"O aching time! O moments big as years." ~Keats
 
-                           -                             -

One day left.

One more sunset, three more meals.

Impossible to believe that by this time tomorrow I'll be dead. And
yet I do believe it. I know that no last minute appeal will save me.

Doom tastes like singed stars, a hot burden on my throat and tongue.

Time. Coming changing. But not in an avalanche of windswept sand.
Time changes in sticky pebbles, abrupt shifts of clinging dirt.

What brings down mountains?
What makes lakes evaporate and stars die?
What, in the end, kills everything?

-                   -                   -

I watch him pacing outside.

He's older, my Mulder, with deep ridged wrinkles, but he still wears
power carelessly, draping it over his shoulder like a trench coat.
Which is really the only way to wear power.

He exhales suddenly and nibbles on the ege of his lip.

And against every bit of reason in me, my heart quickens. What you
do to me Mulder.

I wonder if he'll come in. Probably not. It would be so much more
heart-wrenching if he didn't and had to look back on this and wish
he had. And Mulder always goes for the most painful way out.

Some part of me says that's not entirely fair. No, but it's not fair
that a woman should die just for loving her son.

If he came in would he hold me? Would he reach down to kiss me?
Would he apologize? Would I?

Would I just melt into his arms, forgetting everything that's
happened in the last two weeks, in the last fifteen years?

No.

There are so many things time can change, does change. I will
always love Mulder. I can't help it. It's not a choice to be made,
it never was.

But, that doesn't mean I can be with him. Mulder and I have the
capacity to love from a distance. To worship without touching.
Dance without floating.

And I can't look at him and forget.  Can't forget that the father of
my son never saw and never will see his son. Never held my hand
during the birth. Didn't watch helpless as his only child was
beaten by aliens with cold, shiny eyes. And can't forget he's
letting me die.

I just wish I could hate him.
-               -               -

"Scully." he says my name like its a cough or a hiccup, a neck spasm.
 A word torn out of his throat.

I don't answer. That's my name Mulder. Glad you remember it.

"Your son. Was he mine?"

"What difference would it make?" I'm tempted to laugh. It's always
about you Mulder. Always you.

Now it's his turn to stare.

"Yes he was yours. Happy now Mulder? He was your son, he had
your eyes, your middle name, your lanky build. He was yours!"

"Ours." he says softly. And then he hesitates, "Scully."

"Excuse me Sir. But, the prisoner needs to be led out and examined
before the execution." interrupts a young guard.

I wait for Mulder to intercede and then realize he won't. Nothing's
changed.

"Scully." he says, begging me with his eyes.

"Goodbye Mulder."

He doesn't respond, but he turns on his heels and starts walking
quickly towards the courts. I know he's going to try to save me, I
know from the way his body is taut and stiff. From the lines of his
fist.  From the hard set of his nose.

But, I also know he's too late.

-               -                   -

Walking out is like walking into a storm. I'm greeted by a blast of
noise, raucous and joyful. The mood here is cheerful, as if these
people have come to a festival not an execution. I steel my eyes,
and purse my lips, locking myself in.

Two guards hold back my arms in pincers of steel as they lead me
to the pedestal. The chief of justice talks for awhile and the crowd
gets restless, as do I. My mind wanders, I am unable to concentrate,
ever word seems lined with fog. The end is approaching.

Somewhere a man with old eyes works, hunched over his desk, the
world resting on his shoulders. I have time he thinks desperately. I
can do this. I have time.

No, Mulder.  Time's up. But, don't worry, I don't blame you. Better
luck next time. We part in love.

The gun is silent, except for the hiss of the bullet slicing through
the air and flesh.

The crowd's jubilant cries and shouts start to dim. The sound of a
train approaching.

Death reaches out its arms to embrace me.

And then as I swirl in a mist of colors and sounds, low, husky
voices, and rainy evenings, he calls me by name.
 
 

-               -               -           -

I know that by now everyone is sick of angsty requiem post fics.
But, it's not my fault! If only the premiere came sooner then maybe
there would be something else to write about.  Anyway, if this
depressed you go read CindyET's The Case of the Relucant
Pathologist or Dlynn's Wizard of X, they're guaranteed to give
you at least one fit of hysterical laughter.

And please send feedback, all emails will be watered, fed, and
worshipped :)

I can't thank my beta, the AMAZING Ikkle, enough.  She's
been with me for this whole, long rough road, through
revision after revision.  You did the work of six people
and you did it wonderfully. :)

Also, thanks to Deann for keeping me constantly
entertained. I dread the day when I'll have to share
you with everyone else :)

And just to show everyone the state of my mind, I
wrote this after being kept away from my computer
for a month.

~Nat

"I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
 And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
 And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white
  sail's shaking,
 And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking."
- John Masefield, SeaFever