disclaimer: not mine, don't sue
i'm back... from outer space
This is Not a Love Story
This was not a love story.
Even though there was love, it was not a love story. It was the story of a woman, fighting for her life, and a man, fighting for her life so that his life might go on. Most things aren't unselfish.
It had been almost two months since he held her in the hallway of the hospital. That had been one of the only times he had seen her cry, even though she let him accompany her to her treatments if only to say, 'He is here. He is here for me. And he hasn't left yet.' Still, she has only cried a few times, and the man knows he would have broken under far less than what the woman he loves does (even if there is not a story).
But this was it. This would maybe possibly define their relationship forever. Not a first kiss, or the act of love (not a simple act of love, as this was one, though not many people are writing stories about it). Fox Mulder stood on the threshold between being a supporting partner and being something much more. Her rock. Her only touchstone. Her only love and her only chance for a love story.
And it all had to do with an electric razor.
It would have been silly for Mulder to think that he could do any less, though. How many times had his partner saved his ass? How many times had she pulled him back from so far gone he thought he'd never make it? He could be her touchstone but she had assumed the role of the one light in his dark life many years ago. So how could he do any less? How could he think anything else would be enough?
There was only one thing holding him back from taking the tool to his scalp. And that was her reaction. This woman was not just some partner. This was Dana Katherine Scully. The one who wouldn't cry, even though the sight of a needle being shoved in her back brought tears to his eyes. Even though she didn't eat for days because of the sores in her mouth. Even though every time she did try to eat, she would heave most of it back up within a half hour because of the medicine.
Emotion was a sign of weakness, but this new event, this new occurrence, would be a sign that she was weak anyway. Her body was weak. Fighting against itself. There was no possible chance for a winner.
Dana Scully had let him hold her in his arms before. She had let him kiss her forehead and cheeks to soothe the pain. She had let him sleep on her couch because he was afraid of her being alone sometimes. But would she let him do this? Would she let him mar himself in such a way that they would be identical? Fighting the same battle separately.
The truth is that he shouldn't have thought about it as much as he did. The truth is that she was afraid of being alone sometimes. The needle and the sores and the hunger hurt, but he would take away the pain. He always told her he wished he could take her pain from her, even if it meant he would have to endure it himself. What he didn't know was that he did take the pain away, and that his pain for her was pain enough. A sacrifice had been made. If he could make her happy, he'd have to give up something of himself. And he would do it a million times.
The way he held her in his arms and kissed her forehead and cheeks and slept on her couch were all comforts. They helped her to live, to go on one more day. But this would be something else. What Mulder was about to do would make them the same, make them one person instead of two different people. It would be a sign that her battles were his battles, her suffering was his suffering. What he would say to her without words would be something along the lines of, 'Hey Scully, see? I am you and you are me.'
And with that last smile this unspoken message gave Mulder, her took the razor to his head, and his bathroom floor was covered within minutes.
She knew she didn't have to wear the scarf at work. She knew Mulder thought she was beautiful no matter what, and she could always disappear into her area if someone else decided to drop by the office unexpectedly. Nobody had been doing that much lately. They knew that they should leave Spooky and the soon-to-be former Mrs. Spooky alone in the basement, doing God-knows-what. Cursing what-knows-God. All the male agents knew what they would be doing. 'Oh Dana, you look so sick. You must feel terrible. Come here and let me make you better.'
It wasn't a far leap of the imagination to know that they would get nowhere with that pickup. And Mulder was a gentleman. Kisses to the forehead and cheeks and never the lips, holding her in his arms, sleeping on her couch would be enough. They would keep her (and therefore, him) alive for now. Take it one day at a time.
Regardless of all this, Scully tied her scarf tightly around the back of her head. It would be no secret now. She had cancer. And this is what it was doing to her. Soon even the red fuzz that decorated her tiny head would be gone and she'd have no eyebrows or eyelashes. And then she'd turn ghostly white and her eyes would start to die. That was the first sign. The eyes dying.
She knew Mulder was in their office the second she got off the elevator because she could smell the coffee brewing. And she knew she didn't have to worry because he had already gotten her a cup. Little things. Little consistencies.
He was sifting through a bottom drawer in his desk when she opened the door. Since she had gotten sick he had cleaned everything in their office. And when she said "cleaned" she meant "sterilized." Anything important got thrown into his desk and anything not, even the tiniest bit insignificant, he tossed. It had been nice at first, she had been telling him he needed to clean the place for years. But then Scully began to feel empty. Like their office wasn't their office anymore. No chaotic order. Everything was neat and tidy and put back in its place.
And she started to hate it. But Mulder truly believed that he had done her a great service. So she didn't say anything and walked further into their cold, emotionless dungeon office.
"Hi Mulder," she said, setting her briefcase down on one of the chairs. He still hadn't looked up. He didn't look up when he started speaking back to her.
"Morning Scully. How are you feeling?"
Scully never told him the exact truth when she answered this question, even though the truth was what he had been searching for his entire life.
"Not bad. Just a little tired."
"Well then, maybe you should take the day off. It's Friday, we have an appointment at Georgetown Medical Center tomorrow at 8:00 sharp. Why don't you go rest up a bit?" Mulder suggested, still not looking up for a very good reason.
"Mulder, when are you going to get it through your head that I'm going to be here every day? And I'll pretend that that little schpeel didn't sound to me like you're trying to get me out of here."
"Now, why would I ever want you gone?" he asked, sifting still, or pretending to at least.
"What are you looking for?"
"Oh nothing."
"Maybe I can help you."
"No really, Scully. I'll find it."
"Come on, Mulder, let me--" Scully started, but then stopped as she walked around to the other side of the desk, where she could see Mulder (and his head) clearly. Tears immediately began filling her eyes as she realized what he had done.
"Fine, if you really want to know… I'm searching for my toupee," he said, slowly standing up and facing her. Her expression was priceless. She had dropped whatever she had been holding and her hands were now covering her too-wide jaw.
"You like it?" he asked, dropping his head and coming closer to her. He could see the wetness in her eyes, and he pulled her into him just as she started to let them fall.
"Mulder…" was all Scully could say, even choking on that.
"I was worried about what you would say. But you don't have to do this alone. I'm here."
"You did this… for me?" Scully asked, reaching up and running her palms over his bare scalp. He had less hair than she did at the moment.
"I'd shave my head a thousand times for you," he got in before she launched herself into his arms. Mulder was now holding her above the ground, in his arms. Kisses to the forehead and cheeks ensued; he even pressed one to her nose and her eyelashes. That night, he would sleep in her bed because she wouldn't ever want to be separate from him again. They would always be like that. No matter where they were connected, their hip or their hearts, it was the strong. And they'd never be able to break it.
Maybe it was a love story.