This takes place some time in late season 6, early season 7. Bit of an AU.
This is my first piece of XF fiction (Previously I've been confined to Riddick land. And if anyone is wondering, yes, I do plan on continuing with Miss Scan Man and No One Around.)
I don't really feel the need for the discretionary release of responsibility: i.e.,You can tell what's mine and what's not, other wise I don't think you'd be reading this. For fans by fans, after all.
I wrote this originally as a one shot, but can easily develop a more involved story. As of now it's a bit of a guilt snippet. If you want more, just let me know. :-)
No beta, all mistakes are my own.
Here we go...
x.x.x
His face felt hot, red with frustration. He wished she'd just leave, get out of his life. Every time he let her go, insisted she save herself, she held on tighter... but never tight enough. "I trust you Mulder," "I'm staying Mulder," "I can't give up on you." And this time...
He slammed his fist hard against the steering wheal. Why hadn't she just said, "No. We can't. I don't feel the same"? She could have stopped him before he made an ass out of himself, before he embarrassed her.
He'd almost lost her again. Krycek had kidnapped her to get to him. He'd hurt her to get at him. It was his fault her sister was gone, his fault she couldn't have a child, and now it was his fault that she had a horrible white X scarred over her left breast. Krycek had done shameful things to her, and she had Mulder to thank.
When they'd finally gotten her back- no thanks to him- and after she'd been released from the hospital he'd taken her home. He walked her to her apartment, searched each of her rooms twice over to set himself at ease, then left her quietly with tears in his eyes.
One day she'd die because of him.
He loved her too much, there was no way he'd let that day come. And there was only one sure way to prevent it.
He'd made up his mind while driving back to his apartment. He had to do it. He tried and tried and tried to protect her, but couldn't do it. Maybe in death he could finally achieve a peace for her. Her cancer had once prompted him to consider it, and now he knew for sure there was no other way.
He had taken the stairs calmly, one at a time. At his door his hands didn't shake when he inserted the key. He shut the door behind him and ignored the lights. Deliberately he began undressing, placing his gun on the coffee table in front of his couch, then slipped into a more comfortable t-shirt and a pair of sweats. He sat himself down and stared at his weapon. Only then did he hesitate. He couldn't leave without saying good bye to her. He knew it would take no explanation, she wouldn't stand over his body and ask him why, but there were still things left unsaid between them that he couldn't die without uttering.
He reached for the phone. Before dialing he tested his voice, said a few of his usual one liners to make sure he sounded relatively casual. Once he was satisfied he began to dial, only to hang up with one more number left to go. She'd know. She'd know and she'd beg him not to, demand he push the notion out of his head right away. It was like the woman had spidy-sense or something. He had to pick another venue.
E-mail, he thought, but then rejected that too. If he didn't go through with it, there would be no hiding it from her. He stopped and considered this. If he sent her and e-mail then he'd have to go through with it. Sure. Yes. That's what he had to do.
He picked up his firearm and placed it heavily beside his computer, and waited impatiently, chewing on his thumb nail rather than sun flower seeds, while the machine booted up. He logged on and opened up a fresh mail screen. He began, "Dear Scully," but quickly deleted that.
My dear Dana,
There are times when everyone has to sit back and consider the options; stand at the fork and glance down each road to decide where life will take them. Often we don't realize that those paths we chose not only carry us, but the ones we love into unseen turbulence. I have stood at a cross roads and seen terror in all directions, and if I take the first step along any one of those shadowed ways the inevitability of loosing things more precious than myself will no longer be just a nightmare strangling me in my sleep.
I care for you Scully. Dana. I once told you I love you. I love you. Believe it. That is why I can no longer allow myself to be the cause of your pain. My obsession has lead to your suffering. Go be a doctor, Scully. Forget the X-files. Forget what they've done to you. Forget me.
I stand here at the cross roads, and I am frozen in place. To move would be to cause destruction, and one cannot endure a static existence for long. I must eliminate the paths, the ones that would lead to your death, and I can only do that with my own.
