Title: A Methodical Process Author: Rebecca Classification: MSR; post-ep for "Elegy," Scully POV Rating: PG Summary: Picks up after the cameras shut down; Scully and Mulder come to an understanding with regard to her cancer and their relationship. Spoilers: Elegy, small spoilers for Momento Mori Archive: Only at Beyond 44:58, please Disclaimer: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter. I also happen to think they belong to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, too. I'm just borrowing them, I'll return them by midnight in like new condition, I promise. :) Feedback: Any feedback can be sent to AgentScully1121@aol.com A Methodical Process By Rebecca Death, like life, has a beginning, a middle, and an end. As an investigator, I was taught to look for clues in and on a dead body that would lay claim as to why death had occurred. An autopsy is a methodical process, always done the same way but one not always ending with the same answer. In medical school, I developed a detachment for death, as most people in my profession are forced to do. My detachment became more intense when I became a forensic pathologist. I found myself looking at a cadaver and wanting to know why death had occurred, but rarely thinking about the life the person had lived before ending up on my autopsy table. I was too busy looking for evidence as to that life’s end. I have always feared death; feared loss. It is a large part of the reason I have been labeled a loner all my life. I have never let myself get too close to anyone, or let anyone get too close to me, too afraid to lose them. I shield myself this way. I errect walls around myself, and these walls have only becomethicker as I’ve gotten older. Since being diagnosed with cancer I have been plagued by my fear of death, caused by my own mortality staring me in the face. I’ve been forced to face death, to apply it to myself. I’ve had horrible nightmares of floating above my body as it lies cold and white on a table in some autopsy bay like so many cadavers I've seen. Those dreams have scared the shit out of me. After having them more than once I was forced to admit to myself that I am scared of dying. I have changed in the last few months; I know I have. Never one to be open about my feelings--they’re constantly hidden by those damn walls--I have become even more withdrawn now. I go through daily activities with a stoic, immovable expression. I have been sharp with Mulder, stubbornly resisting his theories on whatever case we’ve been working on, pushing him away when he tries to help me. Mulder. This man is my partner, my closest friend, my co-worker and biggest source of frustration. He is the only one whom I’ve ever let in--willingly let past the walls. And lately, when he looks at me with that damn mix of pity and concern in his turbulent hazel eyes I find myself snapping defensively, averting my eyes from his, squirming under his gaze and refusing to accept the comfort he so obviously wants to give me. It has become a routine--a methodical process, one that I am always careful to end before he can see the tears that will invariably gather in my eyes and spill down my cheeks once I am alone. I went through it again tonight, after I’d grudgingly told Mulder I’d seen the apparition of the fourth victim in the bathroom. And once again, I had walked away. Left Mulder there to worry about me, to be pissed that I was being so stubborn. And then I’d seen Harold Spueller’s apparition in the back of my car. A subtle reminder, as if I needed it, that I am dying. And I am alone. My apartment is dark and cold as I enter it and lock the door behind me. It has a feeling of mustiness, as if it has been unoccupied for a long time. It’s hardly inviting to me at this moment and I stand there, near the armoire that houses my television and stereo, my hands in the pockets of my coat. My mind returns to my partner. I ask myself. Even as I pose the question I know the answer: I am afraid that he will find me weak. That he will feel that he has to protect me. But this is something he cannot protect me from, and he knows it. I see it in his eyes constantly now, even when we are not discussing it. He would sell his soul to the devil if he could save me from this fate. But he can’t save me. I close my eyes and lean against my door, still thinking of him. We are so different, yet we are also so alike. Like me, Mulder has a habit of shutting himself off from people, of using sarcasm or defensive humor to keep them at a distance. Behind the brilliant profiler, the wisecracking Special Agent, there is a fragility to him that he has allowed me to see more than once. He too is afraid of losing those he’s closest to, and as I’ve gotten closer to him he’s become more and more terrified of losing me. And I of him. But both of us are afraid to admit it, to come out and say what we’ve become to one another. We are bound together, locked in a dance that skirts around our feelings, afraid to move beyond our unique friendship into something more. But as I stand here I realize, or maybe just admit, that I *need* more. I am afraid of dying, and of showing weakness, and of needing Mulder’s protection, but now I am *more* afraid of making this dark descent alone. I have been alone for years. I don’t want to be alone any longer. And I am tired of being afraid. I don’t know how long I stand there, but at last my shoulders slump forward as I force myself to open my eyes and move toward my bedroom. It’s late, and though I have begun entertaining these thoughts of accepting Mulder’s offers of comfort I can’t seem to muster the energy to do anything about it tonight. This case has been tiring and disturbing for me, and sleep is the best thing for it. I am emotionally and physically drained, and the sooner I crawl into bed, the better. I unclip my holster from my waistband and lay it into a drawer, making sure the safety on my Sig is still on. I take off my heavy overcoat and then my suit, neatly hanging each piece of clothing up, putting my pumps in the closet. It’s a methodical process, one I perform on autopilot. I slip into a pair of satin pajamas, then go into the bathroom and brush my teeth. I take off my earrings and my watch. Just as I’m reaching for a washcloth to wash my face I hear a knock at my door. My eyes stray to the clock as I move out of the bathroom. 