Fan-Fic: "At the Hour of Our Death"

Page 9

    “Assistant Director Skinner, please… Yes, I’ll hold.” The little music came on. He never could figure out why they put on the most dull and monotonous elevator music when you were on hold. It seemed to him that the last thing a person would want you to do while waiting for them is to fall asleep. Maybe they should make an X-File out of it.
    “This is Skinner.”
    “Sir, it’s Mulder.”
    “Agent Mulder. Have you found her yet?”
    “Uh… yes, but when we got there, she was very badly wounded. The ambulance couldn’t get there in time. She’s dead, sir.” He was glad that he kept his voice steady.
    There was a pause. “I’m sorry to hear that. You have my sympathies. I know the two of you were close.”
    “Thank you, sir.” Did everyone but me notice how we felt for each other?
    “You’ll let me know when the funeral is?”
    He blinked. “Yes, of course, sir.”
    “And you’ll give me a full report when you get back?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Then I’ll talk to you then.”
    He blinked again. “That’s it?”
    “I know you tried your best, Agent Mulder. Don’t make me consider otherwise.”
    “Yes, sir. Goodbye.” He hung up.
    Sighing, he glanced around. Everything seemed to be in order. He sat on the bed and looked down at his hands. To his surprise, the cross was still clutched tightly in his hand. He loosened his grip and stuck the cross in his pocket. Mercy was right. That imprint would stick around for a while. He lay down, loosened his tie, and continued to stare at the imprint. What was that voice he had heard in the ambulance? Could it really have been Scully’s spirit? Despite what many of his peers may believe, he did think rationally… from time to time. Scully’s room felt strangely safe and comforting. Sleep clouded his thoughts as he began to dream.

    Mulder awoke with a jolt. He couldn’t remember what he had dreamt about, but he knew it wasn’t anything good. He looked around. This wasn’t his room. And his shoes and clothes were still on. And then he began to remember. “Scully’s dead…” he whispered.
    He went back to his own room and took a shower. His clothes were still stained with dirt and Scully’s blood. How he fell asleep in them, he’ll never know. He scrubbed himself as well as possible. Somehow, he felt as if the dirt and blood had seeped into him.
    After he changed, Mulder took his and Scully’s suitcases into the car and paused just outside it. He needed to call Mercy and thank her for her help. Especially for being there for him last night. He went inside and dialed the number for the police station.
    “Hello, this is the police, how may I help you?”
    “Hi, this is Agent Mulder. I’d like to speak with Detective Mercy Jenkins, please.”
    “Sure, just a…” She trailed off. “Did you say Mercy Jenkins?”
    Mulder blinked. “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. There is no Mercy Jenkins on the force.”
    “What? That’s not possible.”
    “I’m sorry, sir. There never was a Mercy Jenkins on the force.”
    “What about the detective who was kidnapped? Her partner is Mercy Jenkins.”
    “Um… there is a Detective Jenkins who is the partner of the detective you’re talking about but…”
    “But what?”
    “Her first name is Meredith.”
    Mulder paused for a second. What was going on? “Is it possible that Mercy is a nickname? Meredith and Mercy are kind of similar.”
    “No, sir. I know Meredith quite well. I don’t think anyone has ever called her Mercy.”
    He didn’t know what to say. So who was it that was giving out orders to the officers last night?
    “Sir? Would you like to speak to Meredith?”
    Mulder tried to clear his head. “No. No, that’s alright. Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,” she said in a puzzled tone and hung up.
    He stood there for a moment, holding the receiver, before he came to his senses. It might just be better for his sanity if he just stopped trying to explain these things.

    The following week was hell. As Mulder walked through the halls of the FBI building, people who would normally have no problems saying to his face that he was a lunatic gave false sympathies and half-hearted promises for support in this hard time for him. He supposed they were just trying to be polite and nice, but sometimes the insincerity that often came with etiquette just made things worse. Many of his colleagues, however, actually were genuinely sorry that Scully had died. She had been well liked and respected. Mulder guessed they were just as genuinely sorry that she got stuck as his partner. It seemed the only one in the entire building who was actually totally sincere was Skinner. When Mulder was in Skinner’s office the first day he got back, Skinner expressed respect for Scully and regret for her passing in more ways than his words.
    Then came the funeral.
    Before it even started, Mulder was a wreck. How could he face Dana’s family, knowing he was indirectly responsible for her death? Bill would hate him even more, he would lose Mrs. Scully’s respect, and the first time he would meet Charles Scully would be the funeral of his sister. He took a deep breath. He would go through with this. Because he had to.
    Before he left the apartment, he grabbed his notecards for his eulogy. He was going to speak at the funeral. It was the least he could do. She deserved to know how much she meant to him. Even if it was a bit late. He would tell the world how much he cared for her if only it meant that she would forgive him. Mulder didn’t really need the cards, but he figured that he might forget what he was supposed to say if he got too distracted. He glanced at his notecards and sighed. It wasn’t enough, but he couldn’t think of anything better. The right words wouldn’t come to him. And he guessed there weren’t enough words to say what he wanted to say.
    He stepped out the door, then, as an afterthought, went back in and grabbed some tissues. He hated it when he cried, but he knew he would end up needing the tissues by the end of the day.
    Mulder arrived at the cemetery at 10:28. Just stay calm and breathe, he thought as he spotted Mrs. Scully, Bill, Bill’s wife, and a redheaded man who must have been Charles. He decided to wait a bit before facing them. Instead, he saw the Lone Gunmen sticking out like sore thumbs and went to join them.
    Mulder almost smiled despite himself. They looked ridiculous. At least Langley and Frohike attempted to look presentable. Langley actually wore long slacks and a plain, long-sleeved shirt. The shirt was a black, long-sleeved tee shirt and the pants were black jeans, but it was a sizable difference from his Bob Marley tee shirts and black jean shorts. And his shirt was actually tucked in. It was probably as formal as Langley got. And he looked extremely uncomfortable in it.
    “Hey,” Mulder greeted. “Glad you could make it. It’s good to see you got all spruced up for the ceremony, Langley."
    Langley made a face. “They’re Byers’. These were the most casual things he’s got. They’ve been sitting in a box for, like, half a century…” He paused uncomfortably. “Hey, we’re really sorry about Scully, man.”
    “Really sorry,” Frohike added. “I guess this means I’ll never get a chance with her… And we were so perfect for each other…” he mumbled to himself. Mulder wondered if he had intended to be heard.
    “Thanks… But I’m surprised you actually came, what with all the FBI and-“
    “And all the government types?” Langley finished.
    Byers smiled. “They-“ he pointed to Frohike and Langley. “-almost didn’t come. And when Langley found out that funerals are formal, he started freaking out.”
And so started another one of their incoherent arguments.
    Mulder’s eyes wandered. A few other people were arriving. FBI agents, people who were probably distant relatives or family friends, all putting flowers and wreaths by the casket. Flowers… “Oh, shit,” he said under his breath.
    “Hey, Mulder. Something wrong?” Frohike asked. They had stopped arguing.
    “Uh… you guys stay here, out of plain view,” he said, running towards his car. “And stay out of trouble!”
    “Trouble? Us?” came the answer.
    Mulder rolled his eyes.
    He got in the car and started the engine almost before he got his left leg through the door. Flowers… How could I forget flowers? Idiot! 10:31. Good. Nearly half an hour till it starts. I’ve got time.

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