Spoilers: XFFTF and minor parts of several past episodes.
Summary: After an odd occurrence in a helicopter, Scully is in an unexplainable coma.
Author's Note: Almost every part of this story came from dreams I had – both the dreams and the story occurred in 1999, so if it's weird...blame my subconscious from 12 years ago. Please keep the following in mind as you read-the bracket type indicates whose thoughts you are reading:
*Mulder's thoughts.*
-Scully's thoughts.-
'Skinner's thoughts.'
DYING OVER AND OVER IN MY DREAMS
-I can hear some of his thoughts as surely as I hear my own. But only a passing few. Not everything he does makes sense. I don't understand. Over and over again I dream of us, but not us. Some dreams are very short, others are very long. Different places, different times, different us's. But we *are* us, at the most basic core of who we seem to be. Or not. We're the same. But different. The one man I could never live without. I'm not sure who exactly he is, yet I know him better than I know myself. I know who I am, but don't know. I think the same, yet my thoughts are different. I do not awaken. The times between the dreams are black. The dreams come like an old friend I do not wish to see, for I know they will only hurt me as they did when last we met. Why can't I wake up? Where am I that I'm destined to relive this endlessly? Relive him dying over and over again in my dreams?-
Suddenly her lips were on his. She was passionately kissing this man Fox Mulder.
For Dana Scully, time stood still. Her mind briefly questioned what she was doing, as she'd only just been introduced to him ten minutes ago, but all rational thought soon fled as the rest of her body responded to what her lips felt. Her hungry mouth devoured those full, pouty lips. She snaked her arms around his neck, grinding his face into hers.
Fox, for his part, was stunned as hell when she launched herself at him. However, he recovered quickly, and returned her fevered advances equally roughly. Kissing her was like standing in the middle of a 4th of July fireworks show. He could almost swear he heard the oohs and aahs of the
assembled onlookers as each firework hissed from ground to sky and exploded in colored blossoms, tendrils screaming and whistling outward from the core of each booming center.
*Why in God's name is this woman kissing me?*
*Who the hell cares?*
Dana opened her eyes for a moment, only to find her partner behind Mulder with a cooking pot turned sideways, frantically gesturing for her to see her reflection.
She was about to close her eyes and ignore Paul, when for some reason she looked at the side of the pan and saw herself, on her knees, kissing Mulder. He, too, was on his knees, and she was desperately trying to push his black leather jacket off him.
There was an audible POP! as she backed away from the kiss and gasped. At this point, though, her irrational mind didn't give a fig what Paul or any of the bar's other patrons thought of her. "Let's get out of here," she hissed. She jumped to her feet and tore out of the bar with Fox hot on her heels.
Paul Davidson could only stand at the door of Smoky's Bar and stare after the retreating forms in wonder. He'd never, ever seen his partner do...that. But as he watched, the faintest of smiles appeared fleetingly across his face, and was gone before a soul noticed.
She ran and ran, feeling simultaneously as though she were running away from him and running to him. Suddenly she was tired, and hopped into the first car she came to on the street.
-What the hell am I doing?-
Her breath came in ragged bits as she stared through the windshield of the car, the rational and logical side of her brain fighting like hell to regain control from the irrational and illogical side. She turned her face up towards the driver's side window and saw Fox Mulder standing there staring at her, most obviously displeased with her choice of resting places.
He opened the door, reached down, and grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet. "Come on. I know a place." His voice was husky.
And they ran. Why did this feel so familiar to her? Running with this man, hand-in-hand, as though someone were chasing them. Running away from danger. Running toward danger. Breathless, a stitch in her side, must continue. I'll die if I don't. We'll die if we don't. Must keep running. Fuck the
pain, the weakness, the lack of oxygen.
Where were these thoughts coming from? Why did this all feel so right, yet so very wrong?
Running, running, running. Until at last they reached a hotel which looked to Dana like it was about half beds and half bugs. Seedy little place. It felt familiar, though. She stood as if in a trance as Mulder paid the clerk for a room. He got the key, then came to her. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her down the row of rooms until he stopped abruptly in front of their room. Room 42.
42, 42, 42. The number rang a bell. Room 42. Room...no, apartment. Apartment 42. But whose apartment? Hers? No, hers was...what was hers? Certainly not a number as high as 42. No. But who, then?
He pulled her inside. He faced her, his gaze fiercely captivating, his eyes speaking volumes. She stumbled backwards into something, and whirled around to find herself toe-to-toe with a second man. She gasped and screamed. Dana Scully had never, ever screamed like that. Ever. Mulder would've called it a girlie scream.
