Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow
It seemed like one of his fantasies, or the craziest dream. Candles covered every bit of vacant countertop in the dimly lit bathroom. The water was still warm, and lavender scented bubbles floated, cloud like, upon its surface. And best of all, she was with him, her back resting against his chest. She'd done her best to pull her hair up on the top of her head, but it was too short, and the wisps at the back got drenched. He curled some of them around his finger. If he had done that, the illusion wouldn't burst like one of the bubbles. And at that point, a week or so after that first night in his bed, he was still pinching himself, unsure what the hell he'd done to deserve all that.
As if someone was doing this on purpose, they hardly had a chance to make sense of this shift in their relationship, for work became extremely busy all of a sudden. Only that evening, arriving at her place straight from their basement office, they were able to finally unwind. They ordered Chinese and watched some random game show, guessing one answer after another. He couldn't quite recall how they ended up in the bath, but he remembered it was his idea. Only now he was beginning to think this hadn't been such a bright idea when a different memory struck. This was where Donnie Pfaster hoped to lure her into, then finish her off. He knew she had been avoiding baths since the incident mere weeks prior, and yet she didn't refuse when he had thoughtlessly suggested this one. What was wrong with him? Was he determined to ruin the best thing in his life so soon after it had began?
He realized his scoff was audible only after she glanced over her shoulder at him. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he replied with a kiss to her shoulder, hoping to distract her.
He should have known better, really. Even without looking at her, he could feel them. The Eye Roll, followed by The Look. Her loyal companions; his buddies of seven years. "I can feel you thinking," she told him with just a hint of accusation in her tone.
"I was thinking I was too tall for your bath," he quipped, which was actually true. His knees were sticking out awkwardly on both sides of her. He didn't dare move more than necessary so that water wouldn't spill over the edge. Although he didn't sense the discomfort now, he suspected his back would be aching all weekend.
She laughed softly, laying a fond hand on his right knee. "You're too tall for any bath."
"That's true," he grinned; then something occurred to him. "Remember that hotel in Hollywood? It had a decent sized bath."
She turned to face him again, staring at him in wonder. Then a second later a smile lit her face. "I knew you weren't working at the computer."
"I may have been otherwise engaged," he admitted somewhat sheepishly at the triumph reflected in her smile, thinking back of that trip. He remembered their exchange on the phone all too well. How he hoped she would be there with him. If only someone had told him back then that he would get his wish... But then again, even his belief had certain limits.
"I knew it," she said again, giggling.
"What gave it away?"
"Well, I am a special agent with the FBI," she replied haughtily. "Plus, I know a thing or two about baths. I could hear the water swishing."
"Oh, aren't you clever," he said, pressing his lips to her skin once more. She squirmed when he made contact with the chip at the nape of her neck. "Maybe when Federman invites us to the premiere we can... check my theory about that other bath."
"Maybe." There was a smile in her voice. Then she groaned. "That movie is going to be awful."
"Honestly, I couldn't care less about the movie. But yeah, most likely."
Some time later, the water grew cold. It only took a shared look for them to get out and help each other towel off, blow off the candles and get dressed. He slipped into plaid pajama bottoms that earned him a warm smile. She wore one of her satin pajamas, and he liked that she didn't try to impress him, but rather felt comfortable enough to just be herself around him. In her bed shortly afterwards they laid side by side, just eyeing one another in easy silence. She watched him as he traced a line down her arm to her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Mulder?"
"Hmm."
"What is this?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean this," she gave their joined hands a gentle squeeze. "What are we doing?"
"Well," he started slowly, meaning to crack a joke, but found himself unable to. His mind worked furiously trying to fathom where she was getting at.
As if she could feel the way his heart was racing, she locked her gaze with his. "I'm not having second thoughts. I'm not," she added hurriedly, as though she had sensed his doubt. "It's just... there's so much to lose if we..."
Her voice trailed, but he heard enough to understand what she meant. "Always the skeptic, aren't you?"
"No. I would never have made this choice unless I knew with absolute certainty. I believe this is right."
"But?"
