Title: Esto Perpetua (1 of 1)
Author: Diana Battis
Distribution: OK for Gossamer, Xemplary and Spookys.  Anywhere else, just 
ask. I usually say yes.  
Classification: MSR, S, Angst 
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Yes. That's it -- just yes.  
Summary: The moment we're born we begin to die.
Note -- This is the final installment in the Interminabilis Vitae series, but 
it isn't necessary to read the other stories for this one to make sense.  If 
you want to read them, they can be found at my website.  The URL is below.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.  Never have, never will, damn it!
Author's Comments: Special thanks to the betas extraordinaire, Kristy and 
Lisa, for their time, insight, and suggestions.  Guys, I'm in your debt!
Music may be the food of love, but I live for feedback!  E-mail me -- 
All4Mulder@aol.com
My fanfiction can be found at: 
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Vault/4090/TheXFilesFic.html

********

It was deja vu all over again.

Scully smiled without humor as those words passed through her mind.  She'd 
been in this position before, waiting for the verdict.  It didn't get easier 
with practice.

Her eyes scanned the waiting room.  Soft, white leather chairs were 
coordinated in what decorators liked to refer to as 'conversation groups.'  
Muted light filtered through windows framed with hanging greenery.  The walls 
were painted a cheerful yellow, and tranquil landscapes hung in syncopated 
groups.

The plush setting should have comforted her, but she didn't feel soothed.  
They were only a bittersweet reminder of life beyond this place.

She focused for a moment on one of the plants, hanging in a bright blue pot.  
The philodendron was dark and glossy, perfect.  Almost perfect, she amended 
after further inspection, noticing the browned edges on a few leaves.  Too 
much water, or too little?  She couldn't remember which caused that 
condition.  Either way, it looked like this plant was in need of some TLC or 
it would soon be dead. . .

Life and death -- that's what it's all about, she reflected.  Everything has 
a beginning and an end, inextricably entwined like the woven knots of the 
plant's macrame hanger.  The moment we're born we begin to die, and no amount 
of money or power can postpone this inevitable conclusion.

Death didn't frighten her.  As a scientist, she knew it was an integral part 
of nature.  As a pathologist, she was no stranger to its many faces.  As a 
Catholic, she believed in an afterlife.  But it was different when you were 
facing your own mortality.

It really wasn't the thought of dying that bothered her.  It was what it 
would do to those she left behind.  Her mother, her brothers, Mulder.

Mulder most of all.

She glanced up at him.  He was sitting close to her, and his hand held hers 
in a comforting grasp.  Another time, another place and she would have pulled 
away from his touch.  But not now.  She smiled at him, and was rewarded with 
an answering one as his fingers unconsciously tightened their hold on hers.

"Your hand's cold," he observed lightly, massaging her chilled flesh.

She shrugged.  "It's cold in here.  They always seem to have the air 
conditioning temperature turned too low."  And I'm nervous as hell, she added 
silently.

He nodded, examining her intently.  His eyes were more brown then green 
today, and she could see the uncertainty in their murky depths.  "I 
understand.  More than you realize, Scully.  Just remember, I'm here for 
you," he whispered huskily, brushing a wisp of hair off her cheek.

"I know."  She wanted to stand up and walk away from that look.  It made her 
feel like a specimen under the lens of a microscope.  Exposed and vulnerable, 
everything on display and nothing left.  No dignity, no privacy.  Nothing.

She'd seen that look all day.  While he'd been making her breakfast.  'Hope 
you like your eggs crispy, too.'  And at the office, reading through a stack 
of periodicals.  'If he drowned his victims in an oatmeal bath, would that 
make him a cereal killer?'  All the while, those eyes.  Staring.  Dark and 
haunted.  Nowhere to run or hide from that look.  Staring until she was ready 
to scream.

Just like he was doing now.

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate his concern.  But it made her 
uncomfortable.  And it was such a short jump from concern to pity.

God, I couldn't take his pity!  She blinked back tears, suddenly ashamed of 
the weakness.

