XXXXXXXX
Scully opened her eyes, trying to push away the terrible memories. Frohike's
hand had moved from Scully's arm to her shoulder, but--for once--she didn't
mind.
"I'm okay," Scully whispered, squeezing his hand just slightly, and fighting
her tears. "I, uh...oh, who am I trying to fool? I'm not okay. I'm having
a really tough time absorbing this."
"That's perfectly natural," Byers assured her.
She barely heard him, though.
"You're remembering, aren't you?" Langly asked. Scully just nodded. No
other explanation was necessary. The Lone Gunmen understood. They, of all
people, knew the depth of the unique relationship that had existed between
Dana Scully and Fox Mulder--if anyone really did.
Frohike let go of her hand, taking a step back as Scully walked off. He
really cared for her--even if it wasn't the love he thought it was. She was
so broken up about this...he wished there were something he could do. He
wasn't alone, though.
Scully managed to get through the rest of the funeral, somehow...teary-eyed,
staring blankly ahead. It was her only coping mechanism--just not thinking
about it. She thought it divine intervention that she didn't completely fall
apart.
When it was over, she stood alone again with the Lone Gunmen, after bidding
her mother and Skinner goodbye. Her mother had wanted to stay with her, but
Scully had told her that wouldn't be necessary; she'd be all right. In all
honesty, she didn't want to have to face the sympathy-filled looks she knew
her mother would be giving her. The less she had to remind her that her
partner was gone--and that he wasn't coming back this time--the better.
Scully looked from Frohike to Byers, then behind her at Langly. "C'mon, you
guys, let's go. I don't really feel like sticking around here."
"Yeah," Frohike agreed. "You're not the only one who's sick of it."
As it turned out, she hadn't driven herself, but caught a ride with her
mother, so she decided to head back to her hotel with the Gunmen.
Coincidentally (or perhaps not), they were staying there too--albeit on a
different floor. Scully got into the van, and sat in the back, next to the
most adoring of her "public".
It just so happened that she had to go into her purse for something a minute
later, and when she did, it was just her luck that the first thing she saw
was a picture. Of her and Mulder. As "Rob" and "Laura", from their Arcadia
case. They were smiling, happy--the perfect yuppie couple. It was too much
for her to handle at the moment. She began to sob softly. Frohike reached
out to her, and she collapsed into his arms, weeping bitterly for the partner
she'd lost.
XXXXXXXX
***TWO DAYS LATER***
February 16
XXXXXXXX
"Another day, another dollar, another chance to allow the whole world to tick
you off," Mulder muttered to himself, waking up to one the most beautiful
February mornings Arlington, Virginia, had to offer. The sunlight was
streaming in through his window; there was barely a cloud in the sky. And
this was really getting on his nerves, as nothing else ever could. He was
angry at the injustice of the world, and then it had to go and be so freaking
pretty! Pretty, as in attractive, as in downright gorgeous...like a certain
someone he couldn't seem to push out of his thoughts. By sheer dumb luck, he
happened to glance over at the top of his entertainment center and see a
picture. A picture that had been taken in much happier days--shortly before
Scully had learned of her cancer. Before that stupid fight they'd
had...before everything had started going...well, going wrong. Not that
things had ever been completely right in the first place...
In the photograph, she was leaning back against him contentedly, smiling that
cute, sweet, enigmatic little half-smile of hers. She didn't seem to have a
care in the world, if only for that one precious moment. Mulder desperately
wanted that moment back. He slammed the photo frame against the wood,
shattering the glass. "It's not fair...it's just not fair." How many times
had he said those words over the past two days? How many times had he
thought them? Far too many to count, that was for sure.
Someone knocked on his door.
"Leave me alone," he called out, not caring if the person on the other side
was the President of the United States, or even God Almighty Himself. Okay,
so maybe in the latter event, he might have cared. He had a few complaints
in the "handling of human affairs" department.
Of course, it wasn't either one. It was Marita Corruvbias. Mulder stopped
dead in his tracks when he saw her through the peephole, and almost forgot to
open the door in his shock. It had been a very long time since he'd seen her
last.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, after he finally had opened the door.
Marita grinned slyly, pushing a shock of pale blonde hair away from her face.
"And hello to you too, Agent Mulder," was her wry reply. "Mind if I come
in?"
"Yeah, sure...of course." Mulder stepped back to let her in. "What brings
you here?"
"I heard about Agent Scully," Marita answered, stepping in to shut the door
behind her. "I came by to express my sympathies. I'd have come to the
funeral, but it would have been too high profile for me--I trust you
understand."
Mulder nodded, still a little surprised. Marita was definitely more
sympathetic than his last informant, X...if not exactly around as often.
Deep Throat had a little more compassion for the agent and his
interests...but he'd also been a friend of the family for years
beforehand...never mind. Marita was here, it was now, and she hadn't come
all the way from New York City just to say she was sorry about Scully's
death. "Is there something else?"
"Always so suspicious, Mulder..." Marita sighed, more to herself than Mulder.
"That's not necessarily a bad thing, though. Keeps you alive sometimes.
Well, in any case, you're right. There *is* something else."
"And that would be...?"
"I know where Alex Krycek is. And he probably knows where Lawson is. Are
you interested?"
Mulder couldn't believe his luck--if you wanted to call it that. "Of course
I am. Why didn't you just call me, though?"
"I had some business in Washington," Marita replied breezily, not really
wanting to discuss it. Or perhaps she wasn't at liberty to. She *did* work
for the UN... "In any case, Mulder, you'll want to be heading to Alexandria."
