Title: "Far Above Rubies"
Author: Astrid Billings
E-Mail: USSTrustNo1@hotmail.com
Spoilers: "Memento Mori," "Redux II"
Category: V
Rating: PG, MulderAngst

Disclaimers: Ah, the old "not mine" dance. <Tap ta tap> Mulder and Scully 
don't belong to me, they belong to <fa-lap shuffle ball change> Chris Carter 
and Ten-Thirteen Productions. No money has, will or ever shall exchange 
hands. <Shuffle tap, shuffle tap, fa-lap back front.>

Author's Note: The idea for this little piece of angstydrivel came from the 
book "A Virtuous Woman" by Kaye Gibbons. I could not have written half of 
this if not for her brilliant prose. Everything in single quotes comes from 
her book. Read it.

Author's Second Note: Thanks to my friends, The Lone Gunpersons. Couldn't 
have done it without any of you. Thanks to Gill (you know who you are and 
are teaching me) and to Vix, whose zaniness keeps me from going over the 
edge. A special thanks to our roommate, Bob the S.E. Hugs, Bob.

"Far Above Rubies"

Her apartment is cold, not just because the heat hasn't been turned on for 
weeks, but because she hasn't been there. The innate Scully-ness has been 
swept from this place, uncertain whether or not it will be welcomed to 
return. The smells that once lingered in the apartment, smells of white 
ginger, of vanilla and pasta and ice cream and life…and of her…were no 
longer there.

Instead, Mulder feared as he cleared her coffee table of month-old 
newspapers, her sweet smells had been replaced by the smell of death. They 
had discussed the possibility of death several times in their six years 
together, but if he'd had his 'druthers, it wouldn't be happening like this. 
Death was a regular part of their jobs and, yes, even their lives. Both he 
and Scully had cheated death multiple times, probably more than 'normal' 
people would be allowed.

And he had felt sure that she had beaten the cancer that had ravaged her 
perinasal cavity three years ago. But it had come back, and this time it 
seemed determined to finish her off.

Someone once wrote that 'if you want to see a man afraid, just put him in a 
room with a sick woman who was once strong. That the world was built up on 
strong women, built up and kept up by them, too.' And that was never more 
certain than in the case of Dana Scully. Mulder was watching the world that 
she had made, pushing her way into his office, straightening papers, pulling 
ideas out of him and shoving them into her interrogation light, shaking 
sense into him, and helping him fight his way out of the dark and into her 
light. Mulder was watching that world fall apart.

It was true. 'When a man sees a woman like that, sick and hurt, especially 
the kind of man who knows a woman's strength but can't confess it, when he 
sees her sick or hurt it terrifies him, like he's witnessing a chunk of the 
universe coming loose and he knows he doesn't have what it takes to stick it 
back together. And that man will feel guilty and foolish then too because he 
never made himself say what he always knew.'

And Mulder felt all those things--guilty and foolish, plus confused and 
helpless. He didn't like any of the above combinations. He would pay 
anything to have her back to normal, healthy and argumentative and 
wonderfully irritating. Mulder considered making a deal with God, or the 
Devil, or whomever would listen. He would give his life for Scully's. But 
then he realized that giving his life for her was worse than pointless. Then 
she would be alone, without someone to protect her. He knew how stupid that 
sounded. Scully would never need someone to protect her, and if she did, 
Bill would probably be more than willing to kick anyone's teeth in who dared 
offend Dear Dana. God knows that Bill had been willing to do it to *him,* 
and without Scully even asking.

Mulder didn't know what was worse, being with someone you could never love, 
or loving someone you could never be with. He had done both, and being with 
someone he didn't love--namely, Diana--had been worse. With the unrealized 
love he'd had for Scully, the potential was endless. She would be perfect, 
no matter what. He would pay millions, in gold or fine jewels, for Scully to 
be all right again. But Scully's health was worth more than anything. A 
price that was priceless.

The 31st Proverb came to Mulder's mind, as it often did when he considered 
her. Scully most definitely was a Virtuous Woman. Even now, with the 
familiar blue hospital gown tenting her emaciated body and her red hair 
sweat-plastered to her head where it hadn't already fallen out; even then, 
strength and dignity were her clothing. The nurse told him that Scully had 
slipped out of consciousness about five hours ago, while he had been at her 
apartment. Confidentially, the nurse told him that she didn't think Scully 
had much longer. This was the last stage. Wouldn't be much longer.

Mulder nodded woodenly and walked back to Scully's room. Instead of taking 
his normal place at the chair close to the side of her bed, he kicked off 
his shoes and climbed into the hospital bed with her. He carefully pulled 
Scully into his arms, spooning her gingerly, mindful of all the IVs and 
tubes and catheters. He hesitated, but kissed the back of her neck and her 
pale skin and her balding head and her soft forehead and her eyelids that 
once covered vibrant blue eyes, all the while letting the long-overdue tears 
spill from his eyes and sobbing, begging her not to leave him.

He begged and sobbed quietly, afraid that a nurse would come in and order 
him to leave. Suddenly his keening changed, from begging him not to leave 
her to chanting his love for her. He repeated it, over and over. "I love 
you, I love you," not really knowing why, but knowing it had to be said.

As he held her, she turned into his arms to face him. Blue eyes opened, and 
she whispered, "I love you, Mulder."

And that was a price far above rubies.

FIN

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***"We Love Not Wisely, But Too Well." Samuel Beckett, playwright***