%%%%%%%%%%%
CROWNING GLORY
by CiCi Lean
cicilean@yahoo.com
%%%%%%%%%%%

"Vanity, like murder, will out."
- Hannah Cowley

%%%%%%%%%%%


Dana Scully was brushing her hair.

She combed quickly, with short movements across the front and back,
without the aid of a mirror, a small set of plastic bristles nestled
in her palm like a tiny porcupine.  She was working blindly, but she
didn't need to see what she was doing.

Not much you can do with less than half an inch of hair.

But she continued the ritual, working the stiff strands forward and to
the side, trying to part and fluff, an action of vanity turned to one
of defiance.

For she had lost it all, some months before, after her last round of
chemotherapy and radiation. The long red tendrils had fallen out in
clumps and small bushes, littering her pillow, her tub and all the
floors.  She'd spent each morning sweeping, then crying, as the
patches of white scalp became more prominent, strange islands of skin
showing through the sparse hairs that were left.  Then, in one
furious, defiant moment, she shaved off the remaining hairs, leaving
nothing but a white and bare scalp.  The next day, when she came in to
work, her head's only adornment was a jaunty beret, tilted to the left
and its color was dark blue, matching her severe suit perfectly.

Her co-workers, the ones who knew her vaguely, or even the ones who
thought they knew her well, stared as she strode past, her head and
shoulders high and narrow.  She took the stairs that morning, bounding
down them, with the trip of her heels echoing against the steel and
cement.  She entered her office and threw her bag down like any other
morning.

"Good morning, Mulder," she said as she took off the beret and
carefully hung it on the coat rack.  She turned and faced him, her
eyes shining hugely and her face rendered even thinner by the complete
lack of hair.  She locked onto the hazel eyes in front of her and
stood waiting for their response.

But only the slightest flicker of surprise passed through them. "Good
morning, Scully" he replied and then turned back to his computer
terminal without another word.  She mentally shrugged at his silence,
and almost felt grateful for it, for talking took too much energy
sometimes.

And she had none to waste.

The next morning Scully found a Knick's cap on her desk, and it was to
his great credit, she thought, that he'd picked the black one instead
of the orange.

When he came in, she turned her chair toward him, the cap twirling on
one finger. "I assume this means you don't like my new *do*, Mulder."

"I don't." he replied shortly. He put down his briefcase and with two
sharp motions, pulled off his jacket and loosened his tie.

She smiled at him.  A thin, sad smile, the only one she was able to
muster anymore. "Am I too avant-garde for you?"

"You're too sick for me, " said Mulder, with barely contained fury.
"Too damn sick..."

Mulder sat and faced the wall for a long moment, biting his lip, his
hands tapping and rubbing the armrests of his chair, almost bursting
under some unknown restraint. He finally whirled in his chair and
leaned toward his partner, as if meaning to say something, something
that he hadn't ever meant to say, his hands parted, palms skyward in a
simple, beseeching gesture.  But Scully was unmoved, her face an
unreadable mask of pain, everything bare and starkly forthright.  She
had become completely honest with him and the world, without saying a
single word.

"Scully,"  he began, but stopped.

"Yes?"

He took a deep breath and slowly, very slowly, turned back to his
computer before he spoke.  "Your eyebrows are gone."

He sounded numb.

Scully nearly laughed.  "My lashes too.  Do I look like a Reticulan
yet?"  Her strange, frightened smile grew larger, under utterly
miserable eyes.

"No," he replied quietly.  "Reticulan's are grey. Besides, they're
even shorter than you."

They worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon.

Later that night, her mother brought over a wig and it lie on her
bureau for days, like some hideous furry creature, until Scully was no
longer able to look at it.  Late one night, it unceremoniously exited
the apartment via a large plastic bag.

Her mother looked pained when Scully told her of the wig's fate. 
"People's perception of you is based on your physical appearance,
Dana.  Your own sense of self is often determined by your looks. 
You'll need that confidence for this fight, the feeling of being whole
and ready for what's next."

