Title: Dissecting Teena

Author: XRie

Contents: MSR, angst

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Sein und Zeit; references to Memento Mori

and Elegy

Summary: Teena Mulder is more than a slab of meat

in the autopsy bay. She is Mulder. Traumatic for

Scully? You bet.

Disclaimer: They are not mine. I'm just airing them

out for freshness. Don't sue.

Notes: Just to eliminate possible confusion:

paragraphs contained by three asterisks (***) are

references to THE SCENE in Sein und Zeit.

Feedback: This is my second foray into the fanfic

jungle, and I am a feedback junky. Send it to

x_rie@hotmail.com and I will cuddle it and stroke

it and probably read it way too many times.



*************************

Dissecting Teena

*************************



Proud. Haughty. Even in death.



Stretched out on the cold, unforgiving steel of the

autopsy table, Teena Mulder's face was impassive,

her chin lifted, her jaw set. She had lived a life

of secrets, and she would be damned if anyone was

going to extract them from her in death. But Dana

Scully had pledged to uncover one of them -- a task

she dreaded, but the plea in her partner's eyes had

brooked no refusal. Scully stepped toward the

table, allowing only a second of weakness to show

as she closed her eyes to calm herself.



Devoid of clothing, stripped of outward dignity,

her skin's bluish hue enhanced by the cold

fluorescence of the lamps above her, Teena Mulder

exposed a side of herself that Scully had never

seen: she was old. Older than time. Her breasts

sagged ... breasts that had nursed a little boy.

Her fingers were long and careworn, though perhaps

once elegant ...



*** ... the veins popped in his hands, ugly and

blue against the smooth skin as he locked his

fingers together in denial, curling into himself,

refusing to believe she would abandon him in death

as well as in life ... ***



Had those fingers soothed? Had they stroked the

face of a sensitive little boy? A sensitive boy.

With dark, unruly hair, pale skin, and ancient

eyes. Who loved baseball and stars and watching his

mother as her fingers danced across the piano keys.

Or had they always lain stonily in her lap,

reaching out only to strike?



Scully swallowed hard against the images. A

paradox: scientific detachment was imperative and

impossible. Sweat beaded on her brow as she began

the Y incision. The scalpel was incredibly sharp.

Left a precise cut; no jagged wounds. Unlike words.



She wondered if Mulder's distaste for his first

name stemmed from negative associations beyond the

teasing of schoolmates. She could imagine his

mother's full lips drawn into a grim line as she

used it to scar him.



Sobbed in despair: "Fox, my son, my only child ..."



Hissed in anger: "Damn you Fox, she's gone! And

every day I see your face I am reminded of it!"



Turning to cold apathy: "Fox ... I'm tired."



Her lips were not as full as Mulder's. They lacked

a certain sensitivity. And yet the similarities

were striking ... An alluring pout. Curling

voluptuously if allowed to smile. Beautiful. She

had given him that. She had at least given him

that.



And eyes. Mournful eyes devoid of the sharp,

accusing glint of his father's. Eyes that were

entirely his mother's, down to the drooping lids

and thick lashes that lay heavily on her blue and

clammy cheek ...



*** ... his cheek pressed sharply into her

shoulder. His lashes fluttered helplessly against

her neck, like the small touches of a desperate

child, pawing but never holding, each touch drawing

tiny streaks of tears across her skin ... ***



The rational part of Scully's mind continued to

slice, probe. Mechanical motions born of

experience. Carcinoma, carcinoma. Evidence of a

debilitating disease. Carcinoma, melanoma, nasal

pharyngeal mass ... a man and woman standing in

front of a blinding white screen ... "I have

cancer" ... "I refuse to accept that" ...



Scully shook her head more forcefully this time.

The science. She had to concentrate on the science.

The amazing intricacies of the human body as it lay

displayed before her. Heart, lungs, kidneys, liver,

large intestine, small intestine, pancreas, heart,

lungs. Heart ...



** ... his heart was bleeding in her arms as she

cradled his head to her shoulder, his hands finally

swinging around to grope heavily at her back ...

his body shuddering as she wrapped herself around

him in a desperate attempt to hold his shattered

pieces together ... **



Scully dropped the scalpel. It clattered, creating

an intricate pattern of blood on the gleaming

metal. She reached her gloved hands towards the

heart, willing her eyes to be playing tricks on

her. But her hands corroborated what her eyes had

discovered. A slight tremor emanated from the organ

-- a tremor that intensified until it established a

familiar and haunting rhythm.



th-DM. th-DM



She backed away in horror, holding her bloody hands

away from her body but unable to wrench her eyes

from the corpse and its beating heart. Teena

Mulder's head drooped slowly in her direction,

hazel orbs blinking numbly, guarded by thick, blue

lids. The mouth opened like a sarcophagus. The lips

were Teena's but the voice was his:



"She is me, Scully. She is me."



No, Mulder. No. The stench of death rode on the

exhalations of the corpse, making her gag, retch.

"Scully. Scully. Scully. Scully. Scully ..."



"Scully!" Her eyes flew open, dilated in horror,

the erratic movement of her head ceasing suddenly

as she caught Mulder's gaze where his head lay next

to hers on the pillow. His pillow. His apartment.

They were sleeping. His mother. Suicide. She had

told him and he had not believed and she had proven

it. And he had broken in her arms.



