Facing You By Red - ds4fm@orange.net *SPOILERS!* Set between TINH and DeadAlive, so spoilers for both of those episodes, I suppose. DISCLAIMER: I didn't do it. I was drugged. M and S aren't mine (god, how I wish they were). I'm not making any money from this (no sane person would pay for work of such a low quality). Don't sue. I'm a student and I literally don't have a penny. RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: MSR(implied). Extreme angst. SUMMARY: Scully deals with TINH. Heavy stuff. ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just keep my name on it. AUTHOR'S NOTES: First and most importantly, a million thank-yous to Arcadia for beta-ing for me. You rock! :) ATTENTION: If you hated what happened in This Is Not Happening, then you might be disturbed by this. I still don't know why the heck I wrote it, for goodness' sake! Also please see the end of the story for more notes. -----Facing You-------- I glance at the clock. It is 6:15 in the morning. I rub my cold hands over my feverish face, squeeze the bridge of my nose and slap my cheeks a little. "C'mon, Dana, get it together," I mutter under my breath. I shake my head a few times, then raise my hands to my hair and pull it back into a messy ponytail. Half falls back in front of my eyes, and I sweep it behind my ears. I don't bother to lift the mirror on the coffee table in front of me to check if the parting is straight. My arms feel heavy, like a dead weight. I draw a deep, unsatisfying breath of warm air. I feel like I'm drowning. I close my eyes tightly for a second and swipe a hand across my face to stop the tickling sensation of salty tears trickling down my hot skin. There's a light knocking behind me and the sound of someone entering the room. I make no move to turn or even acknowledge their presense until they speak. "Dana, honey, have you been there all night?" I clear my dry throat a few times before I'm able to speak. "Uh, yeah, I think so, mom. You're early." My voice sounds thick and wavers, betraying me. My mother bustles over to the couch and plops down next to me, putting her arm around my shoulders. I just sit there and don't move: she studies my face and I know she can see I'm pretending that everything is okay. She lowers her voice. "Look, Dana. This can wait another day, if you're not ready. You can take all the time you need..." She trails off, and we both know she's wrong. This has gone on for too long already. I rise to my feet and will my legs not to shake: I feel weak but manage not to stumble. I walk to the window and harshly pull back the curtains, letting the misty morning light filter into the apartment. I pick up my car keys and turn around to face my mother. I look into her tear-filled, concerned eyes and tell her, "I'm ready to go now." ------------------- Twenty minutes of morning light and heavy silence vanish from my memory as soon as I pull the key from the ignition and stuff it into my pocket. My hands have begun to shake now that I'm looking through the windshield at the door of the building. The words engraved in stone just make the whole experience more surreal, and yet at the same time almost too real. I swipe at my face again and try to breathe deeply, feeling hyperventilation rising in my chest. I unclick my seatbelt and open the car door. The air outside is still fresh and cool, sticking in my throat like a thick fog. Mom is already out of the car, pulling the bag from the trunk. I wait for her to close the lid, then I slam the door closed, lock it, hunch over and trudge towards the funeral directors. Every step I take is an effort. By the time we reach the reception area I really am having trouble breathing, so mom speaks to the woman behind the desk in a low voice. A kind-faced man soon appears at another door, motioning us over. He walks us through what feels like a labyrinth of corridors until we reach one at the end of a long hall. He takes the bag from my mother and turns to me. "Ms. Scully," he says, and I'm forced to look at him. "We can dress Mr. Mulder for you now, if you'd like to wait. Then you can see him. Is that okay?" I try to answer but my voice is dead. I cough. "Um - that's fine. Thank you." I somehow manage to croak out my words at him, and he turns and walks through the door behind him. I slump against the wall and will myself to gain control. Mom puts an arm around me, but I shrug it off. I raise my chin, stand up straight, remind myself that I'm a professional and respectable woman. When the undertaker returns, I look directly at him as he speaks. "Ms. Scully, Mr. Mulder is ready for a viewing, if you wish." I nod. "Thank you very much. I'd like some time alone, if that's okay -" The man is already nodding back. "Absolutely. You're