Accept this, please. My gift may be a horror in its self, but do not admonish me for it, I beg of you. All I ask in return is that you live. Go off some where and fall in love, Scully. With work, with a man, with a hobby- just find it. I have to give you the chance. Love, and forget me.
And don't you dare give up because of me. Don't you dare.
I will love you here and forever,
Fox W. Mulder
He reread it hastily. It's shit, he told himself, but he was an FBI agent, not a frigging poet. He shrugged to himself, and with one last sigh of closure pressed send.
He clutched at his gun, taking it up and holding it experimentally against his temple. No open casket for you, buddy, he joked to himself. He brought the weapon down and weighed it in his hand, swiping his thumb almost lovingly over the grip. Roughly, he then pushed its barrel under his chin. The metal felt inexplicably warm against his skin. Next he placed the muzzle at his chest, squaring it over his heart. He knew blowing his brains out was a more efficient way to get the job done. Wham, bam, thank you ma'am. But a part of him liked the idea of getting it through the heart. Much more fitting and it held a cynical twinge of romanticism. He pulled the gun away again, turning in his chair to level it at the tv set. He squeezed the trigger gently, pulling it to that point just before release. He told himself he was prepping, that these little practices were necessary to get it right, but in truth he was stalling. No one ever likes the idea of putting a bullet through their body, but that doesn't mean they won't do it.
He let go of the trigger only to pull back on it again, still just testing. Then there was a sharp knock on the door. It surprised him, and instead of easing off like a stable agent would, he squeezed all the way. He hadn't realized until just then how on edge he was. Sweat had gathered across his forehead and upper lip, and his breathing was labored. The bullet bore into the television, and a few sparks threw. The sound was earth shattering.
"Oh my God. Mulder? Mulder!" he heard Scully on the other side of the door. She pounded harder.
With a shaky hand he lay the gun back on his desk and ran both hands over his face. She'd caught him. Shit, she'd caught him. He felt fire rim his eyes and the tears started to silently flow. He cursed himself for having ever given her a key.
She burst through the door, face flushed with worry and panic. She stood motionless for a moment, staring at him, half in and half out of is apartment.
He didn't move, and kept his hands over his face. He didn't want her to see him crying, not this time. And yet the water kept flowing, down his cheeks and into the crease of his mouth. He licked at it manicly, as if he relished the salty human taste.
"Mulder?" she tested softly, glancing at the angled entry wound in the tv screen.
"Why are you here, Scully?" he mumbled from behind his tear soaked palms.
She wandered over to his side, her arms hanging limply as if they'd lost all use. "I saw how you looked when you left," she admitted quietly. Her tone carried the same factual intonations it did when she was telling him that evidence they thought they had wasn't solid, or that it had disappeared all together. "I kept seeing that look. When I made tea, when I tried to read a book, and then finally I saw it in the mirror when I went into the bath room. It was pure helplessness, self-deprecating emptiness. It looks bad on the both of us."
"You don't understand," he gasped out, a shaky breath following. His voice sounded hollow behind the cup of his hands.
"What don't I understand?" she asked, her tone a bit firmer.
He looked up, wrenching his hands away. Swiftly, aggressively, he stood. She jumped slightly, but did not recoil.
"It's you Scully! Every time, it's you. They want to hurt me, fine! Hurt me. But instead they hurt you. They torture you to punish me. Take me out of the equation and they'll leave you the hell alone. If it wasn't for me you might never have even heard of the X-files, and then maybe, just maybe your life wouldn't have become so fucked up. You wouldn't have gotten in the middle of an interstellar war none of us can stop. You wouldn't have been put on the front lines, offered up like some lamb for slaughter. I can't let them do this any more! They'll keep coming and coming until you're dead. And I won't let that happen! I won't see it! I can't see it!" He advanced on her, moving into her personal space and forcing her to take a step back. He caught her around the waist to halt her retreat. "You're life wont go to waist because of me, because of what I've introduce you to." His volume dropped, but his intensity increased, "I love you too much. I love you so Goddamned much."