"You say that like it's such a long trip." Mulder half-grinned--the closest
he'd come to smiling since Scully's death. "Alexandria's, like, five minutes
from here...could he *be* that stupid?"
"Sometimes the most ridiculous place to hide is the best," Marita advised.
"I believe he's taken a room at the Embassy Suites."
"The one on Diagonal Road?" Mulder asked.
"That's the one," Marita confirmed. "He has an alias--Nicky Leanski. Try
it. I'm giving you this information because I want to help...and I want a
small measure of revenge."
"Revenge?"
"You know what they say about a woman scorned, Mr. Mulder."
Mulder had intended to inquire further into the exact relationship been
Marita Corruvbias and Alex Krycek, but at that point decided he no longer had
any great need to know. He stepped closer to Marita. "Tell me what you
know."
The UN operative chuckled softly. "I knew you'd be interested. Let's sit.
This might take a few minutes."
XXXXXXXX
I've been so dizzy since you've gone
Those spinning tires that took your life...
Well, they crashed my world too.
Now I'm playing Russian Roulette,
Hoping that I'll win--
'Cause it's so hard to take
This new life I'm living in.
Ironic how that spinning killed us both...
The wheels on your car...
This pretty spinning bullet could take me home.
It's just like when I touched your sleeping face
(The barrel), cold and stiff.
I could squeeze your "hand",
And--bang--be on my way.
I love you.
--R.S.
Scully sat at the kitchen table in her apartment, taking care of the "simple
things"...the everyday, mindless tasks... Funny, now they seemed to require
a tremendous amount of effort. Since Mulder had died, everything seemed to
require a tremendous amount of effort--including breathing. There wasn't a
moment that went by that she didn't think of him, didn't wish she had the
whole horrible day to do over. She'd have stalled him, she'd have insisted
in driving...she'd have done *something*. But the past was the past, and she
knew one couldn't change the past, even for all the wishful thinking in the
world.
At least she knew it intellectually. The emotional side of her psyche was
having a harder time grasping the concept.
She was cleaning her gun...it was something she could do fairly
automatically. It didn't require a lot of thought. Mindless fluff it may
not have been, but she had never really liked mindless fluff. She needed to
at least feel she'd accomplished something during the day.
Her mother was staying at the apartment...Margaret was, quite frankly,
concerned for her daughter's state of mind. A lot of people were. Dana had
been withdrawn and brooding ever since Mulder's death...as though she were
angry at the world. Margaret didn't blame her. To lose someone you cared
about so much so suddenly...she'd had it happen to her too many times before.
She knew the pain all too well. It was one of the worst things that anyone
could go through.
Back in the kitchen, Scully had just finished wiping down the interior
surfaces of her weapon and was reassembling it...all that was left to do was
reload. She put one bullet back in the chamber, and stared at it.
C'mon, Mulder, came a voice from her memory--Robert Patrick Modell, aka
Pusher. One pull of the trigger. One pull.
She remembered that day so vividly...recalled her barely contained fear as
Mulder had put the gun to his own head. She had been terrified that his pull
of the trigger would be the loaded one. That he'd die. But he hadn't
died...not then. She almost wanted to die now.
Not entirely sure why she was doing it, Scully spun the chamber around and
snapped it shut. With an unsteady hand, she picked up the gun. A one-in-six
chance.
Come on, Dana, she reasoned with herself. You've survived much worse
odds before! More times than she cared to remember. It won't kill you.
Not the first shot. Just try it once. Mulder didn't die then...and,
besides, would dying really be so bad?
It would sure be a lot better that what she now called her life. But what
kind of a life was it? Without Mulder, she was nothing. She had loved
him--almost desperately so. Why had she only realized it now? Why had it
taken such tragedy for her to wake up and see the light?
Mulder had been the light of her life. Had that light blinded her to the
simple truth?
Hand still shaking, she raised the revolver, and put it to her temple,
breathing heavily. Why was she doing this?
Shoot her, Modell's voice rang clear in her mind again. Shoot her,
Mulder.
But he hadn't shot her. Had he loved her too?
Well, now she'd never know.
But, strangely enough, Scully couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger.
She was afraid. Afraid of what would happen. Her grip on the handgun
tightened. Five out of six times, she'd be perfectly fine. But there was
always that one...
Cautiously (and still questioning her own motives), she held the gun out
slightly in front of her, and fired, just to see what would happen.
The kickback from the fired round surprised her. It would have been the
one...oh, God, it would have been the one! Had she pulled that trigger
before, she'd be dead. The realization of it all caused her to burst into
tears.
Margaret had come running as soon as she'd heard the shot. She found her
daughter sitting in the kitchen, holding the gun in her hand...her small
frame racked with violent sobs.
"It would have been the one..." she managed to say between breaths, "just
like last time. It would have...oh, my God."
Margaret quickly surmised what had happened. She had no idea what "last
time" meant...but she had figured out that her daughter had just nearly
killed herself. She folded her little girl into her arms. "Oh, baby..."
"Mom..." Scully whimpered, clutching her mother fiercely, "I, I, it..."
"I know, Dana, I know," Margaret soothed, holding her tight. "It's
okay...everything's going to be all right now. I'll help you, sweetie...I'll
always be here."
She continued to whisper words of comfort, rocking with her child until,
finally, Dana cried herself to sleep.
