TITLE: Down the Drain (Dans l'herbe) AUTHOR: Aurora Vere ARCHIVE: Gossamer, Ephemeral, Spookys, yes. All others, please ask. CATEGORY: VRA RATING: R SPOILERS: This Is Not Happening KEYWORDS: Post-ep SUMMARY: Scully attempts to go beyond the call of duty to find out what happened to Mulder. AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is based on the French poem "Dans l'herbe" by Louise de Valmorin, which was later set to gorgeous music by Francis Poulenc. If you want more information about the poem, email me and I'll tell you more. FEEDBACK: Greatly appreciated at AuroraVer2@aol.com. Thanks! --------------------------------------------------------------------- "Dans l'herbe" (In the Grass - English translation) I can say nothing more, nor do anything for him. He died for his beautiful one; he died a beautiful death. Outside, under the tree of the Law, In deep silence, in open countryside, in the grass. He died unnoticed, crying out in his passing, calling, calling me. But as I was far from him, And because his voice no longer carried, He died alone in the woods, beneath the tree of his childhood. And I can say nothing more, nor do anything for him. -------------------------------------------------------------------- Another routine autopsy. At least that's what I'm trained to think. Another day, another body. Another challenge to inherit, another puzzle to solve. Except I can't do this one. No matter how much I thought I could, I can't. I should've let someone else examine Mulder. They would've found someone. Skinner had recommended it. I don't know what I was thinking, volunteering to do this. I must be crazy. Crazier still, for allowing Doggett and that New Ager With A Badge Monica Reyes to stand in here with me. Truth is, I can't do it alone. I need someone here. I need something to detach me, distract me. There's a song playing in the background. French, I think, nothing but voice and piano. I never learned French except for the tourist dictionary I used when I was over there once. I have no idea what the woman is singing, but it sounds beautiful, ethereal and mournful all at the same time. "Does this bother you?" Reyes says while she grasps the volume knob on the boombox. What a loaded question. What the hell *hasn't* bothered me lately? I hope my glare is a sufficient response. I'm sure she'll get the vibe. Jesus, the woman never ceases to amaze me. Why Doggett asked her to help with this case makes no sense to me at all. She hasn't done a thing to bring us any closer as to what did this -- who did this -- to Mulder, to Teresa, to all those other abductees. Now she's bringing French art song into my autopsy bay. She must've read my thoughts -- now she's making explanations for the music. "I thought it would help clear the air of negative energy," she tries to explain to us. "It might help bring about a sense of healing, of acceptance." I glare at her again. "Acceptance of what, Agent Reyes? Of the fact that my partner is dead? I don't need music to help me accept the evidence in front of my eyes, nor do I believe it can heal the one person who needs it the most." She looks offended. I'm glad she's offended. She's offended me from the moment I met her. Now the feeling's mutual. "It won't heal Agent Mulder," she says, "but it can heal you. Your soul is aching, Agent Scully. You're nothing but a void right now and you're crying for someone, something to ease that pain, fill that void. There is a peace and a healing that comes if you'd just open your eyes and let it take you over." Wonderful. Just wonderful. The woman can see straight into my aching soul. It doesn't take a psychic to know I'm grieving, not by a long shot. Particularly if she and Doggett were such buddies before she was asked to help out. What else has he told her about me? "Maybe we should just skip the music for now," Doggett says, playing the noble peacemaker. "Let Agent Scully do her work." Work. All I've done is work. Every last day of my life for the past eight years I've done nothing but work. I used to love my work. I lived for my work. I'd get up in the morning and look FORWARD to my work, to walking in that office and seeing Mulder hunched over a stack of files or slides or X-rays or something not even remotely intriguing -- until he'd begin his fairy tale, his ghost story, his epic narrative about the unfortunate demise of the hero/heroine in question. And then, after my three cups of coffee, after staring at those lips for a few hours, I'd be marginally interested in the Case of the Day. Truth is, I hadn't loved work. I'd loved the cause of it. I haven't loved work since May of last year. And now I have to dissect that cause, find out the cause of death of the cause of my life's work. My hands are numb. "Could you -- could you turn up that music just a little bit?" I say it without screening my thoughts, without thinking. I need a louder distraction. Something to keep my mind off of this. Another day, another body. If I close my eyes I can do it. Maybe Doggett can guide the knife for me. I hope it doesn't hurt Mulder. I've never wanted to hurt him. I pull the microphone close to my mouth. I'm not going to fight with anything or anyone or myself today. This is it. This is going to happen. "Victim's name: Fox Mulder. Age, 39 years. Approximate weight...." I