Silly to think that way.  When did Mulder ever pity her?  Never, not even 
when he thought she was blindly following her scientific instincts instead of 
trusting his more surreal ones.  He didn't always agree with her theories, 
but he never treated her with disdain.  Well, not often anyway.  But then, 
she seldom lent much credence to his, so they were even.

Maybe I should start keeping a list -- quid pro quo.  She smiled at that 
thought.  

Lists.  She'd made a number of them the last time.  Cataloging her 
belongings, doling out the pieces of her life like so many pieces of silver.  
Grandma Scully's good china to Tara and Bill.  Ahab's books to Charlie.  The 
jewelry to Mom.  And when she was finished, she'd realized what a meager list 
it was.  A sad thing really, to think that the sum total of her existence 
could be contained on three sheets of lined paper.

The real legacy was quite different.  Heartache for Mom.  Another reason to 
hate for Bill.  Faded memories for Charlie.  And equal shares of 
disappointment for all.

If only Missy were here. . .

Older sister.  Best friend.  Confidant.  Accepting of all her little sister's 
foibles, but different in so many ways.  She never worried what others 
thought, and never sought approval for her actions.  She knew it was more 
important to be true to yourself.  Scully wished she could absorb all those 
qualities now, quickly.  She'd never needed her big sister more than she did 
right now -- but Melissa had never been further away.

Scully could remember long, slightly silly conversations with her.  Sitting 
in the dark, with only a couple of candles lighting their room.  Atmosphere, 
Missy had called them.  'I don't know if it hurts to lose your virginity, but 
I'll let you know Saturday night.'  Snorts and giggles punctuating their 
sentences.  'Dad'll kill me, Missy, but I really want that nose ring.'  In 
the flickering shadows they'd planned their futures.  'I'm never getting 
married, Dana.  You can have kids without a husband.'  Never once a thought 
about the futility of those plans.  'Come on, don't be such a baby!  One puff 
isn't gonna give you cancer.'

Shit.

I wonder what she'd say to me about all this?  Probably tell me to stop 
feeling so damned sorry for myself and think positive.  'Too much negative 
energy around you, Dana.  You need to relax, let the positive energies flow. 
. .'

There wasn't a hell of a lot to be positive about.

Except Mulder.  The one thing she could count on, without reservations.   

She remembered his anguish when she'd been fighting cancer.  The furtive 
glances, the concerned air.  His hands had always been touching her then, 
making sure she was still there, still breathing, still alive.  She knew his 
strength and determination were as responsible for her survival as the 
implant was.                                               

And now this.  Another growth.

Biting her cheek, Scully recognized the metallic taste of blood on her tongue 
as she thought about the biopsy and its possible results.  Malignant or 
benign, her only choices.  Fears she had relegated to the shadowy part of her 
psyche now had a new place to occupy, and the freedom to taunt her with their 
return.

A silent prayer: Oh, God, please don't make us go through that again.  
Unconsciously, she reached for her cross, holding it between her thumb and 
forefinger. 

"You okay?" Mulder asked softly, seeing the motion.

She'd forgotten he was still watching her.  "I'm fine."  She tried to infuse 
her words with warmth, to keep him from knowing what was really going through 
her mind.

"Is that the standard Scully answer, or a true indication of your mood?"  His 
voice was gently teasing, but she heard the underlying concern in his words.

She smiled, meeting his eyes.  With her free hand, she brushed through his 
hair, touching the surprisingly soft strands.  "Did I ever tell you how much 
I like your hair this way?"

He raised his eyebrows.  "Changing the subject?"

"It's okay, Mulder."  Scully squeezed his hand lightly, hoping to reassure 
him.  "Really."  She leaned her head against his shoulder, taking comfort 
from the solid strength of him. "I'm sure we have nothing to worry about," 
she murmured.  Sighing softly, she went back to examining the philodendron 
leaves.