Mulder. How did she know what he would've called her scream? And why was she thinking of him by his last name only?
The intruder grasped Dana's upper left arm, digging his fingers into her soft flesh, bruising her even through her blouse.
Mulder. He roared as the stranger touched her. She thought it strange how he sounded like an angry mother bear or a hungry lioness, but only for a moment. He lunged at the man, throwing his full body into him. As they sprawled out onto the floor, the man's hand lost its hold on Dana's arm.
With a screech, she turned, threw open the motel room door, and bolted out into the parking lot.
Until mortal fear and ultimate dread filled her being and stopped her in her tracks as a shot rang out. What had she done? He wasn't an FBI agent, he didn't have a gun. She'd left him. She had a gun. He didn't. She should have stayed.
-But why do I have a gun? FBI agent...he isn't but I...am. I'm an FBI agent! Oh, dear God!-
She turned back towards Room 42. He was coming. The man. The intruder. His gun was drawn and pointed straight at her. Reflexively, she reached down to her holster, grasped her Sig firmly in her right hand, -Wait, that wasn't there a moment ago.-and raised it level with his approaching chest.
The gun, although a foreign object to her mind, felt familiar in her hand. The cool metal in her sweaty palm served to calm her nerves. A hard mask covered her face. Her hand became steady as she took aim.
-Yes, I know this. As familiar as my own name. I do this. This is something I know.-
"Federal agent, drop your weapon!" she barked, tightening her index finger over her own weapon's trigger.
He didn't halt. Instead, he fired. She returned his fire, even as she dropped to the ground to avoid his bullet. When she looked up, she saw her aim had indeed been true. Dana scrambled over to the lifeless form, noting with detachment the chest wound which had killed him instantly.
She then looked towards 42, and ran to the door. She stopped and stared open-mouthed. Tears sprang to her eyes and just as quickly rolled down her cheeks. Her mouth shut and opened and shut again of its own volition, seeking to speak words for which she could find no voice.
-No. It can't be. Not him.-
Her heart tore in two as she rushed in and knelt next to him, knelt in a gathering pool of blood on the thin, cheap, ratty carpet. Tears flowing freely, she reached out to touch his face.
He sputtered, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He choked and coughed, spitting blood and saliva all over himself and her clothing. His eyes opened, but they were unfocused. He appeared to be looking in her direction, but hazel eyes which once sparkled with a burning intensity now glazed over as he neared death.
"No." Dana sobbed softly. "Not yet. It's too soon."
Fox slowly raised a bloody hand to her cheek as she bent over him, using one finger to trace along her face, leaving a line of his own fresh blood in its wake. He sputtered again, then spoke his last words.
"Love you...Sc-Scu-lleee."
His voice trailed off. His hand dropped to the floor. His eyes closed. His head lolled to the right.
He was gone.
An indescribable, never-before-categorized pain borne of loss and rage burned in Dana, starting at her toes and shooting up toward her mouth, where it caused the most blood-curdling scream ever heard by man to emerge from her lips.
"MMMUUULLLDDDEEERRR!"
A scream unlike any he'd heard before jolted him awake. At first, he felt like he'd been struck by a bolt of lightning, and jumped to his feet, looking wildly about him.
*Where am I?*
Then his eyes turned downward toward the small figure laying in the hospital bed. Calming somewhat, he leaned over her, peering at her face in the semi-darkness. Could that scream have come from her? Or could it have come from his own overly tired mind?
Mulder quickly went to the light switch and flipped it on. Glancing at his watch, he found it to be 3:14am. He returned to Scully's side. His lips parted slightly in disbelief as his hand made its way to her cheek. He ran his finger along the mark which had not been there an hour ago before he'd fallen asleep in the chair by her bed. He sniffed the substance on his fingers.
Blood.
He searched her for a wound, but found none. It was then he noticed the still-wet tracks running down both her temples and pooling in her ears. Freshly wept tears. His eyes happened to dart down and to the left, where her arm had somehow come out from under the sheet where he himself had placed it. He lifted her arm, intending to replace it under said sheet when he spotted them.
Five perfectly shaped bruises were just beginning to form on her upper arm. They were red in color, as though made recently, but he could see the purples, blues and blacks starting to appear. They looked like fingerprints.
"What the-? Scully?"
