By Michaela
Michaela@stny.rr.com
 

Rating: PG
Classification: V
Keyword: MSR, Character Already Dead
Spoilers: Set through Season Four, with no Gethsemane
Summary: A vignette set in the Grace Realized universe. A plea, a promise, and a legacy left for someone in need.
Author's Note: This is a post-Grace Realized vignette revealing more about one of the video tapes Scully made for Mulder. If you haven't read Grace Realized, I really can't say how much sense this story will make for you. But I would encourage you to read Grace Realized, if only to comfort my poor little Muse, who was huddled in a corner, traumatized, by the time I finished. ;-)
A special thanks to all of you who let me know how much you enjoyed Grace Realized, and for asking me to do some "sequel" vignettes based on the video tapes. Your support is much appreciated and always needed! This is dedicated to Sherrie, a Cat who asked nicely and deserves a treat; and all of the Screamers, of course, who support me no matter what foolish things I do. I love you guys.
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``Mulder, it's time.''
``No.''
``You knew it was coming. We both did. It was inevitable. I told you once before that it would come to this, and now it's time. That's why I'm...well, here. So to speak. That's why I'm here now.''
Here. Now. Two words he'd buried six months of lifetimes ago with Dana Scully, when her soul had melted with the cold rain outside her bedroom window, disappearing into whatever hid behind in bluer skies, taking most of Fox Mulder with her.
And yet, Scully, with timeless wisdom, that utter essence of faith that had simultaneously awed him and scared the hell out of him on more than one occasion while she was alive, had made it possible for her to be here. Now. Her spirit, if not her soul. If not her body. Because he had loved all three. A trinity of utter adoration and he'd willingly knelt at the altar.
Scully was here. With him. Now. If only on videotape.
Mulder huddled on his couch in a curl that was almost fetal, wrapped in the afghan that had once laid across Scully's bed; in fact, it had been the last blanket to ever touch Scully's skin. She had died under that blanket. And Mulder had insisted on taking it back to his apartment, persisted in wrapping himself within it, a development that he knew worried Maggie Scully sick.
//He's burying himself in it. With her.//
He'd heard Maggie say as much to Walter Skinner once, in a heated and fiercely whispered conversation in his kitchen, during one of those well-intentioned post-funeral "drop ins" that people always insist on making, a conversation he was undoubtedly not meant to hear.
//He might as well throw himself on the pyre. Why else would he want...want...//
Her death shroud. The words were not spoken, Maggie had choked on tears of her own, unable to force the syllables out, but the intention had been quite clear. Skinner had not appeared to disagree. He'd emerged from the kitchen with a frown creasing his forehead and - this still made Mulder want to laugh, months later  - asked if...wait. How did he put it? ``Is your laundry situation okay?''
This with a semi-pointed stare at the afghan.
It wasn't every day the Assistant Director of the FBI asked you if you needed help with the household chores. Mulder had managed to choke back the muffled, only slightly-hysterical laughter until the unwitting man had left, but Jesus, what a chuckle he'd gotten out of it afterward. Scully would have loved it.
He'd broken down in sobs mere seconds later, wishing she was there to share it with him.
Only Frohike understood. Not that he'd ever offered up any kind of analysis or opinion on the subject, but the little guy got it. Mulder could tell. After all, they had a deep and abiding love for one Dana Scully in common, and hell, if that wasn't a bond, what was?
He'd wanted the afghan for precisely the fact that it had been the last thing to touch Scully during her final, quietly-drawn breaths in this world. The last object to feel the warmth of her skin, to protect her and cradle her as he had not been able to in those last moments. To know the final vibrations of a heart silenced, a heart so big it had beat for everyone. Even him. Especially him.
It wasn't a death shroud. It was the final witness to a life that had burned brightly, and too quickly.
