Oh, where do we begin?
The rubble or our sins?
I awaken to the pink glow of twilight outside the windows and the hum of the television in my darkened living room. It is still on the same channel I'd stared at blindly for hours earlier in the day until stress and exhaustion had finally taken their toll; until I could no longer take the voices in my head or the memory of what had occurred earlier that morning. I have a black belt when it comes repressing my pain, but this is pain beyond my capacity. And it is messing with my stomach.
'Scully, we need to talk.'
My heart is totaled, like a twisted heap of metal overturned on the shoulder of a highway heading nowhere.
'I've been thinking about us... About what's going on here.'
I watched the television for hours, with no particular interest, nothing except the vague compulsion to keep watching, as if by doing so I can somehow escape the truth of what happened. It is no use: I keep hearing his voice in my head, over and over, saying the same gut wrenching things.
'I think we're making a mistake.'
It didn't compute, at first; it had been incomprehensible. Lying in bed beside him, his body spooned around mine, warm and content. It was worse, way worse, that he'd waited until afterward to tell me. Had he allowed me that one last time in his bed out of pity? Or had he been selfish, thinking only of his own pleasure?
'We were friends, good friends. Partners... Maybe we should have kept it that way?.'
And then it had begun to sink in, the heavy, sick feeling that I knew too well. The one I had spent more years trying to avoid than I cared to count. I'd been screwed over, by the last person I'd ever expected to screw me over.
'You know what I mean, don't you, Scully?'
Of course, I do. It's the same old story, after all, isn't it? Just another careless betrayal of my heart. Except that this one is the very worst of all. I'd never seen it coming, not from him, not from Mulder. I had slipped quietly from his bed and from his arms.
'Scully? Listen to me...'
But what else had there been to say, really? That was my cue to get the hell out of there. Out of his apartment and away from his concerned eyes.
'I don't want our partnership to suffer...'
How could I ever work beside him again? Hard enough to be with him and not touch him, not reach out to him, when we'd been lovers. How could I ever look at him, hear his voice, without feeling that terrible, suffocating, all-consuming ache?
'Scully, wait a minute, don't go.'
Had he really expected me to stay? Had he wanted me to simply agree with his decision and act like everything was fine and dandy?
For me, it had been the purest love I'd ever encountered. It had been magic; how could he not have felt it too?
I don't understand.
I can't understand.
'Scully, this is for the best. Trust me?'
Trust. Sure, Mulder. Whatever you say.
I'd trusted him enough, thank you very much; he'd given me a brief taste of heaven, of the most incredible happiness I'd ever known and I had allowed him in far enough to accomplish it, then he'd snatched it away so fast and so cruelly...
Does he know? How could he not know? I'd made my feelings for him clear, hadn't I?
I don't know which is worse: the concept that he hadn't known how deeply I loved him or the possibility that he'd known, but hadn't cared. Either way, the results are the same. He ended the romantic side of the relationship, and by extension, our partnership is going to suffer, no matter how strenuously we both might object to it because there is just no way I can continue to work with him after this. I need to request a transfer and get far, far away from him and these terrible emotions.
And I will miss him, oh god, will I miss him. I already do and I mourn for us, for what we had for so brief a time. As I watch the television, I alternate between mentally composing my request for reassignment and resignation; I'm not sure yet which one I will write.
My vision blurs, I curse under my breath and reach up to swipe at the fat, salty tears. Last time was enough, I cringe inwardly at the memory of my loss of control when I finally made it home. When it had all become more than I could carry, when the tears had begun to flow, had become sobs, had become heaves. Of the moment when my legs had buckled beneath me, when I'd fallen to the floor, sobbing unheard over the gush of the bath water flowing from the taps, crying helplessly, unable to stop. No relief, no release, only the relentless pain.
I'd thought that losing him to his quest would be bad. Having him willingly walk away was worse than I ever could have imagined.
God, I want to puke. My stomach feels like an acid pit.
"Scully, are you there?"
A voice, that voice, I turn my face to find Mulder standing in my doorway, holding the door open, with my spare key dangling from his hand. That reminds me, I swallow against the lump in my throat, I'm going to need it back. It hurts to look at him, it hurts to listen to him; his very presence hurts like hell and it is more than I can take right now. Again, I really want to puke. My stomach feels awful.
