CHAPTER 4
"Mulder," she begins in a familiar, fed-up whine. She has parked at the gates of the old house; the scene of the crime. Mulder is out of the car and wandering towards the house before she has unclipped her seatbelt.
Scully knew she didn't stand a chance of avoiding this one stop he needed to make. She knows he would have opened the car door at any stoplight, rolled out and found his way here no matter what.
There is still yellow tape surrounding the house. This doesn't stop him as he carefully bends under it and climbs the few rickety steps to the front door.
"What are we doing here?" she asks from the front door, clearly irritated. "We're violating at least ten rules just being here."
His voice comes from the top of the staircase. "I just want to see if I remember anything."
Her fists begin to clench. Only Mulder could make this statement and miss the irony. Remembering almost cost him his life. What the hell else does he want?
"Ten minutes, Mulder, then I'm leaving." She wanders into the empty living room and sees the chalk outline from the day before. The blood stains are beginning to darken.
There are more movements from upstairs. Careful footsteps pass over her head. Scully wonders how many people owned this house. Was it a summer house or all-season? Did it ever look as lovely as it did in the paintings or were the paintings as manufactured as she suspects Mulder's memories might have been?
As she crosses the old floor, she can hear her shoes make a soft noise with each step. Her family used to go to an uncle's cottage like this every summer. The children never had to wear shoes, no matter how rough the floors were. They were summers of splinters and joy.
There is a dense thud from the floor above. Scully flies to the staircase two steps at a time. Mulder is sitting against a doorway, trying to steady himself while his head zaps out of his body.
She crouches next to him and curses herself for letting him talk her into this stupid detour; at him for not waiting until he is home to have another seizure.
The pain isn't as deadly as the other attacks have felt but it has hit him just as hard.
She is talking calmly to him; she is back in Doctor Mode. But she is pissed.
He sits back against the door frame as her words come into focus. "Sorry," is all he can croak.
"You okay now?"
He nods. "No hospital. I can see a doctor when I get home."
Silence. He thinks he is going to get an argument. But he doesn't. She looks around for any sign of a bathroom. It wouldn't matter. There probably hasn't been running water in this place for years. "Think you can get up?"
This much he can do, but only with her help.
"Come on," she is saying, when she should be rereading him the terms of his release. "Let's get some air."
Scully leans deep into the front seat of the car. She remembers stuffing a bottle of water there a few days ago. Her fingers finally reach a warm, plastic bottle and in a moment, she has the little bugger. Mulder is sitting on the front porch, where she left him and he looks terrible. He has had a rough few days, she reminds herself. He has had a rough few lives. But then, so has she.
"Sorry, it's warm." She unscrews the cap and hands him the bottle.
He is shaking his head, a polite look on his face. "Not thirsty."
"Get thirsty, Mulder. You need some hydration."
This time he gets the message and takes a few hesitant drinks. It makes him want to throw up. Warm water does that to him but he will do as he is told. If he yaks, he yaks.
"Move over," she says quietly. As he shifts to the right, she slowly sits down next to him on the step. They are shoulder to shoulder. "We need to talk."
Few words, especially when beginning a sentence, can cause as much fear in human beings as these four words do.
He lifts an eyebrow. "It's not me, it's you?"
She smiles weakly. It would be funny if it were not in some part true.
He is waiting to hear the punch line. "Scully…."
In goes a deep breath. "Mulder, have you considered getting counseling?"
He tries not to cough up the water. "What?"
He and Scully know there are certain rooms in each other's lives that exist but admittance is only upon request.
"Doctor Addison – she suggested it as a way to -" She cannot believe she is going over to the dark side. "To deal with some things"
"You're kidding me, right, Scully? To deal with some things? I think we both know the 'things' I have to deal with wouldn't exactly fly in a shrink's office."
"He only meant - to talk to someone professional - about what led you to -" She gives up. She know that she sounds as if she might as well have Personnel written on a badge, with 'My Name is Dana' printed in near perfect letters. "I'm just passing along a suggestion. And I'm well aware of what your … things involve."
"What about you?" He says without the defensiveness. "Do you think I need that too?"
"I think-" There is a loose piece of wood on the step under her left foot. She tries to pry it away. The step has almost rotted through. "I think the idea is not without some merit. Something made you come here and put your life at risk. If I'd asked on Friday what your plans for the weekend were, would you have told me?"
He is silent for a moment. "No."
"Why?"