********

Mulder heard her soft expulsion of breath, and matched it with one of his 
own.  He wanted to talk to her, to tell her what he felt.  To share something 
profound and deep, so they could look back on this moment in their 
relationship and know that the connection was still there.  Had always been 
there, even before either of them had acknowledged it.  But how to start?

What the hell could he say that wouldn't sound trite, or worse, insensitive?  
Sorry you have to go through this?  Yeah, well she already knew that.  I wish 
it was happening to me?  No, that wouldn't make it any easier for her to 
bear.  No matter what happens, we'll always have. . .He sighed in disgust.  
Smooth line, only it sounded better when Bogie said it.  

So he remained silent.

His eyes swept the room.  It was a big step above the waiting rooms he was 
used to.  No hard, molded-plastic chairs, cracked linoleum, or institutional 
green walls here. This place was cheerful, unrelentingly so, with comfortable 
chairs and current issues of the most popular magazines fanned out on the low 
tables.  Do they pay someone to arrange them that way?

Glancing around the room again.  This time seeing the people. Waiting.  Some 
cheerful, some quiet.  All with that same look in their eyes.  Haunted.  Was 
that how they looked?

One thing remained the same -- that antiseptic aroma that seemed to be 
indigenous to all hospitals and doctor's offices, never letting them forget 
for one second where they were.  Or why.  At least they weren't being 
subjected to the 1000 Strings version of "Stairway to Heaven."  

'And she's buying a stairway to heaven.'  Fuck!  Why did he have to think of 
that song?  He racked his mind, trying to come up with another one. "All 
Along the Watchtower."  Nodding, mentally reciting the lyrics.  'There are 
many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.'  He shook his head.  
No.  No good.  He wanted something innocuous. Something. . .normal.

He tried all day to keep things normal.  To act as though it was just another 
Monday, with the usual load of paperwork to file and leads to follow up.

As an actor, he made a great FBI agent.

Scully tried, too.  He'd shown her an interesting piece in one of the 
tabloids, more to break the uncomfortable silence than anything else.  She'd 
responded, quirked brow accentuating her best take-no-prisoners manner.  
'Mulder, since when did "Weekly World News" become a hot source for cases?'  
Her blue eyes, flashing dangerously, letting him know he was really pushing 
the envelope with his lame-ass humor.  But it was obvious her heart wasn't in 
it.

She had such a big heart.  Always feeling for the underdog, always wanting to 
right the world's wrongs.  She'd told him once that was why she'd joined the 
bureau.  'I know I can make a difference, Mulder.'  His mouth curved 
slightly, remembering her face when she'd said those words.  Open and 
earnest, believing without reservation that it was possible.  Still young.  
And innocent.  They hadn't yet taken that away from her.  Not like now. 

He'd believed her because he wanted to.  The idea of a world where the good 
guys won and justice was served had been irresistible.  Almost as 
irresistible as he'd found her.  

He looked at her hand, held within his.  Smaller, but so capable.  She'd 
polished her nails, he noted abstractedly.  Pale pink, pearly-looking.  Such 
a feminine thing on hands so rarely engaged in feminine pursuits.  All part 
of her mystery, and he wanted more time to play detective, to try and unlock 
the secret that was Scully.

Time.  That was the enemy here as much as the growth was.  It was like fog, 
you were aware of it, but couldn't touch it, hold it.  An eventually, it 
drifted away. . .

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the kaleidoscope of shapes behind his 
lids.  Swirls of light, uncontrolled and random.  Like life.  You never know 
what might appear next, what shape it will take.

Shape.  Shape shifting.  And where the hell was Jeremiah Smith when you 
needed him?  They would have known immediately whether or not it was cancer 
if he'd been around.  None of this bullshit waiting while the fucking labs 
make their money.  No sleepless nights, spent imagining the worst.  No 
leaving you sitting like an innocent defendant, waiting for the jury to 
deliver a verdict.  With one touch Smith would know, and then Scully would be 
healed and whole. . .

'You made me a whole person.'  He'd told her that once.  And it was true.  
She loved him for what he was, accepted his faults along with his virtues and 
didn't spend nights dreaming of ways to change him.