"What are you doing here?" I demand angrily.
He pushes the door closed behind him and rakes me with his eyes. I look like shit, I know it and there's no disguising it. But I refuse to cry in front of him. It's bad enough that I let myself get weak for him, so weak that he had the power to destroy me with a few simple words; he doesn't need to know about it. I won't give him the satisfaction.
However, my stomach has other ideas.
Before he can respond, I feel the acid lurch and a wave of hot bile begin to rise. I dash from the couch to the bathroom and make it just in time to throw myself to my knees in front of the toilet and lose the limited contents of my stomach. As I heave and silently curse my traitorous body, the heat of humiliation scalds my face.
Damn you to hell, Mulder. Leave me alone with my misery. You have no right to see this.
"Scully? Are you okay?" Soft, caring. He is killing me right here in my bathroom.
"I have a stomach bug," I snap at him and it's a lie. This is the result of stress. "Just go home, Mulder."
I can't look at him as my stomach lurches again. Beads of sweat dot my forehead, I feel dizzy and clammy, my hands are trembling, my insides are trembling. I vomit again. Why isn't he leaving? Why won't the ground open up and swallow me?
As I pray for the heavenly father to strike me down, Mulder goes and does something he really shouldn't...
He reaches out a hand and touches me.
His hand is touching my forehead, checking the pulse along the side of my neck, and I nearly pull a muscle trying to jerk away from him.
"Spare me your concern!"
It is too much pain to endure; his touch draws the emotions straight to the surface.
"Scully, you're sick," the caring in his voice shatters the last of my restraint.
"What do you care!? Go to hell Mulder!" My anger echoes loudly, bouncing off the bathroom tiles.
My blindly questing hand finds the toilet seat, and I lever myself off the floor and onto it, sinking down onto the cold plastic that feels feather-soft in my current state of sickness and fatigue. "I trusted you. You son of a bitch..."
A wave of nausea washes over me; I try to fight against it, but the world is slipping further and further out of focus with every passing second. Why is everything so weird and blurry all of a sudden? In my disorientation, my first instinct is to reach out toward Mulder; then the little voice pops up in the back of my mind to remind me that I can't do that, not anymore.
"Get out," I mumble faintly. "Go home..."
The black tunnel that is my vision closes and everything, including Mulder, fades out of existence.
Something cool and wet is on my forehead. It feels amazing as long as I stay still. Moving feels like falling, the world tilts at death-defying angles and I know I will slide straight into oblivion if I try going anywhere. I register that I am on my couch again. He must have carried me here.
In the darkness, there is a shadow. His beautiful face, gazing down at me. His voice, soft and clear against the incessant pounding in my head.
"You're very sick," came the syllables, quiet but distinct.
"You need to be cared for. You can send me home later," and the tone of his voice changes, dropping into the key of sadness.
"Just leave, Mulder. It's what you do best."
The shadow alters as his face changes. "Scully, please, I..."
"S'ok," I'm struggling to remain lucid. "S'alright... I know how it is."
He could have said something then, but I can't tell; the darkness thickens, veiling my vision, blocking my ears.
I return to the darkness.
Consciousness returns suddenly, along with an acid fist squeezing my stomach painfully. I sit up.
"Here," I hear Mulder's voice, and his hand is on my shoulder supporting me as I lean over and vomit into the plastic bucket he places between my knees. He holds my hair back as I throw up and fetches tissues and a big glass of water when it is over. I am just lucid enough to be embarrassed as hell about it and begrudgingly grateful that he is here because I probably couldn't have managed myself. I am resentful that I need him, and worse yet, that he should condescend to be here.
It would be better if he just went home. It is better to know where I stand. It is better to be alone than to hope and to trust. Trusting Mulder is evidently too strong a habit to break right away. My nausea is accompanied by a headache and stomach ache, but not the awful pounding disorientation from earlier. Silently, he holds the glass as I take a few sips of cold water. His eyes try to catch mine, but I can not make contact. Not yet. He sighs.
"It's the work," Mulder says, very quietly; and he looks at me, and waits.
"It's too dangerous," he continues, after a long moment of my silence, "Something will go wrong, something always goes wrong and I can't risk-
He stops abruptly, what little control he has is precarious at best.