He couldn't control himself. There were tears in both of their eyes now, and one slid down her face and into the crease of her lips. He bent to wipe it away with his own. With eyes closed, Mulder devoured her mouth slowly, deeply, passionately, trying to breath his hurt and love into her lungs. Her responses where small, but encouraging, and she hesitantly slid one hand up his arm and onto his shoulder.
He was drowning in his own passion, strangling himself with his desire to prove his love. There were two options pulling at him, ripping him to pieces. The need to touch her and pull her to his bed, and the need to finish what he'd started. He couldn't have both. To make love to her would be selfish, he didn't even know if she wanted it, if she wanted him in that way. And if she let him have her body, he couldn't leave her then. He'd never be ready to let go. It would only endanger her further.
Carefully, so as not to arouse her suspicion, he snaked his hand across the desk that they were inches from, until it landed deftly on the butt of the gun. He formulated a quick plan. He'd tell her to leave, and if she refused he'd force her with the gun. Hopefully she'd forgive him if he had to be rough. He had to do it for her- had to finish it- no matter how hard she protested or how loudly she begged. Clutching the weapon soundly, he let his arm come to rest, seemingly innocuously, at his side.
He pulled back and opened his eyes, wanting to see what her beautiful blue ones had to say to him this final time. She had closed her eyes as well. They fluttered softly open, and what he saw made his heart wrench. Within he saw love, desire, and hope.
He held back a cry. He wished she would say something to counter her gaze. No, Mulder, I don't love you, couldn't she just say it? It could save her life. He willed her to deny him, but her eyes continued to scream out what she really felt.
A new understanding of their relationship hit him. And now he felt nothing but shame.
Her bottom lip quivered and the out side corners of her eyes slanted down. If you leave it'll destroy me, she was telling him, You'll kill me.
Another wave of shame hit him.
She pressed her cheek into his chest, "I love you, Mulder." It was practically a sob.
Suddenly he panicked. No! No, no, no, no! He gently but quickly pushed her away. "I don't want you to love me!" he yelled, feeling very much like a child. "I want you to let me go!"
His fingers twitched around the grip of the gun. He snarled and threw it with all his might at the front door. It smacked into it firmly, cracking the wood. He looked back at her fiercely, breathing harshly through his nose. She had jumped back and was staring at him with something akin to fear in her face.
They were a house of cards. The frame work of both of their lives was dependant on the support of the other. If one of them crumbled, it all fell down.
He felt helpless again, and caged. He had to get away from her before he did something truly rash. He stomped out the door, scooping up his jacket on the way.
Now here he was, in the car again. He hit the steering wheel once more, then rammed his elbow into the door window until his arm went numb. The light turned green and he drove on.
He found himself on a seedy street where the lamp lights shed a pale, sallow glow on small drug trades and scantily clad, corner-hugging girls. He grimaced in disgust, ready to drive on through.
Another red light stopped him. He tapped his thumbs against the wheel, averting his eyes from the curb he was less that four feet from. Six women stood there, lazily chatting to each other. One seemed more Business than the others, and strode boldly up to his passenger side window, swaying her hips with ridiculous emphasis. She rapped lightly on the glass.
He kept his head straight, but glanced sideways at her for only and instant. He did a double take. The woman had straight, shoulder length, fiery red hair. She was short, but wore tall heals, and was porcelain pale.
His chest ached.
His mind went blank.
It was as if he were gazing at himself from a distance, through a muddy fog. His fingers traveled of their own accord to the button panel, and rolled down the automatic window.
"Hey Baby," she ducked her head and shoulders through the window, wiggling her rear end shamelessly. "You look lonely tonight."
He closed his eyes quickly, processing her voice. If it were only less flirtatious, he might have been able to convince himself she even sounded like Scully. But at this point, it didn't really matter.
"Get in," he instructed quickly.
She obeyed without question. He looked her up and down quickly before he pulled away. She wore strappy four inch heals with a black, velvety dress that swung in a low scoop over her breasts. Around her neck was a thin gold chain, but thankfully no cross hung from it. Her eye makeup was intense and sexy, and her lips were bee-stung full and candy-apple red.
"Where are we going?" she asked innocently.
"Have any suggestions?"
