TITLE:  Nothing to Say

AUTHOR:  Brandon D. Ray

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"
===========================