Time passes in moments... moments which, rushing past define the path of a life just as surely as they lead towards its end. – Dana Scully, All Things
She's always been a collector. She remembers her mother's frustration on laundry day, her pockets always full of pebbles and buttons. A chipped marble she found in the long grass by the shed. A perfectly shaped acorn. The plastic magnifying glass from the box of cereal they'd finished that week — she'd woken up early to snag it from the bottom of the box before Charlie could take it.
She doesn't have pockets filled with physical trinkets and treasures any more, but now she gathers up memories and thoughts, singular impressions that linger, and rolls them between her fingers until they're smooth and polished and familiar.
They've been here for hours over a series of days, long enough that conversations and events have begun to overlap and blur, bleeding into each other like watercolours. The same car. The same warehouse. The same late night radio talk show. If this guy doesn't show his face soon, she's going to lose her mind.
Mulder cracks a sunflower seed and lifts the binoculars to his eyes to scan the industrial complex around them and she shivers. The fall evenings have been growing colder, and she tries to not think about how nice it would feel to sink into a hot bath.
"You okay, Scully?"
She jolts as Mulder's voice startles her out of her half daze.
"Yeah." She sits up straighter and stretches out her neck and shoulders with a slight grimace. "I'm fine. Why?"
He turns his head to look at her, still lolled back against the driver's side head rest. "You let out a huge sigh."
"Just tired, I guess. It's been a long week with nothing to show for it. I wonder how solid this lead was before they assigned stake out teams."
"Why don't you close your eyes for half an hour?" His voice is a siren's song, low and soothing. "I don't mind. I'll wake you up if anything happens."
Normally, she would decline, but tonight she can hardly keep her eyes open. "You sure?"
"Of course." He grins and pops another sunflower seed into his mouth. "You can do the same for me later."
Her eyes are already closing as she leans back in her seat. "Okay."
She slips under into dreams almost immediately.
The next thing she knows is a soft touch trailing down her cheek. But she's warm and comfortable, and she doesn't want the sensation to stop. Just five more minutes. The faint scent of Mulder's aftershave is all around her and she feels safe and relaxed.
The gentle caress continues, feather light down her jaw before returning to the top of her cheek bone and lazily sliding over and down again. She hums contentedly, nuzzling her head into the fabric wrapped loosely around her. It smells divine, and she doesn't ever want to wake up from this.
"Hey, sleepy head." Mulder's fingers tuck a lock of hair back behind her ear.
"Hmmm…" She reluctantly opens her eyes, blinking slowly as she comes more fully awake. The sky is beginning to lighten at the edges of the horizon, the dark of night giving way toward dawn. "What time is it?" Her head is still muzzy, but she doesn't feel in any rush to clear it. There had been no urgency in Mulder's tone, and he's currently tracing the outer shell of her ear with the tip of his finger with all the rapt fascination of the young. It's vaguely disconcerting, how he always seems to be testing the boundaries of how much she'll allow him to get away with before she reacts.
"Four thirty or so. The next shift should be here soon." He pulls his hand back into his own lap, and she has to resist pushing her face forward to halt its retreat like a kitten seeking affection. The thought startles her enough that she sits up more fully, realizing that, at some point, Mulder has draped his coat over her like a blanket.
"You were only supposed to let me sleep for half an hour. Why didn't you wake me up?"
Mulder blinks owlishly back at her and shrugs. His hair is dishevelled from his absent-minded habit of running his fingers through it and he's loosened his tie and undone the top two buttons of his shirt. His jaw and cheeks are rough with stubble as he rubs his chin thoughtfully. "You were tired. I wasn't."
Is this what he would look like if they were to some day wake up together in a proper bed? Soft and rumpled and so very tempting? She can't help taking a moment to devour him with her eyes, filled with a sudden yearning to taste and touch. Instead, she pinches the edge of her lower lip between her teeth and bites down until it stings. "I should… uh… give this back to you." She fumbles with her hands beneath his coat to press it back towards him even though it's the last thing she wants to do.
But he shakes his head, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Keep it until we're ready to go. It's cold."
