by CiCi Lean
 

Date: 1997/07/15

Category/Rating:  S/M Angst, UST/PG
Spoilers:  MM, Season Four, US
Disclaimer:  I don't own 'em/CC does

%%%%%%%%%%%
CROWNING GLORY
by CiCi Lean
%%%%%%%%%%%

"Vanity, like murder, will out."
- Hannah Cowley

%%%%%%%%%%%
 

Dana Scully was brushing her hair.

She combed quickly, with short movements across the front and back,
without the aid of a mirror, a small set of plastic bristles nestled in
her palm like a tiny porcupine.  She was working blindly, but she didn't
need to see what she was doing.

Not much you can do with less than half an inch of hair.

But she continued the ritual, working the stiff strands forward and to the
side, trying to part and fluff, an action of vanity turned to one of
defiance.

For she had lost it all, some months before, after her last round of
chemotherapy and radiation. The long red tendrils had fallen out in clumps
and small bushes, littering her pillow, her tub and all the floors.  She'd
spent each morning sweeping, then crying, as the patches of white scalp
became more prominent, strange islands of skin showing through the sparse
hairs that were left.  Then, in one furious, defiant moment, she shaved
off the remaining hairs, leaving nothing but a white and bare scalp.  The
next day, when she came in to work, her head's only adornment was a jaunty
beret, tilted to the left and its color was dark blue, matching her severe
suit perfectly.

Her co-workers, the ones who knew her vaguely, or even the ones who
thought they knew her well, stared as she strode past, her head and
shoulders high and narrow.  She took the stairs that morning, bounding
down them, with the trip of her heels echoing against the steel and
cement.  She entered her office and threw her bag down like any other
morning.

"Good morning, Mulder," she said as she took off the beret and carefully
hung it on the coat rack.  She turned and faced him, her eyes shining
hugely and her face rendered even thinner by the complete lack of hair.
She locked onto the hazel eyes in front of her and stood waiting for their
response.

But only the slightest flicker of surprise passed through them. "Good
morning, Scully" he replied and then turned back to his computer terminal
without another word.  She mentally shrugged at his silence, and almost
felt grateful for it, for talking took too much energy sometimes.

And she had none to waste.

The next morning Scully found a Knick's cap on her desk, and it was to his
great credit, she thought, that he'd picked the black one instead of the
orange.

When he came in, she turned her chair toward him, the cap twirling on one
finger. "I assume this means you don't like my new *do*, Mulder."

"I don't." he replied shortly. He put down his briefcase and with two
sharp motions, pulled off his jacket and loosened his tie.

She smiled at him.  A thin, sad smile, the only one she was able to muster
anymore. "Am I too avant-garde for you?"

"You're too sick for me, " said Mulder, with barely contained fury. "Too
damn sick..."

Mulder sat and faced the wall for a long moment, biting his lip, his hands
tapping and rubbing the armrests of his chair, almost bursting under some
unknown restraint. He finally whirled in his chair and leaned toward his
partner, as if meaning to say something, something that he hadn't ever
meant to say, his hands parted, palms skyward in a simple, beseeching
gesture.  But Scully was unmoved, her face an unreadable mask of pain,
everything bare and starkly forthright.  She had become completely honest
with him and the world, without saying a single word.

"Scully,"  he began, but stopped.

"Yes?"

He took a deep breath and slowly, very slowly, turned back to his computer
before he spoke.  "Your eyebrows are gone."

He sounded numb.

Scully nearly laughed.  "My lashes too.  Do I look like a Reticulan yet?"
Her strange, frightened smile grew larger, under utterly miserable eyes.

"No," he replied quietly.  "Reticulan's are grey. Besides, they're even
shorter than you."

They worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

Later that night, her mother brought over a wig and it lie on her bureau
for days, like some hideous furry creature, until Scully was no longer
able to look at it.  Late one night, it unceremoniously exited the
apartment via a large plastic bag.

Her mother looked pained when Scully told her of the wig's fate.
"People's perception of you is based on your physical appearance, Dana.
Your own sense of self is often determined by your looks.  You'll need
that confidence for this fight, the feeling of being whole and ready for
what's next."

