Lay Me Down

by Raven

E-Mail address – mailto:[email protected]

Rating – R (violence, language)

Category –Mulder/Scully friendship

Spoilers – Memento Mori, Emily/Christmas Carol, The Blessing Way, Anasazi

Keywords –Character death

Summary – Kind of depressing, I guess, but in a shippy kind of way.

Disclaimers- Characters belong to 1013, yadda yadda. Thanks Chris Carter for creating such fantastic characters to work with. All of us fanfic writers couldn’t get them in bed, kill them, maim them, kidnap them, stress them, et cetera without you being such a cool guy. Please don’t sue. I’m making no money off of this, although I wish I could because I am completely broke. :o(

*Author's note* I am not actually a fan of Sarah McLachlan, but I heard this song at work, and it just seemed to fit somehow. Please continue. :o)

“Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and Fame unknown
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven all he wished, a friend.

No farther seek his merit to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his father and his god.”

~From Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”

Havre de Grace, Maryland 12/06/99 11:46 P.M.

The night was clear. Beautiful and cool. Mulder was thankful for this at least as his swollen and aching eyes stared upward at the vastness of all creation.

“They aren’t coming for you, you know. What the hell do you think I’m doing Spooky? Planning a fucking family reunion?” The man’s words echoed against the silence, the sound loud and menacing with the sing-song malice behind it.

Mulder’s head dropped to his chest, the rage taken out of him, his spirit broken. He had nothing left for them to take, nothing left to fight for. He slumped weakly against the chair and stared bleakly at the man before him. He had trusted him once. Trusted everyone once, he thought wryly, and then decided against wallowing in his own melodrama. And here stood Krycek before him, casting it in his face how deceiving appearances could be.

“You’re gonna die, Mulder. Everyone’s tired of playing with you. It’s the real deal this time, partner.” Mulder shrugged indifferently.

He had thought of Scully earlier, tried to will himself to make it for her, and then the vision crumbled away into dust before him. Live for Scully? So that what? She could contract another illness? Lose another loved one? Be shot, beaten and kidnapped all over? No, best to go this way. Let her go. Give her peace, because god knew she deserved it after all these years with him.

Mulder was tired. He wanted to end this. He hadn’t eaten for days, not that he could if he wanted to. His abdomen had been assaulted repeatedly and had taken on the color of a deep summer sky. He stared up at the stars again. “Summer sky. Blue. Scully’s eyes.”

The fever took him, and he began to laugh wildly. Uncontrollably. He rocked back and forth in his hysteria. He thought of the little dog she’d had. That vicious little hairball that he loved because she did. Thought of all the silly things he’d said. Jokes, innuendoes, lewd suggestions. And she had smiled up at him with eyes the color of his goddamned stomach and taken it all in stride. That was his Scully. Then he remembered something about iced tea and chuckled gently to himself. Craning his neck upwards, he stopped laughing abruptly. His eyelids slid closed and he thought of iced tea. A tall glass of it, frosted on the outside with a lemon wedge perched daintily on the rim and he would…

Mulder did not see the man approach. Did not see him draw the gun, didn’t hear it cocked. Didn’t feel it pressed against his heated brow. *Click.” Ever so soft a sound, and it was over. The blood trickled from his smirking lips and ran purple past his blue stomach.

A final breath escaped him, and sounded like a laugh. “I swear Your Honor. It was the one-armed man.”

FBI Headquarters 12/07/99 10:52 A.M.

Scully sat at Mulder’s desk, pretending to read only to keep herself from thinking too much. Nearly two weeks he’d been missing. This was not like Mulder. Mulder should have built a helicopter out of watch parts with his toes by now and flown himself to safety. She fidgeted with his things again, nibbled a hated sunflower seed whose dusty companions were showing signs of neglect and finally settled for chewing on his pencil, fitting her teeth into the marks left by his.

She couldn’t take this anymore. The wondering, the fear, waking up in cold sweats on the nights she actually managed to fall asleep. She was losing control over herself. She was no longer detached Dr. Scully with her medical logic. She was a victim now. She was one of those women whom she had seen countless times, women whose faces were sticky with perpetual crying, and whose eyes had taken on an empty, listless look. Two nights ago she had driven to his apartment to feed his fish. Or so she told herself. Giving into fatigue and emotional stress, she had stuck on a sweatshirt of his and crawled onto his couch. She could smell him on the sheets and the memories that wafted with his aroma were too much for her. She had quietly cried herself to sleep among his things.