It's her first night back home, and the prospect of sleeping in her own room, in her own bed, sounds like a slice of heaven. She takes her time soaking in the tub, indulging in the lavender bath oil she'd bought months ago but had never used, before slipping into her softest pair of flannel pajamas. They smell like her laundry detergent, not bleach, as she pulls the comforter up around her shoulders and settles into the mattress with a soft sigh. It's good to be home. She can hear the familiar hum of traffic outside, the click of the heater turning on. Nestling her face into her pillow, she breathes deeply.
But, an hour later, she's still awake.
Her heart keeps racing unexpectedly and she feels edgy, like she could leap out of bed at the sound of the starter's pistol and run a marathon. She's safe. She's in control. She focuses on each inhale and exhale, counting to three on each one. As much as she wants to relax, she simply can't.
After another ten minutes, she gets up and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Her mother swears by chamomile tea when she can't sleep, so she might as well give it a try. As she waits for the water to boil, she leans wearily against the counter and picks through the pile of books and magazines she'd brought home from the hospital. At the bottom of the pile is a VHS tape, and she can't help but shake her head when she sees it. Stars of the Super Bowl. She doesn't think she'll ever know what's going on in that man's head.
On impulse, she brings the tape with her to the living room once her tea is done steeping. Maybe if the chamomile doesn't work, she can bore herself to sleep instead. She grabs a coaster and sets her mug down on it before sliding the tape out of the case. A folded piece of paper falls to the floor.
She bends to pick it up and unfolds it, immediately recognizing Mulder's handwriting.
Call me when you find this. No matter what time it is.
She smiles, fiddling with the corner of the paper for a moment before heading over to the phone and dialling his number. It rings twice before he answers.
"Hello?"
"Mulder, it's me."
"Hey, Scully. Everything all right?"
She hesitates for a few seconds. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just having trouble sleeping so I thought maybe watching some football might do the trick."
His chuckle is warm in her ear as she walks over to the VCR and slides the tape in. "There are some great plays on that tape. I mean, Jerry Rice is a legend. One of the best wide receivers to ever play the game." He prattles on as she turns on the TV and presses the play button. She sits down on the couch and wraps herself up in a blanket before reaching for her tea, the phone balanced between her ear and her shoulder as she leans back.
"… and then when Joe Montana—"
"Mulder?"
"Yeah?"
She feels better now, calmer. "Thanks again. For the tape. And the note."
"Do you want me to come over?" His voice is quiet, and she's knows he would. In a heartbeat. All she has to do is say yes.
But she doesn't.
"No, it's late, and you have to work tomorrow."
"I don't mind."
He wants to, she can hear it in the feigned casualness of his tone. If she's honest with herself, she wants him there, too, which is precisely why he can't. She needs to figure out how to face this on her own, like she's always done. She can't quite bring herself to hang up though.
"Maybe, you could just stay on the phone with me for a while?"
He lets out a long breath. "Of course, Scully. Anything."
The tape has finished playing the obligatory FBI warnings, and they watch the show together, with her telling him what's happening, sipping her tea as he rattles off statistics that she couldn't care less about. She's asleep before the credits, with the comforting sound of Mulder's voice still in her ear.
She's spent an incalculable amount of time in hospitals, as a patient, as a doctor, as the one sitting helplessly in the hallway waiting for news. She's accustomed to the lingering scent of antiseptic, to the squeak of the orthopedic shoes so many nurses wear, to the background noise of whispers and beeps and the droning whirs of pumps and monitors. She feels relieved at the knowledge that he's here — not out of the woods yet by any means — but at least he's accounted for, in a place where she can stare at him as long as she needs to, can hold his cool limp hand in hers.
He's tangible.
Here.
Not lost.
Not dying somewhere she can't reach.
She has power here.
Skinner left hours ago, and she knows that, logically, she should do the same. He isn't going to wake up tonight, or likely even tomorrow. He's unaware of her presence, trapped below the surface of medication-induced unconsciousness so he can heal more quickly. She should go. Get some rest. She hasn't slept more than a few hours in the past few days.
