TITLE: Well Beloved AUTHOR: Wylfcynne E-MAIL ADDRESS: Wylfcynne@aol.com DISTRIBUTION: All-XFiles, Ephemeral to Gossamer, MulderInJeopardy, EMXC, XFC, certainly; anyone else, please ask; that way I'll know where it all goes, so I can visit. SPOILERS: not one RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: MulderAngst, MSR, character death (sort of) SUMMARY: would be longer than the story DISCLAIMER: They certainly aren't mine; if they were, they'd be having more fun, and I wouldn't have to save up for a new car! Mulder, Scully, Skinner and the rest belong to FOX Networks and 1013; the other guest and references and quotations are the property of Universal City Studios, Inc. I'm just borrowing them for a little fun and games, and there is absolutely no intent or expectation of any profit from this little exercise. FEEDBACK: Wylfie howls at the moon for feedback... AUTHOR'S NOTES: at the end DEDICATION: Overall, all my X Files work is dedicated to my writing partner, Ravenwald, without whom I would still be doing all this using a ballpoint pen, who introduced me to fandom on the 'Net, and awakened the Muse, who had been sleeping for a VERY long time. This piece is for the Sisters Spooky, for mink roses and homemade candy, nifty Christmas cards and fresh-burned CDs, for grins and giggles and healing candlelight...for being the sisters I never had in Real Life. +++++ Well Beloved by Wylfcynne Washington DC Monday, lunch hour Mulder walked along a sidewalk, not paying a lot of attention where they were going. What held his attention was the familiar 'click-click' of Scully's heels against the sidewalk, the way the sun glinted off her hair as she walked beside him, the firmness of her hold on his hand, and the occasional whiff of her cologne. It was lunch time, and they had an hour of their own time to while away. It was summer in DC, but this had been a La Nina summer, cool and wet, so they were comfortable in their suits, walking casually toward the Mall along with hundreds, if not thousands of other people. Scully's steps slowed, and he focused on her and what was diverting her attention from the prospect of lunch at Mariano's. A sidewalk flower vendor had set up shop just ahead of them, and even his color-diminished sight could appreciate the wild variety of blossoms available there. "Oh, Mulder, look! Black-eyed susans! My Grandmother had these at her house..." He stood and watched, while she claimed a bunch of the orange-and-black flowers and then prowled over the entire stand, matching other flowers against the colors already in her hands, until she had picked out four bunches of flame- colored flowers. She turned to face him, her eyes alight. Screams distracted them both; the stand was on a corner, and something terrifying was happening around the corner. Scully was a good three strides closer to the tumult than Mulder was; she dropped the flowers and was reaching for her Sig as she stepped past the edge of the corner building. She was just out of Mulder's reach when the world went insane with screams. Something struck Mulder, tossed him into the street. Desperate not to get hit by oncoming traffic, he rolled for the curb, and then struggled to his feet. He was not injured, just shaken and confused. "Scully? Scully?" Then his eyes focused. "Scully--!!" +++ St Margaret's Catholic Cemetery Friday morning Melvin Frohike stretched awkwardly but was careful not to rock the van. He did not want to attract any attention. The funeral was over, and of the nearly three hundred cars that had followed the hearse into the cemetery, only two were left. One was his own battered van. The other was the limousine waiting for Margaret Scully. She stood beside her daughter's fresh grave, now. She was the perfect military wife; cool, calm, and in complete control. Frohike watched her, fighting down his own grief. He saw Skinner waiting by the limo, giving Mrs. Scully all the time she needed. Skinner was standing at parade rest, and Frohike knew he could-- and would--stand like that for hours. (*There was a time when I could do that, too.*) He saw Mrs. Scully's attention shift, and knew what she had seen. She studied the motionless figure sitting on the hill just out of earshot, and started toward him. Skinner called out to her, and she stopped, turned. Frohike was too far away to hear what Skinner said, but he had a pretty good idea. Whatever Skinner had said, it was persuasive; Mrs. Scully did not approach that solitary mourner. Instead, she joined Skinner, who handed her into the limo, then joined her inside. As the limo went by, Frohike lifted one hand in acknowledgment as his eyes met Skinner's. Skinner nodded. Frohike looked back at the last mourner. Fox Mulder was sitting on a concrete bench a little way up the hill, with his back to the fresh grave where his partner's body had just been laid to rest. Frohike was worried. In the four days since Dana Scully had been killed in a random car crash that had also killed the drunken teenage driver, Fox Mulder had not bathed, shaved, eaten, slept...or wept. He had barely spoken or reacted to anything. This had all happened so suddenly that Mulder had not had time to process the reality of his bereavement. Frohike knew Mulder was in shock, and so did Skinner. That was why the Assistant Director had called the Lone Gunmen the first night. He believed th at Fox Mulder should be under a suicide watch. The Gunmen immediately volunteered for that duty, and Skinner had known that they would. Better it was that friends should keep such a watch, rather than assigned agents. Langly and Byers were horrified at the idea that Mulder might kill himself in the depth of his grief. Frohike was not horrified. He knew Mulder was suicidal--how not? But what he would not tell Langly or Byers was that if Mulder wanted to kill himself, Frohike would not stop him. (*He's lost the only light he's had in his life,*) Frohike rehearsed his argument. (*Why should he want to live alone in irredeemable darkness?