XXXXXXXX
Alex Krycek was a smart man after all. He'd hightailed it out of Alexandria
before Mulder could catch up with him. Now Mulder was alone again...but he
hadn't gone home. He was kneeling in the freshly cultivated dirt of St.
Peter's Memorial Park...looking, with tears in his eyes, at the headstone
belonging to the woman he'd loved. He *had* loved her, even if he'd only now
realized it. There it was, right in front of him...her name, Dana Katherine
Scully, glaring back out at him from the cold, hard stone...the dates
1964-2000...symbolizing the span of a life that had ended much too soon. She
was there, next to her sister...
Men who would never taste true justice had murdered both of them.
Mulder set down the flowers he'd been holding--the flowers he'd picked up
when he'd realized that his apartment was the last place he wanted to go.
Because, there, he'd be forced to face the loneliness. He'd be forced to
face life without the presence of a woman who had been his everything for the
better part of seven years.
There were two bouquets...one, the usual one he brought for Melissa--the ones
she'd always surrounded herself with. The other bouquet was of white
roses...Scully's favorite. She'd loved white roses, although she had never
mentioned it to Mulder directly. But he was her partner...he made it his
duty to find out these things. And Margaret had been more than happy to
volunteer the information upon request.
Things haven't been the same without you
I know that it's the truth
I wonder, can you see me?
Kneeling at your tomb?
I made a bed of roses,
But flowers can't express
This emotion that I'm feeling--
I'm drowning in loneliness.
I wish that God would take me
To be up there with you
And if you weren't there...
I'd go anywhere for you.
Always and forever,
You know that I'll be true.
I know that you're not gone,
I heard you yesterday...
Whispering in the wind,
I thought I heard you say,
"Angels never die,
We only fade away.
And if you look around,
You'll see us everyday."
I'll love you always, girl.
--R.S.
Mulder tried to ignore the silent tears that were streaming down his cheeks.
A line from a song he'd only caught snatches of came back to him... "Why did
you have to die?" It was completely, perfectly appropriate.
"I loved you," he whispered, resting his forehead against the cool marble of
the grave. "Did you know?"
Did you love me?
He sat back, and felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Mulder looked up, his
paranoid nature momentarily taking over as he wondered who on earth would
have the audacity to...oh, it was Frohike.
"You okay, Mulder?" the hacker-theorist asked.
"I'll live," Mulder answered. "What about you?"
"Hey, life goes on," Frohike muttered, obviously trying to sidestep his true
feelings. He was terrible at that. Always had been. He glanced over at
Scully's grave, emotion filling his eyes. It was then Mulder saw just how
deeply the man really had cared for Scully.
"Rest in peace, sweetheart," Frohike whispered, not knowing that Mulder had
overheard. He looked back at the FBI agent. "She was one of the
best...stuff like this shouldn't happen to people like her."
Tell me about it, Mulder thought, but he merely nodded. "Where are
Langly and Byers?"
"I came alone," Frohike replied. He didn't elaborate, so Mulder didn't push
him on it.
"It's been awhile, huh?" Mulder asked, knowing Frohike would know he meant
the time since they seen each other last. Not extraordinarily long,
admittedly...but when they were used to it being on the average of once a
week at least...
"We were at the funeral," Frohike told him.
Mulder looked back up, apologetic. "I'm sorry...I guess I just didn't see
you."
Frohike smiled at him sympathetically, sharing the pain. "As I recall,
Mulder, you weren't seeing much of anything that day."
"Ain't that the truth." He stood up, and walked away wordlessly, knowing
Frohike would understand.
It was good to have friends who would be supportive and sympathize with
you...but nonetheless, Mulder was starting to wonder just whether or not life
was really worthwhile anymore. He wasn't going to kill himself, though...no,
committing suicide would be too easy. And, besides, if he died,
who--bedsides the Gunmen--would ensure that Rutger Lawson would eventually
pay for what he'd done?
XXXXXXXX
The next day, Scully actually worked up the courage from somewhere deep
inside herself to go back to the office. That office in the basement of the
J. Edgar Hoover building, where she and Mulder had shared laughter, shared
tears...and had their fair share of arguments. Her throat tightened
involuntarily. God, she missed him.
"Danie," Margaret told her, holding her hand, "you don't have to do this
right away. Give yourself some time, honey."
Margaret had reverted to a childhood nickname...but rather than feeling
patronized by this, as she normally would be, Scully found herself oddly
comforted by it.
Stopping outside the door, Scully pulled her keys out of her pocket, unlocked
the door marked "Fox Mulder, Special Agent". He had offered to have it
changed one time...but she had turned him down. It wasn't not wanting to be
identified with him and his X-Files--no, not that at all. She just knew that
they had become something of a packaged set by that time. No one ever
mentioned one without at least thinking of the other.
"I *do* have to do this, Mom," Scully answered. "I have to face the fact
that he's gone."
"I think you've faced that already," Margaret told her. "It's time to heal,
darling."
"This'll help," Scully assured her, smiling bravely. At least I hope it
will. I'd give anything not to feel this pain anymore.
She swung the door open, and walked inside. The office was exactly as Mulder
had left it before they'd gone to Massachusetts...in other words, complete
chaos. Heck of the matter was, it was an *organized* chaos. Mulder had
known exactly where everything was all of the time. He'd had yet to teach
his partner his rather unique filing system.
The "I Want to Believe" poster jumped out at her first of all. That was the
summary of what this work was all about...Mulder's need to believe that the
truth was out there...that his sister was safe and sound somewhere out there.