She should go, but she can't bring herself to actually do it.
Folding her body over across the bed, she rests her cheek against the back of his hand and closes her eyes. He smells like iodine, but she can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and it's enough.
He's ditched her, again, and she's filled to the brim with rage and worry and a hot sort of shame that she feels like she still has something to prove, that he still doesn't trust her, even after everything they've been through. She grits her teeth as her cell phone trills, and then he starts talking before she can even say anything.
"Scully, you're not going to believe this. I just met up with—" She tunes him out, struggling with the urge to hang up on him and turn off her phone.
"Mulder, where the hell are you?"
"I'm outside of New York. You need to get over here as fast as you can. I've talked them into holding the body for now, but I don't think they'll agree to another twenty-four hours."
"What body?" She wishes she could pull her hair in frustration but, damn him, she's already walking to the bedroom for her overnight bag. "Does this have to do with the Sherman case?"
He's excited, his words tripping and falling over each other like puppies. "The Sherman—? What? No, nothing. This is from an article the Gunmen sent me yesterday. I thought it sounded too far out there, so I thought I'd go scope it out on my own so I didn't have to interrupt your weekend, but then it blew up way bigger than I could have imagined. I think we're onto something here, something the DoD doesn't want us to see, so we need to get as much information as we can before they show up."
She's taken to keeping a bag mostly packed, with spare toiletries and the basics, so all she has to do is throw in a few changes of clothes, which she does as he's talking.
"… and the event was witnessed by three independent people, so—"
"Mulder, I'm leaving for the airport now. Where do you want me to meet you?"
The relief in his voice is palpable. "Great, Scully. Call my cell phone once you land and I'll let you know where I am."
She can't help sighing and rolling her eyes as she hangs up the phone. At least her life is never dull and predictable.
She's dying. She feels it, deep down in the marrow of her bones. She doesn't feel like fighting any more, despite the tight clutch of her mother's hand over her own and the look in Mulder's eyes, like she's drowning and he's watching her slip out of sight beneath the waves. It's easier to close her eyes, to embrace the lassitude of the morphine seeping into her veins. Her vision is fading anyway, the tumour pressing against her optic nerve, so it doesn't make much difference if her eyes are open or closed. It's always twilight, and soon night will fall forever.
She swims in and out of dreams as distorted voices dance around the outer edge of her consciousness, like brightly coloured fish that twist their way through her fingers when she tries to catch them. She's sure, at one point, that Mulder is there. She can feel his presence, an irrefutable truth that surpasses faith, surpasses belief.
In the same way, she can feel his despair, the weight of his tears against the back of her hand. But she has no comfort left to give, there simply isn't any. She wishes she could tell him how grateful she is that he's here, that he's the only thing that feels right any more, that he's the only thing still keeping her from going under and never coming up for air.
But it's too hard and she's so tired and the effort of treading water in this half-life is draining her strength. He wants to believe that the chip freshly implanted in her neck is going to save her, but that seems like too much to hope for.
She's used up her store of miracles.
It's such an inconsequential thing: a cup of coffee. But he brings it for her, just the way she likes it. It's there on the desk, every single morning, waiting for her when she gets in. Hot and steaming, too, unless she's later than expected. Even if it's gone cold by the time she arrives, she drinks it anyway, watching him discreetly over the rim as she sips it.
She's never asked him to bring her one, has no idea what prompted the origin of this new ritual, but she is surprised to find she likes it. It's such a trivial thing, but the meaning behind it is not. She imagines she can feel the whispers of words against her lips as she drinks. I see you. I'm glad you're here. I couldn't do this without you.
This morning, she wakes up well in advance of her alarm, eager to get going on their current case. She's had some ideas overnight and she can't wait to see what Mulder will make of them. After a quick shower, she's on her way to the Hoover building. There's no question that she'll be beating him in for once, so she swings by their regular coffee shop on her way.
It feels good, letting him know that she appreciates him, too, as she carefully deposits a cup of coffee — just the way he likes it — on his desk along with a bagel, a plastic knife, and a packet of cream cheese.