The phone rang next to her, startling her out of her miserable reverie. “Scully,” she whispered softly into the phone, praying her voice would hold steady. A voice equally low and pained answered her.

“I’ll be right up, sir.”

Scully stood quivering outside of Skinner’s office. She leaned against the wall, and the Assistant Director’s secretary noticed that Agent Scully looked more thin and pale than usual in that heavy black suit. “Go ahead, Agent Scully,” she said kindly. Scully attempted to nod, but her muscles were so tense it was more of a sharp jerk. She walked stiffly to the office and opened the door.

A.D. Skinner motioned for Scully to take a seat. She bent her knees in the same mechanical manner and folded her shaking hands on her lap. She stared at him across the desk, searching his face for an answer. She caught it in his eyes, the sadness, but said nothing.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” she murmured evenly, her voice flat. Scully thanked her stars for the formality of her position. The protocol kept her from grabbing him by his impeccable collar and shaking him until his teeth rattled.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Scully I, oh god. They found him Scully. This morning. They found Mulder.”

“Found him?” she repeated to herself. The implications sunk in. She said nothing, but simply sat in an eerie silence.

“Scully,” whispered Skinner, his voice strained. “Scully, my god I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this. Scully, say something.” She didn’t move. Skinner watched her, perplexed. He had expected what? For her to cry, maybe. For her to scream, to call him a liar, to smash things into microscopic fragments. Anything but this. He stared at the woman before him, her already pale face growing whiter by the second, the blanched appearance broken only by two spots of color burning high on her cheekbones. The round blue eyes had become so large and horrified that they nearly took up the whole of her small face, making her look like a frightened little girl. “Scully?” he repeated desperately, his calm, stern voice trembling. “Why don’t you take some time off? The, um, the funeral is the day after tomorrow.” These final words he directed at his desk.

A strange calm had come over her. She spoke smoothly, no trace of sorrow in her soothing voice. “I’m fine, but thank you.” Shock, though Skinner. She’s in shock. Scully rose fluidly and moved towards the door. As she opened it, she turned to him one last time. “How did he die, sir?” she asked, no emotion in her tone.

Skinner removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gunshot, point blank.” he said, wincing. “He was a fine man and a fine agent and will be most sorely missed. Take some time off Scully. From me as a friend.”

She smiled tightly, and after a curt nod, was gone. Kim, the secretary, watched her even stride as she left the office. She had a sneaking suspicion as to the nature of the meeting, and was amazed by Scully’s reaction. What was the woman made of?

Scully strode through the halls in a daze, but maintained what she felt was a steady air of control, under the circumstances at least. Word had apparently gotten out very quickly. People to whom she had never spoken stopped her in the hallway to express condolences and offer support. She always had the same reply. “Thank you, but I’m all right.” They would stare at her, puzzled, and then smile strangely before departing. She’s in shock, they all thought.

She made her way through the maze of corridors and the bombardment of sympathizers to her office. She sat quietly at Mulder’s desk and looked at it. Papers in disorganized heaps understood only by Mulder. They would never be sorted now. Sunflower seeds in neat, precariously arranged piles. Chewed pens, mysterious snapshots of god knew what that were covered with Mulder’s cryptic symbols and markings. She stacked them all neatly in the corner and focused on the rest of the desk. There were a number of framed photographs in a semicircle next to his pencil jar. She studied them. One of him as a little boy with Samantha, two of Samantha alone, several of his parents, graduation pictures, and a picture of her and Mulder. She leaned in more closely.

It was one that had been taken at a “company picnic.” Mulder stood, slightly slouched, one arm around her waist. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Classic Mulder. She wore a pair of khaki shorts (intentionally too short, she thought fondly) and a white oxford. Scully’s arms were akimbo and she was sticking her tongue out at Mulder who was giving her bunny ears. A smile played across her haggard face at the sight of it. She and Mulder had won trophies for a three-legged race as well as spiritual victory over Colton when she had offered to surgically remove, free of charge, whatever he had lodged in his ass. Even Mulder had been impressed by her deadpan. She removed the picture to put in her wallet. To her surprise, another fell out when she removed the cardboard backing.

