Echoes of Goodbye

September 2014

Mulder fell to his knees as he heard Scully's car start and then back up. He could do nothing, say nothing, as he remained frozen on the porch. He began to cry, sobs shaking his body as he heard her car getting further away. He could not believe this was happening.

Her words were still ringing in his ears, her words of sadness, not anger. She had not shouted at him when she left, but she may as well have, because her quiet sadness hurt worse than any shout ever had. He could see her face, her tears, feel her kiss on his lips, and he felt numb and broken, sobbing anew.

It was not until his legs began to hurt that he chanced moving. As he raised his head, he saw the sun was almost set. It was early afternoon when he followed her out there. Or was it morning? He put his face in his hands as he realized he was not even sure of the time of day she left. He lost track of time, and not the nine minutes they had lost so long ago. No, this was his own doing, and what apparently pushed her to the breaking point.

He got up off his knees, his muscles crying out as he did. His feet were asleep and he welcomed the pain of it, the tingling jolts of it feeling the way his heart felt, firing out electricity as it shorted out.

He stood on the porch, his head down and his body empty. If he moved, he knew only part of him would go back in the house. Like the old cartoons when the character would die or get scared and their body stayed behind, but their soul tore away from their body. Only, in his case, it would be his heart that stayed behind, while the rest of him moved forward.

He wobbled, his feet uncertain, but he knew he had to move to do something. Chase her down? No, he knew without question that was not the answer. How could he follow her and change her mind, when he could not even do it before she left? Call her? And say what, he asked himself, "I'm sorry for being such a fuck up?" She already knew he was a sorry shit because she said as much, just quietly and sadly. Jesus Christ ...

He closed his eyes and forced his feet to move, to go back into the house and figure out what the hell happened. As he stepped back, his eyes flew open. It felt as though his heart was being pulled out, and brought to the spot where his world had stopped. It was as if he could see it, hovering for a second, before it made a new home under the floorboards of the porch. His own personal version of The Tell-Tale Heart. It would wait there, beating and driving him mad, and only he would know.

He moved more forcefully into the house, wanting to escape the image of his heart lying in wait. He closed the door and stood in the suffocating silence of the house. Somewhere he heard a clock ticking and it made his ears ring. How could time still be passing when the world should have stopped? He looked over at his office and his stomach dropped.

He walked to the doorway and looked around, seeing it through Scully's eyes. The papers stacked high, books, photos, dishes and cups all haphazard and in some cases smelly and collecting mold, something he knew she hated.

"It smells in here, Mulder," she said on many occasions. "How can you sit in here with the stench of old coffee cups permeating the air?"

"It's an acquired scent I suppose, Doc," he said, her expression disgusted, as he cracked open a sunflower seed. She rolled her eyes before she left, closing the door with a pointed look.

Looking at the room now through a profiler's eye, he knew this room would be a virtual treasure trove of information. Seeing it differently, he saw the madness, saw the way it must have pushed her away, but he also knew the things he had found. The contacts he had made could not all be wrong, some of them had to be right. She just did not understand what he was doing. How he was trying to save them both.

His gaze landed on his bottle of medication, had he taken it today? Is that why this happened, because he missed a dose of medicine, maybe two, and he was back to appearing depressed and manic to her? As much as he wanted to blame it on that, he knew he could not. This was his fault.

He felt anger bubbling up inside him, at himself, at her, at the fact that she would just leave him like she did. He kicked at a pile of papers and sent them flying. Then he threw them out of the chair and the room was snowing papers. He swept the desk off and his computer crashed to the floor, along with the plates and cups stacked beside it. Glass shattered and the computer screen broke. He did not care, but continued tearing apart the office, papers being pulled from the wall. Is this what she wanted? All his work destroyed? Fine, he would do it, he would show her.

His brain seemed to finally realize what his body was doing and put a halt to the actions. He panted, out of breath from the physical activity he was no longer used to doing. He looked at his ruined office, at the devastation he had caused, and he broke down. He stumbled into the wall and slid down it, his legs out in front of him. He leaned his head back as he cried out his frustration.

How could she do this to him? To them? He knew things were not perfect, but to just fucking give up? Her? She did not do that, so why did she start now?

Because, you fucking loser, you pushed her to it, his brain seemed to say as it rolled its eyes. He cried harder, knowing it was true, he had pushed her away. So many times she had tried to get through to him and he stubbornly refused to hear her.