He had changed, though.  He was more open to her theories now, more willing 
to trust her hypotheses instead of relying solely on instinct.  Well, most of 
the time anyway, he thought with a smile.  Lately, he could count on the 
fingers of one hand the number of times he wasn't. . .

He started to make a list.  What Dana Katherine Scully gives me:  I can count 
on her.  I can depend on her logic.  She keeps me focused.  Gives clarity to 
my thoughts.  Covers my ass. . .when warranted.  And Christ, she even laughs 
at my jokes -- most of the time.

Opening his eyes, he shot another quick glance at her.  She seemed deep in 
thought, but he knew her expression was a facade, thin and brittle like ice 
in early winter.  The slightest pressure would break through it and leave her 
exposed.  He didn't want that.

He knew Scully valued her privacy, and he respected her wishes, as much as it 
were possible.  That was hard for him.  He loved her so much that at times 
he'd felt shut out, despite the intimacies they shared.  But that was her 
way, a part of what made her Scully.  He'd learned to accept that.

She's not shutting me out this time, he thought, resting his cheek against 
the softness of her hair.  Part of him wanted to rejoice in this newfound 
freedom to touch her.  It was a big step forward in their relationship.  
Under normal circumstances it would be cause for celebration.  Instead, it 
scared the shit out of him, because it only served to remind him how very 
wrong things really were. 

He looked at their hands, still joined.  You think I'm just doing this to 
show my comfort and support, don't you?  That's only half the truth.  I'm 
afraid.  I'm scared that if I let go you'll float away like some goddamned 
balloon.  Straight into the sky and fade out of my sight.  I can't let go -- 
I *won't* let you go.

Frowning, he concentrated on the connection.  His thumb traced lightly over 
her wrist, feeling for the pulse beneath the blue-veined skin.  So warm, the 
pulse so steady.  But you weren't supposed to take the pulse with your thumb, 
were you?  Something about the thumb having a pulse, too, though he wasn't 
entirely sure that was right. . .

The waiting was getting to him.  Never a patient man, it was taking most of 
his reserve strength to keep from jumping up and punching a hole in the wall. 
 But it didn't seem to be affecting her the same way.  Maybe she was just 
better at hiding it.

He envied her the natural poise she seemed to have in abundance.  She was 
staring into space, lost in her own thoughts, so still that for a moment he 
thought she'd fallen asleep.  

Not that she'd slept much lately.  He'd awakened last night, alone.  In a 
panic, he'd jumped out of bed, one crazed thought after another flying 
through his mind.  He'd found her in the living room, curled up in the wide 
corner chair, looking like a lost kitten.  She told him she'd been thinking.  
He didn't have to ask what occupied her thoughts.  Instead, he'd coaxed her 
back to bed, but she still hadn't slept.  He knew that for a fact, because 
neither had he. . .

"What time is it, Mulder?"  He jumped at her question.

"A couple minutes past six."  His voice was rough and edgy, like his nerves.  
"Laughton seems to be running late," he bit out.

She nodded, frowning slightly. "Just a little.  I'm sure he'll be here soon. 
Chris knew how anxious I was. . ." her voice trailed off, and she licked her 
lips nervously.  "He'll be here soon."

They lapsed back into silence.

Soon.  What the hell does 'soon' mean, anyway? It was an immeasurable length 
of time, long enough to tantalize and short enough to leave you with regrets. 
 The doctor will be here soon versus it was over all too soon. . .

I can't think like this, he told himself again.  She's going to be fine.  
It's just a lump.  A bit of fatty tissue that can be removed without any 
danger.  This happens to a lot of women. Goddamn it, that doesn't mean it's 
cancer!

Cancer.

But Scully was no stranger to cancer.  If it happened once, chances were it 
could happen again.  That's how it went.  Once cancer touched you, you were 
forever tainted by its shadow.  And this time, no miracle chip would be 
forthcoming to afford her a cure. . .

Oh, fuck!