Mulder twisted the afghan tighter around his shoulders and stared at his television screen. He'd paused the videotape, just to capture this exquisite expression on Scully's face, a look he knew by rote: Special Agent Dana Scully, about to give him one hell of a lecture.
He knew that look. One eyebrow arched...just the one. Damned if he could ever figure out how she managed it so perfectly. He'd always meant to ask her. The muscle control involved had to be extraordinary. Undoubtedly, Scully would have offered up some scientific explanation about dominant and recessive gene traits and musculature. Of course, he would have found it fascinating, simply hearing it come from her, even while a wisecrack was leaping from between his lips, coaxing that oh-so-clinical expression off her face and bringing out The Eyebrow.
Mulder smiled at her face on the screen, a cocky grin, the one that had always pushed that eyebrow to the limit, as if daring her to do it.
Wishing she could.
He felt the now familiar tears well up <Welcome back, old friends> and pushed the play button on his remote hastily, vowing to make it through one of Scully's videotapes without missing half of what she was saying because he was sobbing too loudly to hear her. It was a promise he'd made a thousand times, and he had yet to keep it.
``So, Mulder, you've obviously brought me here today because the Bureau has gone and done the unthinkable,'' Scully said with a cheer that seemed only partially forced. "They've flirted with disaster yet again.
``They gave you a partner.''
Mulder grimace at the screen, and Scully's smile was real now, not strained. Mulder got the distinct and vaguely uncomfortable impression that Scully -- the Scully who had still been alive and laughing and living when this video was taped eight months ago - had just pictured the very scowl on his face at this moment.
She had always known him better than anyone else, anyway. Of course she would have imagined exactly how he'd be looking right now, like an 8-year-old who has been told there is no reprieve from the lima beans sitting cold on his plate.
``I'm assuming that Skinner gave you time to mourn,'' Scully continued. ``At least I hope so. God help him if you're actually playing this a week after my funeral. I'm sure I know some people up here, I can surely send a little fire and brimstone his way.''
The look on her face was almost impish, and it startled a chuckle from Mulder. It was so rare that he had ever seen Scully like this . . . playful, with that sharp, dry humor she'd tossed his way in the most unexpected moments. And now, here she was, infinite and intangible, laughing it up for his benefit in the afterlife she had so fiercely believed in.
``It occurs to me, Mulder, that being dead puts a crimp in staying current with the times. I've been assuming Skinner is still in charge. I hope so. I like him - most of the time anyway. Feel free to tell him I said that,'' she tossed out carelessly as an aside, smiling wickedly. ``If not, I'm sure some equally burly and surly director-type has taken his place. But, for simplicity's sake, let's assume Skinner is still putting up with you.''
Mulder grinned, almost amused with himself. Skinner had been given respite lately, because Mulder had been an exemplary little employee. No strange cases, no odd requests, no mysterious corpses or crushed bureaucratic toes to explain to those higher up. Mulder had just been treading water, marking time, punching the clock.
<Giving up the ghost.>
His heart just wasn't in it anymore. He couldn't bring himself to open a case file, knowing there would be no well-timed, belabored sigh or incredulous protest at his next theory. No calmly delivered lecture on the scientific impossibility of whatever he was thinking. No fun, no challenge. And so Skinner had found nothing more extreme than a file about a woman in Ohio who believed she was channeling John Lennon (and free satellite television) through her dentures.
The utter aberrance of a ``normal'' Fox Mulder had almost scared Skinner into early retirement.
``I imagine he sat you down in front of his desk, with the no-smoking sign on it . . . you've just *got* to like the man for that," Scully speculated aloud, her gaze turned upward as if she were staging the scene in her head, a smile toying with the corners of her lips. ``And he said something to the effect of, `Agent Mulder, we need to talk.'''