He waited for her to respond, but she lay perfectly still, breathing steadily. He noticed then that she'd kicked the bed sheet off her feet at some point. As he looked back to her face, searching for some clue as to what had happened, he noticed that her lips seemed slightly swollen.
*Jesus, Mulder, it's a damn shame you can tell when those lips of hers are fuller than usual. Been staring at them one too many times, have we?*
He mentally shook that inner voice away and hit the Call Button hanging from the bars of the bed. She must have shoved it through the bars as she thrashed about.
Thrashed about?
*She's in a coma, for crying out loud! She can't thrash!*
Yet there she was, exhibiting signs indicating not only movement, but bruising and bloodiness as well. But where had the blood come from?
The nurse entered and Fox went through his discoveries with her while she jotted everything down on Scully's chart.
"And you have no idea how any of this happened?" the nurse asked.
"None. I was awakened suddenly by a scream. Actually, now that I think about it, it was my name. She was screaming my name. Screaming it like bloody murder."
"But Mr. Mulder, nobody else on this floor heard anything. I certainly didn't. And none of the other patients have reported any disturbances. Are you certain she screamed?"
Mulder's brow furrowed in self-doubt. He'd swear on a stack of X-Files that she'd screamed his name, but he still couldn't figure out whether it had actually been her or if it had been in his head. "Either that or I dreamed it. Whichever it was, that's what woke me up, and this is what I woke up to."
Fox had rarely been so unsure of himself. How is it he couldn't discriminate between a real scream and a one fabricated by his brain? It had been, it seemed, so very real. What the hell was going on?
Dr. Kevin Laurintz knocked softly on the door of Room #506 before entering. After having spoken with the imposing Assistant Director Skinner yesterday evening, he had reluctantly agreed to allow his patient's partner to stay in her room with her. Skinner had used the odd argument that after much experience with this type of thing, Agent Scully would get better faster if Agent Mulder were there. He was to be using the second bed for himself, so it was with no small amount of disdain that Kevin found Mr. Mulder half-sitting on a chair, his upper body and head resting on the bed and his partner's hip, respectively. He'd seen this guy get frantic over her yesterday, though, so had little desire to wake him up.
With this thought in mind, Laurintz proceeded to check Dana Scully out as thoroughly as possible. He frowned as he read Nurse Aimen's report from earlier that morning. He noted that Agent Mulder had requested the blood he'd found on Ms. Scully's cheek be typed. Now he had to examine her left arm, which meant he had to wake him.
He laid his hand on the man's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Agent Mulder."
Mulder snapped to attention, sitting straight up in the chair.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder. I need to get a look at the bruises and you were-in the way."
Fox nodded stupidly. He was bone tired and barely functioning. It was now 7:14am, exactly four hours since the scream had awakened him. He'd been asleep for maybe an hour-and-a-half this time. He rubbed his 5 o'clock shadow with his hand as he headed for the bathroom. He thought about how he'd called Mrs. Scully (call me Maggie, she'd said after learning how Fox had gone to Antarctica to save her remaining daughter) the day before to inform her of the latest medical problem. Like the poor woman really needed to hear about it.
Maggie Scully had, only one week earlier, been involved in a serious car accident. One which had broken both her legs and both her arms, as well as done some damage to some ribs, fingers and toes. She'd been in California visiting her son Bill and his family. One day she was driving Bill's Jeep to the grocery store when a small delivery truck had slammed into her vehicle head-on.
She'd been lucky to survive, but was now facing a long hospital stay and an even longer recuperative period. And Scully had wanted to be there for her.
They had only found out about it two days ago. They'd been out in the middle of nowhere in Canada, so far out their cellphones weren't working, and they had no transportation. Finally AD Skinner had sent a Mountie out to find them and inform Scully that Bill had been frantically trying to reach her regarding her mother.
So Scully, Mulder and the Mountie traveled to the nearest town, where Scully had called her brother. In that moment, time had stopped for both she and her concerned partner. It was with a shaky voice and red, teary eyes that she relayed the news of her mother's condition to him. He shuddered as he recalled the look of horror permanently fixed upon her face, the lost look in her eyes, the way her voice trembled along with her lower lip, the tears she fought valiantly to hold back, the way her entire body had begun to quiver as she'd told him the particulars of the accident and her mom's injuries.
Fox Mulder had never seen Dana Scully so vulnerable or hurt in all their six years together. Simply put, it had killed something inside him. More so than her own abduction or her cancer. More than when Melissa had been murdered. More than any of the numerous times her own life had been in danger. The sheer pain he saw that day in his partner's eyes outweighed anything previously witnessed.