feel myself choking up again. Dammit. I have to do this. I will get through this. If I have to concentrate on whatever healing powers this music has, I'll do it, but I have to do this autopsy. Mulder would want it this way. I feel Reyes scraping my brain again, picking it for answers. "It's Poulenc," she says, right on cue. "The music. It's a song from his 'Fiangailles pour rire.'" Fiangailles pour what? "Joke of a betrothal," she explains. "It's a collection of songs about love and loss." Obviously she's the French expert. She says it with such accuracy, such precision. She makes it sound perfect, like the pretentious Parisian she probably imagines herself to be when she's over there. I bet she'd like to be perfect, Miss I-Have-It-All-Together Psychic Friend. Maybe she's alien too. "Do you know French, Agent Scully?" she asks me. "Would you like me to translate?" "No, that's not necessary." Fucking know-it-all. Rub in your special skills some more, Agent Reyes, and while you're at it, why don't YOU do this autopsy yourself, seeing as how you imagine yourself to be the expert on everything? Why don't YOU lose your best friend-partner-lover after not having seen him for months, Miss Perfect. You might need more than this healing music to help fill the void. Dammit. I can't do this. I just can't do this. "Agent Scully?" Doggett is standing beside me, his hand on my arm. "Are you all right?" My eyes close. They're protecting me, in a way. I don't want to look right now. As much as I know I'm the only one who gives a damn about getting it done the way it deserves to be done, I can't do this autopsy. I could do it right, I'm the ONLY one who WOULD do it right if I just weren't so damn close.... Damn you, Mulder. Why did you have to die on me? I feel myself collapsing to the floor, my face stinging with yet another stream of tears. They just keep coming. I swear I never thought I had so much saline in my system. Where the hell does it keep coming from? Everything's down the drain. Everything. I would've settled for circling the drain, Mulder. I could've dealt with your being half alive, or even barely alive, but not dead. Christ, not dead. It's not fair. It's just not fucking fair. You could've been stronger. Hell, Teresa Hoeze was at least circling the drain. She was smaller and a helluva lot weaker than you could've been on a bad day. And she STILL circled the drain. How the hell did you end up down it? Did you just give up? You wanted down, didn't you? You were tired of living. You had your fucking truth, your life's work in front of you, and you gave in and gave up. You flushed yourself down the pipe and into the sewer because there was nothing left for you to live for. You selfish bastard. You fucking selfish bastard. If you only knew what the hell you had to live for. If you'd only known what the hell I'm carrying inside me. "Agent Scully." I can feel Doggett's arms picking me up, setting me down on a stool against the wall. I don't care. I just don't care anymore. I want this to be over. I'm tired of circling the drain. I want to be down it too. "You need rest," Doggett says to me, in that overprotective big brother tone he always uses when I somehow manage to pull a Mulder on him and overreach myself. "How long as she been up?" I hear Reyes asking in the background. "Sixteen hours straight, maybe more." Doggett should be psychic. I don't know how he can find out so much from just staring straight at me. Maybe it's some strange male intution kicking in. I don't know. I just wish it was over. Maybe I'm dreaming. "Agent Reyes is going to drive you home," I hear him say, "and I'm going to see about getting someone else in here to do Mulder's autopsy. You're too close to this, Agent Scully. You can't and you won't be expected to do anything right now except to step away." Fine. Bring some unqualified idiot in here to butcher him up. I don't care. If he messes it up, it's not my ass on the line. I'm tired of putting my ass on the line, now that I have no one to put my ass on the line for. "Turn up the music," I hear myself saying, "and give me a minute alone." Somehow I find the strength to pull myself up and walk over to the table where Mulder is lying. It's still so hard to believe this isn't a bad dream or an altered state of consciousness, that this is real, that this is happening, that Mulder is down the drain and completely lost to me. It could be a dream if I told myself enough times in a row. At least then I could still hope. I could circle the drain and wait for him to turn on the light and put his arms around me and make it all go away. I never did let him make it all go away. I never let him do a lot of things. But I can let him go for now. I can put my arms around him on this table and give him one last embrace, one last kiss, before I let go of his hand and let him fall into oblivion. Maybe he'll wait for me there whenever it's my time to stop circling this damn drain and fall down to be with him. Maybe he was tired of fighting. Maybe I am too. Maybe I'll stop for a while and take a breath. Maybe the morning will come and I'll wake up with nothing more than a cold sweat to show for my efforts. Maybe this never happened at all. Maybe miracles still exist. ------------------ Liked it? Please send feedback to AuroraVer2@aol.com.