For a while, things had been good. When all charges against him were dropped, he felt like he had a new lease on life. No longer stuck at home, cooped up in his office, he felt free, and happier than he had in awhile.

They bought a second car and he would go for drives, meet up with Scully for lunch or coffee and sometimes even meet up with Skinner, or just head out to old haunts. The wind from the rolled down car windows never felt so good.

The trip they took, away from the darkness, was amazing and exactly the warmth and sunshine they needed. Scully was so beautiful on that trip, not that it differed than how she was normally, but she had a happy glow about her. The amount of her skin he saw every day did not hurt either.

"Did you simply pack different bathing suits, and not much else?" he asked on their third day there, when she came out of the bathroom in a black one piece, with cut-outs close to her hips. It had one wide strap and the other shoulder was bare.

She reached for her cover up, but he grabbed her before she could. His fingers traced her skin through the cut-outs, and she breathed heavily. Her suit soon joined his on the floor, delaying their day at the beach.

They made love under the stars, in the ocean, and on the porch of their private deck. Lying with her, the warm wind teasing their sweaty bodies, he felt complete and happy. He told her so and she sighed, pulling closer to him, just before she fell asleep. Her soft, warm body pressed against his, pulled him under not long after.

The trip ended and they came home. For a while they still could get each other going with a look or a do you remember story. While the sex was amazing, as it always had been with them, the afterglow was almost better. They would talk and laugh about whatever and her soft gorgeous body would be wrapped around his, making him feel safe and loved. God, he loved her so much.

They took weekend trips to the vineyard sometimes and they walked around his old hangouts. He showed her where he and Samantha used to play pick up baseball games, some of the places no longer empty lots, but buildings or apartment complexes. They walked along the seaside, her hand in his, bundled up from the wind blowing across the water.

"Watch this, Scully," he said, picking up a rock and skipping it across the water. Three hops and he looked at her with his eyebrows raised.

She smiled as he did it a few more times, before she bent and picked up a smooth, black stone. She raised her eyebrow at him, and threw hers, watching as it skipped further than any of his had. Smirking, they both knew she bested him, as she usually did.

When she was working, he would attempt home repairs. He actually did some work in their bathroom, well he supervised anyway. He had changed the medicine chest, and he made plans for a clawfoot tub to be put in for her. When it was done, his glee could hardly be contained. Her happiness and then the thank you sex was worth all the stress to finish it before she came home.

They had dinners at Mrs. Scully's house and she came to theirs. He always enjoyed her company, as she laughed at all his dumb jokes. Both Scully women in one place was always fun. They shared stories and laughed about the past. Not knowing everyone they discussed, he simply listened and laughed at their antics.

During those dinners, he learned that Mrs. Scully was very competitive and loved to play games. Cards, board games, trivia, she loved them all. She did not always join in, but when she did, she took it very seriously.

A Scully head-to-head match was what he loved to watch most. The two women did not back down, never going easy on the other, and when the points were tallied, the winner strutted around like a proud peacock.

"Oh yeah, that's right," Mrs. Scully would say, as she danced around with her hands above her head, before reaching for a high five from him, with Scully sulking in the background. He laughed every time he got to see that display from Mrs. Scully. Her celebratory dance was different every time and he loved to see what she would do.

Everything was going well, but as the predetermined date began to approach, he spent more time in his office, more time away from Scully. He was on the computer, searching for any and all information he could find. Days would go by and he would be unaware that they had. He would forget to eat and then grab whatever was closest and easiest to eat. Sometimes a box of Pop-Tarts, sometimes a meal Mrs. Scully had sent home with them.

He began to lose weight and become sallow, his hair unkempt and his beard growing back. He knew nothing of Scully's comings and going, and one day she called him out on it. He did not understand her anger, trying to explain what he was doing, what he was preparing them for. He needed to know what to do, to expect on that day, to save them both. She walked away, shaking her head, her anger still obvious. He shut the office door and promptly forgotten she had ever been there.

The date came and he was ready, as ready as he could be. There was no planned place to convene, no place safe from the impending invasion. They stayed home, together, never apart from the other. The whole day he waited, sure it would come, the idea that it would not happen was unfathomable. He could feel Scully watching him, feel her worry for him, and it made him angry.