She fought the urge to retch or explode, relaxing

into the movement of his hand on her ribcage -- the

hand that had shaken her from a hellish slumber. He

lifted his hand gently from her stomach, smoothing

her hair back from her flushed face and ending by

caressing her upper lip where small beads of sweat

had gathered. All the time he continued the

soothing murmur of her name.



She gazed back at him, seeing his body stretched

diagonally across the bed where he had collapsed,

spent and exhausted, head inches from hers as she

had run her fingers through his hair. His face was

lined and weary from an intense night of sorrow.

His red-rimmed eyes looked swollen, painful. But in

their dark, flickering depths she saw no trace of

his own agony: only concern for her.



And that was what severed the thin cord of control

that had held her together over the previous 18

hours. Her face crumpled savagely as a strangled

sob racked her body. He gathered her hungrily into

his arms, pressing her tightly against him, one

hand roughly stroking her head, her neck, her

shoulder as she sobbed into his collarbone.



"I'm sorry ... Mul ... der. So sorry," she managed

between choking breaths.



"Scully, you have nothing to apologize to me for,"

he breathed quietly, darkly into her hair, rocking

slowly as she clung to him.



"I'm so ... sorry ... about ... your ... mother. I

- I tried. I did ... everything I knew how. I ...

wanted to be-believe. For you. But there was ... no

evidence ... nothing."



"Oh Scully." His voice was thick, and he said no

more. Her sobbing intensified, and he felt her

fingers dig further into his back. He relaxed into

the pillow, bringing her with him, face still

buried in his chest. His grip loosened, and he ran

his fingers through her hair and along her arm

until it lay outstretched with his across the

mattress, fingers entwined.



Silently, very silently, he stared at the ceiling

until her sobs subsided into shudders, then into a

limp heaviness on top of him.



"Scully?" He spoke undemandingly after several

moments of stillness, punctuating the question with

a caress of his thumb over her hand.



She removed her fingers gently from his and raised

up on his chest to look at him for the first time.

Her voice was low, tearstained, and tired. "Mulder,

I'm sorry you have to be alone." Her eyes spoke

tremendous sadness. The usual strength of her gaze

was absent, wistful. She allowed him to look at

her, vulnerable and young. Her eyes glistened, her

lips were parted and chapped. Her tousled hair

obscured what little of her face he could see in

the halflight the moon provided. She was beautiful.



"Scully," he said again, feeling her name along his

tongue, gliding, whispering against his teeth,

through the air. He lifted a hand and pushed her

hair away, tucking it behind her ear, though one

lock bounced stubbornly back to curl against her

cheek. "Scully."



Slowly, he rolled her over so her head sank into

the pillow. He propped himself above her, one hand

absently fingering her hair. He breathed deeply,

exhaled, breathed again, locked his gaze with hers.



"I am never alone. Not with you, Scully. Never with

you."



Her eyes melted beneath his. She nodded once.

"Okay." A bare whisper.



Silence followed as she looked at him, then the

blue in her eyes shifted, uncertain. He cocked his

head, questioning.



"Mulder ..." She stopped, reached up to finger the

spot on his t-shirt that was wet from her tears.

Her eyes seemed intent on this process as she

continued. "I will never leave you. You must never

question that." A pause. "But, if I were ... gone.

If I were ... if the cancer ... would you keep

going?" She glanced back up to search his

expression, but his head had dropped against his

chest, the stubble of his chin scraping against her

fingers. "Would you go on?"



He exhaled sharply. "I ... don't know, Scully. I

would try."



"Please try, Mulder. Try."



"I will. I *would*..." he corrected himself. "But I

can't promise you, Scully. You know that." His eyes

begged for understanding.



"I know," she mouthed. She reached for him and

grazed her knuckles across his forehead, down his

nose, along his cheek, then dropped her arm heavily

to the bed. A shuddering breath. "I don't want it

to be you on that table, Mulder. I don't want

anyone to question. Not like your mother. Not like

that."



Something in his eyes changed, deepened in the

faint light. She could see her reflection in the

flickering greens and browns of his iris. He

extended a finger to her neck, improvising small

circles as he inched his head towards hers.



"You love me, Scully?" His quiet words carried a

hint of awe and barely the intonation of a

question, but she felt his need for a response. 



His face was so close, she could not see all of

him. She focused on his lips. Full, boyish, honest

lips, parted so a hint of straight, white teeth was

visible. Her breath mingled with his. She closed

her eyes as the sensation of his presence washed

over her. Her voice trembled, broke. "Yes."



Her heart quickened as she felt the weight of his

chest upon hers. He snaked one hand into her hair,

the other behind her back and to her neck. They

breathed together, his nose whispering against

hers, his mouth tantalizingly close.



"I love you too."



And his lips finally connected, soft, yielding,

tasting, becoming more demanding as she responded

with equal intensity. A sound between a whimper and

a growl resonated from his throat as he pulled her

further into him, exploring her mouth, then

breaking away to kiss every angle of her face, her

chin, her neck, before collapsing motionless on top

of her. She felt his heart thudding into her

breast; his breath condensed wetly against her ear.



She wrapped her arms around his broad back, holding

him, savoring his weight upon her as their

breathing slowed to a rhythmic cadence. She loved

him.



"Say the words to me, Scully." A tickle of velvet

against her ear.



She knew what he meant; she was almost surprised to

realize she hadn't.



"I love you, Mulder."



**************************

The end.

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