Title: His Breath in the Wind
Author: XRie
Contents: V, SA
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Summary: An elemental sort of M/S communication.
Character death.
Distribution: I'd be flattered, but let me know
where it's going.
Disclaimer: They are not mine. They belong to
1013.
Feedback: Petted and adored at
x_rie@hotmail.com. My fic is housed at
xrie.iwarp.com.
Notes: Thanks to Sue, Meg, and Char for beta and
encouragement!


***********************
His Breath in the Wind
***********************

A sudden gust of wind stirs her hair. Dry leaves
crack under her hands, their brittle spines
digging into her palms. Amazing how she can
experience these little things. She is so
sensitive to the breath of the wind. To the pain
of dead things scraping against her skin.

She pushes the heels of her hands harder against
the ground. Small sticks leave their imprint in
her flesh. It feels good to feel. She lifts a
hand and stares at the pink, raw welt until in
begins to fade. Then she looks back out to sea.

Odd that she would end up coming here. Yet
logical at the same time. It isn't just that she
is at heart a lover of the sea, the daughter of
a seafarer. It is that this place, more than any
other, is _him_. Here, he is everywhere. Alive
and everywhere. Breathing into her with the
wind, a soul as old and as ageless as the rocks
and the grass growing wild along the beach.
Unlike the dark, stale apartment where his scent
lingers amidst the dust, a slap in the face to
remind her of his absence. Unlike the dark
basement office that misses him as much as she
does.

She looks over her shoulder at the houses of the
Vineyard, standing stark against the backdrop of
the setting sun. Dark silhouettes that hold a
secret. Taunting her with a knowledge of
something they will not reveal. Mulder saw that
about this place, she is sure. He sensed it, and
it crept inside him, turning a little boy old
before his time--even before he was thrust into
adulthood one November night.

The wind blows stronger now, penetrating the
gaping space between the buttons of her overcoat
to whip her blouse taut against her torso,
chilling her sensitive skin. She opens the coat
to it, inviting the touch. She aches for touch.
Anything to touch away the emptiness that has
invaded her skin. He had known how to touch her.
He had never touched her completely. She had
never encouraged it. He had never asked.

Too late.

She opens the coat further, letting the chill
surround her, letting him explore her now. His
breath is everywhere--salty, damp, and raw.
Rough and demanding as the wind pummels her. She
stands calmly, allowing its advances. Inviting
the spray that cools her swelling eyes as she
gazes at the water made purple by the dying
sun's rays.

She lifts a hand to her face and realizes she is
crying. It is good to cry. Crying is the
release. And he would have cried for her. She
struggled to cry for him. As the flatline buzzed
across the heart monitor, as the mourners filed
past his waxen form, as the coffin descended
into the ground, she stood silent and composed.
Pale. But nursing a terrible ache. The tears
were for later.

She remembers her mother's concern. The
invitation to come home with her. To stay the
night. <<"Dana, honey ...">> And a curt reply:
<<"No, mom. I'm ... fine.">> And her mother
walking away with a kiss to her cheek and
squeeze of her shoulder. Her mother doesn't
understand: without Mulder, she has to be alone.
Must forever be separate.

Tomorrow she will have to get back in her beige
Taurus sedan. She will drive the familiar
highway to D.C., unlock the warped basement door
with its battered nameplate. She will be dressed
in a sharply tailored suit. Her hair will be
perfectly coiffed, her nails manicured, her
make-up immaculate. Skinner will try to make her
extend her leave. Agents in the hallways will
look at her in wonder and ... pity. A curiosity.
And there will be three messages from her mother
waiting on her answering machine when she
returns to the apartment.

But tonight there is only the two of them. On a
knoll overlooking the vast expanse of the
Atlantic. She, dwarfed in a trenchcoat with a
musky scent and sunflower seed husks in the
pocket. He, rattling the panes of circumspect
windows with each breath, creating a symphony of
murmurs and revelations.

And she will watch the stars as the wind speaks
to her.

****
end.
****