TITLE: To See for Oneself
AUTHOR: Maidenjedi
FANDOM: The X-Files
RATING: PG-13 
CATEGORY: Mulder/Scully, 
SPOILERS: Through "This is Not Happening"
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters, my concept, or 
my show. Damn it.
SUMMARY: Scully, trying to mourn.

NOTES: Inspired by a drabble I did for 
icedteainthebag, though that was a 
Scully/Reyes thing and this is very 
much not. Aludes to my old story "Bleeding 
Kansas" but that isn't required to understand 
this at all.

Also, this veers off from canon. Safe to say, 
no spoilers beyond "This is Not Happening."


XXXX

The skin was ashen, putty-like in appearance and 
marked with unexplainable holes that went no deeper 
than a human fingernail could go. She wrote these 
details down and spoke into her recorder to back 
it up.

The flesh elsewhere clung loosely. He had lost 
weight, a drastic amount in a short time.

She cut into his chest with curiosity, 
fascination. What might she find that would 
prove he was not who they all thought?

Old wounds, gunshots (this one here was hers). 
Fragments, in one place, of a shell that had 
not been cleaned out of a wound once. 

She measured his heart and found it compared to 
those of males of similar height, weight, and 
build.

His last meal...he'd evidently not had one.

She took stock of him and tried to determine 
what had done this. What had killed them both, 
that night.

There was no answer.

And that was the cruelest blow of all.

----

"Ashes to ashes..."

She hates funerals.

She always had. Dead bodies in boxes in the dirt, 
dead bodies that will be crushed under that weight, 
dead bodies that will not fight but will accept 
it all, taking the dirt as a matter of course 
and mingling with it.

The body will fade. 

"...dust to dust."

In med school, she'd discovered her scalpel could 
revive the dead, keep them interesting, for hours, 
maybe days. She could find stories in dead tissue, 
wondrous tales in hearts that no longer beat. 
Autopsies gave the dead a few more days of glory, 
let them linger just a while longer above the 
ground, away from the worms.

But funerals. 

The final nail in the coffin was the book's 
cover closing. And the book being thrown, 
violently, across the room and into the fire. 
Dirt landing, shovelful by mournful shovelful, 
more like flames leaping to consume and to 
claim.

There were words that meant nothing, just 
platitudes and attempts to stifle the real 
grief of every person there. Conducting a 
funeral, she thought, must be a lot like 
reading the Bible to native heathens who 
don't even speak your tongue. They are 
anxious to get on with their own rites 
and rituals, and you speak nonsense at 
them about eternity and comfort. They 
know only the crushing dirt, the way 
flesh smells when consumed by flame, 
and the emptiness of their hearts. What 
can you offer them, when you can't 
understand how they feel?

He closed with a verse from Revelation, a 
few amens come from the crowd (in the back, 
she thought, people who don't actually know 
him, are here for the spectacle). She 
shuddered as the wind gusted and spat 
raindrops on her cheek. 

It always rains at funerals.

There were last gasps for air before the 
mournful wailing began, the realization of 
finality settling over the stupefied and 
frozen crowd. The funeral was at a close. 
Shuffling feet passed, there were pats on 
her arm and kisses on her cheeks, her forehead, 
her hands. One or two crushing hugs, to which 
she clung, wanting to feel suffocation and 
smothering. 

Offers to drive her home, offers to take her 
to her mother's, offers to stay with her at 
the graveside. She rejected them all. Politely. 
Why she needed to be polite when she felt 
like screaming, fighting them all was beyond 
her. But she was polite and they were kind. 
She told them no, thank you, and they gave 
her watery smiles that seem to wish to 
convey "it will be alright."

When they were all gone, even Frohike in 
his sad faded suit, she said to the grave:

"It won't be alright at all."

----

She stayed too long at the cemetery. So long 
that the caretakers sent to fill in the 
grave had to ask her if she was okay, could 
they call someone. "I'm fine."