That he would be reunited with Samantha one day.
Maybe he was now.
But...no. Samantha couldn't be dead. She just couldn't. Scully was not
about to accept the possibility that everything Mulder had worked
for...everything he'd been through...even his *death* had been in vain. No!
That was *not* an option.
If he'd had to die, he should have at least died for *something*.
Sunflower seeds sprinkled across the desk...he'd been in too much of a hurry
to pick them up. Knowing Mulder, he'd probably have just eaten them when
they got back. Scully could never understand just what it was he loved so
much about those stupid things.
Not that any of that mattered now.
She had been doing okay up to that point--all things considered--but Scully
began to sob softly when she opened the top left-hand drawer of the desk. It
was the more personal side of Mulder's office; she had known that already.
But she had never known exactly what it was he'd kept there. Now she knew.
There was the photo she must've seen a thousand times...the one of Samantha
he so cherished. The cloth heart from the infamous "paper hearts" case was
still there. All in all, the items inside the desk at the time of the office
fire had held up fairly well.
And then there was the photo that had (once again) brought her to tears. It
was a picture, from a time the Lone Gunmen had talked Mulder and Scully into
going to New Mexico with them to investigate a claim of a top-secret
government project...somewhere outside of Albuquerque. If it existed, it was
well hidden--*very* well hidden, because they never found it. But there had
been some *adventures* on the way out. Such as Byers not knowing that the
brownie that "nice" Mexican fellow had sold him was actually
peyote-laced...and Frohike not volunteering any information...
"That man was high as a freaking kite by the time we made it to Destiny..."
she recalled.
"Where?" Margaret asked, having overheard.
"Destiny, New Mexico..." Scully answered. "It's a long story..."
Margaret grinned wryly. "I'll bet."
Scully glanced down at the snapshot. She and Mulder had fallen asleep in the
backseat of the van...leaning up against each other. When the insomniac
slept (willingly), it was a rare moment...Scully recalled watching him sleep
until she herself had drifted off. She assumed Frohike had snapped the
picture. Her suspicions were further advanced when she saw the writing on
the back. It was in Frohike's handwriting...
"Mulder, I hope you know you're breaking my heart! But you obviously make
her happy--keep it that way."
Margaret came over and, seeing the photo, wrapped her arms around her
daughter. "Baby, it's tough, I know...but you'll get through this. One of
these mornings, things will look better. I promise, Dana."
"Mom..." Scully managed to say between sniffles, "it's not going to be okay.
I loved him, Mom. He was the best thing I ever had...and I never told him.
I never *told* him, Mom!"
"He knew," Margaret assured her. "Believe me, honey, he knew. I don't see
how he could have missed it."
"How can you be so sure?"
Margaret's last words, whispered soothingly, definitely struck a chord with
her daughter. "Because it was always so obvious."
XXXXXXXX
Mulder sank back into the chair behind his desk, dejected and alone. He
didn't even have enough fight left in him to lean back and prop his feet up
on the desk rebelliously. Besides, Scully had always warned him that he'd
break his neck doing that one day.
There was a knock on the door that was already open. Mulder looked up to see
his boss standing in the doorway.
"What brings you to the castle of no return?" Mulder asked darkly, his tone
as despondent as his mood.
"Actually," Skinner countered, "*I'm* surprised that *you're* here. Weren't
you going to take some time off?"
"I did," Mulder muttered. "Still am, actually...I just had to come here for
something...I forgot what it was..."
Skinner left his position at the threshold, and walked across the office. He
put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Listen...I know you miss her. I miss her
too. But slowly killing yourself like this isn't going to bring her back."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean," Skinner countered. "Have you even
eaten in the past three days?"
"I wasn't hungry..." Mulder insisted.
"That's what I mean, Mulder." Skinner sighed, a mixture of frustration and
concern. "I'm not *even* going to ask if you've slept, because I already
know the answer to that question. You look like death warmed over...I'm just
worried about you, is all. I've already lost Scully; I don't want to end up
losing you too."
"I'm fine." Mulder repeated Scully's catch phrase from the previous seven
years. His attempts to placate his supervisor didn't work out very well,
though--probably because he was just as transparent as his partner had always
been.
"You are *not*, and don't even try convincing me otherwise. Just go home,
okay? Relax, take some time to deal with this...and, for God's sake, take
care of yourself!" Knowing full well that his insistences had more than
likely fallen on deaf ears, the AD left the office. He didn't know what else
to do. He hated to see the man so miserable, but Skinner knew there wasn't
anything he could do to help Mulder until the agent was willing to help
himself.
Suddenly, Skinner figured out what the problem was. Mulder had finally
realized (and possibly come to terms with) his feelings for Scully.
Now, Skinner had never been a big fan of inter-office romance, and usually
tried to discourage it, but he'd seen the way those two had gazed at each
other when they didn't think anyone else was looking. But love really was
blind in their case...neither one of them realized just how crazy they were
about each other.
And now Mulder realized it.
Now that it was too late to do anything about it.
Why was fate so cruel?
Skinner reached the elevator, but just before he got in, he turned around and
went back to the office at the end of the hall. He stuck his head in the
door again.
"Hey, Mulder."
Mulder took up, despair evident in his expression. "Yeah, yeah, I'm going..."
"No, that's not it. There's something I think you need to know."
"And what would that be?"
"She *did* love you."
And leaving the agent with that particular bit of information to reflect
upon, Skinner walked away.