Scully looked in the mirror as her mother spoke, at cheekbones that were
sharp and stark underneath a furrowed brow.  Her face was thinner than it
ever had been, all angles and smooth, translucent planes of skin stretched
over the bones.  She noticed the tiny veins in her scalp, and the whites
of her eyes were becoming rheumy; slightly tinged with a blue-grey tint.
Everything appeared deprived, lacking some force, either soul fire or red
blood, those intangible determinations of health.

"And what is next?" she asked her mother, the tears just beginning to burn
her eyes, making them shine brightly.

"The rest of your life." replied Margaret Scully quietly, before taking
her daughter in her arms.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

But now, after nearly two unbearable months of waiting, it was finally
growing back.  She could see the hints of brown, red and the baby gold
that she had been born with, covering her scalp at last.  If one looked
hard enough, tiny grey and white hairs could be found in the mix, the
tough, hard strands of age and stress.

When Mulder arrived that morning, he affectionately ran a hand over her
scalp, in a rubbing motion, playing with the velvet bristles in the back,
feeling their soft bites. "I could do this all day."

"Not without losing some fingers, you can't," Scully replied archly, but
made no move to escape his hand.  "Did you see the Lassiter file?"

Mulder slowly walked around and leaned back against Scully's desk. He
regarded her carefully through his glasses, his expression calm and
observant.

"You look tired today," he said simply.

"I'm f...," she started and then stopped, as Mulder gave a short, warning
cough.  They had made a deal some days before, a deal where Scully would
be completely honest about the state of her health and he would be
completely accepting.  It was a good deal, but they both needed some
practice.

Scully smiled tightly, shook her head and tried again.

"All right, Mulder. I'll say it if you really want to hear it.  I'm tired.
But I don't want to go home.  I would just..." Scully took a short breath.
 "I'd like to continue working."

"Who said I'd let you go home?" asked Mulder with a small indignant noise.
 "I have lots of work for you, Agent Scully."

He picked up a file, studied it without looking, dropped it and yawned.
"But not right now.  Are you hungry?  I'm hungry. I am unbelievably
hungry."

Scully picked up the file and put in back in her in-box.  "No.  I can't
say that I am."

"My treat, Scully," said Mulder carefully.

"Thank you, but I'm really not hungry."

Mulder leaned in conspiratorially.  "Scully, when I say *my treat*, I
think that you should listen to rumble of miraculous thunder, the amazed
gasp of the multitudes and the blare of sirens that are filling the
streets."

Scully rolled her eyes. "And to think I lived this long.  All right, but a
quick one."

"Quick ones are my specialty." said Mulder, handing Scully her jacket.
She put it on and he noticed with dismay how loosely it hung from her
shoulders and arms.  It nearly swallowed her, and underneath its crimson
folds,  he realized how truly tiny she had become, with only her hands and
eyes unchanging, both appearing huge and out of place.

"You're too thin," he said softly, reaching out.  He gently cupped one
white cheek, and the sharp bones and pale skin disappeared beneath his
hand's ruddy warmth.

Scully gave him the tiniest of smiles.

"Can never be too thin, Mulder.  Too thin or too rich.  Isn't that the
saying?"

Mulder took his hand away and opened the door with a sigh.  "Yeah.  But
it's a stupid saying."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"Dana Scully? Is that you?"

They had just sat when Scully heard the shrill voice from across the
restaurant.

She whirled around in her seat and saw a short, well-groomed woman,
impeccably dressed and of an indeterminable age, standing next to their
table.  It was Joanne, or Jenny, or another one of her mother's endless
circle of social friends with a similar name.

"Hi," replied Scully with a huge, embarrassed smile. "Hello..umm..."

The short woman laughed, a tinny, hoarse noise. "Jean, dear.  No need to
pretend to remember.  My memory left me years ago.  Well, well. If it
isn't little Dana Scully! Imagine that.  I was talking with your mother
just last week."

"Oh, really?" replied Scully, trying very hard to feign a vague interest.

"Yes, and she was very evasive when I asked about you.  I can't imagine
why." The short woman shook her head. "Because, I must say, you look
fabulous.  You've lost so much weight.  You're so thin!"

Scully blanched.  Mulder, she noted thankfully, had pulled his menu up and
began to study it intently, to the exclusion of all other things.

