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Slices Posted December/98 PLEASE do not archive without permission. Rating: Actually, this is only rated R, and even then, not a big R. Sorry. On the up-side, its spoiler free! And it even has no calories. Disclaimer and Feedback Supplication: These characters are not my creations, nor do I place any claim upon them. I don't own them, and they don't own me. Do we ever really own anything? Why are we so obsessed with property? Is fee tail really an outdated concept? Is this really a disclaimer? I honestly don't believe this was written or will result in any monetary profit, valuable consideration, or even free laundry, much to my employer's chagrin. Regardless, send me feedback! Send me flames! Send me chocolate truffles! You can also send me real truffles, but I won't like them as much as the chocolate cream kind. Seriously, feedback wise, I am always pathetically grateful for anything anyone can spare. Notes: At the end Life is made of choices, he thought. Some people chose this, other people chose that, and some people chose something entirely different. Such a small body, such a small life. In Scully's case, she had chosen *this*, They had chosen *that*, and now her life was something entirely different. He sighed. Sometimes, sometimes he has to wonder, to think, to consider exactly where he had led her. Because although she chose to follow, he had been the piper. A life is so small, what had he asked of it? Years ago. Snow and wind and a cabin in the Vermont hills. He went back there because she asked. Because she had asked, and back then, she so rarely asked for anything. Or, because she so rarely asked him to do anything, to give anything, for herself. Just because. Because she wanted it. Even if she did not really comprehend all that she was asking. When she asked, there was nothing he would not give. New Year's Eve, it had been, or really, New Year's Eve night. Well, that didn't make sense. Early morning. The 1st, actually. Whatever. A gift then, for her. To her. Although, it appears to him now, that everything he thought he gave to her, he was really giving himself. She'd chosen, for the first time, to spend Christmas and New Year's with him, with only him, without her family. She'd decided to spend it with him. As a result, he'd let her take him to Vermont. It helped, he guessed, that she was so beautiful. Beautiful. He knew it, didn't really think about it. It just was. It was not a thought, nothing to voice, it was just ... the way things were. Although he had not been a complete loser. He'd told her, once. He *had* told her, even if it had not been for the right reasons, in the right place. Even if she had not understood. Back then, it had been easy, and yet, not at all. Maybe, maybe that too was the kind of thing he should have voiced more often. Maybe, maybe he shouldn't have taken so much for granted. But back then ...thirty-eight seems impossibly young to him, now. It had been late, and despite a full moon, it was dark; the sky was overcast. Scully had lit candles, because the electricity had gone out, and when it had come back a scarce half hour later, the new year had dawned and passed, they were lying skin to skin, and there was no need of a harsh white 100 watt glare. There'd really been no need of candles, either. Scully blew them out, and for some time they both lay there, silently, with the intermittent crackle of a not-quite completely dead fire, the slow hiss of wind against aged wood, the warmth of flannel blankets, remembered fire, and each other wrapped around them. He'd asked a niggling question, then, one that by virtue of having seen her screaming and naked he felt he'd a right to ask. Strange how sex worked, liked that. But anyway. "So, Scully, why slicing and dicing?" Then, he'd kept it simple. Didn't form words for what he was really asking. No, "Why didn't you open a nice little dermatology practice, treat zits and blemishes , mint a fortune, marry a plastic surgeon, and make beautiful babies with him? Why don't you have a large Georgetown mansion, a cottage in New England, a glass cabinet filled with useless breakable china? Why this, why death, why decay, why me? You've lost so much, Scully, so much. Why?" She was Scully, she understood the unspoken. Or maybe she didn't, and he had just thought she did. Maybe he'd always assumed. It didn't matter. She answered it all, and that's why he loved her. They had been so in love. Outside, a tree branch beat against plexiglass. "Mulder," she asked, eventually, "Mulder, have you ever looked at me?" Surprised, he said the obvious thing, the only thing. "Of course, Scully, you're beautiful." He'd meant it, but she hadn't caught on. She thought it was a line. She thought he assumed she'd been fishing. She thought, had always thought, that he was altogether a lot more clever than he'd any credit to. It was just so obvious to him. A car drove by and lit the room, for a second; he saw her face, and saw her as she looked away. "That's