I wrote 95% of this several weeks ago, long before the spoilers 
about "Jump the Shark".  

Title: REAL

Feedback:  Please! 
Website: http://netjeru.ma-at.net/SurrealArts/Annex.html 
Category: Scully Angst
Summary:  
Archive: Anywhere, just tell me!
Disclaimers: Not mine
Notes:  Another of my rare ventures into non-slash.  And a 
first for me in a couple of ways:  Scully POV, second person 
narrative.  Let me know if you think it works!


REAL


It's another mortuary, another small town a couple of hours 
outside Washington.  And it's night again, a cold windy 
rainswept night.  Why is it always a night like this?

You park in the lot which is almost empty this time of night, 
and make your way through the puddles to the reception area, 
brightly lit.  The young man at the security desk looks up 
expectantly.

"Doctor Dana Scully.  I'm here to perform an autopsy."

"Oh yes, Dr Scully. Director Skinner is waiting for you." 

You turn to see Director Skinner sitting in the reception area.  
He's staring at a clipboard held in his hand.  He rises to his 
feet when he sees you and hurries over.  He takes your hands in 
his, squeezing gently.  Kind of him to come  . . to wait for 
you.

"I'm sorry, Dana.  I'd do anything to spare you this  . . but 
it's a holiday weekend, there's no-one else available.  I told 
Kersh he had to find someone else, but he insists that we need 
at least a preliminary report tonight."

Part of you is saying "this can't be real, not even Kersh would 
ask this of me  . . ." but like all nightmares the most bizarre 
circumstances seem quite normal.  And the fear, the numbing 
disbelief is quite real.  You try to ground yourself, to find 
something normal, and your gaze drops to the clipboard and you 
see the brief summary on the top page.  

"Male, Caucasian, brown hair, age approx 40, height approx 
6ft."

Skinner is still speaking.  "He's the third to be found in 
identical circumstances in this town in the last two weeks-" he 
trails off.

You're clutching at straws here. "Sir  . . are you sure it's  . 
.?"

"I'm sorry, Dana.  I ID'd him myself.  I thought that I could 
at least spare you that  . . but that was before Kersh ordered 
an autopsy tonight."

You try to take a deep breath, try to fight down the swelling 
tightness in your chest and your throat.  You look up at 
Skinner's face.  He's trying to stay impassive, trying to be 
strong for you.  You appreciate that;  he knows that your 
professionalism is the only thing keeping you going. You try to 
swallow past the choking sensation like a noose round your 
throat.  

"Agent Scully  . .  do you know why he was here?"

"Yes . . he was helping me . . "  You can't go on. You try and 
compose yourself.  "How did it happen?"

Skinner can't meet your eyes, he looks bleakly over the top of 
your head at some unknown something outside the window.  "He 
was found in a motel room just outside of town.  The cleaner 
found him when she used the pass key to get in to clean."

You look away again, away from the concern in his eyes.  At 
least he knows you well enough not to offer sympathy at this 
time.  That would be the one thing to break you.  Concentrate . 
. just think of the job in hand.

"Yes, sir  . . I understand.  I'll start straight away."

He nods and steps aside, gesturing to a set of swing doors, one 
propped open, and a corridor beyond. "Last door on the left."

You can't feel your legs but they're carrying you anyway, 
inexorably down the corridor and the horror waiting behind the 
last door.  Your hand is on the door handle, turning it.  The 
top half of the door is frosted glass, with a crack in the 
bottom left corner  . . why do you notice things like that at a 
time like this?

You stop, shutting your eyes briefly.  One last brief pause 
before you have to face the ordeal.  Oh, god, please, don't 
make me do this  . . can't someone else do this?  Back comes 
the answer.  There's no-one else.  You have to do this.  
The last thing you can do for him.

You open the door and there it is.  The same scenario you have 
seen - how many times - over the last eleven years.  The high 
table, the still quiet shape shrouded in white.  Still and 
quiet and finished.  

You remember what Skinner said when he first told you.  
"There's not a mark on him.  Just like the others. It must have 
been quick . . he doesn't seem to have suffered. He looks  . . 
he looks like he's just sleeping." 

Just do it, Dana.  You have to.  Just get started.  

You turn away from the shape on the slab and find the robe, the 
gloves and mask that have been left for you.  You see the 
instruments, laid out ready on the tray.  Nothing left to do 
now but start.  	

