10.
Don't say I'm out of touch
With this rampant chaos – your reality
I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge
The nightmare I built my own world to escape
She'd been a normal little girl who'd dreamt of weddings with white satin bows and a long lacy train on her dress. The day was supposed to be perfect, and at the end of it she was going to sail off in a little boat with white sails and her new husband.
In reality there wasn't ever going to be a wedding, and even if there was one on the horizon no satin bows or long lacy trains would have been part of the festivities. Scully sighed as she shifted on the seat and tried to ease the ache out of her bones.
The sum of her life was not even close to what she had dreamed about. For the second time she faced her mortality, and this time she dared not hope for a second miraculous recovery. The sharpened blade of time hung over her, its weight on her shoulders reminding her that it wouldn't be long before she ran out of minutes.
In his car seat, Adam whimpered and fussed, his sleep as restless and uneasy as her thoughts. Scully shifted again and leant over his sleeping form next to her, gazing down at him with tender eyes.
This was what she had dreamt about. This little life of soft and warmth with perfect fingers and toes and chubby cheeks. She let a finger trace down his baby soft skin, following the delicate shell of his ear and the plumpness of his little arms. He would be tall, she decided, tall and lanky like Mulder, with an ease of movement and quickness of limb that was catlike in elegance. His eyes would stay blue, but his hair would darken to a chestnut brown and his grin would be lopsided.
What she had not dreamt about was monsters and conspiracies and a baby immune to an alien virus. Never in her fantasies had she imaged a silent dash across the countryside in a rented car with a murderer to avoid not only the law, but the aliens themselves.
She sighed, her breath moving over his skin and causing his nose to wrinkle with irritation before he settled into sleep again.
And she'd never imagined dying of cancer.
Martha's Vineyard was cold and wet, the sea air thick and sticky as it tangled brine-rich fingers through her hair. Gulls swooped across the grey clouds, their calls blending into the air and providing accompaniment to the steady thunder of the ocean as it pounded the powder fine sands along the beach. The cold air made her nose run, and she discreetly raised her hand to wipe it away. A red streak on her pale skin informed her that her nose was bleeding again, as opposed to merely dripping.
"Here," Mulder said softly, pushing a handkerchief at her. She accepted it silently, frowning. Mulder didn't normal carry handkerchiefs around with him – the only time she'd ever known him to have them handy was the last time she'd had cancer.
Involuntarily she shivered, turning away from her view of the ocean. She watched as Mulder deftly unbuckled Adam from his seat, the baby sleeping happily now, and cradled him against his chest.
"Come on," Mulder said, shutting the car door, "time for a tour." He led them up the stairs into the main house, Scully following close behind while Krycek lagged at the back, carrying Scully's bag with his one good hand and his pack on his back. She didn't say anything about him taking her luggage without being asked – the gesture surprised her.
The house was large and dusty, obviously unused. Photographs decorated the walls of the house, images of Mulder and a young girl Scully guessed was Samantha.
"The bathroom's through there, Scully," Mulder said, pointing to a hallway. "Second door on the right."
"Thanks," she said, leaving them to go clean up.
By the time she finished in the bathroom, Mulder had a coffee ready for her and Adam was demanding his bottle.
The sun had set, throwing the world into darkness. Outside, Scully could hear the thunder of the ocean rumbling through the ground, and the increasing strength of the howling wind suggested a storm was on its way.
"They'll know we're here, Mulder," she said softly, watching as Mulder fed Adam. "We can't stay long."
"I know," Mulder agreed, "we'll leave tomorrow morning. Stay on the move for now."
Scully sighed. "Looks like we took the third option," she said.
"In the scheme of things, we didn't really get much of a choice," Mulder pointed out.
"What would you have chosen?" Scully asked, oddly pensive.
"What you chose," he said simply.
She swallowed, closing her eyes. "Even if I wanted to take Adam and leave?"
He nodded silently, not taking his eyes from the infant on his lap greedily suckling at the bottle he held.
"Mulder?" she asked.
He looked up, his eyes tired. "I thought you would."
His reaction surprised and unsettled her. She'd expected anger or disappointment, arguing or deliberate emotional blackmail, and she'd readied herself to respond to any of his manipulations accordingly without giving in. But this calm, accepting Mulder wasn't what she'd been expecting.
"Is that all you're going to say?" she asked, watching him intently.