"I'm so jealous.  I have at least ten more pounds to go myself," the short
woman continued to prattle, one eye in the wall mirror. "And that haircut
you have...so short, so ...unusual. It wouldn't work on everyone dear, but
since you're so slim now, it's looks lovely.  I have to say, Dana, you've
never looked better. Just losing the weight made you look so much
healthier."

Scully began to have trouble catching her breath. She saw Mulder's hands
clench and unclench the menu, the plastic wrinkling under white knuckles.

"Thank you," she replied weakly.  "I'm sorry, Jean, but Agent Mulder and I
are here for a business lunch, Bureau business.  I hope that..."

The short woman smiled and waved her hand, the gold and red of jewelry and
nail polish flashing in the dim light.  "Oh, I can take a hint.  But, we
have to get together.  I'm away for the summer, so in the fall, Dana, when
you have the time. Your mother still has my number. And autumn will be
here before you know it. So be sure to give me a call then."

//When you have the time.//

"Yes," said Scully, whose thoughts hadn't traveled further than the next
day or hour in a very long time.  "Yes, I will."

//If I have the time.//

"Goodbye, dear," waved the short woman, as she headed toward her table in
the back.  Scully could her shrill voice yell out once more. "Louisa!
Darling...you look wonderful!"

Scully closed her eyes for a long moment and opened them to a pair of dark
eyes regarding her closely over the one-page menu.

"You're a better man than I am, Scully," said Mulder angrily, folding his
menu in half, and then in quarters, ruining it without thought.

Scully sighed and aimlessly picked up her water glass, watching the ice
twirl under the condensation.  "What was I supposed to say?"

"You were supposed to tell her to go to hell," replied Mulder, his hands
still clenching with unspoken rage.  "You were supposed to tell her to
shut her huge, fat, ugly..."

Scully's eyes burned into his. "That's enough, Mulder.  She didn't know.
Besides, she was just being polite."

"By telling a woman how healthy she looks because she's suddenly skin and
bones?"

Scully closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  "That's a societal
perception, Mulder.  Thinness is equated with beauty, health and
prosperity.  It wasn't always like that, and it probably won't be in the
future, but for now, that's the way it is and I can accept that. And you
should too.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and the beholder can be
influenced by many things."

Mulder turned his eyes away, running his thumb along his bottom lip. For a
long moment, they sat silently, the buzz of the restaurant with its
careless patrons and their mindless chatter surrounding them.

"Then maybe I've been influenced, Scully," said Mulder turning back to
face her, his eyes bright, perhaps damp.

"In what way?" Scully asked, quietly.

Mulder shrugged uncomfortably.   "I never saw you as anything but
beautiful.  And it had nothing to do with your waistline.  Or your hair.
It was just..."

Here he stopped, either unwilling or unable to continue.

But Scully smiled, a brilliant smile, for the first time in a long time,
without fear or anger.  "My capacity for outrageous flights of fancy and
wild, speculative thinking?"

"Yeah, that's it," said Mulder, with a small huff of laughter.  He looked
down again at her hand, the strong palm surrounded by reed thin fingers,
so painfully delicate, they seemed almost surreal.  Mulder lifted the
fingers with one hand and laced them between his own long, strong ones.
He studied them as they lay against the back of his hand, the thin bone,
smooth skin and perfect nails.  If Scully has a perfect right to be vain
about anything, he thought, it has to be these hands.

Or those eyes.  Or her mind...or her courage....or..

Mulder squeezed her fingers very gently, brushing the thumb with his own.
"So what happens now?"

"You know what happens now, Mulder."

Mulder felt the return squeeze and it was so much stronger than he'd
expected.  He looked up and raised an eyebrow in question.

But Scully was looking past him, somewhere over his shoulder.  "The rest
of my life is what happens now."  She squeezed his hand again, even harder
this time.

"The rest of my life."

%%%%%%%%%
Fini.
All comments welcome.
Hit reply! :-)
Canny...@aol.com
 

CiCi Lean

%%%%%%%
Administrator
The X-Anarchy Pen FanFic Mailing List
%%%%%%%
Proud Member
XFFCreative
http://www.slip.net/~takakin0/xfc.htm