This idea popped into my head tonight . . . and yes, I should be
working on Lost in the Dark.  But this was just too good to pass up.
And yes, I did just get the Four Weddings and a Funeral soundtrack,
providing partial inspiration for this piece.  And yes, this is
nothing but fluff, flotsam, jetsam, etc.  It's cliched and riddled
with inconsistency and weak thoughts.  Comments on its lack of
complexity and its superficiality will be acknowledged as the truth.
E-mail can be sent to the author at dettiot@strauss.udel.edu.  (As you
can tell, I don't think too highly of this story.  But if you like it,
go ahead and e-mail me.  It'll be *so* tough to convince me that it's
any good . . . but you're welcome to try.)  Disclaimer: Since I'm just
a poor college student(who wonders why DD isn't taking that afternoon
nap in her bed with a book nearby!), I admit that Fox Mulder, Dana
Scully, and anyone else from the show that I mention are the creation
of Chris Carter, and are the property of CC, Ten-Thirteen Productions,
and Fox Broadcasting.  "After the Funeral" belongs to whoever owns the
rights to W.H. Auden's works.  Story completed 10/5/95

I Miss You . . . 
By Melissa(dettiot@strauss.udel.edu)

     It was impossible to believe that he was really gone.  But it was
true-Fox Mulder, her partner, her best friend, was dead.  Of course,
they hadn't seen each other for forty years.  Not since he had left
the Bureau . . . and she had been made Assistant Director, and he had
met Jennifer, and-
     Dana Scully stopped her thoughts with a shake of her head. She
sat in her parked car, trying to remember why exactly she was here.
Her thoughts were so unusual-she was experiencing so many old
memories.  <No, this is not what you want to be thinking about.  You
are at Mulder's funeral.  You will have to be civil to all the people
here, all the people who do not want you here.  Especially Jennifer.
I just hope Phoebe isn't here.>
     It had taken many years for her to accept the fact that Mulder
didn't want her in his life.  When he had left the Bureau, she had
allowed herself to fantasize about a relationship between them.  She
could admit that now-at the time, she would have vehemently denied it.
But she had been in love with him.  But not a week after he had left,
she had been made Assistant Director.  And when she went to tell him
about her new position, she never got a chance to tell him what she
really wanted to say.  Because he told her about Jennifer.
     <Now, Dana, water under the bridge.  You're here today.  It's
Mulder's funeral-your best friend, your partner.  Yes, he married
Jennifer.  You never liked her-reminded you too much of Phoebe Green.
But he was happy, and they had beautiful children.  And besides, you
had Adam.  You've had the best of both worlds.  Now get yourself
together.>
     Dana pulled herself smoothly out of her small car.  It was a
beautiful day: the April showers had held off this morning, revealing
a pale blue sky.  The light breeze was cool, yet the sun was warm on
her back.
     She straightened her black skirt, and pulled on her jacket.  She
had taken special care with her appearance today: despite the wrinkles
that lined her face and plainly told her age, she knew that at least,
her red hair was relatively untouched by grey.  Leaning against the
car for a moment, she paused, contemplating the scenery.
     The church was lovely: a large, Gothic structure made of stone.
The large stained glass windows already shone in the sunlight.  It was
fitting that the church where Mulder's funeral was to be held looked
so dark, but was actually so full of light.  So like him . . . .
     Dana shook her head once again. <Why are you acting so strangely,
Dana?> she asked herself. <You haven't seen Mulder for forty years.
Now he's dead.  It's time to honor his memory, his life.  You were
once a part of it, so go in there, sit down, and show your respect.>
     She slowly walked into the church.  Dana got a seat in the back,
wishing to remain as much out of sight as possible.  If Dana hadn't
cared much for Jennifer, Jennifer hated Dana.  Of course, they had
been civil when they were introduced, but neither liked the other.
The only reason they had been polite was for Mulder.