He pushed the screen door open, walked down the steps, and stood in the middle of the yard, his head raised to the sky.

"Mulder! Come back inside! It's freezing out there!" she called out to him, but he did not listen, convinced he would see something if he stood and waited long enough.

A jacket was placed upon his shoulders and he put his arms inside it. She helped him zip it up and then grasped his hand. Hers was warm and his was freezing cold. How long was he standing there? She squeezed his hand and looked up with him, until he heard a beeping from his wrist. Midnight. The day had come and gone.

"Mulder," she breathed, squeezing his hand, smiling with relief. He stared back, worry and confusion on his face. He dropped her hand and turned away from her, heading toward the house, the questions running through his mind.

What happened? Or more importantly, what did not happen? She called to him again, and he turned to look at her. Standing there in the dark, a light layer of snow on the ground, she looked so small, so alone. She said something but he did not hear her, too many thoughts pushing around in his head. He saw her posture though, saw her shoulders fall and her head drop. When she lifted her head, she had tears in her eyes, already seeming to know the path of the road ahead.

He returned to his old ways, burying himself in information. Looking, always looking. She came in his office one day, pleading with him to join her for dinner. He looked at her, confused how it could be dinner time already when he had just eaten breakfast. He glanced out the window and saw it was night, and then discovered it was also already two weeks into January. Almost a month had passed and he had no idea.

He stumbled to the dining room table and apologized to her for losing track of time. Telling her he had found some people discussing what had happened and their theories about what went wrong. He spoke through most of the dinner and then walked back into his office, not realizing that she had not said a word.

Another month passed and he made an effort to plan a dinner for Scully's birthday. They did not really celebrate things like that, but he wanted to show her he could. He meant to, he really did, bought her a gift and everything, but the reservations slipped his mind. They arrived at the restaurant and he realized his mistake. She sighed and then looked at him with such sadness, he felt like a huge failure.

They had found an all night diner instead and it was better than the stuffy restaurant would have been. They talked, not about the darkness he insisted on jumping into, but anything and nothing. She smiled, her hand reaching for his across the table. They ate messy cheeseburgers and shared the best chocolate milkshake he ever tasted. She made him pull over on the way home. So close to the house, but unable to wait, she climbed into his lap and got enough clothing out of the way to sink down onto him. She felt so good and it occurred to him that he could not remember their last time together.

After they arrived home, her gave her the gifts he picked out for her, a book about sprites and a child's doctor's kit. Rolling her eyes at the book, she reached for the doctor's kit.

"I think you might need a checkup, Mulder," she said, setting it on the couch, and reaching for the buttons on his shirt. "I noticed your heart was beating fast earlier and I'm concerned."

"You're the doctor," he said, letting her slip the shirt off his shoulders, before she moved her hands to his belt buckle.

Her eyes never left his as she told him the things she would need to check out. She gave him a thorough examination, commenting again on the fast pace of his heart as she ran her fingernails across his stomach. He grabbed her and pulled her to the floor, the doctor's kit spilling, before he made her heart race.

That night, the office did not have a visitor.

But, it could not stay that way and he went through times where he seemed to drift from day to day, season to season. Before he knew it, it was December again and he had no new information, nothing concrete anyway. He and Scully were not the same. He saw her, but it seemed days would go by and they would not speak, or she was gone at odd hours for work.

When she approached him to eat with her or watch a movie, he would plan to do it, but then forget and when he finally did remember, hours had passed. He would find her asleep in bed and he would hate himself for who they were becoming- strangers living in the same house. He missed her but he had to find the answers he needed.

He fell asleep on the couch one night, exhausted after staring at the computer screen all night. He woke up to her crying and pleading with him to talk to her. She climbed in his lap and clung to him, saying she loved him and that this was hurting them. Her tears and her cries broke his heart and he cried with her, telling her he was sorry and he missed her, as he started kissing her neck.

It had been so long since she was that close and he was almost embarrassed at how quickly he became hard. They had not been intimate in a while, her refusing him while he had "that fucking beard." That day though, she welcomed his touch and his love.

Quick was one way to describe it, but it was still wonderful. They held onto one another after and as they did, he made a decision to shave off his beard. It would not fix everything, but it would be something he could do for her. He left her on the couch, heading to shower and shave. He was surprised at the paleness of his skin, the sickly look to his face under all that hair.