Scully looked in the mirror as her mother spoke, at cheekbones that
were sharp and stark underneath a furrowed brow.  Her face was thinner
than it ever had been, all angles and smooth, translucent planes of
skin stretched over the bones.  She noticed the tiny veins in her
scalp, and the whites of her eyes were becoming rheumy; slightly
tinged with a blue-grey tint.  Everything appeared deprived, lacking
some force, either soul fire or red blood, those intangible
determinations of health.

"And what is next?" she asked her mother, the tears just beginning to
burn her eyes, making them shine brightly.

"The rest of your life." replied Margaret Scully quietly, before
taking her daughter in her arms.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

But now, after nearly two unbearable months of waiting, it was finally
growing back.  She could see the hints of brown, red and the baby gold
that she had been born with, covering her scalp at last.  If one
looked hard enough, tiny grey and white hairs could be found in the
mix, the tough, hard strands of age and stress.

When Mulder arrived that morning, he affectionately ran a hand over
her scalp, in a rubbing motion, playing with the velvet bristles in
the back, feeling their soft bites. "I could do this all day."

"Not without losing some fingers, you can't," Scully replied archly,
but made no move to escape his hand.  "Did you see the Lassiter file?"

Mulder slowly walked around and leaned back against Scully's desk. He
regarded her carefully through his glasses, his expression calm and
observant.

"You look tired today," he said simply.

"I'm f...," she started and then stopped, as Mulder gave a short,
warning cough.  They had made a deal some days before, a deal where
Scully would be completely honest about the state of her health and he
would be completely accepting.  It was a good deal, but they both
needed some practice.

Scully smiled tightly, shook her head and tried again.

"All right, Mulder. I'll say it if you really want to hear it.  I'm
tired. But I don't want to go home.  I would just..." Scully took a
short breath.  "I'd like to continue working."

"Who said I'd let you go home?" asked Mulder with a small indignant
noise.  "I have lots of work for you, Agent Scully."

He picked up a file, studied it without looking, dropped it and
yawned.  "But not right now.  Are you hungry?  I'm hungry. I am
unbelievably hungry."

Scully picked up the file and put in back in her in-box.  "No.  I
can't say that I am."

"My treat, Scully," said Mulder carefully.

"Thank you, but I'm really not hungry."

Mulder leaned in conspiratorially.  "Scully, when I say *my treat*, I
think that you should listen to rumble of miraculous thunder, the
amazed gasp of the multitudes and the blare of sirens that are filling
the streets."

Scully rolled her eyes. "And to think I lived this long.  All right,
but a quick one."

"Quick ones are my specialty." said Mulder, handing Scully her jacket.
 She put it on and he noticed with dismay how loosely it hung from her
shoulders and arms.  It nearly swallowed her, and underneath its
crimson folds,  he realized how truly tiny she had become, with only
her hands and eyes unchanging, both appearing huge and out of place.

"You're too thin," he said softly, reaching out.  He gently cupped one
white cheek, and the sharp bones and pale skin disappeared beneath his
hand's ruddy warmth.

Scully gave him the tiniest of smiles.

"Can never be too thin, Mulder.  Too thin or too rich.  Isn't that the
saying?"

Mulder took his hand away and opened the door with a sigh.  "Yeah. 
But it's a stupid saying."

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

"Dana Scully? Is that you?"

They had just sat when Scully heard the shrill voice from across the
restaurant.

She whirled around in her seat and saw a short, well-groomed woman,
impeccably dressed and of an indeterminable age, standing next to
their table.  It was Joanne, or Jenny, or another one of her mother's
endless circle of social friends with a similar name.

"Hi," replied Scully with a huge, embarrassed smile. "Hello..umm..."

The short woman laughed, a tinny, hoarse noise. "Jean, dear.  No need
to pretend to remember.  My memory left me years ago.  Well, well. If
it isn't little Dana Scully! Imagine that.  I was talking with your
mother just last week."

"Oh, really?" replied Scully, trying very hard to feign a vague
interest.

"Yes, and she was very evasive when I asked about you.  I can't
imagine why." The short woman shook her head. "Because, I must say,
you look fabulous.  You've lost so much weight.  You're so thin!"