     A man-from the Bureau, she supposed-was talking about Mulder's
career.  She almost grinned when he glossed over the X-Files, then,
she frowned.  Mulder had been a part of the X-Files-they were the most
important thi= ng in his life for many years.  How could they ignore
them?  <Probably Jennifer's choice.  Better to have a brilliant
husband than a crackpot husband.> Dana forced herself to look at
Mulder's wife.
     Jennifer was beautiful, of course.  Tall, elegant, brunette
Jennifer.  She still had that regalness that only tall people could
have.  Dana had always felt that Jennifer looked down on her-both
literally and figuratively.  Jennifer had given up her very successful
career when she had married Mulder-she felt that women shouldn't work
after marriage.  No wonder Dana, who still was working fifty-hour
weeks after her own marriage, met with disapproval.  No wonder that
Mulder didn't come to her wedding-Jennifer wouldn't have approved.
     Dana forced herself to concentrate again on the service.  One of
Mulder's children was speaking.  Mulder and Jennifer had been
lucky-they had several children.  All beautiful, of course, like their
mother.  And all brilliant, too, like their father.  Dana knew-she had
asked about them, kept tabs on them.  Her position at the Bureau
facilitated this interest in Mulder's children.  In fact, his youngest
daughter was in the Academy now.  Even though Mulder had left
abruptly, his child was welcomed at the FBI, for the brilliance she
possessed.
     Suddenly, Dana realized that the service was over.  The pews had
emptied, and she had missed the closing address.  And the procession
past the coffin.  It was open . . . if she walked up the aisle, she
could see him.  His death had been peaceful-he had died from a heart
attack.  Quite sudden.  Dana was trying to make her legs move, so she
could see Mulder, when a shadow fell in front of her.
     She looked up.  Jennifer Mulder was staring at Dana, a look of
anger on her face. <Not just anger, though . . . > Dana realized.  She
had seen Jennifer mad before, but she had never seen such a sad,
confused, lost expression on her face.  Dana couldn't believe
it-Jennifer looked the way she felt. <No!  Life goes on.  You know
what it's like-you've buried your husband.> Her mind flashed to the
memory of Adam's funeral, not all that long ago. <Jennifer feels the
same way you felt on that day six months ago.>
     Dana's thoughts were interrupted by Jennifer's words.  
     "Hello, Dana.  I knew you would come.  Most people didn't think
so, but I knew."  Her voice held that same elegant, silky tone that
was so unforgettable.
     Dana looked at Jennifer silently, then simply nodded her head.
She stood quickly.  "Jennifer, you and I were never friends.  I came
to remember Mulder.  I wanted to avoid any unpleasantness.  I'm sure
that you understand if I just spend a moment with him, and then leave.
And I hope never to see you again."
     Jennifer mimicked Scully's nod.  "Agreed.  But before you speak
to Fox, there's something I wanted to say to you."
     It was now Scully's turn to look confused.  "What, Jennifer?"
     Jennifer took a deep breath.  "Dana, do you know why I never
liked you very much?"
     Dana shrugged her shoulders, her frustration at Jennifer for
keeping her from Mulder rising.  "No, I don't, Jennifer.  Just spit it
out."
     Jennifer started, for a moment, then a flash of color rose on her
face.  "I'm sorry, Dana.  It's just hard for me to accept that to Fox,
I was second-best.  He always cared more about you."
     Dana felt a blush heat her own cheeks.  "What do you mean,
Jennifer?  He married you.  We didn't see each other for forty years.
He wasn't at my wedding.  At my mother's funeral.  We never wrote.
Never phoned or e-mailed.  The last time we saw each other was the
night he introduced you to me.  I told him later, after you had left,
that I didn't like you.  He screamed at me that he was going to marry
you, and that he loved you more than anything.  I . . . left then, and
neither of us ever contacted the other."
     Jennifer tilted her head, as if expecting Dana's statements.
"Yes, I know all that.  But did you know, that for years, after he had
a nightmare, he'd say your name?  And that whenever he was sick, he
would ask for you, begging for Scully' to help him?  You meant more to
him then I ever did.  Oh, I know he loved me.  But," Jennifer's voice
broke, and a tear hung on her cheek.  "But," she continued,"not like
he loved you."
