As She Lay Dying, a X-Files fic

[yappichick]

Yup, another one...

 

Spoilers: One Breath
Category: S, V
Disclaimer: Nope, they aren't mine.


I am sitting two feet to the side of Scully and she doesn't have the slightest idea that I am here. Or at least that's what the doctors tell me; I have to believe that there is some part of her that can sense my presence or else Melissa wouldn't have been able to convince me to leave my apartment. There will be plenty of time to avenge Scully's death, I figure.

No. I stop that line of thinking, immediately ashamed. She is not going to die. I have been spending too much time with Scully's fearful mother and New Age enlightened sister.

Instead, I force myself to look at this woman who has paid such a high price for the Truth, to focus on the life that is still here, clinging on to this world.

Our hands is the first thing my eyes are drawn towards. Even though she has been gone for three months, her nails are nicely trimmed and polished, no doubt thanks to her mother. Her hands have brought me so much comfort over the past year or so that we have known each other. Hands that have ruffled my hair in a darkened parking lot; hands that have caressed the back of my neck looking for a deadly parasite; hands that have guided me from countless dangers.

I turn over her hand carefully, looking at the deep lines running across her palm. Tracing each one carefully with my index finger, I briefly wonder what a palm reader would say is in her future. Happiness, I hope. I squeeze her hand as I return it to its prior position.

Glancing at her body, I can't help but to wonder why no one has covered up Scully. It's the middle of the night; usually people sleep with a blanket. But I know this is not a normal sleep; it is a slumber that her family believes will be never-ending. I refuse to entertain the idea. Scully is the strongest person I know. She will not succumb to whatever torment she was exposed to.

One thing I am so grateful for is that whoever has had her all these months has kept her well-nourished. I look at her tummy, which looks normal. Too many times I have seen pictures of abductees who have returned with their rib cage starkly sticking out; their stomachs are nearly non-existent. Her legs have been shaved, the smell of lotion still lingering on them. There are no foreign bruises. No outwards signs of any testing. From the neck down, there appears to be nothing wrong with Scully.

Moving my eyes up her body, I see her chest rising on its own accord, another testimony of how strong she is. I know that idiot doctor expected Scully to die as soon as he took her off the respirator, but even in a coma, Scully is stubborn. It is not time for her to die I think for the millionth time since she has returned. Each breath she takes on her own is more proof that she will not go without a fight. I watch, mesmerized by something so elementary. Please, Scully, I think, keep breathing.

My gaze moves up to her pale face. Throughout our brief partnership, I have never seen her look so lifeless. Her lips are the first thing I notice. Usually they are puffy, dark and, honestly, kissable. If I ever thought about Scully in a way outside of our friendship, those lips would be the highlight of my fantasy. But now, they speak volumes of the pain she has been through these past months. They are thin and colorless, nearly blending in with her skin. There is no hint of a smile, like there always is when she is alert.

Even her nose has been violated by this condition with tubes running into her nostrils, providing her with oxygen. Suddenly, I am consumed by rage again. How dare these men hurt Scully! Why should she have to pay for my sins and steadfastness to the Truth? She should be sleeping in her own bed right now, dreaming of things she wants to do in her life, not struggling for her life in an I.C.U. where no one seems to care.

I am grateful that they removed the tape from her eyelids. I could barely stand to look at her like that, imagining seeing her struggle to see behind the strips of adhesive. Her eyes are so communicative. There have been times when we have had conversations with a single look. I ache for the next time I will be able to see them, filled with passion and beauty.

Finally, my study reaches her hair. Gone is the perfectly styled look. Rather, her hair is plastered to her head. It has become dull and unkempt. Instead of barrettes, her hair accessories are wires attached to her skull, monitoring her brain function.

Suddenly, I realize this is the first time I have ever been able to study Scully under my intense gaze and it saddens me. She has transformed from a lively woman to a statue of what she was several months ago.

I feel a tear trail down my cheek. It is in that moment that I realize I need her. Not just as a partner or a friend, but as my Scully. Sitting here, knowing who is at my apartment at this very minute, knowing I have lost my only chance at catching these men, I come to know something that frightens me.

Scully is more important to me than the Truth.