not what I mean," she said. "I mean, really, have you ever looked?" He realized, suddenly and clearly, that he didn't really know her at all. It shocked him, absurdly. Stopped the glib retort, the practiced leer, with awkward insecurity. He paused; he hesitated a breath. She rolled over, apart, stared at the ceiling. He misses her. Years ago, in that cabin, he wanted to, but didn't quite, reach out an arm towards her. Later, he would come to realize that for someone with so much self-confidence, Scully rarely had a lot of self-esteem in these matters. "Scully", he said, at a loss, "I'm not sure what you mean." What, he was supposed to look at more than her face or chest or legs or ... focus. Breathe. You're almost 40. She spoke to the rafters, examining them critically. He could see her thinking about which ones needed to be replaced, and which ones would last centuries. It had taken him years after that to realize that what was so obvious to him was often missed, or simply never became known, to those around him. It had taken him a long time to learn that these were things he needed to explain. He had not known that, when he'd been 38. "I mean, when I was about 21, and in my first year of medical school, I still lived at home. I commuted. It was cheaper. At Christmas, I still helped my mom decorate the tree, do the shopping, everything, and in between I wrote my exams. Missy didn't help, she'd been pregnant, she'd had an abortion, my mom and her weren't speaking much. She came, though. Bill and Charlie came too. Charlie was still a kid, just entered the navy, and Bill was the golden child. The eldest, the perfect one, a Lieutenant already at 26. He'd just met Tara, she was younger than me, and naturally she was blonde and slim and golden and perfect. He brought her home, and of course everyone adored her. They were already talking engagement. We were at dinner, and talking, and everyone was asking what I wanted to specialize in. I gave them the standard 'I'm just in first year, we have two more years to choose a specialty, four, really, if you include interning, I'm not sure yet.' So everyone started suggesting things, surgery, dermatology, family medicine, whatever. And just for shock value, I said, 'I was sort of thinking about forensic medicine'. There was silence. And then finally Bill said, 'Sure Dana, right. A little slip of a girl like you. Have you ever even seen a corpse? Dana the pathologist. You cutting up corpses. Sure.' And slowly everyone started to laugh, and by the time he was done, he was barely able to speak, and my father had this huge amused grin, and Tara had this superior little smirk on her face--not her fault, she adored Bill, she was dating an up-and-coming navy lieutenant--and I was young, and looked it. I have always looked young. But in the autopsy bay, I am ageless." The moon drifted out then, lit the room, turned her still face to limestone and dust. He did reach out a hand, then, tentatively; but with a hint of unbearable desperation. He touched her neck at that exact point, was relieved when he felt it warm and soft beneath his finger; followed the line down her shoulder. The moon drifted back behind the clouds. She rolled towards him, faced him. He could not see her smile. But then, he didn't really need to. "So, Mulder," she asked, "what made you decide to chase little green men?" Words, she was forming words, and ... God, where was her hand going? He was almost 40, for chrissake! "Uh, Dana, uh, *Scully*, Jesus, Scully, you already ... you already ... already heard that story." Her breath was soft in his ear. "So tell me again." Notes: Once again, thanks to the once again flu-stricken yet still mighty beta-er Becky. Gee, you're always really ill when I post. I could say something about that, but I won't . The Christmas theme was suggested by her and not my infidel-self. The woods in here are a pointed hint. HINT. Summary: About a week ago, Setmedic posted a challenge based story. I read the story, sent feedback, and thought about the challenge. I remember the challenge, although, sadly, I no longer remember who first posted the challenge. Setmedic's take on the challenge was quite original. While this is more traditional, I hope its not terribly dull. The challenge, as posted by Setmedic, read as follows "We all know that Scully majored in Physics before going to medical school. My challenge to all those wonderful fanfic authors is write about Scully and what made her decide to go to medical school and become a forensic pathologist. Now you can write this as a pre x-file story leading up to the infamous meeting between Mulder and Scully or you can write this as an alternate universe with Sully [sic] meeting Mulder or whatever." Yes, its a challenge story. Run away now. I am, however, grateful to both the challenge and the story for breaking my months long, if not longer, block. Fear for my much longer piece ... to be posted to a list near you, eventually :-). Resistance was futile. Eventually, this too will be amalgamated. |