The second picture surprised her. It was a profile of her, so dark she was nearly silhouetted. Her head was tossed back delightedly and she appeared to be laughing. Scully could not think of when it had been taken, and turned the picture over to see if there had been a date on the film. Instead, there was Mulder’s spidery script.

“This is my Scully,” (it read) “I see her laugh so rarely that these two mean a great deal to me. Grant me the ability to make her smile more often. Fox Mulder, 5/11/98.”

The hint of unshed tears stung her painfully dry eyes. She wished she could cry. She wanted to weep and grieve until she was worn out. The lump in her slim throat was choking her. She swallowed hard, willing it to recede back into her flesh. It refused to comply. Scully placed the pictures tenderly in her purse, and then saw his glasses, still unfolded, nearby. She put them in her bag as well. Her eyes then began searching the room frantically, desperately seeking something else to take with her. A mug on the corner of the desk caught her eye. It was emblazoned with the FBI seal, and bore remnants of coffee grounds and dried coffee. Scully grasped the mug between her fingers, where she regarded it fondly before hurling it against the wall. Shaken by her own outburst, she gathered her things and walked briskly to the doorway. She surveyed the office again before switching off the light and slamming the door so hard that sign on the outside clattered to the ground. Scully smiled a thin, grim smile and walked upstairs to hail a taxi.

Maryland National Memorial Park 12/09/99 8:31 A.M.

Scully stood under the bright December sun and wished it were raining. The weather had no business being so lovely on such a day. She watched as the young, handsome men in matching black suits bore Mulder’s coffin, draped with a flag, to its final resting place.

She had been sickened at the service at the sight of his body in the casket, handsome face smiling benignly. His long fingers were twined together across the lean chest, his body clad in a finely tailored black suit. The tie was black. Scully was utterly disgusted by whomever had deigned that Mulder wear a black tie. People rose and spoke about how brilliant and talented Mulder had been. How they admired him. She could not bring herself to join them. Hypocrites, she thought fiercely. Liars all of them. All but Skinner. Skinner meant every word, and she was desperately grateful for it.

Now she watched as the men set the body down on a mound of flowers. She watched solemnly as prayers were offered, as tears were shed. She saw her mother weeping on Bill’s shoulder near a large oak beside the grave. Scully sighed, a long shuddery breath. She still had not cried since the other night on Mulder’s couch. She had slept at his apartment again last night, curled in his sweatshirt and drenched in his cologne. She could smell it still as it lingered on her skin. Her features softened at the smell of him, a light creeping into her dull eyes. She looked around her, felt eyes boring holes into her from all directions, but was appreciative that no one had attempted to engage her in conversation. She hadn’t the heart.

The man was finished speaking now. The tearful, somber group made there way back to their cars, a few lingering to talk at a distance. Scully edged nearer to the coffin on its mound of flowers. Bill placed broad hands on her shoulders. “Let him go, Dana,” he intoned. She twisted her body slowly to face him and brought her hand sharply across his cheek. He recoiled in shock and stared at his slight sister. She was trembling with rage, her blue eyes cold and hard.

“Go to hell. You let me do this on my terms, do you fucking hear me?” she hissed. His face was still a mask of astonishment and almost fear. He backed away slowly and then walked hurriedly towards his mother and the car.

The last few attendees had gone discreetly to leave her with Mulder this last time. All but Skinner. He gently put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to leave you to your goodbyes, but I’ll be back to give you a ride.” Scully nodded. Skinner walked slowly behind a grove of trees where he sat against one to soothe his throbbing head.

Scully stepped delicately to the coffin where she stood awkwardly before the majestic array for a few moments. She laid a hand shakily on the glossy wooden surface. She began to speak, her words broken and fragmented.

“I miss you, Mulder. I woke up this morning on your couch. I smelled like you, and I wore your clothes to bed. I guess it was ridiculous of me, but I needed to feel close to you. I woke up, and saw the early sunlight streaming in through the window. I half expected you to be there next to me, Mulder. On the couch. I wanted you there. To hold me and stroke my head and tell me this has all been some hellish mistake. I’ve escaped my own death so many times. And you? What kind of balance is this Mulder? Where is the justice? I want so to believe that it all balances out. But how can I? They’ll get away Mulder. They’ll slip through the cracks some dark night, and sit next to me at a movie. And I’ll never even know.

