TITLE: Close to the Deadline (1/7)

AUTHOR: Nadine

EMAIL ADDRESS: dana@skinnerholics.zzn.com (Feedback always welcome!)

ARCHIVE: (Don't know why anyone would want to, but anyway) Anywhere you want, just keep my name attached and drop me a line, please

SPOILER WARNING: Up to and including Memento Mori

RATING: PG (future parts will be NC-17!)

CONTENT WARNING: MSR (eventually)

CLASSIFICATION: S/A

SUMMARY: Scully is afraid that now that she is so close to death, she will never be able to reveal her true feelings to Mulder.

DISCLAIMER: The characters (and the monologue at the beginning) are the property of Chris Carter and 1013 productions, and, when you think about it, they also belong to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. Though they have been used without permission, I have no intention to profit from their use.

Big thanks to Velvet for beta reading, suggestions and support!

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Close to the Deadline (1/7)
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For the first time, I feel time like a heartbeat. The seconds pumping in a my breast like a reckoning. The numinous mysteries that once seemed so distant and unreal threatening clarity in the presence of a truth entertained, not in youth, but only in its passage.

I feel these words as if their meaning were weight being lifted from me. Knowing that you will read them and share my burden as I have come to trust no other. That you should know my heart, look into it; finding there the memory and experience that belong to you -- that are you -- is a comfort to me now as I feel the tethers loose and the prospects darken for the continuance of a journey that began not so long ago and which began again with a faith shaken and strengthened by your convictions.

If not for which I might never have been so strong now as I cross to face you and look at you, incomplete. Hoping that you will forgive me for not making the rest of the journey with you.

xxx

Scully?" he asks.

"Yeah?" I answer.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine, thank you", I answer automatically, knowing the words won't satisfy him.

"Sure you are." He looks straight into my eyes, his face not betraying his concern.

"Yes, I am", I tell him, my voice not accepting any protest. I turn away to continue my work. The discussion is finished, I tell him without words.

I try to ignore him, glad to have the files in front of me to turn my attention to.

I'm tired of his questions, his looks that are drilling into my eyes, searching for the reason of my uncomfort. Over and over again.

I'm tired of his concern, his sympathy.

He's always around me, asking me if I'm alright, knowing he'll always get the same trite answer.

But he just doesn't seem to realize he'll not get through, I tell myself. But then I think, sure he has already realized. He's the educated psychologist after all, and over that, he knows me better than any other person- sometimes I get the impression he even knows me better than I do. I suppose he wants to get access to my deepest feelings under any circumstances.

He wants me to say the words. Something like *I'm afraid of what's going to happen to me* or *I don't wanna die.*

But that's not the point. These are not my most personal secret thoughts buried in the very soul of me. I know they should be, but they're not.

It's something else. Something that's tearing on me, ripping my soul apart yet something I can't confess to him unless I want to screw up the time we have left.

That lousy little amount of time.

I mean, I should be worried, upset, fearful, grieving about my terminal disease. It's not that I'm not, but... there *is* this other thing that makes me have trouble sleeping, makes my stomach turn over at times, makes tears come to my eyes all of a sudden. Without the cancer, I wouldn't feel this... uncomfortable about it, could tell myself there's still enough time, wouldn't feel so close to deadline.

Ha, deadline. What a wordplay.

And his behavior makes it worse without him knowing it. He treats me like all the others who know about my cancer. Mum, Skinner, Bill... *Dana, everything alright?* *How do you feel?* *May I help you?*

Poor dying little Dana.

I mean, their sympathy is just natural, it's alright. But Mulder... I didn't expect it from him. Not that I'm angry about it, he truly feels sorry for me, and I'm glad he does so, that's for sure. But he doesn't behave like he has the feelings I hoped he had for me. I always hoped he would touch me, be near me with his body, comfort me physically when I need it, be... be more than a friend to me.

So desperately I wished that in this short time we have left together, he would finally make the step and show me his love.

But as things are now looking, there is no love at all. At least not from his side.

And I hoped, wanted, needed him so badly, so passionately, wished that he'd always be close to me, live every moment of my life with me, kiss me goodnight, set my body on fire, love me wild and passionately with all of his body, wake up next morning, have breakfast with me...

God, he is the only thing I wished for.

I feel the tears welling up behind my eyes just as his voice wakes me from my musings.

"Hey, Scully?"

I quickly wipe my eyes and turn around in my office chair. Trying to look casual, I ask: "What's up, fella?"

He gives me a sheepish smile. "Got any plans for the weekend?"

I smile back, delighted by his clumsy manner that makes him seem so boyish. "What did you have in mind?"

xxx

I am standing before Mulder's apartment door, a bag filled with chocolate and other threats to human teeth in my left hand, a six-pack in the right and a small backpack over my left shoulder. After the fourth knock I drop the six-pack to search around in my pocket for my keys, wondering what keeps him form answering the door since he knew I was coming.

Then finally the door opens and he's standing right in front of me, wearing that boyish grin again.