He closed his eyes, shutting out the surroundings so he could focus on her.  
Feel the warmth where she rested against him.  Learn the shape of her 
fingers, the softness of her skin.  Smell the light floral scent of her 
shampoo.  This was real.  This was what mattered.  They could deal with the 
rest, with whatever curves life tossed them, as long as they were together. . 
.couldn't they?

Maybe.  And maybe she'd want some time alone, to reflect on the situation.  
He'd let her make the choice.  He didn't want to smother her. . .

"Ms. Scully?  The doctor will see you now."

Mulder's eyes snapped open at the words.

"Thank you."  Scully's voice was controlled, as was the smile she gave the 
other woman.  She leaned forward, perched on the edge of the seat, and turned 
to Mulder.  "You don't have to come with me if it makes you at all 
uncomfortable.  I. . .I'll understand." 

He stood quickly, and pulled her to her feet by their still entwined hands.  
"Hey, you're not ditching me now, Scully.  We're partners. . .in everything."

She bit her lip, taking in his words, then nodded.  "Let's go then."

He stepped back, allowing her to pass in front of him. Walking behind her, 
his hand automatically gravitated to the small of her back, claiming his 
spot. 

********

She woke up alone.

Scully had expected to feel him beside her, his solid presence the one thing 
she'd been able to count on.  But her hand found emptiness. For a moment, she 
was frightened.  Then she heard it.

Mulder's measured stride.

Back and forth, his soft steps crossing the floor of her living room.  She 
could tell where he was by the cadence of the creaks in the hardwood.  Near 
the front door, over to the fireplace, then by the windows.  He was like a 
jungle cat, pacing within the limits of his cage.  She could visualize his 
lean body, the lithe muscles rippling under the skin as he fought against the 
confinement.

Is that how he feels, she wondered.  Trapped?

That wasn't what she'd envisioned, when they started the relationship.  But 
cancer hadn't been part of the equation then.  Maybe it would be better to 
end it now, before Mulder's heart was broken again. . .

Better for Mulder, maybe. . .

Sitting up in the bed, she pulled the extra pillow over and propped it 
against the headboard, grateful for the additional support.  Sometimes, late 
at night when she couldn't sleep, she'd imagine Mulder was with her.  She 
would pull the spare pillow close, resting against it, trying to pretend it 
was him.  

I shouldn't have to pretend tonight, she thought, a bit of wistfulness 
creeping into her musings.

She knew the day had been difficult for him.  As difficult as it had been for 
her, if not more so.  He tended to blame himself, and no amount of words 
could ease the guilt he felt.  God knows she'd tried.

At times he reminded her of Atlas, with the weight of the world on those 
strong shoulders.  But it was too much for one man to bear.  Trouble was, she 
didn't know how to ease his burden.  There must be a magic combination of 
words and deeds that would do the trick, but she wasn't privy to the 
knowledge.

So what do I do? she wondered, her fingers worrying the soft cotton of the 
sheet.  Pretend that everything is all right and go back to sleep?  Is that 
what I really want?  More importantly, is that what he needs?

He'd stopped pacing.  The abrupt silence seemed to cry out to her, begging 
for attention.

Making up her mind, she threw off the sheet and rose silently from the bed.  
She grabbed his discarded tee shirt from the floor, pulling it on as she 
strode purposefully into the hall.

The living room was in darkness, lit only by the faint glow coming in through 
the windows.  She saw him, silhouetted against them.  Jeans hung low on his 
hips, and his bare back rippled as he bent to push the window open.

A cool breeze swept into the room, causing the sheer curtains to float out 
like twin ghostly apparitions.  They billowed over him, capturing him in 
their filmy folds as though trying to steal him away from her.  You can't 
have him, she warned, taking a deep breath of the fresh air.  He's mine.

She crept up silently behind him, snaking her arms about his waist and 
pressing herself tightly against him to stake her claim.  His skin felt 
chilled, and she rubbed her face against the hard muscles of his back, 
cooling the sudden warmth in her cheeks.

"Did I wake you?"  His arms covered hers, his hands closing over her clasped 
fingers.