He looks surprised to see her when he arrives fifteen minutes later, balancing two cups of coffee as he swings the door open. "Scully, you're here early."
She sets down her pen as she swivels in her chair to face him. "I had a breakthrough about the case last night, and I wanted to go through my notes again so we could go over it first thing."
"Sounds great. Let me just… oh." His gaze catches on the coffee that she'd bought for herself. A flicker of disappointment flashes in his eyes. "Guess you don't need this one, but, here." He sets the cup he bought for her beside the other one and moves to sit down.
He stops.
Turns back to her with an incredulous look that turns into a smile. He points at the cup of coffee and the bagel. "You brought this for me?"
She nods, feeling the strange urge to avert her eyes. A hint of heat is creeping into her cheeks and she hopes it doesn't show. I see you, too.
"Thanks." He stares at her for a beat too long, his long body leaning against the edge of the desk, before turning to snag the cream cheese packet and tearing it open. "Well, ready to work, partner?"
"You're making this personal."
The words twist like vines of barbed wire growing out of the empty cavities of her heart, twining into her lungs, her throat, until she is choking on them. And yet she inhales deeply, wanting the pain, wanting them to cut, to make her bleed, because it's something to feel, something to hold on to, wrapping the delicate softness of her bare hands around them and watching the skin tear.
She should have yelled at him, fought him, argued, but the depth of it doesn't hit her until afterward when she sinks down to sit at the bottom of her tub with the heat of the shower pounding needles into her back.
How much more fucking personal can it get?
She's lost months, she's lost her sister, she's lost a child she didn't know and the children she might have had. Her friends have all moved on without her. She's suffered through cancer and the emotional trauma of almost dying and, even now, who really had control over the chip in her neck that was keeping her alive? How much more was she expected to give before it was considered personal?
Huddled into a ball, her arms wrapped around her knees, she forces herself to slow her breathing, to take in one shuddering breath and let it out slowly before the next one can pile on top of it. She tries, but she can't control it, can't contain it, and her next inhale slams into the back of her exhale like a cascade of train cars, crashing one by one into the cars ahead of them.
How could she be so dumb, so naïve, to think that she could mean the same to him as he does to her? She holds on to her knees, her nails cutting crescent moons into her skin, and wishes she could cry but it feels like everything inside her has congealed into a solid mass that she can't expel. Her head and eyes throb with the effort.
Diana had hurt him and yet he had forgiven her, believed her, put his trust in her again like it was nothing. How hard had she worked to earn his trust, to prove her loyalty? How much more of herself could she possibly give?
It wasn't enough.
She wasn't enough.
She's torn through the meat of it and she's down to the bones now, the truth buried beneath it all.
She sits there as the water bleeds from hot to warm to cold. She hardly notices until she's shivering so violently that she can't stop. Staggering out of the tub after she's shut the water off, she throws up the remnants of the bran muffin she'd downed in a rush earlier that day, the only thing she'd had time to eat in between autopsies.
She rinses her mouth out with cold water straight from the tap once her stomach stops heaving and wipes her mouth on the hand towel. She can't even meet her own eyes in the mirror, doesn't want to see how pathetic she must look right now.
Even though she's freezing, she doesn't bother with pajamas. Who cares, after all? She slides into bed and pulls the covers up high around her neck as she curls into herself, some unborn thing seeking the only comfort left to it. She shivers, her teeth chatter, as she wills her mind to go as numb as the rest of her. She is the ice queen, after all, and her heart is an impenetrable chunk of frozen granite.
When she finally falls asleep, she dreams that she's a seed, packed deep below the hard earth, and she's alone. There is no warmth, no sunlight.
She wakes up to the familiar jangling of her alarm and she goes through the motions of getting ready for work without any sort of conscious thought. She's empty, hollowed out and picked clean, a mess of ivory bones now that the vultures have had their fill of her flesh. She can't afford to be soft, to be vulnerable. Not now.
She will not allow herself a night like the previous one again.