You stand for a few seconds more beside the white sheeted 
figure.  A few more seconds before it all becomes real.  Pull 
back the sheet and look down.

Yes, it's him.  Umistakable.  The brown hair is ruffled, the 
long eyelashes and full eyelids now covering the beautiful eyes 
for the last time.  The gentle mouth that smiled so seldom but 
so sweetly, silent for ever.  

Byers.

The figure blurs in the rush of your tears, and you turn away, 
shaken by your sobs.  Then the whole room, the whole nightmare 
situation dissolves and fades into your own bedroom, your own 
bed, your own pillow wet with tears.

******

You get up and make a cup of tea, knowing you won't sleep any 
more.

This is happening more and more often, dreams increasing in 
frequency and horror.  Different each time, but the same theme.  
Someone you know, someone you care about, suffering because of 
you.  Always your fault.

Always when you are separated from William;  nights when 
Doggett and Reyes call for your help, nights when you have to 
leave William with your mother, and go.  Rare nights like 
tonight when your mother asks to keep William with her "to 
give you a break".  All of these nights, a dream comes to 
punish you for leaving him.

You recall the first of them;  standing on a windy dockside 
somewhere watching a ship (was it the Queen Anne?) pulling 
away, with Mulder standing on the deck, calling your name.

Another when you watched a nurse walk away from you down a long 
hospital corridor, cradling a stiff little bundle in her arms.

And each time you wake, you are left with the conviction that 
"this time it will happen.  This time it's for real."

******

Six thirty . .  is it too early to call them?  No, they'll 
understand.

The phone rings and rings, but before the machine can cut in, a 
sleepy voice answers.  "Lone Gunmen."

Suddenly you're hesitant, self-conscious.  "Uh, Frohike  . . 
it's Scully."

Surprise and pleasure in equal measure in his voice, followed 
quickly by concern.  "Scully . . are you okay?"

Now you're really embarrassed.  "Yes, I'm fine.  Look, Frohike 
. . this is going to sound really weird . . um, could you do 
something for me?"

"Anything for you, Scully.  Just name it."

"Um . . is Byers there?"

"Sure, do you want to speak to him?  He's still asleep, but 
I'll go and kick him outta bed if you say so."

"No!  No, that won't be necessary.  Look, Frohike, like I said 
this is going to sound really crazy  . . but can you go and 
check that he's okay?"

You hear Frohike's surprised grunt and can almost visualise his 
raised eyebrows.  "Sure, Scully, just hang on a minute."

A brief pause while you imagine him hurrying through the murky 
recesses of the back of the HQ where you have only been rarely.  
How long will it take him to check on Byers and get back?

You jump in fright when he picks up the phone again.  "Hey 
Scully."

"Yes?"

"Sleeping Beauty ain't in it  . . he's sleeping like a baby."

You feel a rush of relief mixed with embarrassment.  "Thanks, 
Frohike."

"Any time, Scully.  Only  . ."   is that a tinge of jealousy in 
his voice?  "gonna tell me what this is all about?"

You hesitate again.  But you owe them so much  . . and part of 
you wants to see for yourself, to reassure yourself that it was 
only a dream.  "Can I come over, later?  There's something I 
need to explain."

"Sure, Scully.  Hey, come for breakfast.  Do you like huevos 
rancheros?"

******

Half an hour later you're walking up the steps to the HQ.  
Frohike must have been looking out for you on the monitor 
because the door opens before you have time to knock.  He 
stands aside for you with his old-world courtesy that is so at 
variance with his outward attitude.

Early as it is, the computers are humming, the TV is on quietly 
and there's a delicious smell of breakfast.  Everything looks 
so normal;  so real.  Langly is at the breakfast table with his 
nose in the papers,  a piece of toast in one hand. He 
looks up over his glasses at her and waves a brief greeting.  
Byers  . . . you look quickly around, to see Frohike at the 
door leading to the living quarters.  He yells, "Byers!  Get 
your ass in here, you got a visitor."

And here he is, coming out of the shadows beyond Frohike, still 
in his pyjamas and bathrobe and looking at you questioningly.  
"Scully, are you okay?  Is William okay?"

For the second time in a couple of hours his figure blurs in 
your tears, and you instinctively reach out.  You shut your 
eyes, trying to squeeze the tears away, and suddenly he is 
right there.  His hands on your shoulders, holding gently,  and 
you gulp your sobs back and clutch at his arms.  Then you are 
in his arms, being held firmly, securely against him, and you 
bury your face in his chest and sob helplessly.