XXXXXXXX
Scully opened her eyes, trying to push away the terrible memories. Frohike's
hand had moved from Scully's arm to her shoulder, but--for once--she didn't
mind.
"I'm okay," Scully whispered, squeezing his hand just slightly, and fighting
her tears. "I, uh...oh, who am I trying to fool? I'm not okay. I'm having
a really tough time absorbing this."
"That's perfectly natural," Byers assured her.
She barely heard him, though.
"You're remembering, aren't you?" Langly asked. Scully just nodded. No
other explanation was necessary. The Lone Gunmen understood. They, of all
people, knew the depth of the unique relationship that had existed between
Dana Scully and Fox Mulder--if anyone really did.
Frohike let go of her hand, taking a step back as Scully walked off. He
really cared for her--even if it wasn't the love he thought it was. She was
so broken up about this...he wished there were something he could do. He
wasn't alone, though.
Scully managed to get through the rest of the funeral, somehow...teary-eyed,
staring blankly ahead. It was her only coping mechanism--just not thinking
about it. She thought it divine intervention that she didn't completely fall
apart.
When it was over, she stood alone again with the Lone Gunmen, after bidding
her mother and Skinner goodbye. Her mother had wanted to stay with her, but
Scully had told her that wouldn't be necessary; she'd be all right. In all
honesty, she didn't want to have to face the sympathy-filled looks she knew
her mother would be giving her. The less she had to remind her that her
partner was gone--and that he wasn't coming back this time--the better.
Scully looked from Frohike to Byers, then behind her at Langly. "C'mon, you
guys, let's go. I don't really feel like sticking around here."
"Yeah," Frohike agreed. "You're not the only one who's sick of it."
As it turned out, she hadn't driven herself, but caught a ride with her
mother, so she decided to head back to her hotel with the Gunmen.
Coincidentally (or perhaps not), they were staying there too--albeit on a
different floor. Scully got into the van, and sat in the back, next to the
most adoring of her "public".
It just so happened that she had to go into her purse for something a minute
later, and when she did, it was just her luck that the first thing she saw
was a picture. Of her and Mulder. As "Rob" and "Laura", from their Arcadia
case. They were smiling, happy--the perfect yuppie couple. It was too much
for her to handle at the moment. She began to sob softly. Frohike reached
out to her, and she collapsed into his arms, weeping bitterly for the partner
she'd lost.
XXXXXXXX
***TWO DAYS LATER***
February 16
XXXXXXXX
"Another day, another dollar, another chance to allow the whole world to tick
you off," Mulder muttered to himself, waking up to one the most beautiful
February mornings Arlington, Virginia, had to offer. The sunlight was
streaming in through his window; there was barely a cloud in the sky. And
this was really getting on his nerves, as nothing else ever could. He was
angry at the injustice of the world, and then it had to go and be so freaking
pretty! Pretty, as in attractive, as in downright gorgeous...like a certain
someone he couldn't seem to push out of his thoughts. By sheer dumb luck, he
happened to glance over at the top of his entertainment center and see a
picture. A picture that had been taken in much happier days--shortly before
Scully had learned of her cancer. Before that stupid fight they'd
had...before everything had started going...well, going wrong. Not that
things had ever been completely right in the first place...
In the photograph, she was leaning back against him contentedly, smiling that
cute, sweet, enigmatic little half-smile of hers. She didn't seem to have a
care in the world, if only for that one precious moment. Mulder desperately
wanted that moment back. He slammed the photo frame against the wood,
shattering the glass. "It's not fair...it's just not fair." How many times
had he said those words over the past two days? How many times had he
thought them? Far too many to count, that was for sure.
Someone knocked on his door.
"Leave me alone," he called out, not caring if the person on the other side
was the President of the United States, or even God Almighty Himself. Okay,
so maybe in the latter event, he might have cared. He had a few complaints
in the "handling of human affairs" department.
Of course, it wasn't either one. It was Marita Corruvbias. Mulder stopped
dead in his tracks when he saw her through the peephole, and almost forgot to
open the door in his shock. It had been a very long time since he'd seen her
last.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, after he finally had opened the door.
Marita grinned slyly, pushing a shock of pale blonde hair away from her face.
"And hello to you too, Agent Mulder," was her wry reply. "Mind if I come
in?"
"Yeah, sure...of course." Mulder stepped back to let her in. "What brings
you here?"
"I heard about Agent Scully," Marita answered, stepping in to shut the door
behind her. "I came by to express my sympathies. I'd have come to the
funeral, but it would have been too high profile for me--I trust you
understand."
Mulder nodded, still a little surprised. Marita was definitely more
sympathetic than his last informant, X...if not exactly around as often.
Deep Throat had a little more compassion for the agent and his
interests...but he'd also been a friend of the family for years
beforehand...never mind. Marita was here, it was now, and she hadn't come
all the way from New York City just to say she was sorry about Scully's
death. "Is there something else?"
"Always so suspicious, Mulder..." Marita sighed, more to herself than Mulder.
"That's not necessarily a bad thing, though. Keeps you alive sometimes.
Well, in any case, you're right. There *is* something else."
"And that would be...?"
"I know where Alex Krycek is. And he probably knows where Lawson is. Are
you interested?"
Mulder couldn't believe his luck--if you wanted to call it that. "Of course
I am. Why didn't you just call me, though?"
"I had some business in Washington," Marita replied breezily, not really
wanting to discuss it. Or perhaps she wasn't at liberty to. She *did* work
for the UN... "In any case, Mulder, you'll want to be heading to Alexandria."
