Disclaimed at the end.

Category: VA
No Spoilers
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Lament
by Paige Addison

I will always be her second.

These words are hateful and ugly, even more so when I look down at
the tangle of red below my throat. But they are true.

I will always be her second, and I'll never tell her that I know. She
is content knowing this secret is buried deep inside her heart, never
to see the light of day again. She is content to hide it.

And she hides it so well.

My hand is caught under an avalanche of pillows and I slide it out,
wiggling the fingers under a sudden onslaught of pins and needles. My
fingertips brush that tangle of red and she stirs, arms tightening.

It is still amazing to think about. This gentle brush of the fingertips,
the feeling of brazenness as I weave my fingers through her hair - that
this is normal, allowed. A gesture too small and intimate months ago,
now a gesture familiar and insignificant in light of so many others
opened to me.

Months ago - how close to a year is it? - all I wanted was a smile. And
now, to see one all I really have to do is catch her gaze. The tiny, amused
smile has nearly become a reflex. She knows what I sucker I am for even the
tiniest upturn of her lips, and just that thought brings a smile to both
her mouth and her eyes. Though she probably won't admit it, she likes being
the object of fascination.

God, I love her.

I'm not a jealous person. But even so, these dark hours before sunrise
always throw an eerie, tainted shadow over everything.

I am the second on a list of two. There was once someone above me, someone
who had been slated to be here in this bed marveling at the feel of his
fingers through her hair. I won by default. And therein is the bitterness
of it, the sour taste of truth.

By default, I win those smiles. I win the sly looks and desperate hugs
and teasing kisses by being the second on a very short list.

And in these early hours, I sometimes wonder.

Can I handle it?

She loves me - I don't doubt that. She's wrapped around my midsection,
breathing steady and slow. She argued me into agreeing to buy this house
instead of an apartment, even though we both knew it would be harder
financially. We braved the subject of children and she whispered of her
fears. We clashed over trivial things and had to learn to compromise.
We smiled, touched, gave, took. We had to adjust to so much.

*And can I handle it being a detour from the first path?*

Nearly twelve months ago, Fox Mulder had died. It had been an insult -
a car crash. Of all the absurd odds and challenges he had faced, even
I understood how unjust it was that something so mundane had taken him
forever.

It should have broken her. It should have affected her in some way,
whispered the grapevine. But she was still going, investigating. There
was a funeral and then the next day there was a new case, a new oddity
that demanded her attention. It was like, the grapevine confided, if
she didn't stop his work, he wouldn't really be gone.

I didn't make the first move. Despite everything I felt for her, I knew
that I was too distant a part of her life to offer any solace. So when
one late afternoon she appeared wraith-like at my desk, hollowed and
bearing a fistful of filled evidence bags, I did what everyone else had
done to her - ducked my head and mumbled an apology. But when I looked up
again to take the bags for preliminary testing, something akin to surprise
trembled on her face. Her eyes dropped, fixating on the plastic bags
clenched in her hand. Her lips fluttered faintly, as if she was trying to
speak but forgetting the difference between the spoken word and the
thoughts in her head.

I reached forward after a moment, prying the bags gently out of her hand
and setting them on my desk. Her eyes followed them, as if they contained
an unimaginable importance.

"You too?" she muttered after a moment, her eyes still cast down. "Nothing
more to feel than pretend sorrow and pity?"

Something in her eyes sparked, dull and cold. I felt something equally
icy settle in my stomach at her words.

"At least we bother to pretend," I murmured softly.

Her head jerked up, painfully. The trembling surprise had gone to
trembling shock. There was another spark, this one glassy and hot.
Words fluttered on her lips once more, but nothing dared spill.

"You haven't reacted at all," I said, and my voice rose a bit. Something
inside her eyes looked at the same time angry as hell and terribly
hurt. I didn't know her. I didn't know her at all, and yet this truly
hurt her -

"How would you know?" she rasped, eyebrows drawn together in a look that
seemed almost petulant. "How can you possibly know how I've reacted?"

"I can't." The words were harder than I intended. "No one can. And you
can't expect anyone to react the 'right' way if you won't either."

She set her jaw firmly. She pushed the bags an inch closer to me and turned,
tried to leave.

"He's dead, Dana." The words escaped from my mouth before I realized they
were there. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

She walked out without saying a word.

I didn't sleep for the next four days. My stomach churned every time I tried
to relax, my closed eyes seeing her fluttering lips, the strangled hurt
and shock. I hated myself for it.

The four little bags contained little viable evidence - there were paint
chips I matched up to a few select brands of cars and fibers that most
likely came from the upholstery inside. I took my own sweet time on it,
writing my report more carefully and thoroughly then I ever had in my
life. Soon enough I would have to go down there and face her, in the
empty basement where his things were and his departed spirit echoed.
I would have to face those eyes, that pain.

I stretched it out as far as possible. I took the stairs down, the whole
way, at a snail's pace. I let my feet drag until I was in front of that
door. His name was still on it - hers still wasn't.

I knocked and there was no answer. Part of me prayed she was gone, on an
assignment or case, at home, at lunch, anywhere but this office. I turned
the knob slowly and stepped inside.

She didn't notice me at first. She was buried in Mulder's chair, her feet
making soft taps on the floor as she spun around slowly. Her eyes drifted
over everything there - clippings from newspapers, posters, pictures.
His desk was still there - his nameplate still shining brightly. It was
as if he had popped out for a few minutes to get a soda and would be back
to continue working at any moment.

Dana stopped mid-swivel as I slowly walked forward, the files clutched
rather foolishly to my chest. I couldn't even meet her eyes at first,
focusing on the hand she lifted slowly for the folders I carried. I
gave them to her and let my arms fall to my sides, suddenly feeling
defenseless.

She set the files on her desk. I braved a glance at her face and her
gaze caught mine as if she had been waiting. There was something clearer
in her eyes now, something painful but understood.

"He's dead, Sean." She probably intended her words to be solemn,
matter-of-fact, but it trembled with the effort just the same. And I
understood. *He's dead, and it *hurts* more than when he was simply
nothing.*

I wanted nothing more than to look at the floor and say I was sorry.

But I held her gaze. "I understand."

I remember leaving the room more clearly than I do what happened inside.
I remember the feel of her body pressed against mine, the feel of her
slight trembles flickering over my hands. I remember her eyes, deep
and dry and trusting.

She shifts now, slowly beginning that rise out of dreams and back to
the surface. The night is at its darkest, and that means that soon enough
the dawn will be peeking over the horizon.

It was a month before I saw her cry. Two before I saw her smile. Half a
year to hear her laugh, thirteen months to hear her whisper my name as
she shivered beneath me.

The sun is casting pink and purple rays over the rooftops of our house,
and they leak through the window. Day is dawning, night is melting. Soon
she'll be awake and we'll be eating breakfast, discussing the recent
population increase of rabbits in our garden, the possibility of adoption,
politics, the weather. Anything at all.

I will always be her second.

But never when the sun is up.

~*~

"I have decided to start things from here.
 Thunder and lightning won't change what I'm feeling.
 And the daffodils look lovely today..."
  - "Daffodil Lament," The Cranberries

~*~

DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and (in case I was too vauge) Pendrell all
belong to Chris Carter, 10-13, and the Almighty Puppetmasters at FOX.
No infringement is intended.

~*~

Ianyi, 8/4/98
"A wise man once said: Happiness is a wet gadget" - SQ1