Funeral Blues

by Kimogen

Title: Funeral Blues (1/1)
Author Kimogen
Category: MSR, Character Death
Rating: R, what, no sex?
Archive: I'd be honoured, just keep my name on it. Disclaimer: Not mine. I'd be wearing better clothes if they were. Spoilers: Post This is Not Happening.
Summary: Put it this way. Mulder's dead. Author's Note: My name is Kim and I'm a ficaholic. Feedback is much appreciated.

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden

I never believed that it could actually come to this. Fox Mulder is gone. My partner is dead.

Even after I had buried him, I refused to believe it was really true. I had seen him, naked and prone out in the forest, his broken body cold and neglected, but I couldn't truly believe it. I had told Skinner as much as I cried hot tears onto the snow at his graveside.

But afterwards, as I come home to my apartment, alone at my own insistence, the reality of my situation has begun to sink in. I have buried him, watched him vanish beneath the hard icy ground, a clich of white satin and glossy wood.

Now, as I sit in the dark of my freezing apartment, numb from the cold outside and from the stone that has settled upon my heart, I let myself remember him. I allow myself to see him as he was. Memories were something I did not allow myself to indulge in during his disappearance, knowing that I would never be able to continue the search for him if I pictured his beautiful face. If I allowed my memory to conjure the image of his soulful eyes, reflecting a spectrum of colours and emotions, I would never have stopped the tears that have not ceased since they began in that cold Virginia graveyard. When he was lost, I had to stay strong, had to find him. Now I have little reason to be strong. Now I understand the meaning of the words `ignorance is bliss'. At least there is hope in the unknown.

My loss is far greater than so many people could ever imagine. I remain perched on the edge of my sofa for many hours, knowing that half of my own soul died with him in that cold lonely field. At least now I can explain the feeling of dread that circled in my stomach all that week. At least now I can understand the physical pain that wracked my body in the days leading up to that terrible discovery. Even my nightmares are linked to his death.

I do not have many photographs of my partner, ever modest, camera-shy, despite his model-like appearance. Always self-depreciating, my Mulder. The only images I have are the few news-clips that Skinner pulled from the FBI archives for me, a couple of surveillance pictures, his file photos through the years. I do not have a single picture of the man as I loved him. The man behind the business suit. I am angry for the wasted years, when I only knew him in the context of our work, hidden away behind his `Special Agent' persona, much as he knew me. Skinner's sweet gift bears testament to the wasted years we spent, each pining for the other in private seclusion. Now I see that even then I knew the soul beneath the dress shirts, it just took me so long to realise it, to admit it. And now it is too late, he is gone.

Sitting here now, in the breaking dawn, the clock reads 04:46. I can hear a bird, intermittently twittering. All I can think of is the fact that it doesn't know. I can't understand how the world can carry on after he is gone. Fox Mulder is dead. Fox Mulder is gone.

He was everything to me: my partner, my lover, my best friend. I will never be able to run my fingers through his unruly hair again. I will never feel his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. I will never be woken by his hot kisses along the line of my jaw. I never had the chance to tell him of the life we created together. Our baby will never know his father. His beautiful, brilliant father. My partner, my lover, my best friend.

Still the bird sings outside my shuttered window.

The dawn begins to rise, brightening the stark sky from midnight velvet to a lighter washed-out grey, promising more snow. I think of the fresh grave that lies out there in a lonely graveyard. If it snows again, the footprints I left only yesterday will be covered, the muddy mound will be obscured. I am glad. The turf that was rolled over the coffin left a trap-door of greenery in the white carpet. I was half expecting Mulder to open it like the door it resembled and step out, grinning, to take me in his arms and rub dirt on my coat, laughing at his funny joke, telling me "Had you big-time." But he didn't. And I was led away.

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