Mulder, I'm fine.

But she was lightheaded and nauseous, the 
baby demanding nourishment even if she 
didn't want to provide it, and so she left. 

She drove in no particular direction for 
the better part of an hour, feeling somewhat 
refreshed by simply sitting and letting the 
pressure off her feet. She wasn't all that 
far along and already her feet were 
rejecting high heels.

At her apartment, she traded the shoes out 
for sneakers, grabbed an orange, and left 
again. She went to his instead, the habit 
of sleeping on his couch not readily 
relinquished despite Agent Doggett's 
meddling. She sobbed into the Navajo 
blanket and blocked out every practical 
thought, every inquiry of her own into 
what her life would be like without him.

There was nothing left to do, nothing but 
find a way to move on. 

A laugh escaped her. With an unborn child, 
a career shot to hell, and no one left to 
lean on? Move on to what?

There was always the assignment in Utah.

---

"I can get you a transfer, if that's what you 
want. Are you sure you want to leave the area, 
though, Agent Scully?"

Protocol, of course, did not let him keep 
calling her "Dana." And she would not call 
him Walter.

"If there is something close, I'll take it. 
I didn't think there would be, with the 
cuts...."

"Only cuts on new agents being moved into 
high-profile divisions. The brass figure it 
would be better for public relations...you 
know how it goes."

"Yes."

He shifted in his seat, evidently recalling 
the many meetings - shouting matches, really 
- in this room about the image of the Bureau 
and how it did not gel with Mulder's mission.

"Field work is probably out of the question."

"Yes."

"You taught at Quantico before your transfer, 
is that right?"

"Yes, and a couple of times since." When 
they'd shut Mulder down, and her with him.

"Let's see what we can do."

---

She cried in elevators, on staircases. Because 
he was not beside her there, hand on her back 
or later, in her hair.

In hallways, when she smelled his cologne.

At the grocery store once, passing by his brand 
of toothpaste.

In the car, when her feet couldn't reach the 
pedals.

Once she cried for a straight hour on the Mall, 
on the bench where they used to meet when they 
weren't working in the same office, or the same 
division. She could see the place where they had 
stood and she'd taken his hand to remind him, 
he wasn't alone.

And then she remembered, they were both alone 
now.

She cried when her cell phone rang and it 
wasn't him. When the doctor asked her if the 
father could come for the next appointment, 
because there would be pictures! 

She cried when her mother asked, "Is it Fox's 
baby?" and she did not answer the question.

She cried because, how could she be totally 
sure?

And then because she was.

---


Missy's grave was set apart, under a cherry tree 
in what could almost be a lonely field, except 
the Washington skyline marred the view. It was 
a family plot that hadn't been used; Bill 
Scully, Sr. had changed his will to request 
cremation and sprinkling. 

Scully could recall her father's face and 
his voice more readily than Melissa's. That 
was a sad fact, and a fantastic leap made her 
believe it was because Melissa was rooted 
here, part of the soil. The Captain was part 
of the very air.

She came here, often as she could, to get her 
head clear. Today she wanted it muddled, 
confused, full of her sister's ramblings and 
preternatural theories and glorious beliefs. 

In the spring, there would be blossoms on the 
tree. Scully preferred coming then, thought 
she wasn't about to quit coming just because 
the blossoms had faded.

"I wish you were here." She didn't often 
admit that. "I don't know what I'm doing. 
Or who I really am, without him. I need you 
here to tell me that this is okay. I think 
they all look at me like I should get over 
it, I should move on, Mulder wouldn't want 
me to fade away without him. And I don't 
know that he's gone, Missy. I don't know 
and I need you."

The wind shook Melissa's tree, whistled 
softly. That was no answer, but she could 
stand up and think that maybe an answer 
was coming.

She went home and slept in his shirt. It 
was starting to push out at the stomach.

The closest he would ever get to her again.

---


"What if it's a girl?"