He swallows hard. "We can't be partners and lovers. I can't do this."
"So you're attempting to preserve the partnership by ending our relationship?" I ask slowly.
He blinks hard and nods. There are tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry Scully," he murmurs. "I'm so, so sorry."
I try to answer, but I really don't know what to say. The tears begin to drip down my cheeks; he reaches out to touch my face, but I can't help it, my instinctive reaction is to evade his hand.
"God, what have I done?" he whispers through his tears, and I close my eyes and let the grief wash over me again. I need to get away from him and clear my head for a little while and it looks like he's not planning on leaving anytime soon. Absently, I spare him and his tears only the briefest glance, as I retreat to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
A shower clears away the last of the cobwebs. Yet all I can feel is the slow encroachment of the iceberg on my soul, no warmth whatsoever. Tears slip from my eyes and mingle with the shower water. I love him and I want him, all of him. But he doesn't feel the same way. This new development is staggering. How do I come back from this? How am I supposed to return to being just Agent Scully? His partner and nothing more.
I emerge from the shower, towel off and slip into my bathrobe. A flash of memory assails me, of showering with Mulder, sliding into the robe, his wet naked skin pressed against mine, the sound of his laughter. I thought he had been happy too. Content, like I had been. The sheer power of the image almost kills me.
Almost.
He is standing in the living room when I return, waiting for me. "You're feeling better?"
"Yeah." I move past him, wondering dimly if there is anything bland in the refrigerator that I might feel like eating. I feel hungry now that my stomach is empty.
"I ordered Chinese food for you," he shuffles into the kitchen after me, "there's egg-drop soup, you should stick to liquids."
"I'll be fine." Blunt as a hammer.
The concern in his voice is unsettling, it is undermining his rejection.
"The food will be here soon... I uh I guess should leave," he says hesitantly, standing in the kitchen doorway watching me. "If you want me to..."
And there it is, decision time. My choice, whether to give in to the tiny voice that screams silently to play nice, to try to repair the damage done to our friendship, our partnership. Or to let the ice chill my soul completely. My choice, whether to dare to trust him again.
There is only one choice I can make right now.
"I think you were right," I hear myself severing the last of the connection between us. "It was a mistake for us to get too close. I will need some time to consider my future with the x-files."
He hadn't been expecting it; his eyes widen and fill with tears. "Scully-"
"We can try to maintain a working relationship for now," I interject, "but I will be considering reassignment."
It's the right thing to do, the safe thing to do. The icy walls slam shut around me, sealing me in tight, numbing me so that I hardly notice the empty space where my heart used to sit. Mulder bites the inside of his cheek and nods; a tear slips down his face and where once I would have reached out to wipe it away, it doesn't even occur to me to try to touch him.
"If you don't mind, I have some things to do..." It was a dismissal: out of sight, out of mind.
"Yeah, sure." He turns away quickly, hiding his face, hiding his tears. Which is fine, because I really don't want to know about his grief; I'm too preoccupied with my own. He retrieves his keys, his coat and I wander out to the living room to see him go. A lump forms in my throat, I know that it is the last time, the last separation. Everything that had been precious to me, is about to walk out the door. Sorrow washes over me, a wave so huge that it dwarfs me, crushes me, drives away the color in the room and renders everything gray.
At the door, he pauses. "See you Monday?" He murmurs hopefully and the sound of it shatters what little is left of my broken soul. I almost call him back.
Almost.
"Goodbye, Mulder," I barely manage a whisper as I watch the last spark of hope in his eyes die.
The door closes behind him, and he is gone.
Alone, at last, I sink onto the couch to await the food delivery. I fumble with the remote until I find a mindless romantic comedy. The silence in the apartment thickens around the low drone of the television and the muffled sounds of my upstairs neighbors moving around forms a barrier around me, like cotton wool to soften any blows that might still reach me. It is oddly reassuring, this silence, this aloneness: it is what I am most accustomed to, after all. I allowed myself to become distracted for a little while, but I have come to my senses now; I am alone again, which means that I am safe.
The pain will fade, one day. That is the way life works. I'll survive.
I drag my attention back to the movie and try to feign interest.
I always survive.
On the screen, the female lead shares a passionate kiss with her co-star.