Mulder took the metro home at ten. He'd spent the last two hours trying to come up with something, any god damn thing, for the case. But he even though he still had nothing, he was exhausted. It had been too many weeks since he'd slept the night through, and today had been something else entirely. He hoped he'd be sharper tomorrow.
He rested his left arm on his knee and stared at the dirty tile of the floor of the subway train as it shook gently back and forth. It was all gray and white, one of those tessellated geometric patterns that no one paid attention to but kids and depressed, exhausted FBI agents who had nothing else to think about but the dismal weight of their own failures.
He'd eschewed the strong pain meds that the hospital pushed at him because he needed to be sharp for this case. He'd never been the biggest fan of pills or needles, anyway. It was enough to know that his hand would still work when it healed and he wouldn't lose his field agent status.
Now, he was alone except for an old man who was reading a newspaper and ignoring him fastidiously in the other corner of the car, and he let his face tighten into a grimace. He liked the lull of a trip home on the metro. There was no need to keep up an image here, no one to impress. No need to be anything but a lonely man counting the tiles on a dirty subway floor. Of course, the fact that that was the highlight of his day would have spoken volumes about his life to anyone who didn't already know how pathetic it was. Not that anyone was asking.
The train screeched to a halt at a dimly lit stop and the old man folded his newspaper and got off. Mulder watched him go, then leaned his head back against the smudged wall behind him. Scully was picking him up and together they'd drive all the way up to Renovo, Pennsylvania.
His wrist hurt. He shifted his arm in the sling but only managed to conclude that there was no comfortable position for it. At least he had relief waiting for him at home in the form of extra-strength Tylenol. Oh, this was the life all right. He only hoped he'd be able to sleep with the pain and the guilt weighing down on him, settling like a heavy fog over whatever peace he'd almost managed to find in the gentle sway of the subway car. He'd been too harried to really process the feeling earlier, but the longer he sat listening to the hum of the train the harder it was to not think about how he'd lost it that morning, how Ed Carrey's face had broken under his hand, how he'd snapped at the every person who'd tried to extend any comfort to him. It was no wonder he was alone, now. He was no better than the boy who'd ordered his sister out of his life sixteen years ago.
He was still thinking about Samantha when the train roared into his station. He glanced up, stood—fought an onslaught of dizziness—and walked out onto the platform.
His apartment was less than ten minutes away, a chilly, solitary walk through mainly silent streets at this hour. He really wasn't in much of a hurry to feel cold again so he lingered a short while on the platform. He wandered over to the lone magazine stand and stared at the bright titles and bold headlines and thought about how people were dying. He glanced over the gum and candy bar selection. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten anything since he'd forced down half a chicken sandwich at the hospital. He picked up a Snickers and put it down again, then fondled a bag of sunflower seeds, considering. He could always order pizza at home. He decided against it. Really, he just wanted to sleep.
He pulled the bag of seeds awkwardly off its hook and held it up to show the man behind the little counter that he wanted to buy it. He stuck the bag in his coat pocket after he paid and set off toward his apartment.
It had started sleeting sometime after he'd left the Bureau and he was forced to awkwardly zip his overcoat over the sling with his left hand, holding his briefcase in two fingers or the crook of his arm. The movement was jarring and the heavy case slammed against his cast. By the time he was done he was gasping with pain and hardly two blocks from his apartment. A real waste of effort. He should have thought of doing it before he left the station.
His block was deathly quiet, and something about the stillness set him immediately on edge. He forgot his discomfort for a moment as he strained his senses to pick up what was wrong. For a moment he felt certain he was being watched or followed and undid all of his coat-zipping effort in one quick movement to better reach his weapon. Then he remembered he was a terrible shot with his left hand. He stood at the foot of the stairs leading to his door, and waited, neck hairs prickling, senses attuned to the silence of the night.
Nothing.
After a few uneventful seconds passed he climbed the steps and let himself in. He was getting paranoid. Who the hell would follow him anyway? By any official account he was between cases, and he hadn't recently pissed off anyone who wasn't now in custody. He exhaled a sharp bark of self-deprecating laughter in the solitude of his hallway. His problem with the street was that it had been too silent. Too peaceful. Sometimes it was easy to forget that most of the world didn't deal in blood and gore and twisted little bodies.
He opened his door, flicked on a light and glanced around, taking in the stale yet rumpled appearance of a home rarely lived in. He hadn't made it home last night and the night before he'd crashed on the couch for two hours before dreams of gutted children had awoken him and sent him on an early-morning run that lasted almost as long as he'd slept. No wonder he was exhausted now. He dumped his briefcase on the floor and stumbled over to the couch, sitting heavily. Now he could relax. He groaned. He grimaced. He lay back and clutched his arm to his chest. It felt good to be away from work, away from Patterson, away from people he had to impress by being unruffled and unruffle-able, all the time, no matter how much he sometimes wanted to scream his lungs out.
