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******
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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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