     Dana took a step back.  She was shocked.  She had always known
that she was in love with Mulder, but gradually, she had forgotten how
much she had.  And she had never thought-had never let herself
think-about whether Mulder had loved her.  Dana couldn't think.
Mulder was dead-she loved him-he had loved her-and he was gone.
Emotions were raging inside her.  She placed a hand on the back of a
pew, steadying herself.
     Jennifer looked at Dana sadly.  It had hurt to admit that to
Dana, but she deserved the truth. <Funny.  Fox always said that, and I
never believed him.  But now, I do.  Because it's the right thing to
do.  I just hope he wouldn't be mad at me for saying it.  I'm sorry,
sweetheart.  But you knew it.  I know this is for the best.  Even
though you're gone, the truth has set you free.> She pressed a book
and a folded piece of paper into Dana's hands.
     "This is for you.  Fox wrote in it while you were gone.  I found
it hidden in some boxes after he died.  I think he would have liked
for you to have it.  That paper is the funeral program.  I wanted you
to read the poem in it.  I think it would remind you of Fox."
     Dana stared at the book and paper in her hand, then looked at
Jennifer.  None of the old animosity, none of the haughtiness.
Jennifer looked human.  She straightened her back, and turning, walked
slowly out of the church.
     Dana stood, shocked, the aisle of the church.  Suddenly, she ran
down the aisle, frantic to see Mulder. <Of course, I know what he'll
look like.  The experience on that Norwegian ship at least prepared me
for this shock.> She ran to the coffin, not slowing her pace.  She
almost bumped into the coffin, so clumsy were her movements.
     Mulder was peaceful looking.  He looked so calm-he had never
appeared like that in life.  Even when he was sick, dying of
exhaustion, his face had been animated and his eyes full of mischief.
But now, his face was smooth and placid.  But she could see the laugh
lines around his eyes and mouth.  And she could remember the way his
eyes would light up when he truly smiled.  Dana could barely look at
him for a moment.  It hurt so much to remember him.  Strangely, she
did not miss the man who laid in his coffin before her.  She missed
the man who had smiled at her and made her question her beliefs.  The
one who had really died when he had left her life.  But a strange
numbness, greater than the hurt, quickly penetrated her soul.
     She slowly walked towards the door of the church.  Pulling it
open, she sighed.  She felt so tired-exhausted, in fact.  The air of
nonchalance, of detachment, that she had arrived with was now missing.
She moved towards her car, digging in her purse for her keys.
Unlocking the door, she sat down, still holding tightly to the book
and program.  As she set them both on the seat, the program flopped
open, and the poem that Jennifer had mentioned caught her eye.  It was
from a popular movie from forty years ago.  Mulder and herself had
watched it together once.  Picking up the program, she silently read
the poem.
     "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
      prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
      Silence the pianos and with muffled drum,
      bring out the coffin.
      Let the mourners come.
      Let the aeroplanes suck the morning overhead,
      scribbling in the sky, the message, 
       He is dead.'
      Let great bows  round the white necks of the public docks,
      Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
      He was my north, my south, my east and my west.
      My working week and my Sunday rest. 
      My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
      I thought that love would last forever.
      I was wrong."
     Dana lowered the program.  She quickly snatched up the book, and
greedily opened it to the first page.  And she paused, shocked at the
words she saw written there.
     "Scully is gone.  She's been taken.  I wasn't strong
enough-wasn't fast enough.  As usual.  She'll never know how I feel.
That I love her.  With all my heart and everything that is good in me,
I love her.  I'll never have the chance to kiss her, hold her.  She's
gone.  And I have nothing left.  I wish I could have told her, but
I'll never have that chance.  Because if, miracles of miracles, she
returns, she would never let me love her.  I could never hurt her-and
if I told her how I feel, that would hurt.  But it doesn't matter.
And nothing now will come to any good.'  I miss you, Dana."
     And suddenly, she felt the tears course down her cheeks.  Leaning
her head on the steering wheel, she allowed herself to cry for the man
she loved.