SMALL CONSIDERATIONS BETWEEN PARTNERS

BY

AllyinthekeyofX

Material things

Season Four

I'm not exactly sure what wakes me up but whatever it was has my senses already on full alert, as though my body is aware of something my conscious mind hasn't yet quite fathomed. My first thought of course is of Scully; because if I'm honest with myself, no matter what I happen to be doing at the time my partner is never very far from my mind at the moment, invading my very core as I struggle each day to find a way to break down the painfully impenetrable walls she has built around herself; to be there for her; to care about her in a way she is seemingly unable to allow anyone to do.

Since being diagnosed with her cancer she has shut everyone out. Refusing to admit even a token shred of need – of weakness – to me, to her Mom and I suspect even to herself. When she is standing before me, so pale that her skin seems almost translucent, the delicate network of veins that lie beneath worryingly visible as day by day she continues to fade before my terrified eyes; becoming ever more pronounced as the weight continues to drop off her at an alarming rate that is all too apparent as more new suits find their way in to her professional wardrobe.

She probably thinks I don't notice and in fairness I've never really took much note of Scully's work wear – a suit is a suit is a suit after all – but somehow, during these last few months I have finely attuned my skills where she is concerned and now I notice everything.

Just by the tension in her shoulders, the way she is carrying herself, the way her pupils are slightly dilated tells me that she has a headache; that she is counting down the hours and minutes until she can surreptitiously slip a pill in to her mouth when she thinks my attention is elsewhere. The posture she adopts when sitting down, sometimes guarding her movement because her back and stomach muscles are sore from the constant vomiting she endures when the headaches get bad or when she tries to eat anything even remotely substantial.

I know when she has spent a sleepless night coughing up blood that has found its way down her throat from one of the frequent nosebleeds – nosebleeds that, despite her efforts to shrug them off – are becoming an almost daily occurrence as the tumour continues to grow and the tiny capillaries within her nasal passages continue to rupture under the ever increasing pressure.

And even when the fear is radiating off her in waves, even as she asserts again and again that she is doing just fine, refusing to meet my worried gaze, refusing to let me in, we both know that she isn't fine; that we are both playing out this ridiculous charade to avoid acknowledging the real issue. That she is dying in degrees; moving ever closer to an end that seems as inevitable as it is incomprehensible to me. That one day she will no longer be in my life and even worse somehow is the knowledge that she will die without allowing me to show her how much she means to me. Without allowing me to just be there for her; to wrap her in my arms and just for a moment, try to chase away her fear as she has, so often in the past chased away mine.

But she is doing what she needs to do to survive right now and I have no right or reason to question her on it because a part of me knows that if she allows herself to succumb to the fear she will give up altogether. And I thank God that despite her delicate appearance and failing health, Dana Scully is strong. Stronger than I could ever hope to be and if I don't understand anything else I at least understand that she needs to keep fighting – the cancer, me, her family, even herself – to find a way to keep going on; or at least until the day comes when it becomes impossible for her to pretend anymore. That finally she will stop hiding from me. That she won't die without ever knowing just how much I love her, that she has made me more than I ever thought I could be and more than I can ever hope to be again.

Because I don't think I will manage to survive without her now; maybe a few years ago I could have picked up and carried on but not now; I don't think I even want to try. She has become everything to me, becoming such an intrinsic part of me that the thought of losing her steals the breath from my body and paralyses me on levels I didn't even know existed and now which holds me in a state of perpetual fear so intense I can sometimes barely even force myself to look at her; because to look at her is to acknowledge the fact that she is dying. That she is destined to leave me and that this time, there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

And now as I lay here, my eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, I wonder if I am wrong; that my sudden awakening has nothing to do with her because right now, it seems as though all is silent in the room adjoining my own, the room where Scully resides. Not ten feet away from where I lay and which actually, might as well be miles because we no longer spend any downtime together – the comfortable routine that we both enjoyed before her cancer struck is a thing of the past. Because the second our working day has ended she retreats from me as exhaustion greys her skin and slows her movements, needing to distance herself in order to re-group, to rest sufficiently so that she is able to keep working with me out in the field. And the fact that she is sacrificing every other aspect of what life she may have left in order to do so isn't lost on me.

I don't pretend to fully understand her motivation and since she refuses to discuss any of it with me I can only hope that her reasons are sound. That she is doing this because it's something she needs to do and not out of some misplaced loyalty to me because God knows I don't deserve it, even though, selfish bastard that I am, I can't bring myself to imagine the day when she finally admits defeat and steps away from me. My partner of four years who has remained by my side even when we both know how easy it would have been for her to have walked away, to live her life the way it should have been lived; the way she deserved it to be lived.