He lowers his head. "You would have tried to talk me out of it. I still would have come anyway and that would have meant lying to you."
"Because it was a dangerous idea. And the fact that you can so recklessly trade your life for a possible answer from the past … it scares the hell out of me Mulder and …. I can't just -"
"I know I scared you. It won't happen again."
Silence. They had both sworn off any words that hinted of a future. Right now, 'again' is at the top of the list.
"There is a doctor I've been talking to – she is with the bureau. Maybe you could arrange an appointment with her." She waits for the explosion she expects. When it doesn't come, she lays down the last stick of dynamite. "She has suggested you come for one of my sessions."
It is almost a whisper by the time she has this much out.
He would like to know if this is something Skinner and she had discussed. But that wouldn't be a smart idea to ask, especially if the answer was yes.
Skinner had cornered him after a meeting last week.
'How do you find Agent Scully?' he had asked carefully. 'Is there any sign that she should not be in the field?'
Mulder tried not to show distain for the question. "She's fine, sir. She will let me know if things come to that stage."
Skinner's knuckle dug deeper into one eye. This must be bad. Mulder was tempted to ask if Skinner was all right but this was Skinner's party and if he wanted to fill it with magical silence, that was his prerogative.
"How are you coping with Agent Scully's illness?"
Mulder had looked up at him strangely. "Coping, sir?"
'I know how supportive you have been for her." Skinner cleared his throat longer than he needed to and it hit Mulder that this was the real point of this chat, not Agent Scully's health. 'I'm concerned that you may need access to support for yourself.'
He tilted his head. 'Excuse me sir?'
And, like a good boy, Skinner opened his top drawer and produced three pamphlets. He deposited them on the middle of the desk where neither man was obligated to pay them any attention.
Skinner felt like an idiot. Pamphlets. Personnel's response to any and all problems.
Mulder doesn't know whether to laugh or leave. No wonder Skinner looks as though he wants to slide under his desk.
"Human Resources, sir?" Mulder asks kindly.
"Yes. I'm obligated to …. Suggest options to you." He nodded towards the pamphlets. "That sort of thing."
"Okay. Well. Message received." Relieved it is nothing more than bureaucratic humdrum, Mulder stands up again. "If that's all, Sir, I'll be on my way."
He made it a few steps away until Skinner's voice called him back. This time, Skinner didn't look as guilty for towing the office line.
'Look, Mulder, this pamphlet crap aside …. I know none of this can be easy on you – watching your partner go through this, not letting her see that you are worried."
"Is this some trick to get me to a shrink?' Mulder had been on too many ends of that conversation to not see another lure sneaking up.
'No, it isn't. And this isn't about what they want you to hear. I've already told you what I'm supposed to tell you. This is my own interest, not the Bureau's. You are backing her up. You will need someone backing you up."
"I'm fine, Sir."
"I'm not saying you're not. If you need to talk, my door is open. That's all I wanted to tell you. Now, you're dismissed."
Skinner had seen two close relatives go through illnesses. He knows what the toll is on the people off-stage, the ones who go through it too but have to keep their emotions in check. If not done right, it is a dangerous game. And like a light bulb going off, he realizes that Mulder has probably not shared this. A sister taken in a moment; father taken in a moment. Neither of them had been given the time to be seen out.
And now, here, a week later in the middle of a rural crime scene, the person Mulder holds dearest is suggesting that he make a couple of trips to the couch.
Her voice darts into his thoughts. "There is something else."
He waits. He doesn't want to pop out another wisecrack but it is taking every bit of self-control not to.
"I have set a date for when I stop work."
This is worse than suggesting Mulder see a shrink. Stop working. Scully. A few weeks ago, she vowed she would work until she couldn't. Now, she is opting out of this world sooner. Too soon.
"What do you think?"
He is truly speechless. He knows she is waiting for some kind of reaction because she is not looking at him. But what is he supposed to say: 'What the hell is the matter with you?'
"I trust your judgment."
"That's all you have to say?"
"Well - I think it's a good plan if that's what you want."
"You won't mind being on the X-Files by yourself?"
He sighs and asks with growing frustration, "What do you want me to say, Scully. That it's a fantastic idea? You asked me a polite question; I'm giving you a polite answer."
"And what makes you think I want a polite answer?"
"Because you just do. You want to make this easy on me but that can't happen unless I make this easy on you. And the only way that's going to happen is if I give you a polite answer."