“I found the pictures of me, Mulder. I don’t know what to say. You always made me smile. More than anyone ever did. I’ll keep them always with me. Your glasses too. In my bag. I feel so absurd. But what else is there to be done? I loved you Mulder. Not like they all thought. Not the whispers by the cooler. Not anything so base and frivolous. Deeply, Mulder. With fibers of my being that I have found in none of my textbooks. I gave you the only thing they hadn’t taken from me. My trust. And now they’ve taken you. My hope has died with you. And I am glad they will bury it with you. I want no one else partaking of it. I love you, Mulder.”

Skinner heard her words from his resting spot under the tree. An aching began deep in his gut, twisted with sorrow for Scully’s misery. He could see the wrenching pain drawn over her delicate features, the stiffness in her slender limbs. He loathed himself for eavesdropping, loathed himself for all the times he had made speculations on those water cooler talks. He heaved, but nothing came up. He leaned weakly back against the tree.

Scully bent down to kiss the coffin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered over and over, her voice escalating into an hysterical frenzy. “I should have tried harder, I should have looked harder, I…” Deep, guttural sobs wracked her small form, until she shook all over. Too weak to stand, she slumped against it, pulling flowers down with her grasping fingers. She leaned her head against the base, her legs bent at the knee and turned sideways before her. Her tears subsided, only an occasional sob emanating from somewhere in her soul. Momentarily she grew still, and looked at her surroundings with interest before struggling to her feet and composing herself.

She smoothed her hair, brushed off her suit, and wiped the tears from her sticky face.

Scully reached into her inner jacket pocket and withdrew a crisp white envelope and lay it on Mulder’s casket. She then removed her gun from her hip, and pressed it against her temple, squeezing her eyes closed. “Dear god, forgive me.” She pulled the trigger.

Skinner’s eyes flew open at the sound of the gunshot. Drawing his own weapon, he called, “Scully?” No response. He ran to where he approximated the shot to have originated. As he entered the clearing, a horrified look crossed his face. He staggered over and sank to his knees before her body. “Oh, Scully. Oh, no.” He wept softly and gathered her broken body into his muscled arms. Her cradled her in them and rocked her back and forth.

A soft breeze rustled through, tousling Scully’s fiery, bloodsoaked hair and catching her white envelope up and depositing it at Skinner’s feet. He carefully opened it, smearing it with crimson in the process.

“To Whom It May Concern, (it began)
“I am sorry that you have found me so. What has become of logical Dr. Scully? I suppose this was melodramatic of me. Petty, selfish, and thoughtless. All, indeed. But I am tired. They have taken everything from us. They stole my daughter from my body, and from me once more before destroying her, as well as my sister who was sprawled dead on my floor with one of a countless number of bullets that have been intended for me. I lay in a bed as my body cannibalized itself with tumors, my salvation coming only at the whimsy of the same shadowy enclave of individuals who shot Mulder’s father, framing him as the murderer. And of course, the abduction of young Samantha, an event which fated Mulder to a life he could not control and a destiny he could not escape. I love him for it. For chasing after tidbits and teasers, all because he wanted the truth. Clarity, reason. No glory for Mulder. Scoffing only, and skeptics like me who tried to drag him down because our eyes could not see and because our minds could not comprehend. Mulder saw. Saw because he had the eyes of the pure at heart, untainted by greed or selfishness. I envied him so. His belief that humans could overcome entropy and evil by faith alone. He died trying. I think he was looking at the stars when he went. I like to think so. And I pray to whatever gods there are that something was looking back at him.

I didn't really plan to do this, you know. I'm a good Catholic girl, and I remember what they told us good Catholic girls about suicides. But I think sometimes there is a higher calling than even god. It is the voice inside of you that tells you when things are right and when they are not. And half of my voice was directed by Mulder, and half of his voice was directed by me. And now that other piece is calling for me. And to be honest, it seems to me that my life is worthless without him at my side. We're a matched set, Mulder and I. My final realization of this came this morning when the alarm clock woke me with a soft trill of piano music, and the fluting voice of a woman who seemed to understand.

Spend all your time waiting
for that second chance,
for a break that would make it okay.
There's always one reason
to feel not good enough
and it's hard at the end of the day.

I need some distraction,
oh beautiful release
memory seeps from my veins.
Let me be empty
and weightless and maybe
I'll find some peace tonight.

In the arms of the angel
fly away from here
from this dark, cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear.
You are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there.