It's a bitter pill for me to swallow, this knowledge that had she never met me, in all probability Scully would be living a comfortable existence somewhere else, living a life not blighted by loss and pain and suffering. Because she doesn't deserve this; she has never deserved it and regardless of how much I love her, how much I need her, I find myself wishing fervently that she had never had the misfortune to become mixed up with the likes of me in the first place. That somehow she had never been dragged in to this fucking awful world I unwittingly created for us both.

I swallow the tightness that has formed in my throat, an all too familiar feeling that threatens to choke me as the guilt once more threatens to overwhelm me, to unravel me, to allow the darkness in my mind to send me in to a dizzying freefall from which I'm not sure I could ever recover from, because self recrimination is not a luxury I can afford right now. Maybe afterwards, when this is all over and she is gone I will succumb to my own demons, but until that time comes I will remain strong for her whether she believes she needs me or not.

And so I close my eyes, willing myself to empty my mind of thoughts of what can never be, sinking back in to the motel pillows that are just a little too firm to be truly comfortable, knowing that it's doubtful I will be able to fall asleep again but unwilling to get up from the bed lest my movements filter in to the adjoining room through the paper-thin walls and disturb Scully. Because right now she needs all the rest she can get just to enable her to function at a decent level.

But then I hear it. The sound of her footsteps as she pads across the room, a light switching on and then the sound of water filling the bathtub. It's just a few minutes before three and I can't imagine why she would be taking a bath at such an unearthly hour other than that there is something very wrong and without allowing myself to consider whether I am invading her privacy or not, I throw back the covers and cross the space from the bed to the adjoining door, praying that she hasn't locked it from her side. But the knob turns easily and as I step in to her room, my heart sinks as I identify a second sound that is barely discernible above the running water; the sound of my partner crying.

Scully rarely cries in front of me. In fact I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times I have seen her so much as shed a tear and for a moment I am torn, hovering indecisively on the threshold because I know she hates anyone to see her lose control; to show weakness; it's a side of herself she has always kept rigidly in check and I am raging an internal battle with myself as to whether my need to see if she is okay outweighs the knowledge that she certainly won't thank me for my concern. But the sound draws me like a magnet, knowing that really, there is no choice to make. Because I can't ignore her when she is in pain and to retreat from her now is just unthinkable to me.

I'm not sure exactly what I expect to see when I gently push open the bathroom door, certainly not the sight of my partner, kneeling over the half-filled tub with her arms submerged almost to the elbows in pink-tinged water and it takes a second for me to actually comprehend exactly what it is she is doing, what the white material is that she is pushing and swirling beneath the water.

And then I realise.

She is washing her bed sheets, or at least attempting to. Because they have blood on them. Her blood.

A nosebleed that has soiled linens that aren't hers to soil.

"Scully?"

She starts at the sound of my voice and just for a second her movement stills, but she remains facing away from me, her breath hitching as she fights to get control, to hide the evidence of her obvious distress.

"What are you doing?"

I take a tentative step in to the small bathroom, close enough to reach out and touch her but I force myself to keep my arms by my side, knowing somehow that to touch her now would be a mistake; that she will retreat even further behind her walls. Because by the set rigidity of her shoulders and back I am all too aware that she is mortified and that she doesn't want me here.

And sure enough

"I'm fine Mulder. I'm sorry I woke you up. Go back to bed."

The insanity of this is so profoundly ridiculous I almost laugh out loud because my dying partner who is currently on her knees washing her blood from cotton sheets at 3am in a cold and dingy motel room in Fucksville Conneticut is apologising for waking me up. But I don't laugh of course, because in reality there is nothing even remotely amusing about any of this and what I actually want to do is to slam my clenched fist straight through the wall beside me and just keep on punching until I'm so accustomed to the pain that I don't feel it anymore.

And even though I know it's the last thing she wants, I take another step towards her and as impossible as it seems, she stiffens even further.

"Please Mulder."

Her voice is shaky, from the tears or from the cold I can't be sure and as she turns her head very slightly toward me I see a streak of red that contrasts sharply with the whiteness of her skin, blood that she has unknowingly smeared across her face, evidence of the nosebleed that started this whole thing off.

"Please just go back to bed..."

"I can't" I whisper, finally reaching out to her and gently placing the palm of my hand to rest on the back of her slender neck.

I only have the merest second to register the fact that she is freezing cold before she angrily twists away from my touch, shrugging off my hand in the process.

"Don't."

Her tone is as icy as her skin and I know that any second now she is going to tell me fuck the hell off away from her.

And I couldn't give a shit. Because what she wants and what she needs right now are miles apart – that there is a time for me to back right off and this isn't even close to being one of them. So instead I simply reach down toward her, grasping her upper arms before hauling her to her feet, appalled at how weightless she seems. But weightless or not, she still has the capacity to be royally pissed at me and for a few seconds she struggles against my hold, prompting me to ease the grip I have on her, and which allows her to spin around so she is facing me, unsurprised when she delivers a stinging slap to my cheek, the sound as her hand connects with my face echoing around the small room like a gunshot.

