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Title:          Something Less
Author:         Meredith

Date:           February 2001

Spoilers:       Post-episode for "This is Not Happening."
Classification: V, MSR

Summary:        Not quite pity; not quite love; not quite life.

Feedback would be wonderful: meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com.

Author's notes at the end.


XXXXX

Something Less

XXXXX



"No autopsy."

Her words are whisper-thin, but they still force the two men back a
step, unconsciously nodding in unison. They have been taking turns
leading her, but now it is time for them to follow.


XXXXX


Doggett wishes he still smoked. Reyes has cigarettes, he knows, but
the collision of past and present might be just enough to set the
fuse on his frayed temper. He collapses in the hall, watching Skinner
head toward the parking lot.

Of course she shouldn't do an autopsy. She shouldn't be in there at
all. Their communication has never been smooth even on their best
days, so he didn't try to tell her why. He pulled her away from
Mulder's body instinctually, knowing the truth and futilely trying to
protect her from it.

She is ethereal to him, a strangely beautiful portrait of grief. He
has reached out to touch her time and again, but she is always three
gossamer steps ahead, out of reach. He can never quite capture her
full attention, and he doesn't know what he would do if he ever did.
When he caught her tonight for the first time, he couldn't bear to
hang on tightly enough to keep her, fearing the damage his hands
might do.

The last memory Scully will have is of her partner's tortured body.
That will be the image to haunt her dreams. Pictures and memories of
him smiling, looking perfect -- those will fade until only the
horrific images remain. Doggett knew, because that's all he saw of
his son. 

He feels something less than pity for her. He feels a brutal
camaraderie, two lone survivors of battles in a war humanity would
never win. He knew the inevitability of this moment, but being proven
right gives him no comfort. He is never right about anything less
than what is terrible.

For a moment he is awash in rage, needing desperately to strike out
and destroy.

Then he feels nothing.


XXXXX


Skinner barrels down the hall, leaving the other man in his wake. Of
course there would be no autopsy. He wouldn't allow it, if only for
her sake. But he let her reassert her control. She had always been
the leader, but for the past few days he and Doggett have ruthlessly
stolen that role from her.

Doors to the night outside are his only escape, and he barely
controls himself in order not to make a run for them. When he reaches
the exit, the cold Montana air is a welcome chastisement.

He leans over, face toward concrete and palms on thighs, and exhales
deeply. When he straightens up, he unconsciously looks up to the sky
in counterbalance -- then looks sharply away. At anything, anything
other than the stars.

What he feels for her is something less than love, something more
one-sided and stunted. A warped devotion for which he is too old. He
is not the sort of man to have a crush, and that has been his mistake
from the beginning.

He should have known better than to try to protect her. He lost
Mulder in the first place, and as the guilty one had to buoy her up
and convince her to remain strong. Over the years he witnessed both
of them refusing to give in to evidence and reason, and witnessed
that brute stubbornness rewarded time after time. What curse mocks
his attempt at faith with Mulder's death?

His agent lies dead on a cold steel table. Mulder made daring choices
and wild leaps, but the Fates and Scully protected him from harm
until the wrong person was sent to watch his back. Skinner calculates
and weighs every decision, but each action leads to further
destruction. He is haunted by failure and cursed to live, whether he
wants to or not, with the consequences.

For a moment he is gripped by jealousy of a dead man.

Then he feels nothing. 


XXXXX


The morgue doors swing shut behind Skinner and Doggett's exit with a
slow, rubbery rasp, and the partners are left alone. Scully turns off
the bright white lights; her eyes are burning with fatigue and
irritation, and she wants to see him without squinting.

He lies curled on his right side. She had carefully tucked his
outstretched arm back against his body before the rigor set in, and
now he is in the same position he often slept in. She thinks she can
tolerate the abuse to his body better in this pose than if he were
lying flat on his back, corpse-style. The sheet covers him from neck
to toes.

The tears begin once again, although she doesn't notice. There is too
much pain for her body to contain; its only option is to overflow
through her eyes, a silent stream that follows after the
uncontrollable, hitching, suffocating part of crying has ceased. She
runs her fingers gently through his hair, conscious that it will be
for the last time. The knowledge is only that -- a fact she absorbs
but can't quite comprehend.

She has to examine him. She has to understand what he suffered. But
no one can convince her to have him autopsied, because she will not
tolerate any more physical desecration to this man. Mulder's body is
something less than the intangible *him,* but it is still precious to
her. She will allow herself to be attached to this vessel, broken and
battered but still hers, until she can falsely convince herself she
is ready to let it go.

To examine his torso, she pulls the sheet down to his waist. To
examine his lower extremities, she pushes the sheet upward over his
chest. She never exposes him fully to the disgrace of cold air, and
she never covers his face. She does not wear gloves, but lets her
warm, shaking hands glide over his skin one last time. 

She wonders if Jeremiah Smith would have done the same thing --
touched him with reverence and a pure, intense desire for life to
reawaken. She wonders when she lost the ability to heal. 

When she finishes, she tucks the sheet under his shoulder and feet
until he is safely cocooned. She will accompany the body to Raleigh,
not letting it out of her sight until the end. 

The attendants will be here at 9 a.m., expecting the body to be
wrapped appropriately. She has hours before she has to complete her
task, so she pulls up a chair and sits, leaning forward to place her
damp cheek on the metal table next to his chest.

She feels a fluttering in her stomach, and remembers, suddenly, that
she is not alone. The thought is no comfort, since it is immediately
replaced by a dark, bitter realization that doesn't surprise her. 

If she had the power, she would sacrifice this tiny life for his. 

For a moment she is afraid. 

Then she feels nothing.


XXXX


END


Enormous thanks to my friends haphazard method, MCA, and Revely, who
happen to also be excellent betas. Any feedback would be happily
received: meredith_elsewhere@yahoo.com.


=====
"As imaginary friends go, of course, you're
not as annoying as that one who left 
the windows open every December evening..."

                           --A. Collier

I'm here:    http://www.geocities.com/meredith_elsewhere