Because this was much more painful to her than any of those earlier events. He could tell she was wondering whether or not the Consortium had anything to do with this, and he could also tell she was leaning toward an answer in the affirmative. Her face betrayed the extreme level of anguish this news had brought her to.
It had never seen an equal.
Never before had They gone after her mother.
He splashed cool water on his face and cupped water in his hands, slurping it up noisily. He toweled his face dry and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink.
*You're beautiful, baby.* he thought sarcastically.
He emerged into the room just as Dr. Laurintz was completing his examination. He carefully pulled the sheet up to Scully's chin and was writing in her chart when Mulder approached.
"So, what's the good word, Doc?"
"Well, Mr. Mulder, other than the bruising, I see nothing indicating that Ms. Scully's physical condition has changed since I last examined her. I cannot understand how these bruises could have gotten here, nor how the blood could have appeared on her cheek. Do you know anyone whose blood type is AB-?"
Fox's face drained of color. "Wha-what did you say?"
Kevin eyed the overtired man warily. He didn't relish the thought of having Agent Fox Mulder faint on him, which is what it seemed he was about to do. "I asked if you knew anyone with type AB- blood."
He swallowed the huge lump rising in his throat. "That was the type on her cheek?"
The doctor nodded. "A nurse brought me the results of the test while you were using the restroom."
"Yes, I know someone with type AB- blood. Me." Mulder replied softly.
"Any suggestions on how your blood would have gotten on her face? Do you have any cuts, scrapes, scratches or other wounds which are bleeding or could have bled earlier this morning?"
"No." Fox squeaked, jamming his fists into his jeans pockets.
"And you're sure you don't know where those bruises came from."
Fox could only nod his head slowly, staring at Scully's cherubic face as she slept on, oblivious to the confusion he felt. Then it hit him. Dr. Laurintz wanted to know about his blood and the bruises on her arm. He tore his eyes away from his partner's face to look directly into the doctor's eyes. "I-I would never-*could* never-hurt her, Doctor."
Kevin studied his eyes. They were tired, they were sad, they were hurt, they were confused. But they were honest. He felt Mr. Mulder was telling the truth about his ignorance regarding Ms. Scully's-problems. So Kevin stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Mulder's shoulder, their eyes still locked. "I don't believe you could, Mr. Mulder."
Fox smiled genuinely at the man, relieved that his character wasn't being called into question by this outsider. Skinner would have known it without asking, but this guy didn't know him and Scully-didn't understand their relationship and everything they'd been through together. "Thank you." He said.
"I'm going to give you something to make you sleep, Mr. Mulder."
"No, I need to stay awake to talk to her."
"That's what I'm here for." came a booming voice from the doorway.
Fox started slightly as Walter Skinner's voice rang in his ears. "Sir?"
"Agent Mulder, I have been told you are not sleeping properly."
"That's nothing new, Sir." Mulder deadpanned.
"Nevertheless, I am ordering you to climb into that bed and sleep for at least eight hours, and Dr. Laurintz will be administering a sedative to see that you stay there. No being valiantly stubborn today. I will sit with Agent Scully until such time as you can function properly."
"This is an order?" Fox asked meekly. Truth be told, his body and mind were both screaming at him to hop into that bed just as his boss had told him to.
"It is." Walter smiled slightly. He would normally not take time off work to sit by a subordinate's bedside, but number one: these two were special to him and had been through more hell than the rest of the Bureau combined, and number two: he knew damn well Fox Mulder would never go to sleep if there was no one else around to watchdog his partner. He became amused as he wondered how his spitfire agent would take it if she knew these two grown men were hovering over her like a mother hen. She'd probably shoot them both.
"I guess I have no choice, then." Mulder mumbled as he went to the empty bed. He lay down and fell asleep almost immediately. Dr. Laurintz pulled a syringe out of his pocket and quickly gave Mulder the shot.
"That'll keep him under for at least eight hours, if not more." He told the balding man in front of him.
Walter hung his trenchcoat in the closet and seated himself in the chair at Agent Scully's side. "Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for getting in touch with me. These two are the best agents the Bureau has, but they need more-special attention than most."
"I can see why. After looking at Ms. Scully's medical history, I'm glad I'm just her doctor and not her boss!"
Skinner chuckled.
"I'll be back to check up on her in a few hours. If you need anything, if something happens, press the Call Button."
