A/N: Okay, so the easiest way to explain this is that you should just leave canon completely out of everything. Because apparently I thought it was a great idea to write a fic about the 4th season WHEN I HAVEN'T ACTUALLY WATCHED THE FOURTH SEASON. So, in this fic, the history is that Mulder stumbled across something he shouldn't, and secret government people made Scully sick for leverage.
Song title from 'Long Days' by I Will, I Swear.

"Make a choice, Mulder."

You're standing over Scully's bedside, grasping her hand like she's the only thing keeping you grounded. Her eyes are fluttering, her breathing shallow, and the beeps coming from the machine she's hooked up to are growing slower.

"Please." You beg. "Please, I need her."

"And you can have her." They reassure you, with their soothing voices and empty promises. "But what you know, no one man should carry. It's too much. Allow us to perform the procedure, and she'll be back to normal in a couple days."

You keep your gaze on Scully's hand, your thumb brushing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth -

You know what this will mean. Three years of work. Three years of gathering information. Three years of learning to know your partner inside and out in ways you'd never imagined you'd ever know another person. But they've promised that it will be painless - the alien technology will allow them to access just the memories they need, and you'll be out cold the whole time. Not that you're afraid of the pain - you'd prefer it, actually. You'd prefer it to the emptiness.

But of course, this is Scully. So there really isn't a choice to make.

They give you two hours. Two hours to relish the memories you've spent three years achieving. You take a quick look down in your basement, gazing up at the ceiling riddled with pencil holes. You remember her, that first day, striding in like she absolutely belonged. I'm Dana Scully, I've been assigned to work with you. You remember your incredulity - that you'd have to work with a babysitter, someone sent to watch over you and wait for a slip up. You can't remember exactly when it changed, just that one day you realized you'd started thinking of her as a partner, instead of a threat.

You have too many memories, but the best ones are on the road, so you slip into your car and gun the engine and burst out of town with the speed of someone fleeing the devil.

(You are, really. You're fleeing what he's going to take away from you.)

You remember the way her face feels when you stroked it, how she leaned into your touch when she was upset. The way her hair smelled the day she was kidnapped and you held her and murmured reassurances she didn't want to hear. How her smile is rare, but when it happens it's like the sunlight peering through the clouds - it's impossible not to have your entire day brightened by it.

You think of the arguments, too - how you could never get along, how your voices would rise into a melody of two personalities too stubborn to admit their wrongdoing. How, after, she would look at you and you would nod and you would both know that you were alright; that no petty argument could break apart the bonds you'd formed in the flames.

Finally, the two hours are nearly up. You wipe the tears from your face, you leave your car parked across the street from the hospital. You're not sure how out of it you'll be afterward, and you'd rather not weave through 27 floors of the parkade to find it.

You've never had a problem with hospitals before this year, but ever since she told you about the cancer you've hated them, hated them with a viciousness that burns in your fingertips and raises bile in your throat. The walls are too white, the smells too stark. There are a few too many people with their head in their hands - with looks like nothing really matters anymore. You understand those people. You've been there before.

You enter the room, and they're there. "Please." You say, your voice catching in your throat. You cough to clear it. "I just need a minute."

They nod and exit the room, and suddenly you're alone with her and the stark reality of all that you're going to lose.

"I'm sorry."

It's the first thing you say, the first thing you'd want her to hear. Because she'll be so angry, when she finds out - but she'll understand. Eventually, she'll understand. You cradle her in your arms awkwardly, wrapping yourself around the cords that entangle her body like a cocoon.

"I'm sorry, Scully. They have a cure for - for whatever you have. Not cancer, apparently. Or, maybe something similar, but - they caused it. They can cure it, but they won't. Not unless I give them everything I've learned working with you on the X-files. And three years is worth it, okay?" You're crying now, hot tears streaming down your face. "Three years is the least I can give for you to be alive, Scully, and I'm glad to give it. I'm glad, but I'll - I'll miss you. I'll miss everything about you - and I'm so sorry, because it'll be worse for you. I won't know what I'm missing, but you will. No, I don't know which one's worse. I can't even miss what I'll be missing.

"Tell me a bit about it when I wake up, alright? And be okay. Please, Dana, be okay."

You force your fingers to pry apart from her hands, and you wipe away the steady stream of tears that's blurring your vision. You'll get through this. You'll get through this.

You walk out, take the elevator three floors up, and take your first right. They're waiting there, with their solemn expressions that don't show the glee they're undoubtedly feeling.

"Lie down here." The doctor says, gesturing to the bed. You lower yourself onto it with unsteady hands. You look back up, at the stale white ceiling, carefully tiled in perfect order. You close your eyes.

You think you hear someone say I'm sorry.

When you open your eyes, it's to a white room filled with men in business suits and a doctor, all looking at you with a curious hesitation.

"What happened?" You ask, sitting up and rubbing your head. You're dressed in a hospital gown, and it feels like someone just whacked you across the head with a two-by-four. "Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital." One of the men replies. "You've been recovering from a head trauma incurred on the job. Tell me, what do you remember?"

You blink, and try to focus. "I was - god, this is hard. I was working on a case, maybe? Yeah, the serial killer who nabbed young redheads."

A look of - relief? why would he be relieved? - passes over the man's face. "Yes, exactly. Now, I have something difficult to tell you."

"What?" You push yourself up into a sitting position. There's this weirdly blank spot in your memory, like someone built up a wall around it.

"You've been in a coma, Mulder."

You freeze. "A coma?" The man nods. "For how long?"

There's a brief hesitation. "Three years."

You don't know how to process this. You have no idea how this could possibly happen. "What do you mean, three years? That's not - that isn't possible."

"I'm afraid so." The man replies, but the empathy feels off - staged, maybe. But no. That would be crazy.

You lie back down, then push yourself up again. "Can I go home?" You ask, looking over to the doctor, who nods.

"I've done a full examination. It'll take some time, and you'll need to avoid physical exertion for at least the next two weeks, but I have no doubt you'll make a full recovery, with the exception of a few memories being fuzzy." You shake your head a little. Something's off - nothing's off. You're being paranoid. "Yours is quite the miracle case, Mulder." The doctor adds. "I've never seen anything like it."

You slip into the washroom to change into a pair of clothes that someone must've left for you. They fit perfectly. You take a second to look at your reflection - three years hasn't changed much. You step back out into the room, where the men are waiting.

"We'll be checking in on you, Mulder." They say, and it occurs to you to wonder who they are - colleagues, probably. People the bureau sent to check up on you. You nod to show you've heard them, and you step out into the hallway.

"Mulder!" A voice stops you in your tracks. Something about it is strangely familiar, but in a way you can't trace. You turn around to see a woman with red hair and a desperate expression staring at you.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" You ask, and something flits across her features.

"I just - nothing. I work at the bureau. We'll be introduced later."

You think for a second that you see a single tear streak down her face, but no - it's probably a trick of the light. She turns away, and you do the same. You follow the empty hall, forgetting about the woman and instead focusing on the strange feeling in your stomach, and the unshakeable feeling that the hospital walls are too white and the scents are too stark. It probably comes from being stuck in one for three years.

You find your car parked outside - someone must've brought it for you - and you slip inside. It smells different, like pine needles and rust and strawberry shampoo. You shake your head, clutch the steering wheel. You ignore the feeling that the smells are clearly fresh, and that they smell a little too much like a home you've only imagined.

You press the gas pedal down, and you leave the hospital behind.