*) >From where he sat, Frohike could see the dark shape of the Sig Sauer in Mulder's hand, dangling between his legs as Mulder stared off into the darkness of the northeast sky. Mulder had been sitting on this bench since some time around dawn. He had listened to her funeral from this distance, needing this remove, this isolation from the words of her eulogy, from the muffled sounds of grief from her family, from the sight of the mourners, from the sharpness of the salute fired across the grave by seven fellow agents. Significantly, the bench where he sat was in the line of fire for that salute; everyone at the graveside had seen him there. If the honor guard had been using live ammunition, he would have offered himself as a target. If they had had live ammunition, he would already be dead. (*Easily rectified,*) he knew. The weapon in his hand held fifteen rounds. No one could stop him when he decided to die. He had no plans to leave this cemetery. He could not think of Scully. His mind simply would not show him the image of her too-quiet body lying amid the wreckage of the flower stand, already buried in flowers. She had been unmarked; she had died of a broken neck, instantly. The explanations, the condolences, the expressions of grief...none of it had stuck. The only words he remembered after Scully's comment about her grandmother's black-eyed susans was a man in a white coat saying, "I'm sorry, she's dead. There's nothing we could do..." He had no idea what he had done in reaction to those words. He had come here early, picked out his vantage point hours early, because he could not face her. He had let her down. He had tried to protect her, and failed miserably. He could not face her mother with that failure, either. He had once promised Margaret Scully that he would die himself before he let any harm come to her daughter, and he had failed. Neither could he face her brothers, her heartbroken niece and nephews. So he had come up here, to be alone. Alone... Alone forever, now... He took a deep breath, and tightened his grip on the Sig. Long years of emptiness stretched out before him. While he certainly deserved that torment, he did not see much point in it. Vaguely, some part of his awareness noted the approach of someone he did not know: the rhythm of the tread was not familiar. "Is this seat taken?" Those so-familiar words rocked Mulder; for one incredulous moment, he thought it was Scully, that all this agony had just been a nightmare. But the voice was male, too deep, too formal to be Scully. It was not Scully. It could not be Scully. Scully was dead. It would never be Scully again. She was dead. She was dead...and he was abandoned again. The glass shell he had been hiding within cracked, and shattered. >From the van, Frohike saw Mulder's shoulders start to shake, saw him drop the handgun and bury his face in his hands. "Finally," he sighed. He got up and went into the back of the van, where he used the encrypted sat-phone. "Mr. Skinner? Frohike. He broke. He's crying." Skinner's voice echoed his own relief. "Thank God. Do you think he'll be all right, now?" Frohike shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I don't think he'll ever be all right again, honestly. But the odds just tipped away from suicide." It was Skinner's turn to sigh. "Probably. Stay with him?" "You could not drag me away." "Good man." A gentle arm draped over his shoulders, respecting his grief, not intruding, but constantly reminded him that he was not all alone; that had been a mistake. It was a long time before he could stop, before he could regain any control at all. Eventually he sat up straighter, scrubbing at his face. The arm withdrew from his shoulders, a hand offered him a clean linen handkerchief, and he accepted with a muttered, "Thanks." He finally faced his companion, and shuddered. "I always thought she kept me sane. Guess I was right." His companion shook his head gently, and his long white-furred ears moved against the motion. "Not so. You're not mad, my friend. I'm real." His amusement faded. "We're both here, I think, mourning our best friends. I think your loss is more fresh than mine, however." Mulder shuddered. "I can't live like this; she was the only one who cared if I lived or died, and she was the only person I cared about." "So you will end the pain with that?" Mulder glanced down at the automatic handgun lying on the ground between his feet, and picked it up, again. "That's the plan." "Would she approve?" He shuddered. "No. She was Catholic. Suicide's a mortal sin to her." "If the Afterlife is anything worth achieving, you would be barred from her company, then." "I don't believe in God. I'll be dead. It'll be over." "So, without her, you would walk into the darkness." "I AM in darkness without her. She was my touchstone, my guide...my light. There is no nobility in enduring pain unless you need to achieve something despite it. I have nothing left." "You have a friend waiting for you over there." Mulder did not have to look; the van had been there all day. "Frohike's been where I am. He'll understand." "Yet he did not make that choice; he's here with you." "My pain. My life. My decision. Frohike has family. I don't. Everyone's dead. Time I was, too." "Time... Time is what it may be, my friend..." +++ Washington DC Monday, lunch hour Mulder walked along a sidewalk, not paying a lot of attention where they were going. What held his attention was the familiar 'click-click' of Scully's heels against the sidewalk, the way the sun glinted off her hair as she walked beside him, the firmness of her hold on his hand, and the occasional whiff of her cologne. It was lunch time, and they had an hour of