"But, even regardless of the dozens of people who wish to harm us..." She shook her head, as if uncertain how to continue. "When I think about losing you, let alone now – "
"Who said I was going anywhere?" Genuine fear dimmed the glimmer in her eyes. It puzzled him. Did she really think so little of him? "I thought you knew me better than that, Scully."
"I do. That's just it. One day you might decide the Truth is more important than this, and then what?"
"This is not going to happen."
"Don't kid yourself, Mulder. It may as well happen. You get so consumed with it all sometimes you shut your eyes to everything else. Or do I need to remind you of the countless times you ditched me while on a case in order to..." Her voice trailed, and she shook her head as though she was missing the point. "I'm trying to say that worrying about you as merely my partner is hard enough. I guess I just want to make sure that we realize what we're getting ourselves into here, that we don't regret this."
"My only regret is not doing this sooner." If only she'd known how long he had been yearning for this. "Look, I don't know what tomorrow throws at us. They may come to their senses at the FBI and finally kick my ass out of the bureau. They can appoint you Assistant Director. Hell, your brother may learn about us and come hunting me down." She smiled a bit at that, but her eyes remained on his, intent and serious. "I can't promise you tomorrow, Scully. But right now, nothing is more important than this. Right now, I'm yours."
She still looked unsure, but she didn't offer another protest. He rolled onto his back and she scooted closer. He wrapped his arms around her as her body slowly eased against his. He kissed the top of her head and felt her sigh against his chest.
"Go to sleep, Scully. I'll still be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Scout's honor."
"Dork," she giggled. He pulled at the comforter to tuck it more tightly around her shoulders. "G'night," she murmured, already drifting. Then, as though she thought better of it, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.
"What is it?" he asked, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.
Her face was sealed as she asked, "Will you sing me to sleep?"
He just stared at her dumbfounded for a second. "You want me to..."
Her expression turned slightly less innocent, her eyes sparkled with mischief; that was all he needed to figure out what she was doing. "It's time for payback, Agent Mulder."
"I guess I brought this one on myself, didn't I?" he mock-groaned, and she nodded, settling more comfortably against him, waiting.
At first he thought to be original, to choose some schmaltzy love song or an Elvis ballad that had reminded him of her, but the more he considered it, the more he realized no other song would do.
"Joy to the world, all the boys and girls. Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, joy to you and me..."
xxxxx
He's sitting in his small spare-room-turned-study, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. That night seems so far away. Back then he felt so invigorated, invincible, ready to take on anything and anyone. For her sake; for the sake of this new and fragile togetherness they had discovered. Now he can barely muster the energy to care.
A soft knock comes at the door; it creaks open as she pokes her head inside. Even with his back to her, he can sense her hesitation. "Well, I'm off," she says, almost whispers. There's this weariness to her voice now; whether it's a result of aging or exasperation, he cannot tell. Slowly, reluctantly, he swivels in his chair to face her. She looks impeccable even in jeans and a simple cardigan, but her eyes tell him a different story. Behind her well-collected facade, she's as broken as he feels.
"Have you got everything?"
She nods. She can barely look at him; this fact saddens him. "Most of it. In my car."
"Okay then." He honestly doesn't know what to say, how to do this. Other than throwing himself at her feet begging her to stay, he is at a loss as for how to move forward. He stands up. She seems to interpret it as a sign to leave the room, and so she does. He follows.
"I wish you didn't have to do this."
She stops abruptly in the middle of the living room, startled it seems, as if she hasn't expected him to come after her. She turns to face him. Her pained expression is a perfect reflection of his own. "I don't want to do this."
"Then don't. Stay."
She sighs and sits on the armchair. He wonders if she's deliberately avoiding the sofa, his bed for the past few months. He sits there, across from her, and waits. "I can't stay," she says eventually.
"Look, I know I've been difficult – "
"Difficult? I could handle difficult, Mulder, you're just not trying. Spending hours on end in that room with all those conspiracy websites and forums getting ideas in your head. Going out to meet 'sources' in the middle of the night goodness knows where. You barely eat, you barely speak. You've been communicating with me through Post Its and texts. Do you realize this is the longest real conversation we've had in weeks?"