"You say that like it's such a long trip." Mulder half-grinned--the closest
he'd come to smiling since Scully's death. "Alexandria's, like, five minutes
from here...could he *be* that stupid?"
"Sometimes the most ridiculous place to hide is the best," Marita advised.
"I believe he's taken a room at the Embassy Suites."
"The one on Diagonal Road?" Mulder asked.
"That's the one," Marita confirmed. "He has an alias--Nicky Leanski. Try
it. I'm giving you this information because I want to help...and I want a
small measure of revenge."
"Revenge?"
"You know what they say about a woman scorned, Mr. Mulder."
Mulder had intended to inquire further into the exact relationship been
Marita Corruvbias and Alex Krycek, but at that point decided he no longer had
any great need to know. He stepped closer to Marita. "Tell me what you
know."
The UN operative chuckled softly. "I knew you'd be interested. Let's sit.
This might take a few minutes."
XXXXXXXX
I've been so dizzy since you've gone
Those spinning tires that took your life...
Well, they crashed my world too.
Now I'm playing Russian Roulette,
Hoping that I'll win--
'Cause it's so hard to take
This new life I'm living in.
Ironic how that spinning killed us both...
The wheels on your car...
This pretty spinning bullet could take me home.
It's just like when I touched your sleeping face
(The barrel), cold and stiff.
I could squeeze your "hand",
And--bang--be on my way.
I love you.
--R.S.
Scully sat at the kitchen table in her apartment, taking care of the "simple
things"...the everyday, mindless tasks... Funny, now they seemed to require
a tremendous amount of effort. Since Mulder had died, everything seemed to
require a tremendous amount of effort--including breathing. There wasn't a
moment that went by that she didn't think of him, didn't wish she had the
whole horrible day to do over. She'd have stalled him, she'd have insisted
in driving...she'd have done *something*. But the past was the past, and she
knew one couldn't change the past, even for all the wishful thinking in the
world.
At least she knew it intellectually. The emotional side of her psyche was
having a harder time grasping the concept.
She was cleaning her gun...it was something she could do fairly
automatically. It didn't require a lot of thought. Mindless fluff it may
not have been, but she had never really liked mindless fluff. She needed to
at least feel she'd accomplished something during the day.
Her mother was staying at the apartment...Margaret was, quite frankly,
concerned for her daughter's state of mind. A lot of people were. Dana had
been withdrawn and brooding ever since Mulder's death...as though she were
angry at the world. Margaret didn't blame her. To lose someone you cared
about so much so suddenly...she'd had it happen to her too many times before.
She knew the pain all too well. It was one of the worst things that anyone
could go through.
Back in the kitchen, Scully had just finished wiping down the interior
surfaces of her weapon and was reassembling it...all that was left to do was
reload. She put one bullet back in the chamber, and stared at it.
C'mon, Mulder, came a voice from her memory--Robert Patrick Modell, aka
Pusher. One pull of the trigger. One pull.
She remembered that day so vividly...recalled her barely contained fear as
Mulder had put the gun to his own head. She had been terrified that his pull
of the trigger would be the loaded one. That he'd die. But he hadn't
died...not then. She almost wanted to die now.
Not entirely sure why she was doing it, Scully spun the chamber around and
snapped it shut. With an unsteady hand, she picked up the gun. A one-in-six
chance.
Come on, Dana, she reasoned with herself. You've survived much worse
odds before! More times than she cared to remember. It won't kill you.
Not the first shot. Just try it once. Mulder didn't die then...and,
besides, would dying really be so bad?
It would sure be a lot better that what she now called her life. But what
kind of a life was it? Without Mulder, she was nothing. She had loved
him--almost desperately so. Why had she only realized it now? Why had it
taken such tragedy for her to wake up and see the light?
Mulder had been the light of her life. Had that light blinded her to the
simple truth?
Hand still shaking, she raised the revolver, and put it to her temple,
breathing heavily. Why was she doing this?
Shoot her, Modell's voice rang clear in her mind again. Shoot her,
Mulder.
But he hadn't shot her. Had he loved her too?
Well, now she'd never know.
But, strangely enough, Scully couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger.
She was afraid. Afraid of what would happen. Her grip on the handgun
tightened. Five out of six times, she'd be perfectly fine. But there was
always that one...
Cautiously (and still questioning her own motives), she held the gun out
slightly in front of her, and fired, just to see what would happen.
The kickback from the fired round surprised her. It would have been the
one...oh, God, it would have been the one! Had she pulled that trigger
before, she'd be dead. The realization of it all caused her to burst into
tears.
Margaret had come running as soon as she'd heard the shot. She found her
daughter sitting in the kitchen, holding the gun in her hand...her small
frame racked with violent sobs.
"It would have been the one..." she managed to say between breaths, "just
like last time. It would have...oh, my God."
Margaret quickly surmised what had happened. She had no idea what "last
time" meant...but she had figured out that her daughter had just nearly
killed herself. She folded her little girl into her arms. "Oh, baby..."
"Mom..." Scully whimpered, clutching her mother fiercely, "I, I, it..."
"I know, Dana, I know," Margaret soothed, holding her tight. "It's
okay...everything's going to be all right now. I'll help you, sweetie...I'll
always be here."
She continued to whisper words of comfort, rocking with her child until,
finally, Dana cried herself to sleep.