She l cried at the sight of him as he stood in the kitchen letting her tell him with her kisses and fingers how much she appreciated the small gesture and how much she missed him. He knew how she felt, he missed her touch and her love, so much. Only when he was shown it, did he seem to know how much it meant to be with her that way.

He kept his eyes closed and his head bowed as he was presenting himself to her, silently apologizing for being an asshole, and trying to show her he was trying. He knew they were in a bad place. He could feel it, and see it, but he did not know how to change it. He did not know how to crawl out of the darkness when he needed the answers so badly. The date coming and going, no real answers after so long, it was like a weight upon his soul.

That day had been wonderful, but things began to unravel afterward. He had good and bad days, but that was how things had always been for him. So when she asked him to try taking medication for depression, he was stunned.

"I'm worried about you, Mulder,"she said, reaching for his hand. "These highs and lows you're experiencing, it's not good. Not for you or me. Please, Mulder."

"I'm fine, Scully. I'm not depressed. Maybe you need the medication," he said, knowing it was childish, but annoyed with her for suggesting it.

When she brought him home the medication, he refused it, staring her down defiantly. She stood her ground, and he finally relented, grabbing the bottle as he walked in the office and slammed the door.

He fumed but knew how hard it must have been for her to reach that point. He opened the door and grabbed her before she left the room, apologizing again for being such an asshole to her and promising he would take the medication.

It took a few tries to get his dosage correct, but when they did, he felt like he came out of a fog he had no idea he was stuck in. He felt better than he had in a while and she appeared to breathe a sigh of relief. He was more involved again, making her laugh, back to sleeping and other activities in their bed.

Then one day, an email sent him down the rabbit hole. That one email led to searches, articles, examining photos, listening to recordings, and then message boards and chat rooms. He spent days in his office trying to piece together the puzzle he had before him. He was onto something, he knew it.

But, those discoveries and excitement meant something else suffered. Until she came into his office and his annoyance at her kneeling on the papers he had carefully organized had led to them screaming at one another, he did not know things had gotten so bad. He slammed the office door, angry at her complete disregard for the work he had put into his research.

He looked again for the website where he had found the information on the paper she ripped up. It took a bit, but he found it and sent it to the printer. He forgot about their fight until he heard the office door open.

Her words at first m angered him, and he let her know, pushing her buttons to get her to fight with him. She did not take the bait, and instead remained calm, and at the same time, so incredibly sad.

She was leaving. She was suffocating, drowning, suffering, and all because of him. Her analogy of the oxygen masks broke through and made its way into his brain. Years of seeing those flight safety instructions, he could imagine them in that situation. Him stubbornly refusing her help while he looked at a shiny object, as she was slowly dying because she would want to help him first, broke his heart. He was not worth dying for. Not his sorry ass.

He slammed his head back against the wall, causing the things hanging on it to shake. He did it again, hoping something would fall on him, hurting him physically, the way he felt the pain emotionally. Nothing fell and he pushed himself to his feet. He looked again at the office and he shook his head. What a fucking fuck up he truly was.

She left. Wait, he thought. He ran up the stairs and into their room. His breath left him as he bent over at the waist inside their closet. Her clothes were gone, completely cleaned out. He shook his head and moved to the dresser and found her drawers empty. He stumbled forward, his body hitting the dresser, not shutting the drawer as his eyes landed on the spot where her favorite picture of them sat. It was gone, along with her clothes, and the woman who wore them. He sank once again to his knees, as he realized the enormity of what happened.

He thought of the sadness in her eyes as she looked at him. He dropped his head, thinking of the feel of her body pressed against his as she held him. She felt so small and thin. Had she always felt that thin, or had she lost weight? God, he had no idea when he last held her in his arms. Could she have lost weight because of him and the undue worry and stress he put upon her, or was she trying to do so? He did not know, had not noticed, and it was like a knife to the gut knowing she was right; he stopped seeing her.

She left him. She loved him, but she left him. No, she left him because she loved him. She made sure he knew that before she walked out the door. Made sure he knew she still loved him.

With a strangled cry he suddenly fell forward, his face against the cold hard wood of the floor, as he realized that he had not told her he loved her. She had made sure he knew and he had said nothing. He lay on the floor, his world crumbling, and wept out his love for her, hoping somehow she could hear him.