It's like coming home, like finding a safe shelter from a 
storm, to stand there for a few minutes in the warm haven of 
his arms, feeling the soft fabric of his bathrobe under your 
cheek and the warmth of his body seeping through you.  You take 
a deep shuddering breath and sniff, blinking away the tears and 
giving in to the comfort of a friend's embrace.  His hand is 
stroking the back of your head reassuringly, he's murmuring 
something comforting, just "it's okay, it's okay . . ."

You take another deep breath and pull away a little, self-
consciousness returning.  "Sorry . . " and you wipe your eyes 
and try to smile up at the loving concern in his 
face.  He smiles down at you and guides you to a seat at the 
table.  "C'mon, sit down  . .  and tell us how we can help."

Unasked, Frohike places a cup of tea in front of her and takes 
the seat opposite.  He repeats Byers' first question.  "What's 
wrong?  Is anything wrong with William?"

You shake your head. "No, he's staying with my mother, I called 
her before I came out.  He's fine."

"Have you heard from Mulder?"

"Last week . . he was fine then."

"Us too.  So . . ?"  His voice ends in a question.  You look 
round the three faces,  seeing nothing but deep concern.  Come 
on Dana, you can tell them.  You know, from things they've 
said, they have nightmares of their own.

"Sorry about freaking out just then . . It's just . . I've been 
having these dreams."

The three of them exchange one of those wordless telepathic 
looks and Byers places his hand over yours, it's warm and 
reassuring.  "Don't be afraid, Scully.  Tell us."

You swallow and look him in the face.  "Byers, I dreamed you 
were dead."

Frohike whistles softly and shakes his head.  Langly mutters, 
"Heavy."  Byers takes her hand in both of his.  "Tell us all 
about it."

"I . . had to do an autopsy.  And it was you."  Suddenly you're 
embarrassed again and can't look at any of them. But Byers' 
hand is still warm on yours.  He gives you a few moments to 
collect your thoughts.

"You said, 'dreams'.  Were there others?"

"Yes . . one where Mulder was being taken away from me . . and 
one where William was dead . .  it's always the same.  I lose 
someone close to me. And each time when I wake up, I'm sure 
that this time it's for real."

Another of those wordless three-way looks, but the silence is 
comforting.  And Byers is still holding your hand.  You try to 
laugh.  "So, I had to come and see for myself that you were 
okay."

Langly speaks for the first time.  "Uh . . . you know, we all 
have dreams like that, Scully."

Byers shivers, you can feel it go right through him. 
"Baltimore."

Frohike nods.  "Vietnam."

Langly grimaces.  "Las Vegas." He looks up defensively at the 
others' questioning looks.  "Um, Jimmy and the bus."

You look from one face to the other.  Of course they 
understand.  You go on.

"It's not like I don't know why it's happening.  Because of 
Mulder  . . . because I don't know where he is or if I'll ever 
see him again.  But knowing why it's happening . . . that 
doesn't help."

Byers shakes his head.  "One thing helps."

Langly takes it up in the seamless way that is so 
characteristic of them.  "Telling someone."

Frohike:  "When it happens to us  . . we tell each other.  
Everything."

Byers:  "I know it sounds trite . . . but it does help.  
Knowing someone else knows, someone else understands."  

Langly:  "Having friends to talk to."

Byers goes on.  "What we've learned is, you have to hang on to 
the things you still have.  We have each other, we've been 
there for each other for more than twelve years now.  You, you 
still have William.  And you still have Mulder, even though 
he's not right here right now.  But one day, you'll be together 
again.  You have to hold on to that."

You look from one face to the other, feeling a rush of 
affection for each of them. "That's not all."

Your reach out to them, one hand to Langly and one to Frohike, 
and pull their hands together with yours and Byers' on the 
table top.  "I have you three as well."

It's a compliment to you, to their regard for you, that they 
don't immediately rush to demur, to deny or politely brush it 
off.  There's just a short silence before Byers says "Thank 
you, Dana", Langly gives you a shy smile and Frohike just looks 
at you and nods.  Because it's absolutely true;  these three 
have been a wall at your back, your safety net, your guardian 
angels in more ways than you probably will ever know.  This is 
real;  these three friends, probably three of the best friends 
you will ever have, are here for you, for William, for Mulder, 
always and for ever. Dreams die in the morning;  dawn brings 
reality, both the bad and the good;  these three will be on 
your side, for as long as you need them.


END