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Every body has a story to tell.
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: V
SPOILERS: season 7
DISCLAIMER: The X-Files belong to CC, 1013, FOX, etc. (i.e. not us).
NOTES: Written for Fandomonium's Voyeurism Challenge II (elements listed at the end).
Thank you to Mimic for wonderful feedback and for giving this story the ol' beta-shredding treatment.
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"Every body has a story to tell." You said that to me once, standing over a cadaver in an autopsy bay not unlike this one. So much younger then, the hair swept back off your neck making you seem younger still, you spoke with the confidence and poise of one with a lifetime of experience. Your youthful arrogance both irked and intrigued me. Behind that cold facade, I glimpsed a fire burning. When you looked up at me then, with eyes that pierced straight through me, I knew something had irrevocably shifted. Without you, my life was no longer complete.
But today those eyes are oblivious to my presence, concentrated instead on the frigid corpse offered up on this sterile table. Your hair is so much shorter now, and your face bears witness to the years that have passed, yet you exhibit the same confidence of that young woman, sure that your skill will give voice to the dead.
What story is this body telling you? What secrets does it hold?
Your hands move gracefully, stretching a pair of blue covers over your shoes, a mask over the pensive ruby bow of your mouth. I move closer, unperceived, admiring those perfect hands--small but strong. Your fingers twitch as I study their contours. The caress of my gaze erects tiny bumps on your arms. With a barely perceptible shiver, you cover them with a plastic gown and snap on a pair of gloves.
As you begin the dictation, the history of a man who met an unfortunate death, your expression is as neutral as if you were making coffee. It's a practiced clinical detachment that starts with your job and sometimes bleeds into your entire life. But I know you see more than a case, a shell of a man. Here's a mystery to be studied and probed until it divulges its hidden explanation. Your gaze flashes over the bared form while you catalogue every mark and scar; with each one you're already intimately familiar.
Now the blade of a scalpel gleams under the halogen spotlight. The cut is deft and clean, your grip sure. You peel away the flesh, dissecting carefully between the layers, leaving muscle and vein intact as if intending to patch everything back together again. The saw grinds to life, chewing through bone until the chest plate is loose enough to remove, leaving a smoky scent in the air. All the while you peer at the body, intently searching for clues with which to divine the cause of death.
Your curiosity and concentration pervade the somber atmosphere of the autopsy bay, a place I've always disdained. But the ease with which you operate here is mesmerizing. After taking cultures and fluids, you open the pericardial sac and transect the great vessels--in other words, rip out the heart. You remove it quickly, demonstrating your considerable experience in these matters. Holding the stricken organ up to the light, you note the numerous tiny yellow dots speckling the surface and pronounce their likely indication of infectious myocarditis. The door squeaks open then, diverting your attention, and the heart is set aside, empty, still, and cold in a stainless steel pan.
A man enters and crosses to you in confidence, letting his glance wander only casually over the form spread open like a gutted fish. Your eyes meet his, laden with meaning. In that one look, I feel like I have just been shut out of an intensely personal conversation. Tell me, Dana, is he the reason you deserted me?
"Have you determined a cause of death?"
"His heart was infected, but the disease shouldn't have been fatal. With the proper treatment, I think he could have lived on for a number of years--if he had wanted to, that is. I suspect the true cause was an overdose of epinephrine. As a doctor, he knew exactly what dosage would be fatal. But we won't know anything for certain until the blood work is in."
"I still can't believe that he left instructions for you to do the autopsy, or that you agreed. If that man had any respect--"
"Mulder, please."
With two soft-spoken words, you stop him in his tracks. Any lingering questions I had about his relationship to you are immediately dispelled. I know, as only one with firsthand experience can, that this man has fallen prey to your enchantment.
"Regardless of recent events, Daniel was my mentor, and a friend. He wanted this done by someone he could trust. I think you of all people would understand that."
A look I can't read passes over the man's face. Whatever this cryptic arrow that you've shot, it's hit its mark. Clearly, time hasn't blunted your aim.
You turn away from him now, and we both know that he's been discharged. "I need to finish this. I'll call you when I'm done."
He lingers for a moment but then accepts his dismissal without another word.
Alone again, my love.
Your focus turns back to the steel pan containing the most poetic of my earthly remains. You place it inside the frame of the scale then write down the weight. You set my heart on the cutting board and pick up a long knife, your actions practiced and controlled, almost mechanical. The blade presses against the mottled epicardium, expressing thick, clotted blood from the vessels. But you pause, held back by something invisible and unspoken, your masterful hands trembling. Turning, you look at my opened body, my innermost self exposed. A few clear drops run from beneath your mask, dripping onto the front of your gown, mingling there with a smear of red.
You won't forget me so easily after this, will you, Dana? You denied me in life, but I can still claim you with my death. What better way to show you how I feel? To show how much of your career is owed to me? I once taught you everything you needed to excel, honed and molded the raw talent already within you, but you only watched my hands. You never looked at me, not the way I looked at you. Finally, after all these years, I have your attention.
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Challenge elements:
* Mulder or other POV
* can have Scully doing anything
* pure description (i.e. little or no dialogue)
* must be a new fic
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