She tries to keep her anger in check and continues to tug at the piece of wood on the step. In a second, she has three inches of rotted wood in her hand. She ignores thoughts of jamming it straight into Mulder's chest. Instead, she stands up and tosses it to the corner of the equally rotting porch.
"If you need to go to the bathroom, you should find a tree now. I'd rather not make any more stops until we are home."
The first hour of the drive is silent. Mulder has given into his medication and has fallen asleep.
She keeps the radio on low. She would like some company but she doesn't want Mulder to wake up because she doesn't want to deal with him when he is like this. Neither, for that matter, does she like him dealing with her when she is like this. It's a fair trade, and if the car were not the only thing getting them home, she would gladly park it by the side of the road and take a nice, long walk there instead. She is feeling the same way she did when she left him in the hospital a few days earlier: shaky, not sure what is going on and wanting normal very, very badly.
Every person in every car she passes looks as though they have the life she wants. Nobody looks sick. Nobody looks lost. They are all going in the same direction. That should give her some comfort but it doesn't. Not even the sleeping man next to her can manage comfort during daylight hours.
Her cell phone begins to ring. The ring creeps into Mulder's sleep. By the time he is about to tell her to answer it, she is already mid conversation. He can only make out only bits and pieces. Scully tensely says, "thank you," to the caller.
"What?" Mulder mumbles from the passenger seat. His eyes are still closed, but he is sitting up, his arms folded as tightly as they will go.
She presses 'end' and puts the phone back down. "Nothing."
"What's happened?" He repeats, this time with unmistakable irritation. He has known her too long to mistake her Nothings.
"Go back to sleep".
But he doesn't. He sits up in the seat, adjusts the seatbelt and looks at her, waiting.
She finally says. "Doctor Goldstein killed himself last night."
Mulder takes a breath. "How?"
"Sheets. I guess he wasn't as frail as he looked,." She slows down to let a tanker truck pass. She is able to glance at her partner. "Mulder?"
"I'm okay."
"You didn't have any part in this."
"I led them to him."
"Mulder, don't." She knows this isn't going to do any good. In Mulder's mind, he might as well have tied the sheets into a perfect slip knot himself.
Several cars pass them. She must have slowed down to sixty at some point. More cars pass.
"I need to get a coffee," Scully says. There is a turn off coming up and she doesn't bother to wait for a reply from Mulder. In a moment, she has parked the car by a bank of picnic benches.
Scully turns off the ignition and looks at Mulder. "Do you want anything?"
He shakes his head.
"Coffee? Coke?"
"No thanks."
"Bathroom?"
"No."
She gets out of the car and is overwhelmed by the relief of escape. She hasn't realized until now how enclosed that car is becoming. Mulder is sapping every bit of life from her.
She goes inside, waits in line for an extra large coffee and two bottles of water. The coffee is for her, the waters are for Mulder. She will force feed it down his throat if he doesn't drink them. She has had enough. She wants him home, she wants him healthy and she wants him away from her for a few days. It is a shitty thing to think but she is in a shitty frame of mind.
There is a TV over the condiments counter. Several people, men mostly, have gathered under it to watch a soccer game. If it were a basketball game, Mulder would refuse to leave. Or baseball game. But she doesn't think soccer does anything for him.
Her mother is right. He needs to be told everything; he deserves to be told everything. But there are things you don't just tell Mulder and expect an immediate reaction. These are things he won't want to hear - let himself hear - until he has enough time to digest them. So, rather than face this, she sits down in a seat close to the TV and watches the action. Back and forth, up and down, the action seems to keep going, even when it stops.
Fifteen minutes later, Scully returns to the car. Taking a break from Mulder was a good idea. She watched people watch a soccer game and for some reason, this has been therapeutic. She thinks she might even be stable enough to have a civil conversation with Mulder. On the other hand, she thinks, crumpling her coffee cup and tossing it straight into a garbage can, Mulder may sleep for the rest of the trip and she can get some silent time to herself.
Only, he is not there when she returns to the car.
The passenger door is unlocked, the window is down. His leather jacket is on the seat, crumpled from the weight of a man sleeping for the last 2 hours. And he is nowhere in sight.
"Mulder," she growls to herself anxiously. This is not what she needs right now. She is reasonably sure he wouldn't have gone far without his coat. She pulls the coat out and goes through the liner pockets. His wallet is not there. She's not sure if this is good or bad. If he has it with him, he could try something stupid like hitching his way back to Providence. If he doesn't have it with him he could be in trouble someplace. And she won't hear about it until he makes another five am phone call for help.