Scully blanched.  Mulder, she noted thankfully, had pulled his menu up
and began to study it intently, to the exclusion of all other things.

"I'm so jealous.  I have at least ten more pounds to go myself," the
short woman continued to prattle, one eye in the wall mirror. "And
that haircut you have...so short, so ...unusual. It wouldn't work on
everyone dear, but since you're so slim now, it's looks lovely.  I
have to say, Dana, you've never looked better. Just losing the weight
made you look so much healthier."

Scully began to have trouble catching her breath. She saw Mulder's
hands clench and unclench the menu, the plastic wrinkling under white
knuckles.

"Thank you," she replied weakly.  "I'm sorry, Jean, but Agent Mulder
and I are here for a business lunch, Bureau business.  I hope that..."

The short woman smiled and waved her hand, the gold and red of jewelry
and nail polish flashing in the dim light.  "Oh, I can take a hint. 
But, we have to get together.  I'm away for the summer, so in the
fall, Dana, when you have the time. Your mother still has my number.
And autumn will be here before you know it. So be sure to give me a
call then."

//When you have the time.//

"Yes," said Scully, whose thoughts hadn't traveled further than the
next day or hour in a very long time.  "Yes, I will."

//If I have the time.//

"Goodbye, dear," waved the short woman, as she headed toward her table
in the back.  Scully could her shrill voice yell out once more.
"Louisa!  Darling...you look wonderful!"

Scully closed her eyes for a long moment and opened them to a pair of
dark eyes regarding her closely over the one-page menu.

"You're a better man than I am, Scully," said Mulder angrily, folding
his menu in half, and then in quarters, ruining it without thought.

Scully sighed and aimlessly picked up her water glass, watching the
ice twirl under the condensation.  "What was I supposed to say?"

"You were supposed to tell her to go to hell," replied Mulder, his
hands still clenching with unspoken rage.  "You were supposed to tell
her to shut her huge, fat, ugly..."

Scully's eyes burned into his. "That's enough, Mulder.  She didn't
know.  Besides, she was just being polite."

"By telling a woman how healthy she looks because she's suddenly skin
and bones?"

Scully closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  "That's a societal
perception, Mulder.  Thinness is equated with beauty, health and
prosperity.  It wasn't always like that, and it probably won't be in
the future, but for now, that's the way it is and I can accept that.
And you should too.  Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and the
beholder can be influenced by many things."

Mulder turned his eyes away, running his thumb along his bottom lip.
For a long moment, they sat silently, the buzz of the restaurant with
its careless patrons and their mindless chatter surrounding them.  

"Then maybe I've been influenced, Scully," said Mulder turning back to
face her, his eyes bright, perhaps damp.  

"In what way?" Scully asked, quietly.  

Mulder shrugged uncomfortably.   "I never saw you as anything but
beautiful.  And it had nothing to do with your waistline.  Or your
hair.  It was just..."

Here he stopped, either unwilling or unable to continue.

But Scully smiled, a brilliant smile, for the first time in a long
time, without fear or anger.  "My capacity for outrageous flights of
fancy and wild, speculative thinking?"

"Yeah, that's it," said Mulder, with a small huff of laughter.  He
looked down again at her hand, the strong palm surrounded by reed thin
fingers, so painfully delicate, they seemed almost surreal.  Mulder
lifted the fingers with one hand and laced them between his own long,
strong ones.  He studied them as they lay against the back of his
hand, the thin bone, smooth skin and perfect nails.  If Scully has a
perfect right to be vain about anything, he thought, it has to be
these hands.  

Or those eyes.  Or her mind...or her courage....or..

Mulder squeezed her fingers very gently, brushing the thumb with his
own.  "So what happens now?"

"You know what happens now, Mulder."

Mulder felt the return squeeze and it was so much stronger than he'd
expected.  He looked up and raised an eyebrow in question.

But Scully was looking past him, somewhere over his shoulder.  "The
rest of my life is what happens now."  She squeezed his hand again,
even harder this time.

"The rest of my life."

%%%%%%%%%
Fini.
All comments welcome.
cicilean@yahoo.com