I barely even flinch. Instead I just remain there, arms hanging loosely by my side as she begins to push against my chest with the palms of her hands, small determined movements designed to knock me off balance and make me step back. And there is no doubt in my mind that a year ago she would have achieved her aim. Scully is skilled in the art of hand to hand combat and I have seen her effortlessly drop men close to double her weight without even breaking a sweat.

But those days are gone.

I know it and she knows it but while her weakened body might betray her, the fire that burns within her is still scorching and this same intensity refuses always to ever let her back down and so she keeps up the pressure even as the tears once more begin to gather in her eyes.

Tears that she fights with all that she has, so determined is she to remain in control; because when all is said and done, with Scully, it's all about control.

Maybe I am being an asshole because it would be so easy for me to give her that control she desperately clings to; to allow her at least this small victory so that she can win this wholly insignificant battle even if not the whole fight. But I have conceded way too many times since this whole thing started, keeping my mouth shut and swallowing my concern for her a hundred times over in a show of denial and cowardice so pronounced that I can sometimes barely believe how I am able to look at myself in the mirror each morning.

Because trying to deny what is happening to her is probably the greatest disservice I have ever given either of us, and tonight, to see her knelt on this cold floor, trying to wash away the evidence of her illness, of her weakness lest, God forbid someone blows her impeccably maintained cover, has made me realise that at some point in time, we both need to stop running before we run so far away from each other that there is no going back.

So instead I wait until she is about to push me again, stepping back slightly to enable me to capture her hands and still her movement.

"Scully stop. Just stop it please. This isn't helping."

She angrily tries to wrench her hands free and I know that the violence of her movement, coupled with my grip on her will no doubt leave bruises to mar her delicate skin, but nonetheless I maintain my hold even as those eyes flash at me like twin laser beams.

" But I need to..."

Her voice trails off as she tries again to twist away from me, leaning in the direction of the bathtub.

"I just...I just..."

Then she simply stops. Her mouth hanging open as I she begins to crumple, the tears she has suppressed for so long finally escaping their confines to stream down her face as she bows her head, and her voice is so quiet, so broken and so fragile that I can only barely hear her.

"I just need to fix it..."

And we both know that her words are no longer about the soiled sheets that float sluggishly in the cold water beyond, in the cold water that is tinged with my partners blood, her life force that is growing weaker and more tenuous as each day passes.

Because this is something that, no matter how hard she tries, how hard she fights or how hard she denies, that can't be fixed.

By either of us.

So I just draw her towards me, gently and carefully allowing her to make the decision by herself and I am rewarded when she finally allows me to wrap my arms around her hold her against me; feeling her trembling from the cold as I rub small circles across her back, appalled at just how much weight she has lost as I feel the pronounced ridges of her spine through the thin flannel layer of her pyjamas. I don't react though, afraid that if I do she will retreat from me once again and instead I concentrate all my energies on just holding her against me without breaking down. Because I know if I were to fall now, Scully would fall right along with me.

XXXX

Scully is sleeping. Bundled up in blankets and bundled up in a ratty old sweatshirt of mine that I had briefly worn myself in order to infuse it with my warmth before I handed it to her; knowing that once the connection between us was severed in order for me to lead her back in to my room there would be no physical re-connection – at least in the short term.

Because in typical Scully fashion she had retreated from me on every level possible; refusing to meet my eyes when I finally persuaded her to slip beneath the still-warm covers of my own bed. Embarrassed, ashamed even, that I had witnessed such a monumental display of weakness from her as she clung to me and allowed scalding tears to burn so deeply in to my soul that I'm not sure I will ever be able to erase them completely; evidence of a defining moment in our lives that spoke of love and loss and a reliance that has been forged over the years by our shared experience; our shared loss.

I am losing her.

Christ, I am losing her.

And I don't know how to make things better for her; for me.

But I was at least able to, in some small way, able to assist her in managing the facade she has worked so hard to maintain.

A trip to Wal-mart once she was sleeping where I purchased three sets of plain white cotton sheets and pillowcases. And if it seemed like a strange purchase to be making at 4am, the clerk who gave me just scant attention didn't comment on it as she accepted my proffered credit card with only a token attempt at congeniality.

Which was just fine with me because I wasn't exactly in the mood for small talk.

And by the time I slipped between the fresh sheets on Scully's bed, to give the illusion that they had been slept in, conscious of the sound of my partner breathing just a few feet away, I was already aware that when she awakens she won't acknowledge it; that she will ignore what happened here in this room just a few hours ago and my clumsy attempts to make things right; to fix them.

But she will know.

And maybe that's enough.

For now.

End