//Sit down, Agent Mulder. We need to talk.//
``Fuckin' eerie, Scully,'' Mulder mumbled to the television set, fascinated. He did not consider how it might appear, were someone watching, this habit he had of speaking to her image on the screen. Sometimes, he felt as if Scully had suspected he would, because she almost seemed to be imagining his reply and preparing her rejoinder. It made sense. They'd spent the last five years learning, predicting, anticipating and relishing the other's moves. It was a dance, and one they'd both enjoyed.
``And probably, Skinner started with expressing his empathy for the tough time you're going through, and how he's tried to give you the time you needed to get back on your feet,'' Scully continued.
//I know you and Agent Scully were . . . close. And you would need some time to recover from her death.//
``And I imagine at that point he got right down to business,'' Scully concluded. ``Because he's never been one for putting off the inevitable. At least he sharpens the ax blade before he drops it, unlike some of the people we know.''
//But now it's time for you to work with a partner again. The X-Files is too serious and too precarious a subject within the Bureau for you to continue your work alone, as you did before. So I've made the decision to have a new partner assigned to you. I've reviewed the credentials of all the candidates...//
He'd carried on for a while after that, but Mulder had stopped listening. He'd simply refused to process any information that included a partnership without Scully in it. It was pure denial, Mulder readily admitted it. Hell, he embraced it.
It was hard enough carrying on without her in his arms, in his *life*. He'd be damned if he would be forced to do it at work, too.
``Mulder, I know you're in denial, but you are going to have to face this,'' Scully said sharply from the television, and he was startled from his musings. She was glaring into the camera, blue eyes blazing and chin up, that look he'd always identified as ``Feisty Redhead With Her Irish Up.''
``Scully, I can't.'' His voice was dulled with fatigue, with the numbness that comes from too many months of unending pain. His head was bowed, cradled in his palms. He couldn't face her now.
``I know it seems impossible, Mulder.'' Her voice was softer now, and he braved a look upwards. ``I can imagine how it must feel. I really can, I hope you believe that. Because I try to imagine me being there, and you being gone, and them trying to partner me with someone else and I . . .'' She swallowed hard, he heard her voice catch, and he noticed with some awe that there were tears shining in her eyes. ``I would hate it, too,'' she whispered fiercely.
<I hate it, Scully. I fucking *hate* it. I can't do it.>
``But Mulder, you have to do this. You *do*. I understand that it has to be done,'' Scully said, and she was not even bothering to wipe at the tears coursing down pale cheeks. ``It has to be, Mulder, for your sake. For my sake. For the Truth.''
He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she offered a tremulous little smile, as if sensing his need for explanation.
``You still remember List 54, don't you?'' Scully had managed to inject a faintly lilting, teasing note into her voice, and it made him smile, despite himself. <Remember it, Scully? I memorized it.> ``I referred to it in my first tape to you. `All the ways Mulder can get into trouble'? You need a partner to get you out of those, Mulder.'' Her tone turned serious, and her voice was clogged now, the tears back. ``I did that for you. Always, I hope. But it wasn't just *my* job. It's a *partner's* job. You need someone to watch your back. I'm not the only one who is capable of doing that, Mulder, although I have always willingly been the first in line.''
<I lost the bet again. I'm not going to get through this without crying> Mulder thought with bitter humor, just before his face crumpled. He forced his eyes open, watching her through the tears, even when he wanted to crawl inside himself and offer whatever was left to the monster chewing on his heart.
``A partner is good for you, Mulder, and it's good for the X-Files. You need someone to challenge you, to question you and back you, whenever the situation calls for it. To hold you up without holding you back. To balance faith and science, fact and fiction. To believe in you, even when you won't. To be your *partner*, and help carry the load.
``But I also need you to take a partner for my sake, Mulder.'' He shook his head, still not understanding that part and she smiled. Her lips trembled. ``I need to know . . . to *know*, Mulder, that you are carrying on. Without me.''

A choked sob that sounded as if it had been literally wrenched from the gut echoed through the room. It took Mulder a moment to realize that it had been Scully, and not him. He stared at her in wonder, even as she was trying to compose herself, wiping her cheeks, fingering the gold cross at her throat. He seized on these little acts of normalcy; this was his Scully, always trying to hide herself.