"Mom...."

"I'm just saying, Dana. Little girls 
can't wear blue onesies with trains on 
them."

"Who says?"

Maggie sighed deeply and rolled her 
eyes, and put the pink onesie with the 
flowers down on the counter with the 
blue one. "Just in case."

She had not asked for the sex of the 
baby, and her mother was driving her 
to distraction to find out. Really, 
she wasn't totally sure she wanted 
to know anything about this baby. 
What if everything was wrong, what 
if it was a nightmare?

The books said this was normal, this 
fear. She wasn't so sure the authors 
of the books had ever encountered 
babies with tails or alien offspring 
before.

"What about the shower? What are you 
going to register for? You have to 
find out, Dana, it's only fair to your 
guests."

She bit her tongue to keep from retorting 
that she did not really care, since the 
guests weren't going to be friends of hers 
but of Maggie's. The entire shower business 
wore on her and it was months away yet.

She'd always preferred wedding showers, 
truth be told. More fun for everyone, 
especially the guest of honor. And no 
diaper-related games.

"I'll find out when I find out, Mom. 
When the baby is born. Like it was 
when you had us kids."

Maggie made a face that says plainly 
that she would have given anything to 
know if she were going to have a 
William Jr or a little Maggie, but 
did not press the argument further.

----

Bill did not call for a month after the 
funeral.

Scully didn't think much of it. He 
traveled because of the Navy, and saved 
time by calling his wife only, and 
letting her spread whatever good or 
bad news there was to tell. And he 
hadn't liked Mulder, so she figured he 
wouldn't know what to say anyway.

Though he had come. He had stood not 
far from a weeping Maggie, and he was 
respectful. Said "amen" in the proper 
places and didn't bother complaining 
that it wasn't a Catholic service. 
All of which was unlike him.

She ruled him as unpredictable for the 
first time in his life.

When he did call, the connection was 
feeble and his time was short, but he 
had to tell her something, he had to 
say something to her that couldn't 
wait.

"I'm sorry."

In all his life, Bill Scully, Jr. had 
never apologized to anyone who wasn't 
his mother or his wife. He was as 
stubborn as his sister, really. They'd 
fought like cats as children and had 
not changed.

"For what?" She honestly didn't know.

"Not trusting him. Not trusting you."

Tears that had nothing to do with 
grief slipped down her cheeks.


----

Taking off her high heels for the last 
time was a bit of a relief.

Until she heard Mulder's voice, asking 
her to wear them, that one time when 
she had taken off her clothes slowly, 
while he watched.

She sobbed as she slipped her feet 
back into them, just this once, 
before her feet were too swollen 
to take it at all.


----

She taught her classes, attempted to 
ignore Agent Doggett's occasional plea 
for help to little effect, and went 
through the motions of being pregnant. 
It was almost as though that part was 
happening to someone else.

Until the first time she felt an 
honest-to-God kick. 

She smiled, a real smile that hadn't 
appeared since before he went missing. 
But it collapsed into tears, great 
sobs that consumed her and left her 
raw and shaking.

Because he missed it. He wasn't there.

And she was alone.


---

The nightmares were bad, and increased 
in frequency as the pregnancy 
progressed. Of course it was normal 
hormones, and had nothing to do with 
waking up to an empty, cold bed. Oh, 
no, of course not.

Most of the dreams were recurring. 
Mulder, in the field, crying out to 
her in words she could not hear, 
pleading for help in a silent voice. 
Emily, not in her casket, a pile of 
dust to greet the woman who was not 
mother. Missy, tubes in her face, 
crying out Dana's fault, Dana's the 
one, she did this to me! 

Bill, at the birth, shaking his head. 
"One sorry son of a bitch."

But the worst of the dreams came only 
once. She was five months pregnant, 
almost three months without Mulder.

A prairie. Wind blowing hard, stopped 
by nothing on the endless expanse. 
The smell of smoke, of burning wood, 
a house lit by licking flames just 
beyond a corn field. 

