ARCHIVED -- thnks fr 4 yrs f mmrs

——————————    it may be an irony understood only by those of us who conduct medical examinations that death is a drama with a beginning,   a middle,   and an end,    as is life itself.      A  BODY  HAS  A  STORY  TO  TELL.      in mine,   there are painful wounds,    missing scenes,   chapters that come to an abrupt end with pages torn out,    some of which i may never recover.     yet it is mine still.       to reclaim,  to believe in,  and to tell.       /       indie  dana  scully  of  the  x - files  ;     est.  2019  ;     protected  by  mags !  

COMPARATIVE STUDY  :   concerts mags goes to + txf scenes   ( #7 / ? )

COMPARATIVE STUDY  :   concerts mags goes to + txf scenes   ( #6 / ? )

the (allegedly to - scale) nessy from two christmases ago,   the pink alien bobblehead with red hair for valentine’s day,    the ceramic mothman in an i heart west virgnia shirt to celebrate when they’d closed on the house .  .  .    each and every one the best thing she’s likely to ever lay her hands upon.   she lets the knick knacks live together in his office because they’re cute together,   a supernatural commune,   a family of misfit toys.    it’s as rare to divide the family from one another as it is to pull her from his side.   

but it happens on occasion and this is one such   :     she,  attending a conference in ohio,   and he,   attending to a case in georgia.    though she fully expects some supernatural sightings will mysteriously and completely coincidentally beckon him to dayton by dinnertime tomorrow,   his excuses to join her have yet to finish being fabricated,  and she’s spending tonight alone.  

she’s triple checked all the locks and her safety precautions.   she’s laid her clothes for the morning atop the dresser,  brushed her teeth,  and verified that the shower water gets hot.   most importantly,   they’ve spoken,    her valued opinion on the case he’s so eager to close fading into quiet conversation,    amorous affirmation,  and promises to get good sleep that she’ll keep more faithfully than he.    she misses him dearly and knows he can tell.      at this rate,   he’ll be here by lunchtime.  

but for now,   she’s spending the night alone,   pillows fluffed around her in a protective wall.    she double checks her alarms for the morning.    quadruple checks,   guided by the thin light of the cracked bathroom door,   the deadbolt.   focuses on the faint sounds of the world outside and begins to slow her breathing.   lets her eyes slip close when they are ready,   not a moment too soon.  

(  and she’d always hated that moniker for the dead,    late,    but she’d found herself using it a lot at the time.     it was more professional,   of course,   and with the added benefit of euphemizing in four short letters what elsewise was unbearable.   late.    late like he’d just stopped to fetch them coffee on the way into the office.    late like they were going to be to their dinner reservations because he just had to finish reading one more news article before they left.     late like tapping her foot against the carpet in skinner’s office,   waiting for him to come and explain himself.   )

                           ‘ i think i have something that might help.                                              do you remember this case,  scully? ’   

a few sentences into overviewing names of victims and perpetrators he was too late to meet,    he notices the way she’s stopped breathing.     and perhaps it is silly or stupid or simply weak of her,    that his pulling a file for a perfectly legitimate reason,   for its supposed relevance to an active case,     might make her so crestfallen.    yet the weight of it all is written plainly on her face.    

of course she remembers,  could never forget.    she was pregnant and grieving and desperate to maintain his legacy,    and her agony manifested as fervor for the job.   the words he reads were written in the haze of her deepest darkness,   in frenzied attempts to exude confidence in theories she’d just spent years denying.     SHE WANTED THEM TO BELIEVE SO BADLY.    doggett.   skinner.   the bureau.   the world.    anything short of that was failing him.    anything short of that was letting him die a thousand times,   over and over and over again.  

  she was pregnant and grieving and painfully alone,    and the years  —– the decades,  now  —– that have passed haven’t made it any easier to forget.   so her face pales like she’s seen a ghost,     or heard one,   rather,    reading her words in his voice.    the floor could give way beneath her.    she was in this room when she wrote it,   at that desk with ginger tea and her glasses on.   

                             ‘ i’m sorry.   i didn’t mean to bring up bad memories. ’                                                  from :   fox mulder ( @blindsite​​ )

❝  i know.  ❞     her voice shakes when she says it.     there should be a statute of limitations on mourning someone who isn’t even late anymore.   but there are days like this where she prays he looks in retrospect on what she did in his absence and is proud.   and there are midnights still where she curls closer toward him in the wake of nightmares of losing him.    she was pregnant and grieving and wounded,    and those wounds,   while healed,  have scarred.