Title: How Soon

Author: Alcott

Category: vignette, angst

Rating: PG

Feedback: is printed out and hung on my wall. alcott@chillylegumes.com

Archiving: I would be honored, but please let me know first.

Summary: Scully says goodbye to an old friend.

Disclaimers: Gillian and David own Scully and Mulder's souls, and Chris Carter and his merry men own the rest. Andrew Lloyd Webber owns "Evita." A quote from the fan fic, "Nigella Damascena" by Christina Dexter, is being used posthumously. I didn't think she'd mind.

"And how I lived! How they shone! But how soon the lights were gone." - EVITA

* * * * * * * * * * *

Light is cast from the corridor as he presses the door open ever so gently. Inside, the room is shadowy, lit only by the brilliant orange of the sun setting outside the window.

He sees her, sitting next to the hospital bed, a rosary tangled in her fingers.

She raises her face to him, and in the light of the hall he notes the tears on her cheeks; just a few drops in a sea of tears she has shed since her oldest friend heard the words everyone dreads.

In her lap, she holds an envelope with her name scrawled across the front. She had found it in Cath's purse when she had been frantically digging for her insurance card after Cath collapsed in front of her. For an hour now, she has held it, afraid to open it. It reminds her too much of the letter she had written to Mulder one night, the night she thought she would never live to see the morning.

Although he never saw that letter, the words she'd written echo through her memory still:

"I don't want you to think that there was something you could have done; the sacrifices I have made are ones I chose to make because I believed in the cause, I believed in you.

This belief has been my one constant, and you must know that I have never regretted my choices, nor would I, had I to do it over, make different ones. The cause that was once solely yours has become as big a part of me as the need to breathe, and with it, your passion has become my passion, so much so that I know I could not function without you. And I hope that even now, though I cannot be there physically, I can in some small way be with you when you find the truth."

His words break through the recitation in her head. "What are they doing for her?"

She shakes her head ever so slightly. "She isn't in any pain any more."

"How long can she. . . stay like this?"

Scully shakes her head again, stroking Cath's pallid forehead with the gentlest of touches. "Not long." She isn't speaking to Mulder, but rather is making a promise to her friend. "Not long, Cath."

"Can I do anything?" he whispers, out of respect to the woman who lies so still in the bed, not struggling, barely breathing now.

Scully wordlessly holds out her hand, and he comes to her, grasping her hand as if it were his own lifeline.

She presses his palm to her tear-marred cheeks and whispers, "Promise that you won't want me to stay behind if it ever comes to this."

A quiet gasp for air escapes him, and she presses her forehead against his hand. She is warm; perhaps running a slight fever.

His heart stops for a second, then pounds frantically as if making up for lost time. She smiles up at him through her tears. "No," she whispers. "I'm not sick."

The relief makes his knees tremor, then threaten to buckle. He needs to sit for a minute.

He picks up a chair from the other side of the room and tiptoes back with it, then sits beside his partner.

He needs to be beside her, and not always ahead of her, dragging her behind as if she were a beloved doll.

She reaches again for his hand, and takes a ragged breath. "Mulder, if it is ever my life that is drawing to a close, I want you to let me go."

He does not speak.

For long moments, neither does she. But then: "Promise me."

"I promise." And his voice is hoarse, as if he has been screaming.

They wait.

The sun has set now, leaving behind the shadows of dusk.

She sighs. "Thank you for coming, Mulder."

"Thank you, Scully, for calling me."

They exchange a smile.

The shallow breathing is changing its pattern. They both hear it, holding their own breath. The woman in the bed gurgles and lifts her chin. Scully is on her feet, wiping impatiently at her cheeks, then leans in to Cath.

"Should I get a doctor?" Mulder asks.

Scully smiles sadly. "I am a doctor, Mulder. And no, she doesn't need one."

Desperate for something to do, Mulder offers, "Should I get a priest, or something?"

"No," Scully says soothingly. "She isn't Catholic. And she doesn't need our help right now."

Her eyes have not left her friend's pale, expressionless face.

"It's all right," she says tenderly. "You can go now."

While Scully is calm, Mulder is frightened, on his feet, ready to run from the room. "What's happening?" he hisses.

Scully strokes Cath's hair with her fingertips. "I think it's her soul, struggling to leave."

The hairs rise on the back of Mulder's neck. He has seen people die, but never like this. Never in quietness and peace.

And light.

The room feels brighter suddenly, and an air of gentleness seems to infiltrate their space. He feels like they are not alone, that there are legions of others around them.

He looks over his shoulder, sees nothing.

The slightest whimper escapes from Scully, and she lays her cheek against Cath's chest, which is rising, exhaling, with only the tiniest of movement. "I love you," Scully whispers. "I love you, Cath."

Her ear is pressed to Cath's heart and she hears that the beats are becoming irregular, almost non-existent.

And Mulder feels the moment, rather than sees it, when Cath takes her last, tiny breath, exhales, and then rests. He holds his breath, waiting for her to take another breath.

She does not.

Her face is motionless, wax-like and unlined. When Scully raises her head, her face is the opposite: tear-streaked, flushed, crumpling in sorrow. She takes Catherine's numb, unfeeling hands and folds them over her abdomen, as if she is only asleep.

The door opens and a grandmotherly nurse steps in, with Mulder behind her. Scully had not even realized he'd gone.

"Dana?" she says kindly, the first word spoken in a normal voice. No need to speak quietly anymore. "Mr. Mulder tells me Catherine has passed."

Scully rests the rosary in Catherine's folded hands and straightens, glancing at the clock over the bed. "Time of death was 6:35 p.m."

The nurse nods. "Thank you, child."

Scully steps away as the nurse takes over, clicking on the overhead light and beginning procedures Scully doesn't want to think about. Her job is done. She doesn't want to watch death take over.

Mulder senses this, and presses his hand to the small of her back, urging her gently toward the door. Without looking back, Scully tucks the letter she still holds into her purse and walks out of the room.

The fluorescent light in the hall hurts her eyes, and she blinks. The pain does not recede, and she whimpers slightly, closing her eyes against it.

Mulder is holding her now, there in the hallway in front of the nurses, visitors and patients passing by. She wants to tell him to stop, but she can't, because now she is weeping and her knees want to collapse. Mulder is strong enough to keep them both on their feet when necessary, and somehow he leads her to the elevator.

He doesn't stop his reassurances, or his iron-like hold on her, as they descend into the parking ramp. Outside, the cold night air blows through her clothing as if she is naked. Mulder takes off his overcoat and bundles it around her. "Where's your coat, young lady?" he admonishes gently.

"It's at Cath's house," she sighs. "I was visiting when she. . . when I had to call the ambulance." She moans suddenly. "Dammit, my car is there, too."

"I'll pick it up for you in the morning," he says. "Tonight, let me just take you back to my apartment and take care of you."

She is too tired to read anything into that statement, and he is too tired to be suggesting anything. She stands, her arms hanging limply, as he unlocks the car door. He protectively covers the top of her head with his hand as she lowers herself into the passenger seat.

He even closes the door for her.

It must, she muses sadly, be a special occasion.

Slipping in beside her, he asks, "Is there anyone we need to call? Anyone who needs to know that she's gone?"

Scully shrugs slightly, her eyes staring far past the confines of the car. "She had no family. No parents, no husband. No kids. No other close friends.

"Nothing," she says, and her voice cracks. She clears her throat and turns away, peering intently out the window. "She had nothing."

He replies, "She had you."

END (1/1)

Author's note: Thank you, as always, to the great DashaK. This story is dedicated to those I have lost and to those I am losing.