"There's a nice hotel about a mile ahead."
"Sure."
"You got cash?"
"Yep."
At that she smiled sweetly, and hiked up her skirt. Playfully, she crossed her legs and ran one sensuously up the other. Mulder struggled to keep his attention on the road. He felt brainless, with his body on auto pilot and his emotions gone haywire. He was angry at the world. Life and circumstance had robbed him of the one thing that could have been truly his, truly sweet. No matter how badly he wanted Scully, he couldn't have her. Neither mind, body, nor soul. So fate had offered this woman up as a consolation prize. For one night he'd get to live in a fantasy world.
The place the woman indicated was a Motel 8. He pulled in, booked the room, and drove around the back.
She turned on him as soon as he shut the door, wrapping her small arms around his waist. She leaned in, "Show me the money and I'll be anyone you want me to be," she murmured against his lips.
He threw his wallet on the bed and she dove for it. She glanced at his driver's license. "Fox, hu?" she asked, "Suits you just fine."
"Call me Mulder," After draping his jacket over a chair he sank down on the other side of the bed with his back to her, his head bowed. She frowned.
Soon enough, she found the money she was looking for, pulled it out, and subtly pushed it under the mattress. She'd had her share of cheats. Smoothly, like a cat, she scrawled onto the bed behind him and whispered in his ear, her voice husky, "How do you want it, Mulder?"
A strong shiver ran down his spine, "Scully..." he breathed.
"Call me what ever you want, Baby." She kissed the side of his neck lightly. "How do you want it?"
"I want to make love," his voice was barely audible. He grimaced at his own words. It felt natural to add to you to the end of that statement, but he bit the tendency back.
She smiled. This guy was a ringer. She didn't get that sort of response often. Poor guy, probably just had his heart broken. She ran her palms up over his shoulders and down his chest. "Help me with my zipper?" she purred.
Before he could answer she was off the bed and standing in front of him with her back turned, holding her hair up expectantly. With a sigh he stood and pulled the zipper down her back, past her hips and into the curve of her behind. She looked over her shoulder at him, a coy smirk playing at her lips. She slipped the dress off, letting it pool at her feet, then kicking it away. He dropped quickly back into his sitting position on the edge of the mattress.
She turned to let him appraise her body, clad now only in a black pushup bra and matching thong. Mulder felt his lip quiver with self loathing. He held his hand invitingly out to her, she took it, and he led her closer to him. He rested the pads of his fingers on her hips and bent to gently kiss her flat stomach once, twice, and a third time. She ran her own digits lazily through his hair. He rested his cheek against her soft skin, and she held him there, patiently waiting for him to be ready. Mulder closed his eyes, feeling them go glossy again. His open mouth sent hot puffs across her abdomen, making it tingle.
"Mulder?"
"Scully," he whimpered. A single tear slipped from his eye, and it traveled down her stomach, leaving a hot trail. He turned his face to try and erase it, kissing her body again and again, almost franticly.
Tenderly, she pushed him down to lie on his back. She leaned over him, her hair dangling lightly around her face. She pushed his t-shirt up, and lowered her self to her knees between his feet, which were still planted firmly on the floor. She raked her long, fake nails over his exposed skin before moving to undo the tie on his sweats.
"Wait," he said, scooting himself back on the bed. She stopped and stood. He was breathing heavily, rubbing his eyes.
"It's okay, Mulder," she crawled up to stretch out on her side next to him. She leaned in again, her mouth hovering over his, "I want you to."
"Scully," he choked on her name. What in Hell's name was he doing here? "I'm sorry," he sat up swiftly. When she reached out to him he stood. "This," he shivered, "This is low, even for me." He lunged for his jacket. Out flew his badge.
She jumped off of the bed to pick it up, "You're fucking FBI?"
He snatched it back from her, "Yeah." He had come round again, back from sorrowful oblivion to pure rage for the universe. "But don't worry, prostitution's not really under my jurisdiction," he spat, picking up his wallet. He was surprised, she'd left him a few bucks.
Then he left her, stunned, wondering how she got so lucky.
He was on the road again. Screw this, he needed a drink.