XXXXXXXX
Alex Krycek was a smart man after all. He'd hightailed it out of Alexandria
before Mulder could catch up with him. Now Mulder was alone again...but he
hadn't gone home. He was kneeling in the freshly cultivated dirt of St.
Peter's Memorial Park...looking, with tears in his eyes, at the headstone
belonging to the woman he'd loved. He *had* loved her, even if he'd only now
realized it. There it was, right in front of him...her name, Dana Katherine
Scully, glaring back out at him from the cold, hard stone...the dates
1964-2000...symbolizing the span of a life that had ended much too soon. She
was there, next to her sister...
Men who would never taste true justice had murdered both of them.
Mulder set down the flowers he'd been holding--the flowers he'd picked up
when he'd realized that his apartment was the last place he wanted to go.
Because, there, he'd be forced to face the loneliness. He'd be forced to
face life without the presence of a woman who had been his everything for the
better part of seven years.
There were two bouquets...one, the usual one he brought for Melissa--the ones
she'd always surrounded herself with. The other bouquet was of white
roses...Scully's favorite. She'd loved white roses, although she had never
mentioned it to Mulder directly. But he was her partner...he made it his
duty to find out these things. And Margaret had been more than happy to
volunteer the information upon request.
Things haven't been the same without you
I know that it's the truth
I wonder, can you see me?
Kneeling at your tomb?
I made a bed of roses,
But flowers can't express
This emotion that I'm feeling--
I'm drowning in loneliness.
I wish that God would take me
To be up there with you
And if you weren't there...
I'd go anywhere for you.
Always and forever,
You know that I'll be true.
I know that you're not gone,
I heard you yesterday...
Whispering in the wind,
I thought I heard you say,
"Angels never die,
We only fade away.
And if you look around,
You'll see us everyday."
I'll love you always, girl.
--R.S.
Mulder tried to ignore the silent tears that were streaming down his cheeks.
A line from a song he'd only caught snatches of came back to him... "Why did
you have to die?" It was completely, perfectly appropriate.
"I loved you," he whispered, resting his forehead against the cool marble of
the grave. "Did you know?"
Did you love me?
He sat back, and felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Mulder looked up, his
paranoid nature momentarily taking over as he wondered who on earth would
have the audacity to...oh, it was Frohike.
"You okay, Mulder?" the hacker-theorist asked.
"I'll live," Mulder answered. "What about you?"
"Hey, life goes on," Frohike muttered, obviously trying to sidestep his true
feelings. He was terrible at that. Always had been. He glanced over at
Scully's grave, emotion filling his eyes. It was then Mulder saw just how
deeply the man really had cared for Scully.
"Rest in peace, sweetheart," Frohike whispered, not knowing that Mulder had
overheard. He looked back at the FBI agent. "She was one of the
best...stuff like this shouldn't happen to people like her."
Tell me about it, Mulder thought, but he merely nodded. "Where are
Langly and Byers?"
"I came alone," Frohike replied. He didn't elaborate, so Mulder didn't push
him on it.
"It's been awhile, huh?" Mulder asked, knowing Frohike would know he meant
the time since they seen each other last. Not extraordinarily long,
admittedly...but when they were used to it being on the average of once a
week at least...
"We were at the funeral," Frohike told him.
Mulder looked back up, apologetic. "I'm sorry...I guess I just didn't see
you."
Frohike smiled at him sympathetically, sharing the pain. "As I recall,
Mulder, you weren't seeing much of anything that day."
"Ain't that the truth." He stood up, and walked away wordlessly, knowing
Frohike would understand.
It was good to have friends who would be supportive and sympathize with
you...but nonetheless, Mulder was starting to wonder just whether or not life
was really worthwhile anymore. He wasn't going to kill himself, though...no,
committing suicide would be too easy. And, besides, if he died,
who--bedsides the Gunmen--would ensure that Rutger Lawson would eventually
pay for what he'd done?
XXXXXXXX
The next day, Scully actually worked up the courage from somewhere deep
inside herself to go back to the office. That office in the basement of the
J. Edgar Hoover building, where she and Mulder had shared laughter, shared
tears...and had their fair share of arguments. Her throat tightened
involuntarily. God, she missed him.
"Danie," Margaret told her, holding her hand, "you don't have to do this
right away. Give yourself some time, honey."
Margaret had reverted to a childhood nickname...but rather than feeling
patronized by this, as she normally would be, Scully found herself oddly
comforted by it.
Stopping outside the door, Scully pulled her keys out of her pocket, unlocked
the door marked "Fox Mulder, Special Agent". He had offered to have it
changed one time...but she had turned him down. It wasn't not wanting to be
identified with him and his X-Files--no, not that at all. She just knew that
they had become something of a packaged set by that time. No one ever
mentioned one without at least thinking of the other.
"I *do* have to do this, Mom," Scully answered. "I have to face the fact
that he's gone."
"I think you've faced that already," Margaret told her. "It's time to heal,
darling."
"This'll help," Scully assured her, smiling bravely. At least I hope it
will. I'd give anything not to feel this pain anymore.
She swung the door open, and walked inside. The office was exactly as Mulder
had left it before they'd gone to Massachusetts...in other words, complete
chaos. Heck of the matter was, it was an *organized* chaos. Mulder had
known exactly where everything was all of the time. He'd had yet to teach
his partner his rather unique filing system.
The "I Want to Believe" poster jumped out at her first of all. That was the
summary of what this work was all about...Mulder's need to believe that the
truth was out there...that his sister was safe and sound somewhere out there.