welcome to go in now and take as much time as you need. I'll be in the reception office if you need anything." "Thank you," I repeat. He smiles a little before making his way down the brightly-lit, carpeted corridor and letting himself through a door to the right. I turn to my mother, who is sitting on a soft upholstered seat. She stands and takes my hand in hers. before I open my mouth, she speaks. "Dana, I know you want to go in alone, but I will be just out here if you need me, for anything at all. Okay?" "Okay," I whisper back. Then I let go of her warm hand, turn and push open the door. ---------------- He lays on his back, eyes closed, lips together, hands clasped on his chest. He is dressed in what I knew was his favourite suit, but with the tie slightly loose and baseball cap at his side. His face is scarred but he still looks as beautiful as when I first met him, and yet older and wiser. They've washed his hair. I told them not to comb it too much, because he often just let it dry all tousled and unruly. Rebellious hair. I stand far away from him at first, scared to make any sound, feeling as if I might wake him up, but at the same time feeling that perhaps it would wake me up, wake me up from this nightmare. I step gingerly forwards, once, twice, three times, and sink down onto my knees. I take his right hand in mine. He is so cold. I kiss his knuckles slowly, lay my feverish face against his cold skin. A hot tear falls onto his fingers. I stare at his peaceful, motionless face and will him to open his eyes and look at me, the way I have done so many times before. Only, this time he doesn't wake up. I reach into my jacket pocket for something I remembered earlier this morning. I pull out a small bag of sunflower seeds and tuck it carefully into his shirt breast pocket. He would have hated the suit thing, I knew, so I bargained with him. Forgive me, Mulder. Let me have the suit thing, and I'll let you have sunflower seeds. I stare at his face again for long minutes which I half fancy are turning into hours. I don't care. The bubble of silence grows around is, so I tentatively whisper his name. "Mulder...Mulder. It's me. I'm here. Don't be scared. I want you to know it's going to be okay. I'll be okay. I have the strength of your beliefs." I watch him, praying for some sort of response. Nothing. Eventually I can't kneel down any more. I raise to my feet and lean over. I press my lips gently to his for a precious second and the draw a harsh breath, turn and walk away. -------------- My mother insists on driving me back to my apartment. She pulls open all the curtains, sits me down and makes me warm milk. She tries to talk to me, but I just tell her I'm fine and don't want to talk right now. She switches on the television, filling the living room with brash colours and loud sounds which seem disjointed and intrusive to me. At midday I tell her I want to take a nap, and she finally leaves. I click off the TV, close the curtains and run to the bathroom, where I am violently sick. The force of vomiting so hard makes my whole body convulse as I lean over the toilet bowl and tears stream down my cheeks. The stench of sick makes me gag further, until there is nothing left to bring up except for the bitter taste of bile which burns my throat. My stomach muscles ache and spasm and my ribs hurt. I wipe my mouth with a tissue, flush the toilet and pour cold water into a cup, swilling it around my mouth and spitting it out. I cough and splutter for several minutes. Then I put down the beaker and look in the mirror. My eyes are red and bloodshot, my hair unkempt, my cheeks flushed. I'm alone in the mirror. I'm alone in my life. Mulder has gone, and he's never coming back. The one person who I thought I would never lose has died and left me here to struggle through my days. The tears hit me full force as heat courses through my blood. My legs go to jelly and I fall to the floor, sobbing, my body shaking with rage, fear, grief, distress, shock. I curl up into a ball and my breathing goes shallow and everything goes black and I hear a terrible cry of agony which I manage to recognise as being my own and the last thing I'm aware of is that no-one exists on earth who can come and save me from this pain. ---------fini----------- Further author's notes: I have been lucky enough to never have been involved in organising a funeral or burial. Because of this, I have no clue how funeral directors run, and whether or not any of the events in this story would actually take place. If there are discrepancies, then, well, I'll just claim creative licence. ;) Copyright Red 2003 ds4fm@orange.net . Flames gratefully accepted as I'm a poor student who can't afford luxuries such as heating.