their own time to while away. It was summer in DC, but this had been a La Nina summer, cool and wet, so they were comfortable in their suits, walking casually toward the Mall along with hundreds, if not thousands of other people. Scully's steps slowed, and he focused on her and what was diverting her attention from the prospect of lunch at Mariano's. A sidewalk flower vendor had set up shop just ahead of them, and even his color-diminished sight could appreciate the wild variety of blossoms available there. "Oh, Mulder, look! Shasta daisies! My Grandmother had these at her house..." He stood and watched, while she claimed a bunch of the yellow-and-white flowers and then prowled over the entire stand, matching other flowers against the colors already in her hands, until she had picked out four bunches of flame- colored flowers. She turned to face him, her eyes alight. Screams distracted them both; the stand was on a corner, and something terrifying was happening around the corner. Scully was a good three strides closer to the tumult than Mulder was; she dropped the flowers and was reaching for her Sig as she stepped past the edge of the corner building. She was just out of Mulder's reach when the world went insane with screams. Something struck Mulder, tossed him into the street. Desperate not to get hit by oncoming traffic, he rolled for the curb, and then struggled to his feet. He felt no pain; he was only shaken and confused. "Scully? Scully?" Then his eyes focused. "Scully--!!" "Right here, Mulder." She stood, brushed herself off, pushed spilled flowers aside with her feet. Then she went to the driver's side window of the car that had crashed right through the flower vendor's wagon. "She's hurt, Mulder--get an ambulance here, would you?" He reached for his phone and gasped as he moved in a new way. Scully looked up sharply. "Mulder? Are you hurt?" He repeated the motion cautiously. "Nah," he decided. "Just a little banged up." He called 911 and got all the necessary emergency services moving their way. He moved closer to his partner. "Is the driver hurt badly?" Scully turned a grim expression his way. "I think she's dead." He moved incautiously and gasped again; that had hurt! Scully abandoned the girl in the car--for whom she could do nothing--and ran her hands over her partner's body. "Scully, we're standing right out here in the street!" But he flinched when her hand stroked against his ribs on the left side. "You're going to the hospital." "I'm all right, Scully." But then he swayed, and had to grab at the wall to keep from falling. "You're not all right." If she said anything else, he missed it. +++ He woke up in a hospital bed, feeling decidedly under the weather. "Hi, partner. How're you feeling?" He turned his head cautiously, and there she was, getting up to come and stand by his bedside. "Not too bad," he admitted. His voice was scratchy. She poured him some water and held it for him. "What, no ice chips?" "No surgery," she grinned at him. "You just had a concussion, and some broken ribs. You scared me when you went down, but you're going to be okay." "What about the driver?" Scully's smile vanished. "A seventeen-year-old girl still driving on a permit, drunk out of her mind at noon on a school day. Blood alcohol at the ER was point-one-nine. She was dead at the scene; the steering column was just crushed right through her chest." He frowned. "Wasn't that what air-bags were supposed to prevent?" "No. Air-bags are to prevent you from hitting your face or throat on the steering wheel. This girl--her name was Claire Kroeger--was impaled on the steering column." He sagged back, closed his eyes against the images. "That's awful." "Yeah." "Any one else hurt?" "You were the worst." "Good." "Well, I'm not too thrilled with the fact that you're hurt again," she growled. "But you're getting out in the morning." +++ They went to visit Claire Kroeger's grave together that weekend. There was no stone there, yet, of course. But the freshly-turned earth was buried under a mound of flowers and stuffed toys and cards. There was not much to be said about the tragedy of a young life cut short. They started walking along the quiet pathways. Neither of them took any notice of a well-tended grave beside a tree in the next row; that of a gentleman of leisure named Elwood P. Dowd. There were no dates on the stone; instead, just the words, "Well-beloved by all who knew him." There was a fresh tuft of very white fur caught on the tree's roughened bark. "Well-beloved by all who care to know him," a disembodied voice said softly. "I think you would have liked Mr. Mulder, Elwood. He's a good man." end Author's notes: the Willing Suspension of Disbelief Clause requires that you accept that Mr. Dowd was buried in DC. Mr. Dowd's best friend was a pookah named Harvey. There was a play and then a film made about their relationship years ago; Harvey played himself. He did not stay with Mr. Dowd constantly, but he always went back; he and Mr. Dowd were the best of friends. According to the film, Pookahs are "from old Celtic mythology, a fairy spirit in animal form, always very large. The Pookah appears her and there, now and then, to this one and that one. A benign but mischievous creature very fond of rumpots, crackpots and how are you Mr Wilson?" Harvey's preferred form was that of a white rabbit in a waistcoat and hat, as tall as a tall man. He had attempted to establish a friendship with a writer named Dodgson, once, so this film is not his only appearance in mortal literature. Harvey preferred that people got just exactly what they deserved for, you see, while Pookahs are generally benign, as the film says, they also believe in cosmic justice. "I have struggled against reality for thirty-five years, and I'm delighted to report that I've finally won out over it." ---Elwood P. Dowd