This is intended to be a series of independent but 
interlinked stories extrapolating from the events in the 
Season Four finale, 'Gethsemane'. It takes one of the five 
possible plot-developments from that episode: it is not 
necessarily either what I think will or should happen in 
season five.

The first story is being posted with this: Gethsemane: 
World Enough And Time.

The EMXC disclaimers apply.

Author: Gudrun

Rated: R for strong language

Spoilers: Anything up to 'Gethsemane'.

Warning: If you don't care to read a story in which a main 
character dies, you won't   want to read this. I don't suppose 
you enjoyed the episode much, either :-(

Mulder has killed himself just when Scully needs him 
most.

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Gethsemane: World Enough And Time

by
Gudrun
(Osvifsonn@aol.com)


How could you do this, Mulder? I wonder if I ever knew 
you at all. How could you have done this thing to me?

I am dying, Egypt, dying. 

My own words come back - flitting around me like ghosts, 
or Mulder's demons, gibbering mockingly as I sit in my 
darkened apartment : 'I never realized how much I rely on 
him - his passion - he's been a great source of strength that 
I've drawn on'.  Ha! Source of strength?  When I need him 
most, he is gone.  He knew that I needed him, sorely 
pressed.   I came back before because of him. I needed him 
to be with me, to share my dying.  And now the bastard, the 
cowardly fucking bastard, has ditched me again.

I take a sip of my whisky, and the bitter taste catches in my 
throat. 

I have only a few more weeks left to live. Weeks, Mulder. 
Could you not wait a handful of fucking weeks, long 
enough to help me into the darkness? I needed that you 
would be there. I know now why I never let myself need 
you before. Trust no one. 

But God now help me, for He alone can: against my 
judgment, against my own cold clarity, against my beliefs, I 
trusted *you*. You promised me, Mulder. You promised 
that we would deal with this together. And I know I didn't 
always keep my side of the bargain, because it is so hard.  
You know how they say its harder for the ones left behind - 
well let me tell you, they lie. Facing that dark night is the 
hardest thing I've ever had to do. I am so afraid. I needed 
you. Didn't you know that? Or didn't you care?

You couldn't wait - you had to go before. 

The anger is part of the grief. I know this. But my anger is 
real, too, Mulder, because you didn't have to leave me. You 
didn't have to die. I have no choice: you did. But you didn't 
care enough for any of us who are left. Your own pain was 
too important. I always thought that you were brave: I 
always thought that you had honor. I would not have loved 
you, else. Now I know I was mistaken - about that, as about 
so many other things.

Didn't you *know* that it would be me who found you? Or 
didn't you care?  The bitterness of our last words corrode 
my soul. I wish you were here, solid and warm in front of 
me. So that I could slap you - slap you senseless.  And then 
smack the sense and the life back into you again.

I have no time for the numbness of grief. And I have no 
time for the acceptance. I shall keep this burning flame of 
anger bright in my soul, so that I can do what I must. You 
know, Mulder - or perhaps I should call you 'Fox', for don't 
think I ever knew Mulder -  I always believed that if you 
died, I would carry on for you. Search out the truth. Find 
your sister or expose the lies.  And when I knew that *I* 
was dying, I trusted that you would do the same. I needed  
to know that you would care for me enough to keep on 
searching. Not give up. Not sink into hollow-eyed despair. 
Not lose yourself in the mire of your own depression. That 
you would not give up. For if you did, that would make it 
all pointless, all meaningless. I thought you were braver 
than that, Mulder, though I knew you would find it hard.

But you have made a liar out of me. 

You have betrayed me. 

You have ditched me for the last time, and I must needs run 
to catch you up.

Not yet, though. I cannot finish our work. The span of my 
days on this earth is too short now. But I will not go gentle 
in that goodnight.  You were a good man, if not a brave 
one.  I am dying: they have killed me: nothing changes that. 
And since I cannot be a savior - I cannot save myself, I 
cannot save my sister, I cannot save your sister, and now I 
cannot even save you - I will come down on those bastards 
like the wrath of God.  

Whatever it takes, I will do. As surely as if they put that 
gun in your mouth, Mulder, they killed you. As surely as 
they seeded my body with cancer, they killed you.

And they will die for it. 

I cannot mourn you Mulder. I cannot mourn a stranger. But 
I will avenge you.

I pick up my bag and coat, check for the last time that I 
have my weapon.  I pick up the phone.

"Mom..... I'm  going away for a few days.  I need to be 
alone. Please give me this space. We'll be together soon. I 
love you." 

I will never hear her voice again. Disinterested, I wonder if 
I am as cruel as Mulder. But I am dying anyway. Will my 
mother play that message over and over again, as I know 
Mulder did my last words when they took me two years 
ago? 

I see the card listing my hospital appointments tucked 
behind the clock on the mantelpiece above the fire. Skinner 
gave it to me yesterday.  A new treatment .... unexpectedly 
good results ..... a breakthrough .... yadda yadda yadda - I 
didn't listen, just felt the cool smoothness of the card as he 
handed it to me, and watched the light bouncing  off his 
glasses so I could not see his eyes.

I will not spend my last weeks in fruitless search of a 
miracle cure, lying pumped full of poison in a hospital bed 
- without you, Mulder. Because now I have a job to do, and 
I must do it while I have the strength. I no longer have the 
time for hospitals and hope.

You took that from me, you bastard. When you took your 
own life, you stole the rest of mine. You stole away my 
chance for a good death when you crept off like a thief into 
the darkness of eternity. You stole my last weeks with my 
family. I never once blamed you for any of the rest of it, but 
god damn you I blame you for this.  

If I give up now, they have won. You gave up. You let 
them win. Now I must be the strong one for both of us, 
because you have failed us. I will make them pay. I am the 
wrath of god. I am the vengeance of a god in whom I am no 
longer sure I believe.

I close the door to my apartment softly, for the last time.


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