She's Special Agent, Dr. Dana Scully, dammit. Bone and ice and sheer force of will.
After taking one last sip of coffee, she buttons her blazer, and straightens her shoulders as she picks up her briefcase and car keys.
She's fought with everything she has, she's lost more than anyone should have to give, and she is not going down without a fight.
Not by a long shot.
She doesn't think she's ever seen her mother look so shocked. Of course, she's never punched her brother in the face before, at least not since they were kids.
"Dana?" she asks hesitantly, her eyes going back and forth between them. "Bill?"
Bill is rubbing his jaw gingerly and she's sure she looks like a bomb just went off. She's still shaking with anger, the high points of her cheeks pink and flushed.
"It's all right, mom," he says quietly. "I, uh, probably deserved it."
She crosses her arms across her chest, getting more enjoyment than she should from the way her knuckles are throbbing. "Yes. You did."
She knows he blames Mulder for Missy's death, for her cancer, for everything their family has been through, but she hadn't expected him to throw it in her face and certainly not on Christmas Eve. She's more than tempted to stomp out of the house and go hole up at Mulder's for Christmas day, eating Chinese takeout and watching old movies, but she knows it would break her mother's heart. So, instead, she glares at Bill one last time and stalks out of the kitchen.
She calls Mulder after she's crawled into bed later that night, wanting — needing — to hear his voice, to feel like he's close. She keeps the conversation light, telling him about her nephews' antics and how her mom has cooked enough food for at least twenty people and reiterating her offer that he's more than welcome to come for Christmas dinner tomorrow if he wants to. He declines, as she knew he would. He doesn't want to be a bother. He doesn't want to cause any conflict. He likes the solitude.
She doesn't tell him about Bill, about how she hopes it leaves a bruise, about how she hopes he feels it with every bite he eats at dinner tomorrow.
She also doesn't tell him that she's wearing one of his old t-shirts. She borrowed it from his overnight bag before she left, and she has convinced herself — as long as she doesn't think about it too hard — that she will absolutely wash it and slip it back in with his things once she's back, before he even realizes it's gone. She is not going to keep it.
Closing her eyes, she can almost pretend that he's lying in bed next to her.
But eventually she has to say, "Good night, Mulder," and then the reality of how alone she is makes her ache. She rolls onto her side, her fingers caressing the shirt instead of the man, and wonders if anything is ever going to change.
She's never seen him cry like this, hoarse sobs that crash and break across the jagged points of her shoulder blades and down the mountain range of her spine. His sister, his father, now his mother, they've all left him behind, this lost little boy who is currently raging against the why and the how could you and the it's not fair.
He clings to her, wraps himself around her body amidst the storm-tossed blankets of his bed, and she holds him in her arms and kisses the wet heat of his face. She is his rock, his constant, his touchstone, and she will not break.
She's started flirting back, and she's not sure when or why exactly. She tells herself that they're just joking around, two colleagues that are clearly comfortable around each other. He doesn't mean it — he can't — she's his partner, she's a kid sister, a lackey, a confidant — and she doesn't mean it either. She's just lobbing back the balls he fires her way, returning his serve while trying to score a point or two of her own.
It's easy to keep up the façade when they're in the office, armoured by suit jackets and badges and the desk between them. It's harder when she's in her robe with files spread out across the motel bed and he's lounging in the armchair next to her wearing grey sweats and a Knicks tee-shirt. His glasses are part way down the bridge of his nose as he proposes preposterous theories just to watch her poke holes in them and he laughs every time she rolls her eyes.
Her breath catches in her throat when he takes his glasses off, rubs his forehead, and stretches, baring a strip of golden skin above the top of his sweatpants. The muscles in his abdomen clench and release enticingly as she stares, transfixed.
"See something you like?" His eyes are dark and predatory as his arms come down and he catches her before she can look away.
Once, she might have been flustered, hid her embarrassment at being caught out by snapping her professional demeanour back in place like a bank teller's window slamming shut as the clock struck five. Once, she wouldn't have even allowed herself to look. But that's not now and once is not tonight.