10:21. It could only be Mulder. I steel myself, unsure what I’ll say to him, and unsure how pissed he’ll still be at my escaping act earlier. Out of cautiousness or perhaps out of the paranoia I’ve acquired from this job, I glance through the peephole. It *is* Mulder, in jeans and his leather jacket, a tense look on his face. I pull the door open and wait. “I know it’s late but I need to talk to you,” he says flatly, moving past me without waitingto be invited in. I close the door and lock it, turning to face him and feeling my eyebrow rise. He is agitated, upset. His tall, lean form is tense, his jaw has tightened in the way it does when he is angry. And when his eyes meet mine I cannot help but flinch. Mulder’s eyes are more expressive than any person’s I’ve ever seen--they have fascinated me, frightened me, but tonight they overwhelm me. Their hazel depths are filled with anger, with worry, with hurt, and with fear. I can’t speak. I simply cross my arms over my chest and wait. “I’m tired of this, Scully,” he says, getting right to the point. “This walking away from me you’re doing. It’s bullshit. It’s killing me to watch you like this--why won’t you let me help you? Or at least comfort you? It won’t make me think any less of you. Nothing could. But I can’t stand to have you push me away like this anymore.” His voice has lowered to a wounded, soft tone, and I blink back tears, my lips quivering as I look away from him. He takes a step closer to me and gently lifts my chin with a finger, forcing me to look at him. “I know you’re afraid, Scully,” he whispers. “I’m afraid, too. I’m terrified. But we have to face this. And if we face it together it might be easier to bear. You don‘t have to do this alone.” I lower my head and he takes his hand away, moving it to my shoulder. I take a shuddery breath and force myself to speak. “Mulder,” I say haltingly, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep doing this to you, to myself. I suppose I’ve been afraid of how much I need you, of what you mean to me.” I raise my tear-filled eyes to his. “But I’m tired of being afraid.” He lets out a breath, his own eyes moist and now filled with pain at my words. He draws me gently to him and kisses my hair, my forehead, my cheeks. A methodical process. “I am, too,” he says hoarsely. He embraces me, and I allow it, embracing him back and feeling the cool leather of his jacket against my arms. God, it feels good to be held like this. “We’ll find some way, Scully. We’ll find some way to beat this,” he tells me, his lips moving against my hair. I heave a shuddery sigh. I don’t know if I believe his words, but *he* does, and Mulder’s belief is enough right now. Something has changed between us, and I don’t mean all that’s happened since I was diagnosed. Something has changed in the span of five, maybe ten minutes he’s been here. I have gotten past the scary part--admitting my fear. Mulder does not think me weak. So what now? My mind is a blur, filed now with too many thoughts to sort out. Mulder answers my question by pulling back slightly and looking at me, his gaze still turbulent but smouldering now with something else, something I can’t quite identify. He is holding my face in his hands, and he strokes my tears away with gentle sweeps of his thumbs. I try to smile at him, but I can’t. This moment is so intimate, so raw…out of habit I want to step away, to avoid it, but I force myself not to. I need this. He does, too. I feel my heart start to beat faster as I realize that he’s going to kiss me. Mulder has kissed me many times over the four years we’ve known each other. On the forehead, on the hand, on the cheek, or the top of my head. All of those have been meant as a comforting gesture; Mulder’s way of reassuring me that he’s here, that he’ll take care of me if I’ll let him. And perhaps that is what this one is meant to be as well, but it doesn’t end up that way. He leans in, still holding my head gently, and kisses my lips, a slow, sweet kiss that makes my tears start to flow again. I’m not sure which one of us actually made that kiss into more than a comforting gesture, but after a moment I found myself sliding my fingers into his hair, pulling his head down gently to keep his mouth on mine. His lips were parting mine hesitantly, easing into this new territory. And I let it happen, for once leaving all my damned logic behind, focusing only on what I *felt.* And, God, how free I feel at that moment, like I’ve just been released from a ball and chain I’ve had around my ankle for years. I let my hands stroke his face, memorizing each plane and hollow, angling my face so my lips blend more seamlessly with his. When we part, Mulder lets his forehead rest against mine, his hands still softly stroking my back. I feel none of the nervous jitters I’ve always felt in other romantic situations--this feels *right.* Mulder pulls back and looks at me, and I can’t help smiling at him. His eyes fill with tears again. “What?” I ask softly. “I just…I’ve missed that smile,” he whispers thickly, stroking my lips very gently with his thumb. “I haven’t seen it in so long.” I close my eyes and blink back more tears, then hug him, hard. He clings to me briefly, then pulls back and kisses my forehead. “Get some rest, Scully. We’ll talk in the morning.” He untangles himself from my embrace and heads for the door, shutting it softly behind him. I smile at the door through my tears. I am no longer alone. We’ve broken through huge barriers tonight, and I am sure now that we’ll be okay. And perhaps we’ve started something, too…but I’ll figure that out in the morning, after I’ve given it some thought. For me, love is a methodical process. Fin. The Truth is Out There.