"Yes and no," she answered, her lips curving upward.

She heard the rumble of his laughter as it vibrated through him.  "A perfect 
answer.  Always keep 'em guessing, huh Scully?"

"I'm sorry.  You want to know why I woke up?  Let me elaborate."  Tightening 
her hold, she leaned closer to him and pressed a kiss to the center of his 
back.  She opened her mouth slightly to trace a small circle with her tongue, 
and felt fiercely pleased when he shuddered in response.

"I think I understand now," he rasped.  With a final squeeze, Mulder pulled 
out of her embrace and turned his back to the window, resting his hip against 
the narrow sill.  He grabbed her wrist and she felt herself tugged against 
him again, his breath mingling with air from the open window to stir the hair 
fanned over her cheek.

"I always make my intentions clear," she murmured, turning her face up to 
him.  "Besides, we still need to talk."

"I know."  Mulder sighed, tucking her hair behind her ears with unsteady 
hands.  His fingers trailed down her cheek to cup her chin, further tilting 
her head.  His eyes, now a brilliant green, seemed to sparkle in the soft 
light.

She quirked an eyebrow, waiting. . .

"I. . .I don't know how to start."  He rubbed a hand through his hair, a 
suddenly serious look on his face.  "While we were sitting in that waiting 
room today I did a lot of thinking. . ."

She could see where his mind was headed.  "It wasn't cancer, Mulder.  You 
were there, you heard the diagnosis.  The type of growth I had, fibroadenoma, 
is the most common benign breast tumor.  The doctor gave me a clean bill of 
health, and he doesn't see any reason for me to worry."  She smiled up at 
him.  "It's over now."

He frowned, his eyes focused on a spot somewhere behind her.  "But what if it 
happens again?" he whispered.

"There are no guarantees in life, Mulder.  You of all people should know 
that."  Exasperation tinged her words.

"Scully, did you ever wonder what life would be like if you'd chosen another 
path?"  He hesitated, as though searching for the right words.  "Sometimes 
the choices we make seem so easy, so cut and dried.  Light's red, we stop.  
Green, we go."  His hands gently gripped her shoulders.  "But sometimes we 
get the yellow one. . .it means caution.  I think we've just hit a yellow 
light."

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say, Mulder?"  She frowned, feeling a 
chill that had little to do with the early morning air sweeping through the 
open window.  "Is this your way of saying we need to. . ."  Her voice 
faltered as she sought the right phrase.  Break up sounded juvenile, and cool 
things trivialized what they had.  But how did you describe their 
relationship?

He breathed deeply, nervously swiping his tongue across his lips.  "It's not 
easy for me, Scully."

"Maybe you'd like to back away from 'us,' Mulder," she forced out.  "Give 
yourself a little breathing space."  Fast and direct, that's how she wanted 
it.  No beating about the bush.  Scully tensed, prepared to hear the worst, 
and was shocked to hear his laughter.

"Guess we missed one too many of those communication seminars," Mulder's 
voice was light, achingly so.  "I'm trying to give you a chance to back out 
gracefully, Scully."  His thumbs brushed along the tender skin of her inner 
arms, sending little jolts of pleasure along her nerve endings.  "After this 
past week, and all you've been through, I thought that maybe. . ."  He 
shrugged, flashing her a self-deprecating grin

"Mulder, you think too much."  She leaned into him, rubbing her cheek against 
the sparse hair sprinkled across his chest.

She heard his gasp, then the hands on her shoulders drifted to her waist, 
pulling her tight against him.  He buried his face in her hair, whispering, 
"Last chance to bail, Scully."

"I'm not going anywhere, Mulder.  Deal with it," she ordered.  Lifting her 
head, she smiled, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

Soft as a butterfly's wings, her lips touched his.  A balm, a promise, an end 
and a beginning.  She let her kiss speak for her, and hoped her message was 
received and understood.

When his arms crushed her to him, she had her answer.

********

End

Diana Battis
Feedback is appreciated -- All4Mulder@aol.com