Date: Fri, 31 Jul 1998 19:32:32 -0600
Subject: *REVISED* Facade of Hope by Annie 


I wrote this about two years ago, and after re-reading it recently, I
decided it was in major need of a facelift.  So I went over it and
revised it . . . but I'm not sure that it's still not terrible . . . so
feedback on your part would be greatly appreciated.  Enjoy!!



FACADE OF HOPE
by Annie 
Rating:  PG

Disclaimer:  Not mine.  Nuff said.  But the one line of the song is from
"In His Eyes", on the Jekyll and Hyde soundtrack.  Buy it -- it's
amazing!!  Moving right along.

Author's Notes:  Well, this terribly sophomoric piece is just screaming
for feedback (hint, hint!!).  In order to understand this story, you must
know that this piece was written *before* Redux/Redux II, so the lovely
Ms. Scully is still a disbeliever for the purposes of this story. 
However, Scully has since been cured of her cancer.  I know, it doesn't
fit *exactly* into CC's universe.  But hey, why should I care about
continuity --  we all know that it doesn't really concern the guys who
actually own Mulder and Scully!!  I honestly think they'd be better off
if CC just bequeathed 'em to the fans!!  <gryn>>  Oh yeah, I'm basing
this story on the fact that Mulder and Scully love each other, but
they're not *in love* with each other.  Can all you shippers and noromos
at least agree on that much?? :-) As always, feedback is appreciated (and
I'll even respond to it!!)

Classification: ScullyAngst, but *NOT* character death (it's kindof
implied that it's gonna happen, however).

Summary:  Eight years after their first meeting, Scully holds a vigil in
the face of Mulder's inevitable death.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Facade of Hope
by Annie Whittington
g-woman2@juno.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They bury the dead alive, Mulder.

With faith and honest compassion, they quietly arrange a removal, a
cleansing, a purging of emotions.  They sob and rage and cry and fear,
but never do they fully lay to rest their darkest emotions -- the
inconsolable grief, the loss of innocence, the stifling emptiness.  We
live on in them, always a part of them, long after we have gone.  They
bury the body, Mulder, but not the mind, not the heart.  They do not
forget.

God, Mulder, I will try not to forget.

Especially now, as I sit here in the unforgiving light of yet another
hospital, your limp hand in mine, both our fates crushingly uncertain.  I
gently stroke your fingertips, searching for a sign of recognition that I
know will never come.

I have been here before, Mulder.  I know this place.  How many times have
I held a vigil at your bedside?  How many times have I been here, trying
desperately to cling to some shred of control, my heart dying a million
small deaths at the sight of your suffering?  I know this place.

But somehow, tonight is different.  There is no hope in my heart tonight.
 Because tonight you will die.  And I will let you.  I can only hope that
you will forgive me, someday, somewhere.

I am familiar enough with hospitals and doctors to recognize the look in
their eyes as they update me on your condition.  Your mother is here, but
I am listed as your next of kin.  And so the decision is mine.  They will
unhook the life support as soon as I give them the okay.

As a doctor myself, it is what I would recommend to the family of a
patient in your condition.  But I could never have imagined how hard it
would be to make that decision.  Intellectually, I know the choice that
must be made, the only possible course of action.  But somehow I cannot
make my heart understand.

Is this how it was for you when I was in the hospital?  If so . . . God,
Mulder, I am so sorry.  I would have hoped that you would have been
spared this pain.

Even as hard as I am fighting it, a single tear slips from beneath my
lashes.  I do not brush it away.  I am more than deserving of this pain.

I regret the things I have done to you, but I fear that it is too late
for redemption.  

Your mother enters the room, a woman I know well and yet somehow remains
a stranger to me.  I do not want her here, not after all I have learned
about her involvement in the greatest of lies.  "Dana?  Are you all
right?"  Her eyes are rimmed with red, and I see an inconceivable
hoplessness there.  Her concern for me is forced.

"Yes.  I am not giving up on him."  I lie to your mother with a sad smile
on my face.  I have not spoken to the doctors yet, and no one knows of my
intentions.  But as soon as I leave here, I will find them.  I will tell
them the most difficult words I will ever have to say.  I will have your
death on my hands.

Your mother knows of the choice that lies before me, and I am aware that
her presence in the room is more to discover my intentions than to be
with her son.  But I have nothing for her.  I owe her nothing.

I understand that she is your mother, and that she has every right to
grieve.  I am not denying her of that.  But *I* have been the one there
for you the past eight years. She has not.  In my eyes, she gave up the
right to your life when she gave up the right to love you, all those
years ago.  So I tell her nothing.  "I am praying for him," I say
quickly.

A confused look comes into her eyes, but she recovers quickly.  I am sure
that she has sensed the lapse in my faith.  Perhaps you mentioned it to
her offhandedly, in a time long ago, in a time when you trusted her. 
Perhaps not.  I hurry to cover my lies.  "I mean . . . I have been --" 
She cuts me off with a sharp jutting of her chin that for some odd reason
reminds me of Skinner.

"I understand, Dana."  But she doesn't.  She didn't understand enough to
know that her son, the only child she had left, had been dying a little
each day for twenty-seven years.  She doesn't understand enough to know
that in your eyes, I am not Dana.  I am Scully.  I will always be Scully,
no matter what happens.  That thought soothes me.  