"I will. Thanks again."
Walter sat staring at Agent Scully for a bit. His mind brought forth everything which had befallen this vivacious young woman, and he wondered how many things there were that no one but her partner knew. He could've killed Mulder at first when he'd asked for help getting to Antarctica. But he was genuinely surprised and pleased that the younger man was showing so much trust in him. Either that or the poor bastard had been desperate as hell. And so he'd helped Mulder get a flight up there almost immediately, helped him get all the gear he'd need, helped him arrange for the Snow Cat, and helped plant a tracking device securely in his outer pant leg, which was ultimately how the two beleaguered agents had been rescued.
To his astonishment, Mulder had thanked him repeatedly and even bought him lunch one day. Will wonders never cease? Skinner had been appalled at Agent Scully's condition upon their return. And he'd been so very proud of her that day soon thereafter when she'd sat in front of the council and basically told them, although not in so many words, "If you don't give us back the X-Files you can all to go hell."
He chuckled at that memory, and at how quickly it had been decided to reopen the division and to reassign Mulder and Scully to it, with Skinner still as their boss. He chuckled again. No one else would want to be their boss but him. He'd hated it at first, those six years ago, and even up to four years ago he still moaned at having to watchdog them so much. But he'd developed a healthy respect for both of them and their quest for truth and justice. And he himself had seen so many things, that he wanted them to stop the Consortium-he was sick to death of the whole game. So he had begun trying even harder to help them, almost getting killed once or twice along the way.
And he had earned their trust. And they had earned his compassion and respect.
His mind then strayed to Mulder's account of what had happened to Agent Scully this time, barely four months after their return from Antarctica. According to him, and Skinner had no reason to doubt the man's story, they were flying in an army transport helicopter back to D.C. so Agent Scully could pack some items, put in a request for time off, and fly out to California to be with her mother who, it seemed, had been involved in a rather nasty auto accident.
Skinner's secretary Kimberly had already had most of the paperwork filled out for her, and the AD had already signed it. The forms awaited only her signature. However, before she could come in to sign them, Walter had received a telephone call from Agent Mulder, asking him to come to their hospital. He'd smiled sardonically at the use of `our hospital' by Mulder, but had rushed there lickety-split.
Only to find a bewildered, agitated and near-hysterics Mulder with an unconscious, comatose Scully. Only they could attract trouble and illness the way a magnet attracts iron filings, he had thought at the time. An hour after he'd arrived, he'd finally gotten somewhat of a story from Agent Mulder.
Apparently the helicopter ride was going smoothly. Mulder was comforting his partner as best he could, there was little or no air turbulence and the pilot said they'd be back to D.C. before they knew it.
However, only thirty minutes into the flight, the pilot and the two agents had apparently blacked out, only to find themselves back in the air, hovering directly over Dulles, a full *six* hours later. The pilot and Mulder had come to quickly, but Agent Scully could not be roused. So Mulder had asked the pilot to land on the hospital's heli-pad, and in a flash Scully was in the hospital going through a battery of tests. But the doctors could find no reason behind her coma. Her brain seemed fine, her body seemed fine. In all, she seemed perfectly healthy. Except that she would neither wake up nor respond to external stimuli of any type. Not even Agent Mulder's repeated cries to her would bring her out of it. She was hooked up to no machinery, no monitors, nothing except a feeding tube IV. Yet she slept on.
So Dr. Laurintz had called Skinner this morning before he'd even been in to see his patient. The nurse had left him a voice mail message that Agent Mulder seemed extremely worn out and at his nerves' end, and that she was concerned for his continued well-being, as he refused to allow himself proper
sleep. The doctor felt his boss should know, and so he called. Skinner was glad to be able to help. Mulder would be no good to either himself or Scully if he were to get sick from sheer idiocy.
Unfortunately, his subordinate hadn't been able to supply any sort of ideas as to what had transpired during those missing hours. Skinner wondered which pissed the agent off more: the fact that something unknown happened or that his eidetic memory couldn't recall it. All the more was the younger man's frustration that he could do nothing to help Scully come out of this except be there for her.
'Well I can be here for the both of them. It's high time I started paying them back.'
He turned to regard the soundly sleeping Fox Mulder. He'd never seen his face so at peace. But he doubted the man's mind was experiencing any such respite. From what he'd gathered over the years, Mulder's mind never rested.