"What do you want me to say, Scully?" he said. "I knew when the baby turned up that you'd retire. I knew when you asked me to donate sperm for you that the inevitable outcome would be you either leaving the X Files or retiring from the Bureau completely. This isn't exactly unexpected. It's the logical choice to make."
She opened her mouth to respond, but found she couldn't, so she dropped her gaze to the baby. "The bottle's finished," she said instead.
Mulder handled the baby easily now, she observed, watching as he positioned the infant and rubbed his back gently, not even flinching as the baby brought up some milk.
"What do you want, Mulder?" she asked suddenly, shocked to realise she didn't know what he wanted in all of this. He'd taken on the role of father without complaint, but also without telling her whether he wanted it or not.
"What do I want?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows. "You really want to know what I want, Scully?" he asked.
"Of course I do, Mulder," she said. "Why wouldn't I?"
A half smile twisted his lips and he rocked the baby. "It hasn't ever been about what I want," he pointed out.
She wanted to protest and argue that statement. He was right; it was always about her and what she wanted. Humiliation and guilt stained her cheeks. "What do you want, Mulder?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"Mulder-"
"I don't know what I want, Scully," he repeated. "My life has always been about finding Samantha, and then the X Files and the truth. I need to find what I want from life without those quests. And now it doesn't matter anyway, because this was something none of us planned for."
"Things don't often turn out the way we plan," Scully pointed out, smiling at the cliché.
"You have to admit though, how many people really plan for aliens and conspiracies?"
She grinned, dropping into silence as they heard Krycek walking down the stairs.
Scully wasn't usually a negative person, but at night when it was dark and she was alone with her thoughts, she always found herself feeling pulled under. It was pointless to run. Even if they did run, where would they go? How would they go?
Scully lay on the bed silently, not moving. Mulder was next to her, the first time he had slept beside her since the night she told him she had cancer again. With Krycek in the spare room, he didn't really have a choice, she thought bitterly.
He wasn't sleeping; she'd slept next to him too often in the past to be fooled by his slow breathing and controlled movements. He was just as awake as she was, just as tense, and just as awkward.
"What do you think we should do?" she asked eventually, shattering the dark silence between them and calling off the game of pretend they'd been playing.
"I don't know," Mulder sighed. "I don't trust him."
"Neither do I. But if he's telling the truth and they're after Adam…"
"What about you?" he asked suddenly.
"What about me?"
"How are you?"
She contemplated the question in the darkness. "I'm okay," she said at last. Not great, but not bad either. Just okay.
"What did the doctor say when you had the scan?"
Scully sighed. "He wanted me to have treatment," she softly. "But it didn't work last time, Mulder, so I'm not putting myself through it again."
"You don't know that it won't work this time," he argued.
"It doesn't matter, Mulder," she said tiredly.
"Of course it matters, Scully!" he snapped loudly.
"Shh!" she hissed, "you'll wake Adam. And Krycek is next door."
The bed shifted under his weight, his movements sharp and angry as he tugged at the covers and repositioned himself. "You're not going to give up, Scully," he ordered.
"What are we going to do, Mulder? Go on the run? We can't. There's nowhere to go. Nothing we can do."
"What about Adam?" he demanded. "If Krycek is telling the truth, and they are after him, then we have to do something."
"What?" Scully asked again. It felt like they were repeating themselves, replaying the same arguments again and again and again. She was tired. She just wanted to sleep. Just wanted to be held while she slept, and kept safe.
"What if he's telling the truth?" Mulder repeated. "What if trusting him is our only choice?"
"It's never the only choice," Scully said softly. "There are always other choices."
"But I don't see any."
She turned onto her side, facing him. "Mulder, I'm tired. Can we just go to sleep?"
"We can't just ignore this, Scully," he said gently.
She sighed, closing her eyes. "Just hold me, Mulder. Please," she whispered.
She didn't often run from the truth. She didn't ignore it, and put herself first. But she was so tired, and she missed Mulder. She missed him more than she had ever thought possible, even though was right next to her.
She felt the bed move again as he rolled toward her, gathering her up in his arms. His fingers played across her back and she buried herself against him, breathing in his scent. She let her hand rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers.
Sleep was coming; she thought contentedly, a warm sleep pressed against Mulder who would hold her while she dreamt.