Scully circles the car, and then roams the parking lot, calling his name. Hopefully, people will think she is calling for her dog and leave her alone. Describing a Lhasa Apso is one thing; describing a potentially disturbed Mulder is another.
Mulder, this is not funny, she is rumbling to herself over and over again. Explaining to Skinner how she lost Mulder will be a real joy.
She has made a check of the perimeter of the property and is going to go into official panic mode when she notices the back end of an abandoned car behind the restaurant. The grass is knee high – nobody has bothered to cut this part of the property; why should they? Nobody - except those who work and pee here - needs to see it.
The closer she gets, the more pungent the smells get. Gas, rotting food. She rounds the corner and sees a few more rusted, abandoned cars. A couple of picnic benches are scattered here and there. An old gas tank is lying on its side.
And her Mulder is sitting on the back fender of an abandoned pickup truck.
She approaches slowly from behind. He is hunched forward and his shoulders look as if they are shaking. For a moment, she thinks he is talking on his cell phone; maybe laughing. This would be a nice change.
But the closer she gets the more she realizes this isn't the case. He is coughing strangely, as if he is trying to breathe.
"Mulder," she calls.
"I'll be there in a moment," he barks.
"What's the -" She stops in her tracks as she stands in front of him and sees his face.
He is crying. He is trying to stop but, like breathing, it has taken on a life of its own. He can't stop one without starting the other.
He leans forward and puts his hands on his knees, trying to return to deep, steady breaths. He knows she is watching, waiting for an explanation. Anything that will convince her he is not about to drop dead right here in the middle of nowhere.
"We're going straight to the hospital when we get to DC."
"No." He shakes his head slowly. His control is slowly returning as long as he doesn't move. He is literally choking back tears that have been lurking in the shadows for weeks and have now, in the most inconvenient way, sprung a well-executed hijacking. "This doesn't have anything to do with this weekend. I don't need a hospital. "
"Panic attack?" she guesses.
He nods.
"How long?"
"A while." Since she broke her news, to be exact. "Usually I just can't breathe. This is a new one."
"What have you been doing about them?"
"Nothing."
"You haven't disclosed this to a Bureau doctor?"
"I just did." He tries for smile from her. No deal. "It only happens when I'm not working." He nods towards the direction of the parking lot. "Like when I'm sitting on a car in the middle of nowhere."
"What happened now?"
He shrugs and says quietly, "Just hit me. Couldn't stop."
There are still pools in his eyes. He doesn't try to look away; he knows he has been caught. She is the only one he would trust to see him this damaged.
She tries to smile lightly. "We make quite a pair."
Another nod.
"Is … are your attacks … do they have anything to do … with me?"
"No," he lies badly.
She waits a moment, trying to see if there is any more to this that he'd like to offer up. There isn't and she hands him his coat. "Let's go."
She stands up and takes a few steps towards in the long grass. She expects to hear a similar sound of moving grass behind her but there is silence. She turns around to see Mulder still sitting on the truck. He has a strange look on his face. The kind when he is trying to solve a puzzle without a single clue.
"Mulder? Let's go." She turns again to leave.
"Why don't you ever tell me about your appointments?"
This stops her in her tracks. Shit, she thinks to herself.
He is waiting.
"Can we talk about this later? I want to get going."
He doesn't twitch. His eyes never leave her. "Sure," he finally says, his voice tinged with resentment. He gets to his feet, jams his hands into his pockets and walks past her back to the car.
Ten minutes back into the ride, he seems to be asleep again. Scully uses the time to think about his question; he is on to her. It's the only explanation she can think of; the nosebleeds, the appointments. The results she hasn't even shared with her mother yet. Mulder was the first person she told when she was sick. She needed him to be the first she shared the latest results with. She would need that strength to work with.
There is a sudden motion from the passenger seat. Mulder wakes up with a start and whacks the back of his hand against the window. "Jesus," he yelps and holds his hand.
"Good sleep?" Scully asks dryly.
He is too busy trying to catch his breath to be glib back. "I think I had a terrible dream."
"The one where all of the magazine stores close at the same time?"
He appreciates the humour she is trying to inject but he is too stunned and has just had the shit scared out of him to let her know. His headache is back with a powerful crash. And all he can think about is this dream. He won't tell her about it. She died in the dream.