Tonight, she lets her gaze drift up his body, taking her time to savour the spots she fantasizes about appreciating in other ways, until she meets his eyes. For a moment, she lets him see the gravity of her hunger mirrored back at him before she grins at him nonchalantly. "Always."
"You know, I'm more than just a pretty face, Agent Scully."
"Ah, but you forget, Agent Mulder, that I'm a pathologist. I spent years studying the intimate details of the human body." She draws out her words, enjoying the way his Adam's apple does a slow bob as he swallows.
They share a long look and she feels herself wavering, the familiar camaraderie, the shared losses and triumphs, but she tamps it down with the practised ease of one used to self-denial and she shrugs semi-apologetically as she stands up on the opposite side of the bed and begins gathering up the files into a neat stack. "We should get some sleep. I need to be at the morgue for seven, and you need to meet with Officer Morgan."
"I suppose so." He stands and stretches again — deliberately this time, she's quite sure — but she keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the bed this time. He scoops up the last few documents on his side of the bed and hands them to her. "Well, good night, Scully."
"Good night, Mulder." She lets herself ogle him again once his back is turned. What he doesn't know can't hurt him.
It's all she can do to wait ten, fifteen, twenty minutes after the connecting door between their rooms has clicked shut behind him before she makes herself come, biting her bottom lip raw to stay silent.
Her pockets are so full of pebbles and half-buried truths, polished like sea glass, that she can barely move for the weight of them. There's nothing different about tonight, nothing special. Mulder came to her place after work so they could finish up their notes on the Evans case file. They ordered Thai — her favourite — since they'd ordered pizza from the place that had the best garlic bread — his — last time. Work complete and take out containers empty, Mulder leans back with a half-hearted stretch and a yawn. They're at opposite ends of her couch, papers and file folders scattered across the expanse of her coffee table. He rubs his hands over the tops of his thighs as he glances over at her. "Guess I should leave you to what's left of your evening."
She snorts and relaxes back against the couch. "Yes, my exciting evening plans. Laundry, or should I just go straight to bed? The possibilities are endless." She takes off her glasses and folds them before putting them down beside her empty wine glass on the end table. "How about you? It's still relatively early. You stopping to see the Gunmen?"
Mulder shrugs affably. "Nah, I think I'm just going to head home. It's been a long week."
She hums in agreement, but neither of them moves. It's comfortable, having him here, and she doesn't want him to go. Loneliness is a choice, after all, says one of the weightier stones in her collection. She's worn that one smooth with the number of times she's turned it over in her hands.
Yet, as always, the moment passes by in her inaction, and he's standing up and putting on his shoes, taking his jacket from the hook by the door.
She doesn't want him to go.
She rises swiftly and makes her way to the door as Mulder finishes pulling his coat. "Night, Scully. Thanks for dinner." He turns to find her standing immediately behind him and he grins. "My turn to buy next—"
"Mulder?"
Her hands come up to grip the lapels of his jacket and the grin slowly drops from his face, his eyes wary and unsure. "Yes?"
"Stay."
"What do you…" He shakes his head as he whispers, "Scully?"
Before she can think, she stretches up on the tips of her toes and kisses him softly on the mouth. "Please, stay," she murmurs against his lips, afraid she'll lose her nerve if she pulls away.
"I thought you'd never ask… that you'd never want…" It's all he can get out before he abandons his attempts at speech and simply crushes her against him, his mouth moving desperately against her own as he folds his arms around her, and it's everything she hoped it would be.
Half asleep in the car, her head against the passenger side window, she studies his profile through her nearly closed eyes as he slides in and out of the pools of light from the street lamps. Her best friend. The man she loves. He taps his fingers in time with the song on the radio while mouthing along with the words. He thinks she's asleep and he doesn't want wake her. She lets her eyes fall closed.
This is her choice.
This life.
This man.
She wouldn't have it any other way.
Written for the X-Files Easter 2019 Exchange as organized by the always amazing, OnlyTheInevitable. A mega huge thank you to my wonderful beta, Josie Lange, for all her help with this!