That he would be reunited with Samantha one day.
Maybe he was now.
But...no. Samantha couldn't be dead. She just couldn't. Scully was not
about to accept the possibility that everything Mulder had worked
for...everything he'd been through...even his *death* had been in vain. No!
That was *not* an option.
If he'd had to die, he should have at least died for *something*.
Sunflower seeds sprinkled across the desk...he'd been in too much of a hurry
to pick them up. Knowing Mulder, he'd probably have just eaten them when
they got back. Scully could never understand just what it was he loved so
much about those stupid things.
Not that any of that mattered now.
She had been doing okay up to that point--all things considered--but Scully
began to sob softly when she opened the top left-hand drawer of the desk. It
was the more personal side of Mulder's office; she had known that already.
But she had never known exactly what it was he'd kept there. Now she knew.
There was the photo she must've seen a thousand times...the one of Samantha
he so cherished. The cloth heart from the infamous "paper hearts" case was
still there. All in all, the items inside the desk at the time of the office
fire had held up fairly well.
And then there was the photo that had (once again) brought her to tears. It
was a picture, from a time the Lone Gunmen had talked Mulder and Scully into
going to New Mexico with them to investigate a claim of a top-secret
government project...somewhere outside of Albuquerque. If it existed, it was
well hidden--*very* well hidden, because they never found it. But there had
been some *adventures* on the way out. Such as Byers not knowing that the
brownie that "nice" Mexican fellow had sold him was actually
peyote-laced...and Frohike not volunteering any information...
"That man was high as a freaking kite by the time we made it to Destiny..."
she recalled.
"Where?" Margaret asked, having overheard.
"Destiny, New Mexico..." Scully answered. "It's a long story..."
Margaret grinned wryly. "I'll bet."
Scully glanced down at the snapshot. She and Mulder had fallen asleep in the
backseat of the van...leaning up against each other. When the insomniac
slept (willingly), it was a rare moment...Scully recalled watching him sleep
until she herself had drifted off. She assumed Frohike had snapped the
picture. Her suspicions were further advanced when she saw the writing on
the back. It was in Frohike's handwriting...
"Mulder, I hope you know you're breaking my heart! But you obviously make
her happy--keep it that way."
Margaret came over and, seeing the photo, wrapped her arms around her
daughter. "Baby, it's tough, I know...but you'll get through this. One of
these mornings, things will look better. I promise, Dana."
"Mom..." Scully managed to say between sniffles, "it's not going to be okay.
I loved him, Mom. He was the best thing I ever had...and I never told him.
I never *told* him, Mom!"
"He knew," Margaret assured her. "Believe me, honey, he knew. I don't see
how he could have missed it."
"How can you be so sure?"
Margaret's last words, whispered soothingly, definitely struck a chord with
her daughter. "Because it was always so obvious."
XXXXXXXX
Mulder sank back into the chair behind his desk, dejected and alone. He
didn't even have enough fight left in him to lean back and prop his feet up
on the desk rebelliously. Besides, Scully had always warned him that he'd
break his neck doing that one day.
There was a knock on the door that was already open. Mulder looked up to see
his boss standing in the doorway.
"What brings you to the castle of no return?" Mulder asked darkly, his tone
as despondent as his mood.
"Actually," Skinner countered, "*I'm* surprised that *you're* here. Weren't
you going to take some time off?"
"I did," Mulder muttered. "Still am, actually...I just had to come here for
something...I forgot what it was..."
Skinner left his position at the threshold, and walked across the office. He
put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "Listen...I know you miss her. I miss her
too. But slowly killing yourself like this isn't going to bring her back."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I think you know exactly what I mean," Skinner countered. "Have you even
eaten in the past three days?"
"I wasn't hungry..." Mulder insisted.
"That's what I mean, Mulder." Skinner sighed, a mixture of frustration and
concern. "I'm not *even* going to ask if you've slept, because I already
know the answer to that question. You look like death warmed over...I'm just
worried about you, is all. I've already lost Scully; I don't want to end up
losing you too."
"I'm fine." Mulder repeated Scully's catch phrase from the previous seven
years. His attempts to placate his supervisor didn't work out very well,
though--probably because he was just as transparent as his partner had always
been.
"You are *not*, and don't even try convincing me otherwise. Just go home,
okay? Relax, take some time to deal with this...and, for God's sake, take
care of yourself!" Knowing full well that his insistences had more than
likely fallen on deaf ears, the AD left the office. He didn't know what else
to do. He hated to see the man so miserable, but Skinner knew there wasn't
anything he could do to help Mulder until the agent was willing to help
himself.
Suddenly, Skinner figured out what the problem was. Mulder had finally
realized (and possibly come to terms with) his feelings for Scully.
Now, Skinner had never been a big fan of inter-office romance, and usually
tried to discourage it, but he'd seen the way those two had gazed at each
other when they didn't think anyone else was looking. But love really was
blind in their case...neither one of them realized just how crazy they were
about each other.
And now Mulder realized it.
Now that it was too late to do anything about it.
Why was fate so cruel?
Skinner reached the elevator, but just before he got in, he turned around and
went back to the office at the end of the hall. He stuck his head in the
door again.
"Hey, Mulder."
Mulder took up, despair evident in his expression. "Yeah, yeah, I'm going..."
"No, that's not it. There's something I think you need to know."
"And what would that be?"
"She *did* love you."
And leaving the agent with that particular bit of information to reflect
upon, Skinner walked away.
XXXXXXXX