Chapter Ten
Mulder unlocked the motel door, clasping several plastic bags in his hand at once as he jimmied the lock. He hadn't just gotten everything on the list: he'd gotten everything he could think of that might make Scully feel better or bring a smile to her face. The door finally popped open and he pushed inside, noting the lack of light in the room and surveying the bed. The covers were not rumpled: Scully was neither in bed nor had she been in bed. The bathroom door was ajar, but no light came from within.
"Scully?" he called hesitantly as fear crept over him.
No answer came and he dropped the bags at his feet, walking back towards the bathroom.
"Scully?" he said once more, opening the bathroom door wide and finding no one inside.
He flipped on the bathroom lights, as if the illumination might cause her to appear in a darkened corner. No Scully, but draped across the vanity was a blood-stained white hotel towel. He picked it up and discovered it was still damp. It wasn't a lot of blood—just a smear of darkening red against the grayish-white of the weave—but it was enough to set his heart racing.
CANCER.
Was she having nosebleeds again? Had she been keeping it from him, like before? How long had she been having them? How long until he was left alone in this world?
Was this what a heart attack felt like?
Panic attack?
He backed out of the bathroom, dropping the towel onto the floor.
And where the fuck was she?
He spun around, looking at the room with an eye to detail. There was no sign of a struggle. Scully didn't let people whisk her away without delivering a few swift kicks at very least. He should see an overturned chair, a broken lamp, mussed sheets, something, but everything was just as he'd left it, except for a humid bathroom, bloodied towel, and no Scully.
He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone and hit the speed dial. As he pressed the phone to his ear, to his dismay he heard the ring of her phone not only in his ear, but also on the bedside table. She'd left her phone. Or she hadn't had a chance to grab it, as she was being dragged from the motel. And half-dead with cancer.
Pressing the 'off' button, Mulder stood rooted to the floor and stared at the blank LCD display on his phone.
"Do I call in a missing person?" he asked the empty room.
It hadn't been twenty-four hours.
Skinner maybe? That would lead to some awkward explanations.
'Scully and I rented a motel this afternoon in Norfolk, and while I was out buying her soup and ice cream and a new hair brush to replace the one I stepped on the other day, bending the bristles, she disappeared. I have a bloodied towel and an abandoned cell phone. Send help.'
'What were we doing in a motel room in Norfolk? I told the hall monitor I wouldn't tell,' he thought, running his left hand through his hair.
He walked to the motel room's phone and picked up the receiver, dialing '9' for the front desk. He recognized the voice of the blonde when she answered after five rings—probably more than the manager would have liked, Mulder guessed, and four too many rings in his current panicked state.
"This is room 108. I was wondering if you'd seen my partner…petite redhead. If she came into the lobby or you might have noticed her getting into a car?"
Bound and gagged perhaps? With a gun to her head?
"No, sir. Last I saw her was when you took the keys from me."
Mulder sunk onto the mattress, still gripping the phone, but not knowing what to say. His brain was beginning to feel as if the oxygen was being cut off.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" she asked, sounding as if she couldn't wait to relay this newest development in the strangers' story to whoever would be coming to relieve her for the night shift.
"Just call me in the room if you happen to see her," Mulder said, hanging up before he could get a reply.
Mulder looked up when he heard the door squeaking on its hinges. Scully's form was backlit by the sun setting behind her.
"You left the door open," Scully said, coming in and shutting the door behind her.
He was so stunned that he couldn't respond. He continued to sit on the edge of the mattress, staring at her blankly. The tips of her hair were still wet and she was dressed in her skirt and blouse. Her face was serene: no sign of having recently been kidnapped.
"I was about to call in the cavalry," he finally managed to say, as he watched her pick up the bags he'd discarded on the floor.
"What do you mean?"
"You were gone. I came back and you were gone."
"I went for a walk," she responded matter-of-factly.
"You have been throwing up all afternoon. When I left, you were stretched out on this bed looking like you could barely move. And then you went for a walk?"
