TITLE: Knowing and Not Knowing AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer EMAIL: msk1024@aol.com ARCHIVE: Just keep my name attached SPOILERS: Sein Un Zeit, Paper Hearts RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: A, V KEYWORDS: Fill in the blank, Mulder/Scully UST SUMMARY: A man once said knowing wasn't better than not knowing. Scully wonders if that is true. DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 productions. AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks go to Kestabrook for beta-reading and general wonderfulness and to my pals at Crystalship who keep me laughing. Visit the rest of my stories at: http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm Knowing and Not Knowing by Michelle Kiefer In the dark, shadows appear very different from the objects that create them. There is just enough light from the streetlamp outside Mulder's bedroom window to paint the room with shadows. One cast by a pile of clean laundry on that chair looks like a crouching lion. My tired eyes burn, but I don't close them, lying instead wide-eyed in the near dark. I try to figure out what causes the indistinct mushroom shape by the dresser. Maybe Mulder's duffel bag. Maybe dirty clothes. I can feel Mulder's arms locked tightly around my ribcage, his breath against the back of my neck. I know he is awake too. He cried himself out earlier. Cried for more than his mother, I think. Cried for words spoken and unspoken, for opportunities missed and questions unanswered. Soon, he will play the "what if" game. What if I'd called her when I got back? What if I'd listened better during that last conversation? He is no novice at this game; we are both grand masters in this bitter pastime. I idly stroke the skin on the forearm holding me just under my breasts as my mind hopskips back through the events of this strange day. I was glad that Mulder was meeting with Skinner when the Greenwich Police called the basement office. I always thought it was better to hear bad news from someone who cared about you. I wonder if it really matters that much, after all. I was horrified when Mulder asked me to attend to his mother, and performing the post mortem on Teena Mulder was the single hardest task I have ever faced. It wasn't the first time I've had to autopsy an individual I've met in life, a witness or suspect or an officer of the law. This was by far the closest to home, though, and it unnerved me. Before I begin an autopsy, before I even pick up the scalpel or turn on the overhead light, I remind myself that the person before me is just that--a person. Someone who laughed and cried and maybe loved somebody and hopefully was loved in return. I bring to mind the family members who are hoping for answers. That task was much too easy this afternoon. I said a prayer over Teena today. I often pray before beginning an autopsy. I ask God to help me discover the secrets that the person needs to tell me; to help me find the hidden key to justice. I pray for the repose of the soul of the deceased. Today, I asked God to show me a way to put Mulder's mind at rest. I don't know if anything in this life will ever give Mulder the peace I want for him. I prayed to God to help me put aside my anger at this woman who carries her secrets off to the grave. Mulder and I once met a man who said that contrary to popular opinion, knowing was worse than not knowing. That with not knowing, you still had hope. The man was an expert on the subject, but I wonder still if he was right. Mulder is the eternal seeker of truth, and ironically, his yearning for it often obscures the very thing he seeks. Sometimes he looks at me like I am the embodiment of that truth, and it frightens me. I hear his sharp intake of breath, and his arms tighten around me in a grip so strong that I can barely breathe. His shoulders shake against my back in silent sobs. I pull his arms away just enough to turn to him. I turn my face up into the hollow of his neck and breathe in the salty, sweet smell of his skin. The change in position has stilled his weeping, and I am glad of that. My hand makes small circles on the soft cotton of his T-shirt clad back. I have no words to ease his pain. I only have touch, and tonight that seems to be the only comfort he can handle. He buries a hand in my hair, and I can feel his fingers thread through as he traces the shape of my skull. The hair twists around his fingers and pulls a little as it tugs at my scalp. I am glad when his hand stills and slips down to cup the nape of my neck. I think of all the times Mulder was my strength, and it's ironic that he probably has no idea how much I rely on him. He thinks I am the strong one, but his gentle support has held me together more times than I can say. Would he believe me if I told him? In the past, we seemed to only come together in loss. We grew to be experts at grieving and comforting, but we were awkward and uncomfortable in better times. Somewhere along the way, we learned how to connect even when our world wasn't falling apart. I suppose I could tell him that I love him. I won't, though; to tell him tonight would marry the words to grief, and I want him to feel only joy when I say them. I promise myself that I will tell him soon. His breath evens out, and the grip around me slackens somewhat. I realize he has fallen asleep, and I think that maybe he already knows how I feel. Tomorrow there will be arrangements to make and people to call. Mulder will have decisions to make; he'll need me by his side. I begin to feel drowsy and lulled by the rise and fall of Mulder's chest against mine, and I fall asleep. End. (01 of 01)