Scully begins to pull over onto the shoulder of the highway.
"What are you doing?" he asks, trying to sit up
Scully undoes her seatbelt and turns towards him. For a moment, he thinks she is going to get out of the car and start walking. For the moment, Mulder considers lot of things these days. She puts the back of her hand on his cheek for a moment. Then on his forehead. "You've got a fever, Mulder," she says with a mixture of irritation and concern.
"No, I don't."
"Um, yes you do. You're hot, flushed, sweaty."
"Maybe I'm in love."
This at least gets a roll of the eyes from her. He considers this a success. Maybe he gets funnier as he gets sicker. She hands him one of the water bottles and reaches to the back seat to get her bag. She opens it carefully, making sure he cannot catch a glimpse of what else is in here. She pulls out a bottle of aspirin and hands it to him. "Take two."
She waits until he has downed both of the pills before she pulls back onto the highway. No more stops, she tells herself. Too much time has gone past already. She notices her bag is open by his legs. One glance and he would see what is in there. At least she doesn't have that round of questions to answer, she thinks, grabbing the bag and swinging it to the backseat.
Her cell phone rings. Careful not to jolt the sleeping man with her elbow, Scully opens it with one hand and puts it to her ear.
It occurs to Scully how little she has concentrated on her own world since rushing into Mulder's two days ago. And now, Skinner is calling. He has been unusually attentive lately. He had a meeting with Mulder the week before but Mulder wouldn't tell her what it was about; she could only guess it was about her. She had been clear with Skinner that she would not work beyond her limit but that she wasn't going a moment before she had to.
"Sir," she says, business as usual.
"Where are you?"
"We're on the way home."
"How's Agent Mulder?"
She hesitates. "Better." It is not a lie. He is better than he was when she admitted him to the hospital two days ago.
Skinner clears his throat even though there is nothing to clear. "We have a problem. It seems news of his arrest made it to the top floor. They want an inquiry."
"But he was cleared of any involvement."
"They don't care. They want to make something out of it. And soon."
She grips the steering wheel and hopes to God that Mulder is truly out cold. "And what do you suppose their conclusion will be?" She doesn't mean to lash out at the one friend they have in the bureau but sometimes, it isn't easy.
"Exactly what you expect."
"And my health?"
Silence.
"Sir?"
"They are looking for any excuse, Agent Scully. If neither of you prove fit for duty - with or without doctor sign off - then you will both be put on leave. The X-files will be closed. Temporarily, they say."
"I don't believe this."
Mulder stirs next to her and she remains silent. There is a road block up ahead – a traffic accident by the looks of it – and their lives come to another slow halt.
"Mulder practically delivered this to them on a silver tray. Your condition just seals the deal. With one of you gone, they can't close the X-Files. Two of you is a different story."
"Damnit." She tries to keep the two rages in her mind from overlapping but it isn't working. There is a roadblock ahead that is only delaying her return to civilization, at which time she and her partner will be shown the golden door.
"Agent?"
Skinner has grown nervous with the silence. He can hear the honing from pissed off motorists on Scully's highway. He can hear her sigh, "Christ," with angry desperation.
"I'm here, sir."
"Will you be in the office tomorrow or will you still be taking your two days leave."
She had forgotten she is not even supposed to be at work right now. Or tomorrow. Theoretically, at this moment, she should be leaving the hospital with her mother after a day of tests. She should be exhausted, hungry and tense. She should be going home, or to her mothers' depending on how she is feeling; maybe call Mulder and see what is going on at the office. He will ask her how things are – she won't have told him about the tests but she would suspect he knows anyway – and she would answer that she is good. And then she would change the subject back to work. It's been repeated so many times in the past month, she could do it in her sleep. Or, at the very least, in the driver's seat of a car that is stalled behind twenty other stalled cars.
"Mulder. Wake up. We're here."
Home, she almost says but this is his building she has parked in front of, not hers. Exhausted, she slowly undoes the seatbelt and turns off the engine. It is eerily silent. She glances at Mulder and marvels at how, all these years, medicated or not, he can still sleep through any kind of drive. Even the kind where the car stops and starts in bursts of hope that the roadblock will end. Now, metaphorically speaking, does she want to wake him now and bring him back to reality? He is probably dreaming of new package in a brown paper wrapper; finding little green men in his doorway; floating in a sea of sunflower seeds.
