"Hey Scully". A thousand thoughts race through my mind, one excuse chasing another. None of them believable enough for her to fall for. She is pausing, trying to let me explain on my own, but my mind fails.
"Did you just try to call me?"
"Uh, yeah, I just wanted to... talk to you about something work related. But it can wait until Monday." I rush through the last part of the sentence, praying she will let me off the hook.
"Well, I am listening now." No luck.
"It's uh... We have to go out of town for a case next week, and I just wanted to make sure you were available."
"I see... yes, I am available."
Am I imagining things or does she sound disappointed? Does she not want to go chasing aliens with me anymore? Does she no longer want me in her company? I have always looked forward to our out of town cases, when I get more than 8 hours of Scully in my work day. When I might even get a glimpse of after-work-Scully. Why else have we been running after any case I could lay my hands on, no matter how ridiculous the case? The further away and the longer the better. And I always though she enjoyed our assignments too. She didn't seem to mind the long drives, the shared dinners, the late night conversations. My heart sinks, and I need to get off the phone now.
"We'll be leaving on Tuesday, I'll tell you all about the case when I see you in the office on Monday, ok?"
"Sure."
"Well, I gotta run. See you on Monday."
"Mulder?"
"Yes?"
She pauses.
"Nothing. Have a nice weekend."
"You too."
The weekend passes viscously, one minute chasing the other. I try to preoccupy myself, but my mind keeps returning to Scully. I know I have to deal with our situation. I am an un-functioning wreck. I hardly eat, hardly sleep. Monday approaches creepingly, but arrives faster than I want it to.
Scully is professional as always. I present our case, she asks a few questions, and we're back at sitting at our desks. Scully leaves the office more often than usual lately. My mind starts wondering if she might be seeing someone at the office, but I bury the thought so deeply it does not stand a chance of re-surfacing. Or so I hope.
When lunchtime comes around she informs me that she has to take care of some things before we leave and that she won't return to the office for the day. We haven't eaten lunch together in 17 days. I am embarrassed I know this by mind, but my mind likes to store numbers, even hurtful ones. I mumble some form of approval, as if I had anything to say in this matter, and watch her sally out the office.
On Tuesday she arrives just in time for our flight. She looks tired. Like she hasn't slept either. As soon as we take our seats, Scully fastens her seatbelt and closes her eyes. I know how uneasy flying makes her. It makes me smile slightly. Scully, the scientist, the encyclopedia, the treasurer of facts, is afraid of something as improbable as dying on a plane. Doesn't she know how much more dangerous driving is? Today she seems to take it especially badly. At one point she practically runs to the bathroom, and when she returns her face is flushed. I don't mention it, knowing that she does not like to talk about her fear of flying. She knows all the facts, fear of flying is something irrational, and nothing I can say or do can make this better. I sometimes hold her hand, but I don't dare to today.
It is a two hour drive to the motel I have booked for us, and we spend it in silence. When we arrive she tells me that she is going to fore go dinner, and has vanished in her room before I can reply. I go running, as much to exhaust myself as to keep myself from knocking on our connecting door. When I return her lights are off, and I stand outside our rooms for a while, hoping to catch a glimpse of her through her window. The night is cool, and I start to shiver after a while, so I go inside and crash on my bed. That night I have confusing nightmares about Scully. She is being abducted by aliens. No, she ran away, making it look like an abduction. She has found Samantha and they are laughing at my futile attempts of finding them. Now she is sitting in Skinner's office and they look at me like I have caught them red handed as I storm through the door. They laugh at my attempts of telling them I have found out about her and Samantha, all of a sudden the room is filled with agents, and they are all laughing at me.
I wake up drenched, the alarm clock telling me it's only 5 am. I know I won't be able to get back to sleep, and sure as hell don't want to anyway, so I get up and once more look over the material I have gathered on our case.
Scully doesn't show up for breakfast, and I hesitantly knock on her door at 7:30. It takes her a few minutes, but when she opens the door she is ready to go, and immediately starts walking towards our car. That day I don't see a lot of her. Scully has to conduct an autopsy, which keeps her occupied for the better part of the day. I interview possible witnesses, and question two suspects, but my mind is so preoccupied I have a hard time processing what they are telling me. A little after 3 I admit to myself that I am not getting anywhere and drive over to the morgue. When I arrive Scully is just about to discard her gloves and lab-coat. I offer to help clean up, and she gladly accepts. I feel like my heart is being moved back to its rightful place. For the first time in weeks she seems to want my company, and I can barely contain my relief.
We head over to process the crime scene once more, but finding no further evidence we return to our motel. I hesitantly ask Scully if she wants to join me for dinner, holding my breath until she replies with a "yes".
It takes her longer than usual to get ready, and I start worrying she might cancel after all. But then she is knocking on my door, and when I let her in, she looks so small, so fragile, all I want is to press her against me. To wrap my arms around her and tell her over and over again that she will be fine. But Scully is hesitant, still standing in the doorway, as if she were unsure if she should really enter. So I grab my jacket, make some lame joke about her leading the way, and follow her to the car. Dinner is uneventful, but I enjoy her company, even though her thoughts seem to be miles away. I have to repeat myself several time, and our conversation is sluggish, to say the least. I drive us back to the hotel, and Scully barely manages a 'good night' before she once again disappears in her room.
I pace my room, want to go talk to Scully so badly, but don't know how to approach this subject. In my mind I play out a million versions of conversations we might have, but none of them end well. A thunderclap sharply pulls me back to reality, and when I look towards my window I see Scully standing in my door. She is drenched from head to toe, water running down her face, washing her mascara along. Or are those tears? Has Scully been crying? I am completely taken aback, and it takes me a minute to process her appearance. Her drenched sneakers, the wet pants clinging to her legs, her arms that she has protectively wrapped around herself, her hands pulled inside her sleeves, the wet hair sticking to her face, and her eyes, her beautiful eyes, full of sorrow and regret. I close my eyes, steadying myself for what is about to come. But when she opens her mouth, my whole world comes tumbling down.
"I am pregnant, Mulder"