``Without me,'' she repeated firmly. She frowned, and there was something so fiercely angry in her face, something Mulder had not seen since her final diagnosis, when she'd surrounded herself in that peaceful acceptance of her fate.
``I'll be honest here, Mulder, because what do I have to lose? There is this ugly, selfish part of me that *hates* the idea of you going on without me. That hates the fact that there will be parts of your life from now on that I am no part of. That I am jealous as hell of the person who is going to get to share that with you next.'' She took a deep breath, bit her lip, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was calmer.
``But there is a larger part of me, Mulder . . . hopefully a *better* part of me, that wants you to keep going, and keep living, because I can't anymore. It's still a selfish part of me, though, because the only way I can bear what is left for me, what has already happened as you watch this tape, is by knowing that you are going to make it. That are you going to live after me. You can still accomplish all of the things that you have wanted, and finish what you started. What *we* have started.
``I want you to keep searching for the Truth, Mulder. I want you to find your sister. I want you to find the people responsible for a web of lies so heinous no one is safe and nothing is sacred. I want you to prove the existence of the impossible, or finally find the proof that it doesn't exist at all. I want you to be the Fox Mulder that I know. Because that Fox Mulder is an amazing gift, and I can't wish you all for myself, no matter how much I want to.''
She was silent for a long moment; Mulder took advantage and releases whatever vestiges of self-control he'd been clawing in a tenuous grasp. He cried as he hadn't since the day Frohike had first brought these video tapes to him, when she'd first appeared to him, impossibly vivid and *alive*, on his television set.
Had he looked up, had he been able to, he'd have seen Scully's tears falling with his. Synchronous, even in death.
``Mulder, I need you to do this for me. Please.'' And he looked up, because he had never, ever, heard such quiet desperation in her voice before. ``And for you, even if you don't believe that yet. So do it for me, for now. Because I asked you to. Because I need this.''
<You have it, Scully. Whatever you want. Always.>
She sniffed loudly and swiped at the tears on her face with her palms, an unladylike maneuver that made him grin. Then she managed a radiant smile, determinedly ignoring the tears that still trembled in her eyes.
``So listen, I did talk to Skinner about this and we discussed the partner situation,'' she said breezily. ``We had long, involved discussions about just the right partner for you.''
<Oh, I'll bet *that* was an interesting discussion. I would have liked to have been a fly on the wall. Better yet, had I known, I could have had Byers *build* a fly on that wall.>
Mulder smiled, then shook his head in disbelief. Scully could shift his moods as if by sheer force of will alone.
``And Skinner and I discussed the obvious qualifications that would be required for your new partner,'' Scully continued. ``A background in hard science, a willingness to follow your lead and, when necessary, cut you off at the pass.'' She arched an eyebrow at him, daring him to disagree. ``Someone who doesn't mind being called by surnames. Someone who won't care if all her suits end up muddy and torn. Someone who doesn't mind mutants coveting internal organs currently in use.''
He laughed, laughed out loud. God, he missed her, but it was a good feeling even when it threatened to tear his insides out. Because it was about *her* and that couldn't be bad.
``I gave him a list of names,'' Scully concluded, and there was a wicked glint in her eye that he just didn't quite like. ``And we agreed on who we thought was the best choice. So . . .when your new partner shows up, tell Detective White I said `hi'.''
Mulder's jaw dropped. Then he heard the magical sound of Scully laughing, peals and peals of laughter, undoubtedly as she pictured the look on his face. She was pleased with herself. *Damn* pleased with herself. Nice joke.
It was a joke, wasn't it?
``That's not funny, Scully,'' he growled at the television set, even as he was trying not to laugh.
``Sure. Fine. Whatever,'' she said breezily.

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The end.
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