And now she has to drop the little bomb Skinner sent them. Scully has spent the drive contemplating if and when she should tell him about Skinner's call and what kind of strategy they could use to get out of the situation. What he did could be some strange reaction to stress - an isolated incident, a response to his dying friend. She is sure with the help of a good thesaurus they could pull something out of the hat.
She nudges his shoulder. "Mulder."
He slowly opens his eyes.
"We're home," she says with little enthusiasm
Carefully, he undoes his seatbelt and drags his hands through his hair. He couldn't begin to guess what time it is. He has only just registered that it is his building they are parked in front of. "You want to come up?"
"Sure."
Like two survivors of a year's journey through underground caves, they haul their things from the car and slowly make the long walk to the main door of the building. Mulder fishes around several pockets of his coat before finally pulling out his keys. He manages an apologetic smile as he fumbles to get the right one into the front door.
Neither speaks as they go down the hall towards the elevator. It's a small building, seven floors but tonight the only elevator seems to be servicing every last one of them. Scully leans her back against the door and sighs. Mulder leans against the adjacent wall and sighs. They could take the stairs but that prospect is way too daunting.
Scully's cell phone ring. Armed with only the reassurance that it is not Mulder calling, she pulls the phone out of her bag. "Hi Mom. ... Yes, we just got back."
The elevator doors finally open. Scully, Mulder and third person step inside.
Mulder pushes the 4th floor with his knuckle.
"He's fine. I'll going to stay here overnight."
She doesn't see the look from Mulder. Neither of them sees the third passenger raise his eyebrow at this strange remark. Perhaps mothers, no matter how old their daughters become, don't mind being told their daughters are spending the night at a man's apartment. The gentleman still won't even tell his mother where he lives.
"I'll call you tomorrow. Yes, I'm fine, Mom. We'll talk tomorrow."
She puts her phone away as the doors open to the fourth floor.
"She worried about you?" Mulder asks as they start down the hallway.
"No more than usual."
The apartment is dark and stuffy, they way an apartment - quickly abandoned on a Friday without opening a window, or clearing the crap from the sink - would seem. Mulder drops his bag and goes over to see his fish. They are still alive and thriving and, for some reason, this puzzles him.
"Fish okay?" Scully asks from across the room.
He nods but doesn't turn around. "Go home, Scully. I'm fine."
Scully drops her bag by the couch and drops into the couch. "I'm the one still making that call, Mulder. You had a fever this afternoon; you're not out of the woods yet for seizures. I want to make sure any side effects from your medications kick in while I'm here."
He turns around. "Well," he says, folding his arms and leaning against the desk. "You look like crap too."
"Oh, thank you. This from the man who is greyer than the grays he searches out."
He lands on the couch next to her and drops his head back against the wall. "I hate this."
"Hate what?"
"Causing all of this. On top of everything else, I've made you spend a day in a car three-hundred hour drive."
"We've had longer and worse drives, Mulder." she sighs, tiredly. "Find something else to hate." She tugs at his arm and pulls him towards her. The gesture is a little too intimate for either of their comfort and she quickly lets go.
"Still warm," she says, putting her hand on his forehead. "Do you feel nauseous?"
"A little."
"Think you can sleep?"
"What are you going to do?"
"I've got my laptop. I want to get some work done."
"Scully, go home. Sleep in your own bed. If something happens, I'll call you or 911."
"I'm too tired to get into my car and drive to my place."
"Then at least take the bed." He does a fast mental recall to remember last time he changed the sheets
"No, you take the bed. But thank you." She hopes there is not going to be a polite stand off about who gets the bed.
Mulder puts this fear to rest when he nods absently and stands up. "You know where everything is?"
"By heart. Wake me if you need anything."
Mulder returns from the bathroom. Halfway through zipping up his fly, he comes to a complete stop. Scully is sitting on the side of his bed with a disturbed look on her face.
For a second, wonders if she has lost her senses. Or come to them. Maybe he doesn't have any left. Maybe this is a trick.
She looks up gloomily. "We're under investigation for improper behaviour."
"What?" He lands heavily on the mattress, making her bounce. But you're only just sitting on my bed, he thinks dumbly. And we were both fully dressed last night
"Skinner called me this afternoon while you were sleeping. I debated whether or not to tell you right away."
"Scully, that's the kind of thing you wake me up for."
"No it's not. It's the kind of thing you keep from him as long as you can."
She tells him Skinner's version. Mulder's only reaction is, "Why in the hell are they dragging you into this?"