His wrist was hurting with a piercing pain that made him sit up again. It was time to find some Tylenol, take twice what he should and sleep for as long as his subconscious would allow him. Tonight, with his attack on Ed and Samantha and Dana Scully and the new case on his mind, he wasn't exactly hopeful.
His coat pocket crinkled as he pushed himself off the couch and he remembered his seeds. He couldn't quite muster up any sort of hunger but he thought he might as well eat them. Along with the water and pain medication he could almost pretend it was a real meal. Three main food groups. Seeds, liquid, relief. It was all anybody needed, really. He opened a dusty cabinet above his sink and pulled out a little white bottle. He shook it and the clatter of pain pills against plastic was music to his ears.
It was when he couldn't open it that his resolve crumpled. The safety lid was made for people with two good hands and his left hand and fingers, clumsy with exhaustion, just didn't cut it. His right hand was useless, the fingers too painful for grasping. He fumbled with the lid, bashed it against the counter, tried to cut the damn thing off, and couldn't get it to do anything but jiggle in a taunting circle.
He let out a primal grunt and hurled the bottle against the wall. It hit with a little anticlimactic clatter and fell to the couch where it bounced once and then lay still. All the events of the day came rushing back to him and of course there could be no relief.
He fell back against the counter, sobbing and doubling over, not quite sure why but unable to stop his chest from heaving, his legs from caving so that he slid down to the floor. He was alone. He hated his life, he hated himself and he hated the little white bottle of useless pills that had rolled to a stop where two of his couch cushions met. He had failed his sister and ruined his case and his arm and it hurt and now that he had a chance to do better he had no fucking idea where to start and more people were going to die because he just couldn't handle it anymore. He buried his face in his good hand and let himself cry.
A familiar noise made him jump before he even registered what was. A knock on the door. Someone was outside and wanted to come in. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his knee. If he ignored them, they'd go away. If he could strangle his crying enough they wouldn't hear him, wouldn't think anybody was home. He was never home and anyway, he'd learned to cry silently a long time ago. He couldn't deal with this now.
The knocking persisted.
Shit. He forced himself to stop, to hold the sobs in until the tears dried up. Better not be Dana Scully at the door, he thought savagely. He still hadn't found the strength to move.
He took a few steadying breaths, aware that no matter what he did now he'd look and sound like shit when he opened the door. Whoever it was would just have to deal. He got up and splashed water from the tap over his face and dried off with a dish towel. Then he made sure he could reach his gun with his left hand and approached the door. He sobbed again involuntarily, once, a remnant of his breakdown, and peered through the peephole.
A tall black man stood impatiently, an imposing pillar in a long dark trench coat, conspicuous in Mulder's hallway. After a few seconds had passed he knocked again. "Agent Mulder," he said, "I know you're there."
What the hell?
Mulder swung the door open, swallowed, and demanded in a voice that was still thick with tears, "Who are you?" His breath hitched in his chest and he felt a wave of self-revulsion. Get it together, Fox, you're embarrassing yourself.
"Who I am is unimportant," the man stated. He made no move to explain further.
Mulder started to take a deep breath, but stopped when it shuddered too much in his chest. "Why are you here?"
"I must warn you to proceed with extreme caution in your upcoming case, Agent Mulder. And when you find nothing, I advise you to forget you were ever involved. You and Dr. Scully may both be in danger."
Mulder stood taller as anger stirred in him again, and stepped forward into the doorway. He was getting tired of total strangers knowing everything about him, speaking in riddles and vague half-statements. He rested his hand on his weapon, stared the larger man in the face. "Tell me who you are and what you're doing here now or get the fuck out of my apartment."
The man seemed unfazed. "There is more to your new case than meets the eye, Agent Mulder, and I intend to help you when it is convenient for me. I will find you. And I suggest that you speak to your father."
"I don't speak to my father," Mulder snarled, stepped back and slammed the door in the man's face. He felt a new volley of tears rise up in him and he staggered back, biting down on a sob. When he stepped forward to lock the door again he saw through the peephole that the man had already gone.
He sunk down against the door this time. The man was another Dana Scully, and if that wasn't the last thing in the world he needed he didn't know what was. He couldn't fathom the man's agenda or motive or why on earth he'd say speak to your father.
Knocking sounded again from just a few feet above his head, rattling the door behind him, and he jerked and cursed aloud. If that man had come back... He forced himself to stand and peered through the peephole a second time.
It wasn't the man. It was Dana Scully.
