Snow, Late February
“Do you mind if I stay for a little while?”
The request was modest; with the snow outside, she knew that the roads wouldn’t be clear, and after riding with him in other storms, she figured not to send him on his way just yet. Her stomach heavy with nausea, her heartbeat pounding against her temple, she leaned into the door-jamb of her apartment, motioned lethargically for him to come in.
Though he’d originally offered to sit with her during her chemotherapy, she’d deflected and asked him to drive her home instead; while she sat in that dreadful ward with all the other dreadful people undergoing the same dreadful treatment as she, she didn’t want him to see her lurch with nausea, didn’t want him to watch as she kept her eyes downcast and away from the women who were far deeper into treatment than she was. Then again, were any of these people worse off than she was? The stage 3′s and the stage 2′s, though they might’ve undergone more chemo, still had some chance, didn’t they? She, however, was done, a lifer surrounded by two- or ten-year sentences. Scoffing herself, she forcibly remembered what her sister had always preached: comparison is unfair, Dana.
But everything was unfair, from how her bones ached to the way her mother looked at her nowadays; Scully was tired of making rule of the world, of figuring out how it worked, for all of her scientific and religious measurements seemed not to fit her cancer. Though she objectively knew its theoretical cause, she still couldn’t find proper causation behind it, some action she did that forced her life to turn to this. Scientific or sinful, she couldn’t understand it.
As he walked in quietly, flicked a light or two to her headache’s chagrin, he found his way to the couch, picked up the television’s remote.
“What are you in the mood for?”
Bed, she thought. Alone. But as she looked out her window, saw the fat flakes of snow still falling even though it was late February, she knew he would be staying quite a while.