"Because it makes it easier for them to close up shop. With my illness, they now have more leverage. You knew it was going to come sooner or later, Mulder."
With the bedside table lamp on, he sees how pale she has become lately. There are bags under her eyes he hasn't noticed before. He is guilty of not noticing anything; she is probably relieved.
"When is all of this supposed to take place?"
"This week."
"You've got your tests all week. Did you tell Skinner that?"
"Mulder, I can worry about my own schedule."
"Did you tell Skinner about your appointments?" he repeats slowly. Her non-responsive face gives him his answer.
Something about this conversation is making her uncomfortable. Maybe it is because of how close he is sitting to her. She could stand up and leave and he would follow. But this doesn't happen. "You don't have to worry about me, Mulder," she says very pointedly.
"You've made damn sure of that."
She turns her head sharply. "Excuse me?"
"Every day you make damn sure that I don't worry about you."
She would like to ask where this has suddenly popped up from but from the strain on his face, she thinks that it has been stashed away for some time. "Are you saying you think I have not included you in …. this?" 'This' is the best word she can come up with. Journey is too personal.
He looks down at his stocking feet. "I suppose so."
"And you don't think I have kept you in the loop?"
"No, actually, I don't. You haven't told me anything I need to know. You tell me what's easy."
"It's personal."
She still can't believe she said this to her brother when he asked why she hadn't told him that she was sick.
"You found me sitting naked in a bathtub shivering under a hot shower. You don't get much more personal than that. I worry about you more for what I don't know is going on with you than I worry about what you do tell me. How do I know you're fine? You say it as if it's part of your name. You wear it as if it's a sign of defiance only I'm not the enemy."
She would like to interject right now, protest that everything he says is his truth, not hers. But she can't.
Some people are saved by the bell. She is saved by the knocking at the front door. It sounds like thunder compared to the deathly silence in this room.
Mulder leans forwards and sighs. Tiredly, he stands up and walks out of the room.
There is the exchange of low voices at the front door. Nothing unusual. Just two people talking about something she can't make out from here.
In a moment, he pads back into the room and tosses a box of chocolate almonds onto the bed. He sits down next to her. This time, closer. She doesn't know if this is deliberate or not. He seems tired enough that anything deliberate he does might not be how it looks.
"Kid selling them for some charity. Scouts or something."
Scully reaches behind and picks up the box. She turns it over to read the label – a curse of being a health practitioner. As she expected, it is full of long names no boy scout should know how to pronounce
"I just wish..." Mulder pauses. She is still looking at the box. "I want you to stop telling me you're fine when you're not. I know you, Scully, just as well as you know me, and when you give me that answer, you might as well be answering with two words and a finger."
He waits for her to answer. Open the box. Tell him to buzz off. But there is nothing. Her eyes are slowly filling.
There is another knock on the door.
"Christ, now what," Mulder grumbles.
It is another kid. Another sale. Mulder parts with another five to get him out of here. He rips open the box and pours the chocolate into his mouth. The kid looks up at him with respect as the door glides shut on his face.
Scully is trying to hold it together as she stands in the living room, trying to pull her laptop from her overnight bag. "Mulder, I'd like to talk about this tomorrow if you don't mind."
He stands in the doorway, and pours the rest of the chocolates into his hand instead and nods tensely. "Fine."
The clock radio is blinking. Twelve O'clock. Over and over again. Mulder only notices this because a strange headache awakens him from an even stranger dream involving a basketball game, Scully's brother and a team of marines. They have accused Mulder of throwing the game. Just as Mulder woke up, one of the marines threw a basketball on his head from three floors above.
And now, tangled in sheets that were never actually sorted to begin with, he has to figure out what time it is, which medication does he have to take and can he take it with an aspirin without poisoning himself.
He tip-toes across the living room where Scully is sound asleep on the couch. Her laptop is lying open on her stomach. There is a squeak in the one of the floorboards and he stops, waiting to see if this is enough to wake her. She doesn't move. Her mouth is open and if he were to creep close enough, he would hear the sound of quiet snoring.
He pours a glass of water and moves the various bottles of pills on the counter in front of the other, trying to sort out which is for the night time, which is for the day and which he can get away without taking.
He grumbles, 'damnit' as one of the bottles rolls onto its side and onto the linoleum floor with an annoying bang and rattle.