He then let his brain's workings drift to matters of a more personal nature. Although he was fairly certain the partners had never physically crossed the 'invisible line,' he knew in his heart that their souls and minds were joined in a union more perfect and pure than any sexual act could attain. How many times had he seen their constant, undying devotion to each other? How many times had they put their careers, nay, their very *lives* on the line for the sake of the other? The penultimate culmination of this was Mulder's trip to Antarctica to save Scully. The agent had never given it a second thought. She was there. She was in trouble. She needed him. He was going. End of story. More than willing to give his life for hers. On this as on many other occasions.
But this had in some way-felt different to Walter. The determination and sheer will he'd seen in the man's eyes that day he'd requested his assistance had jolted Walter's very being, as though shaken by an 8.5 earthquake. Something, somehow, had changed for them, but he couldn't quite judge what it was. Had they finally admitted their true feelings for one another, only to have her ripped from his very arms?
Walter didn't know why he thought that, but it seemed the perfect explanation for what he'd seen in Mulder's eyes that day. He had to help. If not as a boss helping a subordinate, then as a friend helping a friend whose very essence has been stripped from him prematurely. For Walter S. Skinner, hard-ass from hell, there was little more choice in the matter than there had been for Fox Mulder. He'd not given it a moment's contemplation before picking up the phone and barking orders to those on the other end. He thought, as Mulder had turned to leave his office, that he'd seen a flash of something in the man's eyes. Thanks? Gratitude? Dare he even hope for-respect?
He almost hated to admit even to himself how much he'd come to crave that in his life. Respect. He had it from most corners, except possibly from the three most important people in his life: Mulder, Scully and that Cigarette-Smoking SOB. Well, it was possible CSM had some ounce of respect for him since that incident with the digital tape and Albert Holsteen. But he knew the bastard didn't view him as an equal, as someone to be both feared and admired. He wanted that from him, that small measure of reverence that he was someone to be contended with. That he would not lay down and die so easily. He doubted whether CSM would ever give him the satisfaction of it, though. It wasn't his style.
He thought Scully respected him, but she never really showed it if she did. He felt only sorrow at that, for the one thing she could never know would surely have placed him well on her list. He'd made that blasted deal with Cancer Man to save her life. He knew Mulder suspected as much, but thankfully the younger man had never confronted him about it. He wondered if Mulder had any idea what price CSM had extracted from him for Agent Scully. Perhaps he did, and that's what kept him at bay. He also wondered if Mulder resented him for having taken on the role that he perhaps felt he rightfully should have played. Instead of Mulder saving the day in that case, Skinner's deal with the devil had done so.
And no one but CSM and Skinner would ever know the truth. No one *could* ever know the truth. At least, that's the way it was supposed to work. Walter had, indeed, sold his soul to the devil. He could still help his two agents in their pursuit of the truth, but when the time came, Walter Skinner would cease to be Walter Skinner and become, in essence, a child of evil. And he would then force Mulder to kill him. That was how he'd figured it all out. CSM would call in the favor, Skinner would be ready to comply, and he would engage his rogue agent in such a way that the poor man had no choice but to end Walter's life.
That would be his ultimate triumph. He would leave Mulder a message on his body, one that he was certain Mulder would find after his death, and not only would CSM be out a pawn, but Mulder would have in his hands the one secret which could be the undoing of the entire Consortium. The one secret Walter had been told to keep him in line. To insure he wouldn't defect from his agreement.
Walter smirked at the irony of the situation. Apparently CSM hadn't thought that his personage could be bugged just like anyone else's. And the meeting he'd gone to after his meeting with Walter that day had been a revelation to Skinner as he'd listened to the conversation in the privacy of his own home. He remembered his thoughts as he pieced together what the man had told him combined with snippets from this conversation.
'I've got you, you sonofabitch! I've finally got you!'
He shook his head, wanting to rid himself of this train of thought. He gazed once more at Dana Scully and stared at her countenance in silent wonder at the unexplainable bond between she and Mulder. The ability they had to speak volumes with only their eyes, the uncanny gift they had of knowing what the other was thinking or doing even when physically separated, the lengths they were more than willing to go to in order to protect and help each other. He had never witnessed such love.
For, whether they or anyone else wished to acknowledge it, these two loved each other almost more than life itself. They were the other's air to breathe. One would not survive without the other, plain and simple.
Pretty scary stuff.
'And way too deep for me.'
Somewhere along the way, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully had become one living, breathing unit. Together they were everything.
'Together they are our only hope to fight the future. Please come back to
us, Dana. To him. Please.'