If he ignored her, she'd have to go away. This wasn't her apartment, this wasn't her life, and she had no right to be here. She knocked again, a little more softly. Doubting herself, hopefully. Go on, Scully. Keep doubting. Doubt your little self all the way down the hall and into the elevator and back to wherever the hell you came from.
She knocked again.
Mulder took a few steadying breaths, wiped his face, and tried to compose himself. A few more deep inhale-exhales. He ran his hand through his hair.
She knocked a fourth time. Did the woman never give up?
Mulder swung the door open and stared wildly at her. "Leave me alone," he growled.
"Oh, Mulder," she said.
His fist clenched around the door handle. He just had to hold it together long enough to get her to leave. "Scully, get out of my doorway and go home. Go anywhere. Whatever you want, I can't help you."
"No," Scully decided, shouldering carefully past him. She looked up at him from his living room as if she owned the place. "You're hurt, Mulder. You're alone, and in pain, and I just want to… to make sure you have everything you need. I'm worried about you." She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a little blister pack of Tylenol. "Here," she said, "I picked it up on my way here. I know you don't always have any in your apartment."
He felt his composure begin to disintegrate again as he accepted the medication. He ended up biting his lip for a few long seconds.
"Scully, I don't want you here," he said finally. He knew even before he opened his mouth that he was losing the fight. Somehow, Dana Scully was here to stay.
"I know," Scully said. She glanced at the still-open door.
Mulder rubbed his forehead, then took a deep breath. A little shudder left over from his sobbing fit surprised him. Scully wasn't leaving and…somehow, he didn't quite mind. He was tired, his arm hurt, he had a lot to do tomorrow and a lot to digest concerning the man who'd come to the door. He shouldn't want her here. But damn it, he wanted some of her kindness. She had done nothing but care for him and honestly seemed to care about him since she'd appeared in his life with her crazy stories and even though she was a complete stranger, and in all likelihood out of her mind, she was the best he had. Mulder took another deep breath and reached out to close the door softly behind her.
He held up the little pack of Tylenol and started moving back toward the kitchen. "I just need to…I…take these," he muttered in explanation. Scully didn't ask for more, but followed him into his tiny unused kitchen, hovering staunchly by his elbow. She watched as he filled a glass with tap water, popped two pills from their plastic domes and downed them together. He might've taken more if he was alone, but these were extra-strength anyway and he didn't want a doctor on his back about it.
Neither of them said anything for a moment. Then, looking around at the empty sink and counters, and the lack of anything edible in sight, Scully asked, "Have you eaten?"
Mulder smirked humorlessly. "I thought you knew everything about me," he said.
Somehow Scully took that as an invitation to start opening cabinets and drawers. "Mulder, you need to eat," she said.
"I guess I do," he said, not quite on board with this new development but aware that there didn't seem to be any stopping it. "I think there are a couple of cans of soup in that one by the stove."
Scully followed his direction and came up with a can of Campbell's. Then she found a pot easily—naturally, like she knew where it would be—set it on the stove and poured the can into it.
Mulder leaned against the counter again as she peered at the can and fiddled with the dials on the stove. "So," he said in a conversational tone, "Why are you really here?"
Scully looked up for just a moment, then back down again. "Because I realized," she began evenly, speaking to the pot of soup, "that even if you have no feelings for me, you mean more to me than anyone else in this world. Even my father, Mulder, and in my life he passed away more than six years ago. I spent tonight with him and somehow, I couldn't stop thinking about how you were still alone. I know that I can't convince you of my sincerity with words alone and that my motives must seem strange to you. I'm sorry. I only want..." she paused, for a moment, and her next words were throaty with emotion Mulder couldn't quite understand. "I'm glad you let me in, Mulder."
"Well, it's not like you gave me much of a choice," he pointed out, but there was little venom in his voice. The woman was making him soup, for God's sake. "I had another visitor tonight," he said. "Just before you. He warned me to stay away from this case."
"What?" She sounded surprised at the sudden change of subject, but her tone was sharp as if the information meant something to her. "Who was he? What did he say?"
Glad to be talking business instead of his feelings or hers or about whatever relationship Scully thought they'd had, he described the man and paraphrased their conversation. Scully listened with arms folded.
"I know that man," she said slowly when Mulder had finished. "He works for our government. High up, too. I could tell you more, but I don't know how much I should…" She trailed off, but her expression was serious. "If he says we're in danger, we may very well be. He's come to us before and never without reason."
Of course, Mulder thought. Because really, this day wouldn't be complete without an appearance from a man who not only knew too much about him but was involved in funny business in the future with his X-files partner too. Of course, the man's connection to Scully wasn't all that was strange.
He took a deep breath. "Hey Scully, what do you know about my father?"
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