to draw blood.

He doesn’t care.

He thinks, dimly, of the defensive wounds murder victims leave on their killers, and it seems appropriate that she’s marking him in much the same way, because isn’t it his fault, as always, that she’s here? He had torn off to the basement without a second thought, knowing full well that Padgett’s accomplice had still been at large, that the writer’s attention had been focused tightly on Scully, that she could be at risk. He could have waited long enough for her to pull on her boots and follow him to the basement, but no, he had run on ahead, without a second thought for her. Just like always.

Scully is, at last, beginning to calm in his arms, her uncontrolled sobs subsiding into sniffles and hiccups, but she’s trembling violently, shaking against his chest, and with most of the feeling having gone from his legs and his lower back screaming, Mulder can’t remain in this position any longer. Without stopping to worry that Scully will be angry at his presumption, keeping one arm at her back, he slides the other under her knees and stands, cradling her carefully against his chest. She keeps her arms locked behind his neck and doesn’t protest. He briefly contemplates where to put her while he calls for an ambulance; the couch is closer, but she’ll be more comfortable on his bed.

She shivers violently in his arms, and he opts for comfort.

For once, Mulder is glad that he’s careless about the state of his bedroom, because the unmade bed makes things much easier, allowing him to set Scully down without first turning down the covers. He sits her on the edge of the mattress and gives the comforter a sharp yank, pulling it around her shoulders, keeping her warm while he surveys the damage. He looks, hesitantly, up at her face, and she meets his gaze.

“We need to see what he did to you,” he says, and after a moment’s hesitation, Scully nods. She reaches for the buttons at the front of her blouse, and the comforter, freed from her grasp, begins to slide back down to the bed. Mulder catches it and pulls it back up. “Let me,” he says, and Scully nods, returning her hands to anchor the blanket around her shoulders. Mulder carefully frees each button from its mooring, bracing himself for what he’ll find underneath the blood-soaked cloth… but the skin of her chest, under her ruined bra, is unbroken.

It’s far from unmarked, though. A livid bruise, at least eight inches in diameter, has bloomed on the left side of her chest, directly over her heart. Mulder sucks in his breath at the sight of it, and Scully glances down.

“I felt it happening,” she whispers. “I felt my skin tearing, I could feel my ribs separating, my heart being squeezed.” She shudders, tears threatening again, and pulls the blanket tighter. “I’ve never felt pain like that, Mulder. Never. Not even during the worst of my cancer.” She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “Why didn’t he finish the job?” she asks. “Why am I still alive? Where did Padgett go?”

“He’s in the basement,” Mulder says, and the thought of Padgett, standing in front of the incinerator with his manuscript, is enough to remind Mulder of what he still has to do. Reluctantly, he stands.

“Where are you going?” Scully asks, trying valiantly to keep the panic from her voice. Mulder can’t blame her; there had been no sign of Naciamento anywhere in the apartment, and it’s quite possible he’s still on the prowl.

“Padgett is still in the basement,” Mulder says. “He as good as told me you were going to be the next victim, Scully. I want him back in custody before he has the chance to do any more harm.” Bending down, he takes his backup weapon from his ankle holster and hands it to her, but she shakes her head.

“Mulder, I shot at Naciamento. I emptied my magazine straight into his chest and it didn’t even slow him down.” She pushes his gun back at him. “That’s going to do you far more good in arresting Padgett than it will protecting me right now.” She’s right, of course; Mulder had heard the gunshots. Scully doesn’t miss shots at a hundred paces. There’s no possible way she could have missed her target at point-blank range. He bites his lip, weighing both courses of action: go after Padgett and leave Scully unprotected, or stay with her until the ambulance arrives, potentially letting a killer slip through his fingers?

He only has to look at Scully, really, to decide.

Mulder digs his cell phone out of his pocket and dials nine-one-one. Scully groans when she hears him requesting an ambulance, but he continues on, undeterred. He calls in for backup and to report an agent down, suspect still at large. That done, he tucks his phone away and sits on the bed beside Scully.

“The paramedics are unnecessary, Mulder,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“If that’s true, they’ll be able to tell us when they get here,” he replies.

“And what are we going to tell them?” Scully asks. “That the ghost of a psychic surgeon attempted to remove my heart from my chest and was somehow interrupted?”

“We tell them that you’ve been attacked,” says Mulder simply.

“They’re probably going to want me to go to the hospital,” she protests. “We could be there for hours, easily. Possibly even overnight.”

“Scully,” says Mulder, his voice gentle, “you need to let them check you out. You know you do. Especially now.” His gaze bores into her, and finally, with a sigh, she nods. “And if they keep you overnight, I’ll stay with you, I promise. You won’t be alone. Not for a second.”

“They won’t let you,” Scully says. “If I’m admitted, they’ll send you home, I’m sure.”

“Just let them try,” Mulder says fiercely. He wraps his arms tightly around her, and together, they wait for the paramedics to arrive.

An hour later, after a frustrating and uncomfortable question-and-answer session with a thoroughly confused ER doctor, Scully lies on her back, a sheet spread over her lap, Mulder standing at her shoulder, as an ultrasound technician slowly moves the transducer over her still-flat stomach. The tech frowns at the screen, and Scully reaches up, over her shoulder, seeking his hand, which he gladly gives. He can feel her shaking again.

“Is something wrong?” Mulder asks the technician nervously. The young woman gives them both a reassuring smile, but Scully does not relax.

“It may be too early to see the fetus this way,” the tech says. “What did you say your doctor placed you at? Nine, ten weeks?”

“About nine and a half weeks, yes,” says Scully shakily. The tech nods.

“We might have better luck with a trans-vaginal ultrasound, then,” she says, turning to a set of cabinets against the wall and removing a folded white square of cloth. “I’ll need you to remove all of your clothes below the waist and drape this over your legs, please.” Scully looks up at Mulder, her face white.

“Do you want me to leave the room?” he asks her quietly. She bites her lip and shakes her head. If the ultrasound tech finds his question strange, she doesn’t say anything. Once Scully is settled back on the table, Mulder takes her hand again, giving her what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

The tech does some maneuvering, and Mulder tries desperately not to think too hard about what, exactly, is going on down there. Scully squirms slightly in discomfort, and the tech murmurs an apology. There’s a moment of silence as all three of them watch the shifting, snowy static on the screen... and then, suddenly, there’s a strange, rhythmic flashing, an impossibly fast fluttering of white in the middle of all that grey and black. Scully’s breath catches in her throat. Mulder tries to speak, fails, and tries again.

“Is that-”

“Yup, that’s a good, strong heartbeat!” the tech says, grinning. “The doctor will be able to tell you for sure, but if I had to say, I’d guess your doc was right on the money. I’d put you at about ten weeks.”

Mulder tears his gaze away from the thrumming image on the ultrasound screen and looks down at Scully. Her blue eyes are swimming in tears, and she’s shaking again, struggling to hold in her emotions. Mulder bends down over the ultrasound table and envelops Scully in his arms, and as she begins to cry in earnest on his shoulder, he dimly hears the tech telling them she’ll give them a moment, that she’ll be right outside.

They end the evening as they began it: with Mulder bending low over Scully, clutching her against his chest as she cries- as they both cry. But this time, they’re both crying tears of joy.

#x-files fanfic #my fic #Someday Your Child May Cry

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