As tough as wanting something can be,
the people who suffer the most,
are the ones who don't know what they want.
7:25 glared ominously at Mulder as he opened his eyes and squinted at the red numbering of the clock. He had been awake most of the night which was typical for him as he never slept much. But what wasn't typical was the reason for the restlessness; the cause of his torment. It hadn't been one of those dark nights that he spent red-eyed at the screen of his laptop researching, or the kind where he watched old movies just for kicks and insomnia. He had had a dream. He had had THAT dream, the recurring dream that only seemed to show up once or twice a year; on her birthday, their anniversary, or just some nights when his loneliness ate at him from the inside out. She would be standing there, in his…their room, wearing his old t-shirt that hung loosely off her body. He would look up and smile at her and she would return it before climbing into bed beside him and holding him close. That was usually the time when his brain jolted awake, not allowing the fantasy to go on for too long. Mulder would wake up shaken and sweaty, swearing he could feel the aftereffects of her warm touch on his cheek or the spot where her breath had traced along his neck. He felt she had really been there but when he would look beside him the bed was still empty and he was still alone. This was one of those nights, those dreaded nights, but the worst thing was that he dreaded the day to come more. He would be willing to dream about her every night rather than face what he was about to in the coming hours.
Letting out a muffled groan, Mulder ran his hands across his face, pausing slightly to massage his forehead before his fingers trailed roughly through his hair. He got off the bed and made way to the bathroom, turning the tap on and flushing the toilet after he performed his usual morning ritual. The hot water screamed into the sink as vapors floated upwards and into his nostrils as he inhaled deeply.
He thought back to the day he got the phone call. The way that FBI agent's voice shook as she spoke to him softly and slowly, because she was talking to Agent Fox Mulder. The legend. The ghost. He smirked as he listened to her but quickly enough their roles were reversed as Scully's name rolled effortlessly off of her tongue, causing his voice to be the one to quiver. She had called her Dana at first and he was quick to correct, probably more sternly then he should have but she had not earned the right to call her that. He wondered how someone could speak of her so whimsically, as if they were talking about Bob or Sarah from down the street. She was so much more than just a name in an FBI case file and when talking about her you could clearly tell the difference between those who know her and those who don't. While pondering all of this he missed most of the what the young girl had said to him but in the end just replied with an 'alright' and clasped his cell phone shut.
Mulder turned the water off and the steam cleared from the mirror just in time for him to look up and see his pitiful reflection staring back. He wishes he had of listened more closely to what was being asked of him, thought about it more sensibly. Truth be
told, he would've probably said yes anyways because everyone knows he couldn't resist an opportunity like this, but if he had of processed it more at least today wouldn't have hit him like a train. 'Today', he thought as he stepped into the shower. The day him and Scully would be reunited. In the professional sense only, of course, because it would take a lot more then recruitment from a rookie agent to reunite them emotionally. Looking into the showerhead, he tried to let the water wash away the memories of the last time he had seen Scully.
"Don't take this case, Mulder" Scully pleaded with him, her voice calm but keeping in a consistent, authoritative tone.
"I have to," he answered, barely paying attention to her as he browsed the email he had received a day before, detailing events that were happening in a small town near Montana and that had immediately sparked a fire in him.
"You don't have to. It's just like the hundreds of others you've had in the past year that end up being completely scientifically explainable," she huffed.
"This one could be different."
"They are never different. Always the same and you know it. It's the one damn constant in our lives."
"So what then? You want me to just give up on everything?" Mulder questioned her.
"I didn't say that."
"Then what did you say?"
"I want you here, Mulder." Scully admitted, not verbally saying much but the look in her eyes saying a lot more.
"I know and I want to be here, but I can't let this one pass. You know if I do all I will think is what if this was the one?" he answered, looking at her for approval.
"I can't come with you."
"Of course you're coming with me. Ride together, die together. Cradle to grave…or whatever that saying is," Mulder said with a slight laugh but Scully's face remained unimpressed and stationary.
"I'm not joking around this time. I'm done with this life. I'm moving on." Mulder had known this was coming. The moment she would have enough. He could feel it weeks away and had been dreading it ever since. This wasn't the life she wanted, as much as she said she did. And now she was regretting choosing him.
"Mulder, stop. Stop running through scenarios of how much I regret being here. I can see it all over your face."
"Well, it's the truth, isn't it?"
"No, it's not and you know that." Scully said in a soft tone.
"Then why won't you come with me?" Mulder asked innocently.
"Because. I want to go back to being a doctor. Being normal. I've had enough of the chase Mulder, but that doesn't mean in the slightest that I've had enough of you."
"What happened to 'it's us fighting this fight, not you'"? He was pushing her buttons purposefully but he was angry and couldn't stop himself.
"It's still us. I'm not going anywhere." Scully responded, frustrated.
"No, and you aren't coming anywhere either. You are just going to stay here alone?"
Her silence was more of an answer then he was looking for as he searched her face. What did she want from him? Why did she want out? Their fights were almost pointless, as they tended to end with neither of them speaking through words and merely through glances and actions, which seemed to cut much deeper and explain a lot less. They looked at each other and at the floor at the same time as self doubt ran rampant through both of their heads. He knew full well what she was thinking. 'He doesn't need me. I hold him back.' It was what she always thought, though he told her time and time again that it was the furthest thing from the truth. At the same time he was thinking of how he should've let her go, not let her choose him, which she had pointed out as blatantly false only moments before, so he couldn't really ridicule her for her thoughts.
"I don't want anything to do with that life anymore, Mulder." Was the last thing she said to him, quietly and under her breath.
"I am that life, Scully." Was all he could say back before their eyes met for a brief second, hers red and watery and his almost closed from the pressure of what they had just realized.
And that was it. She had turned her back and left and he stood in the same spot for longer then he cared to remember. She left everything behind; clothes, furniture, and anything else. And it all still remained where she had left it, including him, as he still waited for her to come home.
Walking back into the bedroom with a towel draped across his lower half he stared at their bed and thought about how it told so much about their relationship. His side was crinkled and unkempt, a jumbled mess of sheets; hers was tidy and straight, the pillows positioned perfectly over top of the tucked in comforter but underneath her sheets were jumbled too, but no one would ever know at first glance. He didn't dare sleep on her side of the bed; felt it wrong to even think about it. He would just lingeringly look at it from time to time and even run a hand along the bumps imagining her still there. It took him almost 6 months to change the sheets; he could
never bring himself to do it. Knew that once they were gone she would be gone too. The dent her head left on the pillow and the smell of her that lingered there. And it wasn't just some fruity smell of shampoo or body lotion that thousands of husbands and boyfriends were privy too, it was just her smell. He couldn't explain it but it was Scully and it kept him sane during the first while of their separation. Once he finally took them off it was excruciatingly painful, as if he was peeling off his own skin. He never washed them, just sat them in a pile beside the dryer. He slept on the couch for awhile after that because to him, the new crisp, clean white sheets felt dirtier to him than anything he had ever touched before.
The shrill of the alarm woke him out of his thoughts as he walked over to turn it off. He moved swiftly from his closet to his living room and kitchen, before grabbing his keys and heading out the same door she had 5 years ago.