A boy lying on the grass beside her, 
choking from smoke inhaled while he 
was still in the house. How did he 
get out? A woman, a familiar woman, 
blond hair and cool blue gaze, 
kneeling beside him.

The scene changes and they are in 
a car, being chased by a black SUV, 
and the boy is screaming. "William, 
look for the exit!"

"Marita, they have guns!"

Scully tries to cry out but finds 
she is without voice.

The final scene, set at night, in 
a truck bed. William, the boy, 
snatched by dark hands unseen by 
Marita. The dream closes with the 
click of an ice pick. The weapon 
used to kill extraterrestrials.

She wakes in a sweat. The boy had 
looked like Mulder. The woman...she 
knew Marita mostly by sight. What 
was this dream? 

Premonition, whispered her recently 
opened mind. A vision.

She didn't sleep for two nights.

----


Mulder's headstone was put in during 
the sixth month.

She didn't like it, was certain he 
would object to the line about "beloved 
son" and she thought anything with his 
given names on it was weird. It made it 
seem less like he had actually died, 
because she did not know "Fox William 
Mulder." That name was too full, too 
enigmatic. Nothing like Mulder was, 
complicated but no mystery at all. 
A funny name, but just a name after 
all.

She'd not totally given up on the idea 
that he wasn't actually dead. Her 
autopsy had done much to convince
her scientifically, rationally. Dana 
Scully was all about rational, after 
all. 

But Fox Mulder wasn't, and that thought 
kept her awake some nights. It kept her 
going most days. He could be alive. 
They might have faked his death, given 
her a corpse laced with his DNA, made to 
look like him. He'd been wasted and 
pockmarked anyway and "exposure" wasn't 
a cause of death that satisfied Scully's 
inquisitive and hungry mind. It was a 
textbook answer, an answer given when 
the coroner was too lazy to dig deeper. 
Or too scared.

So many things might have killed 
him - alien virus, exploratory surgeries 
that amounted to torture, experimentation 
with vaccines and cures and killer 
poisons. She knew, too, that it was 
possible nothing had killed him at 
all, that he roamed and searched and 
cried out for her, only her doubt, 
her nagging doubt drowned out his voice.

What if she had been wrong? What if 
she had not looked hard enough?

That was her fear, and she confronted 
it while teaching.

"Might we not finally look to the 
supernatural? The incredible? The 
fantastic?" She asked her class this
question. The quizzical looks she 
got back told her, they were not 
ready to think this far outside the 
realm of accepted science. They 
would need to keep looking for 
rational, explainable reasons for 
death.

Their scalpels were poised like 
hers, ready to keep the story going 
rather than let it stop a few pages
short of the ending. They did have 
that in common. 

She whispered to his grave, superstitious 
that doing so was admitting he was dead 
once and for all, that she knew he could 
show them a thing or two.

He might yet, after all.

----


Fox Mulder's story was not over. 

It continued with cries, screams, pleas 
for drugs, hand-grasping and 
teeth-clenching, "push, Dana, push!," and
a final cry and sighs of relief from all.

Years from now, the grave grown over 
from neglect and Scully worn out from 
the same, Mulder could return, and
the dream of prairie wind, fire, and 
a boy named William might not come 
true after all.

But for now, the boy named William 
for his grandfathers was swaddled 
and had no written future, and his 
father was wandering the skies in 
search of great mysteries. It was 
a good story, thought Scully. The 
only story, really, that Mulder had 
ever had.

----


In a field, at night. She runs. She knows.

He is here.

She almost trips over his body, rushing so 
furiously to find him that she almost 
doesn't see him. Her blood rushes from 
her head when she sees he is not breathing.

She begs for his life.

They are not there to help. And he is 
not there at all.

"This is not happening!!"

The wailing of a widow is noticed, 
but unheeded, and decay is inevitable.




-----------

The end.

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