Literatti: Fiction By Deslea
Deslea R. Judd
Word Count: 530
Summary: They won't tell her you were trying to save the world, but that's okay. She knows.
More Fic: On AO3 or my fic site.
Feedback: Love the stuff. On AO3 or at deslea at deslea dot com.
You stagger back.
The thud came before that, but you feel it after; a short, sharp shove against your brow, coming to a sudden point deep in your head. It settles there, a dull void where you used to be.
You bark out a final plea, then slump on the asphalt, and the back of your head reverberates with muted pain.
You close your eyes against the dead white ceiling. The backs of your eyelids are warm against your eyes. You wonder whether time is slowing down, or just your heartbeat. You suspect it might be both.
Your body. You wonder what will happen to it. Marita will claim it, you know that much. They'll find her name under Next Of Kin on your old FBI records, and they'll tell her you were shot trying to kill an FBI agent. Probably they'll exchange glances and gossip about it over their coffee for a couple of minutes, before crumpling up their cups and moving on.
They'll speculate about who got into the Syndicate first, who pulled who in. They'll wonder if she seduced you in, or followed you in to try to get you out.
They won't tell her you were trying to save the world, but that's okay. She knows.
Will she bury you, you wonder? Or will she have you burnt? After what happened to Mulder, you hope the latter. You don't ever want to be like that. She'll probably burn you; you have the oil in your blood, and only fire can kill it for sure. She's a smart girl, that one.
You kissed her this morning, you remember. You don't remember what she said - probably little - or what she wore - probably even less. But you remember her lips beneath you, her softness surrounding you, her eyes upon you. You remember loving her.
You might have told her that, if you had known. You might have kissed her one more time, held her one more time. You might have left her a note or given her a rose. You might have made a will. Maybe you'd have tried to leave her pregnant, but probably not. The oil, after all. Better that it dies with you both.
Maybe you'd have just stayed at her side.
You wonder, when the bright light comes (if it does at all) - who will greet you? There's no-one; no-one at all. No-one but her.
And she still lives.
Will she track your killer down? She has the thing he fears. Will she use it for some vengeful purpose of her own? You think she's better than that, but perhaps she isn't. Not where you're concerned, anyway.
You hope they tell her.
You hope they don't just bundle you up and throw you away. You hope she doesn't think you just left.
Mostly, you hope the world survives, but it dawns on you as light gathers around you that the world always survives. That the world is big and humanity is small, and humanity's passing is as inevitable as your own.
But not today. In small part because of you, there is today.
You think, as everything falls away, that today is good enough.