He lowers his gaze in wordless admittance, like a child whose been told off by his favorite teacher. Most of all, he's feeling ashamed because she's absolutely right. And he should have seen this coming. He shouldn't have dismissed her previous hints and threats. He should have gotten himself together long before her leaving became a reality.
"Remember that thing I was worried about at the very beginning? And how you dismissed me, saying it would never happen? Well, it's here, Mulder. It is happening. And I don't know what else to do to make you see it. I can't take care of you if you refuse to take care of yourself." She sighs and glances at her watch. "I have to go."
He doesn't try to stop her as she reaches the front door. She lingers with her hand on the doorknob as though she hopes that he will. He just sits there with his head buried in his hands until he can no longer hear her boots click against the wooden deck. He waits a moment and then another, but he cannot hear the engine of her car. He realizes he's been holding his breath for it, but the sound doesn't come.
He isn't sure what he expects to find when he goes outside, but the sight of her pulls him out of his apathetic stupor. She's hunched over the steering wheel with her head resting on her arms. There's no mistaking the shaking in her shoulders. The car window is closed and so he can't hear her or see her face, but it's obvious that she's sobbing. As though she can somehow hear him approach, she looks up. Her eyes are red and puffy. She wipes the remaining tears angrily and rolls down the window.
"Dana – "
"Don't," she pleads with him, her voice breaks on that single word. She takes a breath, composing herself. "Mulder, please don't think that I'm doing this because I don't..." Love you. She doesn't say it, but he knows that's what she means; relieved by it. "This is exactly why I need to leave." She struggles to meet his eyes. His face feels warm; he isn't sure if it's sunlight or tears. "You'll be okay. You'll pull through this. I know you will."
He isn't used to play skeptic to her believer. She must read it in his expression because a soft laugh escapes through her tears. "Now you know how I feel most of the time."
He reaches his hand forward; she lets him hold her hand. It's cold, shaking ever so slightly. "Will you be in touch?" he asks.
It takes her a moment to consider. Then she gives his hand a little squeeze. "Eventually."
"Promise?"
She smiles sadly as though she remembers that long ago exchange where she was the one seeking reassurances. Now he's the one looking for an affirmation, desperate for one actually. Gently, she pulls her hand away. She fixes her eyes ahead and turns the key in the ignition. Before long she's gone; the dust the car has made settles, then dissipates, and he is left alone.
Sadness overwhelms him he shuts the door of the house they have shared. Emptiness echoes from every corner, every room. He trudges up the stairs, walks into the bedroom. It still carries her scent, but barely. She's made the bed as though she will be back after work, only he knows that it won't happen now. He sprawls on the bed, shoes and everything, and stares at the ceiling. He thinks of the overhead mirror that came out of nowhere along with the waterbed in his dingy old apartment in Alexandria, but even the brief memory doesn't spark any amusement. If anything, it is a sordid reminder of the fact he has never truly been on his own for over a decade, that he isn't certain how to be on his own.
It pains him that she hasn't actually answered his question, but at the same time he isn't miffed by it. He doesn't even resent her for leaving. He resents himself for not preventing it, given the chance. He lets his eyes wander across the room; he has hardly been up there for months. Something unfamiliar catches his eye. He frowns, then rolls on his side and reaches for the framed picture he has detected on the bedside. They hardly had any pictures of themselves, first out of fugitive paranoia and then because there never seemed to be a chance. But he distinctly remembers taking this one. She bought a new phone and wanted to try out the camera, accidentally switched it onto selfie mode and somehow managed to capture the two of them as they tried to figure out how to switch the damn thing back.
He examines the picture closely as though it is evidence and in many ways it is. He wasn't aware that she had it printed and framed, wonders how long it's been sitting here on the bedside. Despite their bewildered expressions, they both look so happy. Like his memory of the night in her Georgetown apartment, it almost feels like it belongs in a different era.
As he stares at the gleam in the eyes of her picture self, it dawns on him that she hasn't left without an answer, that this is it. She has left the picture behind knowing he will find it and hold on to it until she does come home, eventually. This is her way of telling him what he's told her that night. She might not be there tomorrow, but she's still his. Because at the end of the day, one thing remains as true as it has been all those years ago. Nothing is more important than the two of them.