"I'm sorry, I was in the bathroom."

I can't prevent a smile of my own and his grin becomes even wider before he grabs the utensils and closes the door after I walked past him inside. I turn around to watch him examine the sweets.

He's wearing a gray T-shirt that fits really tight around his chest and a pair of blue 501 jeans. All that to *bare* feet.

Oh god, the let me fuck your brains out outfit.

"Hey, Scully, great choice!" he shouts, taking out some of the chocolate bars I bought for us. "That stuff is deadly."

I force myself to smile and stop regarding his muscled frame as I answer: "And what did you get for movies?"

He quickly walks past me and throws the food onto the couch then takes a stack of videos from the coffee table, holding them up.

"I got *Nightmare On Elm Street* parts one to seven, Chuckie parts one to four..." he grins his wide grin again when he sees me roll my eyes. "All the best for my Scully."

I try not to twitch at the words --*my Scully*--, knowing they are meaningless.

"So", I say, letting myself fall onto the couch and dropping the backpack to one side, "what are we waiting for? IŽd say we should start with *Chuckie*. What are you waiting for?" I ask, enjoying his surprised look.

"Okay", he finally mumbles, inserting the tape into the VCR then sitting down next to me. Close to me, my mind registers. As the movie starts, I can feel the warmth of his body next to mine as he makes himself comfortable, draping an arm behind me on the edge of the couch. I lean my head onto the tight muscles and close my eyes lazily, evolving a chuckle from him. He takes two beer cans from the pack and handles me one. We click our cans and I take a sip, making a grimace at the bitterness of the stuff. It's been a long time since the last time I've had a beer, I realize. It's certainly been not half that long for Mulder for as I can tell not twenty minutes later he takes another can from the pack and opens it with a *pffft*.

"Cheers, Scully", he says with a chuckle at my disgusted face then lifts the can to his mouth.

Oh boy, this is gonna be a night.

xxx

About... five or six hours later, we are half- sitting, half- lying on the couch with our feet on the coffee table, chocolate paper all sprawled around us, I am resting with my head on Mulder's shoulder. Through my drunken dizziness I realize what a good feeling it is. I curl my fingers around one of his strong forearms and take in his scent, closing my eyes in satisfaction.

Mulder has just finished the last can of the second six-pack he'd bought... I don't remember when. Must have been some time between *Chuckie 3* and *Pet Cemetery*. He lets out a real bad curse and I giggle and shove my elbow into his side. He moans and I giggle even more until he rests his head on mine. I automatically lift my hand to stroke the back of his head, amazed at the softness of the dark strands of hair there.

"Aaw, Scully, my stomach hurts", he mumbles.

"I know, Mulder. Mine does, too. All the sweets combined with the beer were too much. You can call yourself lucky if you won't be hanging all day over your toilet puking tomorrow."

"Thanks, Scully."

"Welcome."

We keep sitting wordless like that for a while watching the finale of *Nightmare On Elm Street* part... whatever until I let out a long yawn.

Mulder looks up at me. "You tired, Scully?"

"Not at all."

He laughs softly at my irony then lifts himself from my shoulder and gets up, grabbing something from under the sofa.

"What are you doing?" I want to know, startled by his sudden actions.

He holds out a wool blanket to me. "I'm gonna put you to sleep now. Come on, lay down."

"Oh come on, you must be kidding", I start to protest but then do as he said. He lays the blanket over me, takes some chocolate paper away and then looks at me, satisfied with his work.

"Good. Now close your eyes and sleep."

I start one last protest, "Where are *you* going to sleep, Mulder?" I mumble, try to sound insistent but most likely fail as I am dizzy from all the beer and my head is already spinning.

"I'm gonna see", he says as he switches off the TV and VCR and brings the empty cans to the kitchen. Then he returns and lowers his head to mine, placing a soft kiss with his tender lips on my cheek.

My god, those lips. Please, Mulder, give me more of that.

"Now sleep tight", he whispers with a stroke of his fingers through my hair.

"Ummm", I sigh, rolling myself to the other side, hearing his footsteps disappear. Where? Maybe to the bathroom? I don't know, and I'm not asking. This was a good idea of Mulder's. Better than his questions, and much better than his concern. Tonight I don't feel reduced to my illness, don't feel like I'm nothing more than a dying woman who will have to face the cruelest terrors before her death. Tonight I feel like a really normal, usual woman. I feel much easier, much more attractive when he's that... tender to me without even a slight hint of worry in his eyes. I even feel desired, though there is no real reason to; just his touches and caresses are enough for me right now.

Tonight, after a long time, I can finally lay down without worrying if I'll ever wake up, without wondering if I will be able to steal a tender glance, a soft touch, an encouraging smile from him tomorrow. I can simply lay my head down onto this old worn out couch without any other thoughts, knowing I won't have to fight any nightmares. This is how it always should be, I think before my mind drifts off to sleep. For once...

I am happy.

xxx