So tired of the straight line
and everywhere you turn
there's vultures and thieves at your back

And the storm keeps on twisting
you keep on building the lie
that you make up for all that you lack

It don't make no difference
escaping one last time
it's easier to believe
in this sweet madness
oh, this glorious sadness
that brings me to my knees

In the arms of the angel
fly away from here
from this dark cold hotel room
and the endlessness that you fear
you are pulled from the wreckage
of your silent reverie

You're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort there.

You're in the arms of the angel
may you find some comfort here

“So judge me how you will. Remember me as the doctor turned agent who died at the grave of her friend. He was my port in any harbor, and they erased him, leaving only the cold fog wrapped around me. I cannot sail anymore with nowhere to regain my strength, cannot travel with nowhere to rest. And so I surrender to them. They have won it all. My bluff has been called, and I fold.
“Let me be remembered by my death, if it makes this easier. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. But do me this honor. Do Mulder this honor. Recall him not for his actions that defined his difference from you. Recall him rather for his differences from you that made him act. Bury me beside him, and let us rest together in peace. Let me go to the arms of my angel.

~Yours in eternity,
Dana Scully

Skinner read the letter over and over as he stroked her hair, his tears falling silently upon it. He had looked in her purse for the pictures she had spoken of. He tucked them inside her stained envelope and then inside his jacket. These were his to treasure always.

This was not how he pictured it ending for them. He pictured bachelor parties and bridal showers, cigars passed out in the hallways and small, redhaired children riding to work on Mulder’s shoulders. He smiled through his tears at the sentimental cliché. It was not to be for his two rainmakers. Let them have their graves. Let them have their eternity. He tenderly kissed Scully’s smooth brow, finally free of its worry-lines, and then reached for his cell phone.

1 Year Later Maryland National Memorial Park 10:27 A.M.

The group of people dressed somberly in black huddled in a chilled cluster, crying softly. They gathered around the two neat graves, readying themselves for the unveiling of the tombstones, a final step in the process of losing the two they had loved. The mothers stood together, stoic, childless widows whose tears had long since run dry. Scully’s brothers stood together, one sorrowful and one whose eyes had yet to lose their angry look. The cloths were taken off, and Skinner watched with aching sympathy as Margaret Scully flinched. She had done this before, once with Melissa and nearly once with Dana. Teena hadn’t even the comfort of a memorial for her other lost child. They leaned on each other and read the gray stones before them. Mulder’s was a heavy granite, the words etched deeply and indelibly into the polished stone.

“Fox William Mulder

Cosmos Mariner

Destination Unknown

October 13 1961~December 06 1999”

The epitaph had been taken from a book he had liked, “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.” It suited him. A celestial wanderer, always. And who could say with any real certainty what unearthly fate awaited Fox Mulder? Next to it, in a paler stone, sat Scully’s gravestone, the epitaph delicately gleaming in gold bas-relief.

Dana Katherine Scully

In The Arms Of The Angel

May You Find Some Comfort Here

February 23 1964~December 09 1999”

The pairs of eyes reading this final tribute to her smiled faintly, sadly. After all the close brushes, the hospital stays and the losses falling on her one after the other, she had survived. She had pulled through with her usual grace and elegance. And then this. To die for him. With him. Because of him. Some thought it wasteful, trite, and a “tad too Shakespearean,” as Colton remarked with a vengeful jealousy towards Mulder. Some thought it was tragic, but fitting for her to do such a thing. They had loved each other in an intense and enduring fashion. After all, what was one without the other? And so, they mused privately over the engravings.

Two figures in particular acted on their feelings, however. Bill Jr. stomped off heavily, his ordinarily bland face a mask of shaking rage. How dare they deliver such an abomination to the grave of his sister, the second one he had lost because of that man?

Walter Skinner knelt before the two patches of earth, parcels in either hand. Before Scully’s he sat a picture of Emily and a copy of “Moby Dick.” Next to Mulder’s he lay a packet of sunflower seeds and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. He bowed his head in respect before walking quietly to his car.

Teena watched him, and then excused herself from Margaret, kneeling before her son’s grave. She smiled warmly at the seeds, and then curiously unwrapped the little packet. Surprise, and finally a peaceful calm crossed her careworn face. In her hand she held a digital tape labeled with the words “Mulder, S./ MJ Files.”

FIN