From: Brandon Ray Date: Fri, 29 Oct 1999 18:34:32 -0500 Subject: Nothing to Say (1/1) Source: direct Reply To: publius@avalon.net TITLE: Nothing to Say AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray EMAIL ADDRESS: publius@avalon.net DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on it and no money changes hands. FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out. SPOILER STATEMENT: Small ones for "Detour" RATING: PG CONTENT STATEMENT: Character death. ScullyAngst. CLASSIFICATION: VA SUMMARY: Sometimes it's hard to find the words. THANKS: To Brynna, for sniffling. AUTHOR'S NOTE: At the end. DISCLAIMER: In my dreams... Nothing to Say by Brandon D. Ray I told them I had nothing to say. During the inquest, and while testifying before the Bureau's shooting review panel, and when I was debriefed by Skinner after being cleared of wrongdoing -- I told them I had nothing to say. Even today, at the memorial service, when the Rabbi invited those who had known and cared for the deceased to say a few words, I remained still and silent. I knew that people were watching me. I knew what they were expecting. My mother, Skinner, the Gunmen -- the handful of people who cared enough to attend Mulder's funeral -- all of them were looking at me, waiting for me to rise and give the first eulogy. It was to be a cathartic moment, a time for all of us to express our feelings. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't. Oh, I could have put together a little speech -- a few pretty words carefully chosen to express the appropriate sentiment at the loss of my friend and partner. I could have composed something that would have satisfied those who were gathered together to give witness to this man's passing. I could have done that much, and perhaps I should have. But what I could not have done -- what I still cannot do -- is explain what Fox Mulder meant to me. Means to me. I was unable to convey my feelings to Mulder while he was alive, and I don't even really understand them myself, even now. How can I possibly be expected to make sense of them to anyone else? And so I remained silent, and after awhile Skinner rose to his feet and spoke, and then the others did, as well, each in his own turn. And finally the service was over, and everybody left. Everybody but me. I'm standing here at Mulder's graveside, now, all alone. Somewhat to my surprise, the others seemed to understand that I wanted to be by myself -- to be alone with Mulder -- and they left me here without a word of protest. They've been gone more than an hour, now, and I've just been standing here, thinking. And still I have nothing to say. Maybe that's been my problem: too much thinking, and not enough feeling. Maybe that's been my problem all along. I've been wondering about that for awhile, but now Mulder's death seems to have crystalized something inside of me. I'm not by any means ready to abandon my reliance on reason and rationality, but perhaps it's time I explore another side of myself. Perhaps it's past time that I do so. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and try to shut out everything but myself. I shut out the sun, now hanging low in the west; I shut out the gentle spring breeze; I shut out the slight discomfort caused by my pantyhose and the faint rumblings of hunger in my stomach. I push away the distraction of my thoughts, as well: the self-conscious worry about what my mother thinks of my recent behavior; the concern over what Skinner wants to see me about in his office tomorrow morning; the vexation over having to move if my apartment building really is sold to that real estate developer. I shut out everything; I make it all go away. I find myself dropping to my knees, and the turf is soft and cool beneath them -- and then I shut that out, too. There's nothing here -- nothing but me. And not the me that society knows -- not Special Agent Dana Scully of the FBI; not Ahab's daughter or Lt. Commander Scully's sister; not even Special Agent Mulder's grieving friend and partner. Just me. I'm completely and truly alone, for perhaps the first time in my life. I feel so cold inside. I feel so lost. I feel so empty. I want to cry, but I've forgotten how. I want to weep for everything I've lost: the innocence of my youth, the joy I took in my father's company, the dreams I had of marriage and children and a normal life. All the things that have been taken from me, and all the things that I've sacrificed, knowingly or unknowingly. But most of all I want to cry for Mulder. Through all of the pain and heartache, he was my one certainty; the one thing I could cling to. He lent me his strength whenever I would allow it, and took mine whenever he needed it, until I finally reached the point where I could no longer tell which part of the transaction was more important. There was a time when I resented that. There was a time when I struggled to keep myself separate and aloof. There was a time when I sought strength through isolation. That time has ended. At last, the tears begin. Not in loud, wracking sobs -- even now, in this new epiphany of my soul, that would not be me. But slowly, silently, the moisture gathers beneath my eyelids, and finally leaks out and begins to roll down my cheeks. My shoulders shake slightly, and there's a burning tightness in my throat, an agony of grief and sorrow and loss. At last the emotional storm begins to abate. This is not the last time I will have these feelings. Now that I've opened the door, I will not have the strength to slam it shut again -- nor do I really want to, no matter how much the rigid, controlling part of me may demand it, now or in the future. But for now, at least, it's over. And I realize, at long, long last, that I have something to say. Not to the people who were here earlier; I still don't believe that I could make them understand. But at least for me and Mulder, I now have found the words. I said these words to him once before, long ago. We were alone, and scared, and he had broken one of our unwritten rules by openly asking for comfort. He is not able to ask for that now -- at least, not in the way he did then. But I still know what he wants and needs. I settle back a little on my heels, and suddenly I imagine that I can feel his head resting quietly on my lap once again. I think, just maybe, that if I lift my hand I can stroke that errant lock of hair off his forehead, one last time. I want to believe that it's his voice I hear, making some characteristic wisecrack or teasing me with innuendo. And I know that he will be able to hear me, and that it will ease his soul -- almost as much as it will ease mine. And so I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath ... and as I begin, I hear Mulder's voice again, singing along with me: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog ...." Fini IN MEMORY of Hoyt Axton. March 25, 1938 - October 26, 1999. Requiescat in pacem. -- "What he's given us, Mulder, is a rock. Alex Krycek is a liar, and a murderer." -Dana Scully, "Tunguska" =========================== So far as I know, my fanfic has never murdered anyone, though: http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html And my fanfic recs certainly don't lie: http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyRecs.html