"No, I soaked in the tub for a little bit and was feeling better. I thought fresh air might be good for me with the temperature dropping a little bit."
"That's fucked up."
"A walk is fucked up?" she demanded angrily, sifting through the bag's contents and refusing to look at him.
"No, going out when you've been sick and not even leaving me a note. Not taking your phone. I thought something had happened to you."
Mulder saw her roll her eyes, as if he was being ridiculous.
"You want to explain the towel you left in the bathroom?"
If she couldn't explain why she continually refused to take him into consideration, she might as well do him the courtesy of telling him if she was about to drop dead.
She stood upright, holding the Styrofoam container that contained the soup-to-go he'd selected at the grocery store. "I don't know what you're talking about." Her blank face seemed to confirm her claims of ignorance.
"I found blood on the towel you were using."
"You're really putting your investigative skills to use while we're on this non-case," she sarcastically replied, opening the top of the container and digging in the bag for the plastic spoon.
Mulder breathed in slowly, trying to keep his cool. "Did you have a nosebleed?"
She set the spoon down, looking shocked. "I cut myself shaving."
"I just had to buy you a razor at the store. So, where did you get a razor?"
"There's a vending machine at the end of the corridor with toiletry packs."
Mulder dropped his head into his hands. None of this made any sense. He came back. She was gone. There was a bloody towel. But, now he was being made to believe it was nothing more than a late afternoon jaunt after an unfortunate shaving job with a cheap motel toiletry pack razor.
"Mulder," she said, her voice softening, "I'm alright."
"No, you're not. You've been sick for days. And you won't let me help. You can't even leave me a note." His voice shook with desperation.
"I just wanted some fresh air. I didn't think you'd beat me back to the room."
"But that's not what this is about," he said dejectedly, lifting his head and fixing her with a look. "Tell me it's not."
She set the soup container down. "You want me to admit to something, and I don't know what that is, Mulder."
"Admit that you don't want me to help. You don't want to let me in. Admit that you're not happy. Admit one goddamn time that you are not fine," he said, balling his fists tightly and gritting his teeth.
Her blues eyes stared back at him, but he couldn't read what lay behind them. For a moment he thought she might calmly gather up her things and walk out. He felt as if he'd been preparing for that moment for months, so it might as happen in this sad motel in Norfolk.
"I'm not happy," she said evenly.
Well, there it was. The admission he'd wanted. The admission he'd feared. He couldn't make her happy. It was the greatest failure of his life.
"What can I do?" he asked, his voice cracking.
She shook her head, as if she didn't have an answer.
"I've been trying, Scully. Really trying."
Was she even aware of the effort he'd been making? He was trying to be more attuned to the way his flights of fancy affected her. Trying not to tilt at windmills every time he heard the clatter of armor calling to him in the distance. The cause was a shared one at this point, but Scully still strained at the thought that it came at the cost of her personal life. He'd been trying to make sure that wasn't the case. She couldn't be a mother, but he'd tried to be enough.
"So, tell me what you want me to do," he insisted.
If she could be happy with him, he'd do whatever she instructed him to do. He'd let her flay him into pieces with her scalpel, if it guaranteed that she would be content to be with him.
Scully licked her lips, considering carefully. "Every morning I wake up feeling as if my horizons have been constricted."
"What a compliment," he bit back.
He wanted to tell her that his heart was bleeding on the floor for her to do with what she liked. But, how do you say that to someone who can't even tell you how they feel? Her reserve used to keep him safe: safe from rejection, safe from humiliation, safe from professional suicide. Now her reserve left him as the only participant in their relationship.
"I'm having trouble feeling for my boundaries. Defining who I am. Who we're supposed to be. I don't know, Mulder. I'm confused."
He worried the roof of his mouth with his tongue, watching her intently.
"And I'm going to be sick again," she announced, turning pale and heading for the bathroom.
She pulled the door closed behind her, leaving him alone in the room with her cooling soup and melting ice cream. He was shut out again.
He had a choice to make. He could hold tight and take the chance of squeezing the life out of whatever they had left. Or he could walk.