She smiles sadly and looks at you with an unbelievable acceptance.  I am
even more uncomfortable in her presence now, her knowledge of my
faithlessness introducing yet another variable into this all-too-human
nightmare.  I am almost ashamed to speak to her, but I do not with for my
last moments with you to be filled with this uneasy tension.

"Could I . . . I mean, would you mind if I was alone with him for a
while?"  I ask softly, making a desperate attempt to memorize the pattern
of the linoleum on the floor.  There is silence in the room, and it is
endless.  After a moment, I look up.  She is gone.  I feel cruel and
unforgiving.  No matter what your mother has done, she deserves to be
with you now.  In my selfishness, I have denied a grieving woman her last
moments with a dying son.

But now it is time for another grieving woman's last moments with a
partner, a best friend.  A unforgettable love.

"Mulder . . . "  I say, faltering.  I struggle to memorize your face and
control my grief in one unending breath.  I will have this of you
forever, this last moment of peace.

It seems as if I cannot breathe.  I swallow harshly, and for some reason
remember a conversation we once had about the easiest way to die.  I
answered that to simply fall asleep would be the least painful, but then
I realized that you meant something beyond physical pain.  You told me
that an incurable disease that took its time would be the easiest.  There
would be a chance for goodbyes, you had said.

You were wrong, Mulder.  I have lived with that incurable disease, and I
have been cured of that incurable disease.  And it hurts so goddamned
much to have time to say goodbye.  I wish I wasn't doing it now.

I told your mother that I was praying for you, and I do not wish to make
that a lie.  I have always promised -- to myself and to my family and to
you -- that I would not become a born-again Christian on my deathbed,
that I would not suddenly rediscover my faith in the last days as a
feeble attempt to save my soul.  I have kept that promise, Mulder.  My
faith has not been renewed on my deathbed.

It has been found again at yours, if only for a moment.

I mumble a half-prayer, simple in words but rich in emotion:  "Welcome
this man into the heaven that has been prepared for him, and give him the
peace he never had in this life."  The words tumble from my mouth as if
they had been memorized, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize
that I have heard them before, in a place far from this hospital room.  I
brush away my tears with the palm of my hand.

I catch myself, incredulous at what I have just done.  Why did I just
pray for this man?  I know all too well the false hopes that faith
burdens us with, the undeniable sorrow known to all who've ever held onto
unanswered prayers.  In a perfect world, in the world I lived in as a
child, faith is all we need to carry on.  But in this new life I have
discovered in my adulthood, in this harsh reality of guns and drugs and
mortality, faith does not heal wounds, or take back words better left
unspoken.  The faith I have just shown has been nothing more than a
facade, manifested by a grieving woman whose greatest source of love on
the planet is condemned to die sometime tonight, here in the false
cleanliness of a hospital room.

My tears fall rapidly now, and I make no attempt to stop them.  I own
this grief now, every last tear.

You know more than anyone the devastating effects of living in the past,
Mulder.  But God, do you know what I'd give for one more day with you,
one more hour?  I wonder what I would do differently if my wish was
granted.  Would I tell you of my love for you?  No, Mulder, I am not *in
love* with you, but I do love you.  There is a distinct difference that
not many can understand.  You would understand, that I know.

Only in the face of death -- both yours physically and mine spiritually
-- do I truly realize the sanctity and grace of each moment.  I realize
this a little too late.

Now, far into this terrible night of terrible decisions, it is as if
those time I cherish so deeply are near -- so frustratingly close -- and
it seems that if I could only take your hand, I could carry us away from
this place and into another reality, free from guilt and mortality and
faithlessness.

I'm so sorry, Mulder.  This isn't how it was supposed to end for us.  I
realize that my apology changes nothing, but I can only hope that
somewhere, in that vastness that now separates us, you can hear me.

Once again, I realize I am protecting myself from the harsh truths with a
facade of hope.  Maybe he will live, I tell myself again and again. 
Maybe the doctors are wrong. I will not lose him here tonight.  I will
not forget one single moment.

All lies.  Easy, beautiful lies.

I am afraid.  I am afraid that you cannot forgive me for what I have done
to you, for what I am about to do to you.  Afraid of myself and all I am
about to lose, afraid of this place with its attempt to conceal death
with bright lights and Lysol.

A snatch of a song floats through my memory -- "Love is worth forgiving
for . . ." -- and reaches a place inside of me, a place that exists for
only a moment.  A place where my soul is strong enough, my love is
all-powerful, and my faith is unshakeable.

All I can ask of you is forgiveness.  And you don't even owe me that.

I study a dying man's face, unmoving, unblinking.  Something has changed
there, but is hard to say exactly what.  In the looming shadow of death,
there is a softness, an innocence.  I imagine for a moment that it is
forgiveness.

I can see your mother studying me through the open door, and I beckon to
her, my discomfort in her presence suddenly unimportant and trivial.  "I
have faith in him," I say as fresh tears spill onto my cheeks.  "I am
praying for him."  And for a moment, I truly believe my words.

But the strength of my beliefs soon fades into the vast emptiness of
space, so distant I can barely recall ever having felt it.  And so, after
clasping your hand and kissing your cheek one last time, I leave in
search of the doctors.

~~~~~~~~
LA FIN
~~~~~~~~