Still no sound from the living room so he has done well so far. He would like her to sleep as soundly and long as she can. There is nobody else in this world that deserves this peace as much as she does. If he thought he could manage it, he would clean up his room, re-make the bed and gently deposit her into it for as long as it took for her to get well again.
He thinks about her decision. Scully can't have truly meant that she wants to leave her job before she has to. This woman loves her job in the deepest sense. Not like other people love their desks and coffee breaks and PowerPoint presentations. Scully loves her work. She told him this in a teary confession shortly after her father died.
"Mulder!" her voice shrieks from the living room. It is followed by a disturbing bang.
Mulder slams down the bottle and dashes into the living room. Scully is sitting up, terror in her eyes. The laptop is on its side on the floor several feet away and it must have taken a long flight in the air.
"Scully, what is -" It is a useless question by the time he gets to her side. She has had a nightmare and he isn't sure if it has ended yet.
"Mulder, get out of here they know where you are."
He sits down next to her and pulls her towards him. "I'm fine, Scully, everything is fine."
She looks around the dark room and sees the laptop on its side. She begins to get her breath back as she realizes what has happened. "Did I break it?"
Mulder leans forward and manages to grab the laptop's corner. He puts it on the coffee table. It does not look good. "Maybe a little." His arm goes around her and he pulls her in close. "It's okay now."
She will take him at his word because the images are still pretty damn vivid in her mind.
"Do you have many of these?" he asks quietly.
"Now and then."
He tries to recall if she might have had one last night but he was so out of it, he wouldn't have known. And she wouldn't have told him.
"You want something to drink?"
"No. Yes – have you taken your pills yet?"
That she can pull this out of her medical memory is both annoying and reassuring.
"I was just about to."
And, from a scene taken from the previous twenty-four hours, he helps Scully to her feet and leads her into the bedroom. He smoothes out the sheets, folds them back and holds them open for her. She must be more out of it than he thinks, because she slips under them without a word of polite-guest-protest.
"Be right back," he promises. He points to the lamp. "Do you want the light on?"
"No. Off."
He returns in thirty seconds with a glass of water, the same one he was about to down an aspirin with and puts it on the side table. He sits on the side of the bed. "You awake?"
Her eyes open. "Mmmm."
"Do you want to try to go back to sleep?"
She shakes her head.
"Why don't I take you home? You can sleep in your own bed. I'll use your couch."
"No. Neither of us is in any shape for driving."
"Okay." He looks around. "You want the TV? I can bring it into the room."
She puts a hand on his arm. "No. Stay here. Sleep in your own bed, Mulder."
An anonymous hotel bed is one thing; his own bed is another. But she needs him here and so, for that matter, does he need her.
"I want to hear about your dream …" Mulder says, walking around the bed. He grabs a pair of track pants left on the floor and jams them on without drawing attention to himself. "I was in it?" He crawls over the covers and lies down next to her on his side, his head propped up by his elbow.
"Yes."
"And I was in trouble."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She knows he deserves to know about the mini movie he just stared in. And that he deserves to know much more than this too. But she is damned if she can figure out how to wade through the quagmire of thoughts and details and get to the truth.
"I did something stupid, didn't I?"
"Yes. I didn't know how to get you to safety."
"But you did. You saved my ass, Scully. Again."
He misses the point that she is worried about him beyond the safety of waking moments. The fear has driven deep underground into her sleep.
"Maybe you should change channels, have a good dream about me."
He smiles as she throws him a mock glare.
"You wish, Mulder."
"A boy can dream."
"What was that file in your office on Friday?"
This question catches him off guard. Since when do they talk about files on desks in the middle of the night when they are both not-sleeping in the same bed? Since they began to not-sleep in the same bed, he decides.
"The once Skinner sent down?"
Scully, her eyes closed nods. "Something he wants looked into?"
Mulder pulls a pillow from the corner and stuffs it under his head. He rests his hands behind his head and settles in for an explanation. "Some ice skaters from Florida," he begins, trying to steady the enthusiasm in his voice. "Apparently, they have been seeing some strange images on the rinks."
"Florida has ice skaters?"
"Told you it was an X-file. Now, stop interrupting me, Scully, and I'll tell you all about it."
Five calm, simple minutes later, he has finished his story. She drifted back to sleep somewhere between the third and fourth minute. Mulder continued with the story because it was a good one.
He sits up and carefully pulls the rest of the blanket over her shoulders. He saves enough for himself, turns on his side towards her and falls asleep thirty seconds later.
END OF CHAPTER 4