The room was dark when she woke, and she reached instinctively for Mulder. He was warm against her, his skin smooth against her palms. She ran her hands over his arms, tracing his cheek with a finger.
He stirred beneath her touch, rolling toward her and wrapping himself around her. "Scully," he sighed, her name a whisper on his breath. She smiled, holding him close to her.
"I'm sorry, Mulder," she whispered against his ear, her lips touching his ear lobe.
"For what?" he asked, nuzzling her neck and rolling her onto her back. She moaned when his lips brushed her neck, clenching her fingers in her hair and arching against him.
She moaned as his lips brushed her neck, her hands moving to the back of his head and her fingers curling in his hair.
He murmured something unintelligible against her throat as his fingers combed through her hair. "You taste good," he breathed, his lips warm and wet against her ear.
"Mulder," she whispered, but the words were swallowed when his lips touched hers. She sighed; his mouth was gentle on hers, sweet. His stubble scraped against her skin when he moved, his weight settling over her, warm and heavy and real.
Real. This was so real.
He was devouring her, she thought, closing her eyes and moaning against mouth. Devouring her and pulling her in so deep she didn't think she'd ever find her way out again. Didn't want to find her way out again.
Fingers pushed under her pajamas, warm hands caressing her skin and tickling her ribs. She stroked him in return, opening her mouth to his and letting him pull her in deeper, his tongue twisting inelegantly with hers, desperation driving them further than finesse could.
He rocked against her, hard and hot and ready and she groaned, parting her legs and letting him settle. Hot wires of molten fire pulled her insides tight and pooled at her center; she ached for him. Ached with fear and want and she needed him more than she needed to breathe.
His lips were on her breast, suckling roughly, fiercely, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin until she cried out softly, her whispered moans muffled against the pillow.
Fingers scraped through her curls, pushing damp fabric down and away and she clawed greedily at his boxers, pushing until he sprang free and pressed against her, pulsing with life and heat and affirmation. His teeth bit into her shoulder, and she wrapped herself around him as he slid into her, filling her, stretching her. Scully groaned, her breathing heavy and his scent hot against her skin.
When he rocked, her world tilted, and when she came the bottom fell out and she was spinning through darkness clutching him close while he muffled her sobs with his mouth, his own release frantic and violent inside her, hot and thick.
He rolled out of her when their breathing settled, and she was left sticky and worn and alone on the wet sheets. She scrambled off the bed, pulling her panties up from her ankles and tugging her pajama shirt back down.
"Scully," he rasped in his throat, his breathing ragged in the stifling stillness of the room.
"No, Mulder," she gasped, horrified at her breathlessness.
"Scully," he protested, dazed.
Beneath her feet the carpet was thick and warm. She curled her toes tightly against it, rocking on the balls of her feet as she stared at him still lying in the bed, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She was damp and sticky and her tears were stinging her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said eventually, breaking the silence between them. "I'm sorry, Scully. I won't do that again. I promise." He tried to meet her gaze, but she avoided his, choosing instead to stare over his shoulder at the dark wall behind him. "Come back to bed, Scully," he said, defeated.
She wanted to, but fear was winning.
"I need a drink," she whispered. His eyes burnt into her as she walked across the room, and she shut the bathroom door behind her gratefully, leaning against it for a few seconds while her pulse settled and her breathing slowed.
At the mirror she gazed into her reflection, studying the woman staring back at her. Pale skin, stormy blue eyes and swollen red lips; red like blood. Staring at herself, she lifted her fingers to her lips.
The skin beneath her nose was clean and pale, but she remembered the crimson stains vividly. She had stopped wearing colours to work again, and lived in dark jackets and shirts that hid evidence of blood stains.
She didn't want to wear black again.
She licked her lips, and tasted Mulder.
Oh, God. What had she done?
She was a coward. She'd stayed in the bathroom until she was sure Mulder was asleep, and then she snuck out and spent the night trying to sleep on the sofa. Now, even before the sun rose or Adam cried for his morning feed, she was up and making use of the large bathroom at the end of the hall, well away from the room Mulder was in.
The water from the shower was hot, stinging against her skin as it washed away the emotion of the night. Scully sighed, rolled her head back on her neck and let the water pound against her throat and over her chest.
Tired. She was damn tired. All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for a hundred years. But she couldn't do that, she had a baby to look after. She turned around to let the needle-like spray rinse the shampoo out of her hair, and dropped her head forward to let the water massage her neck.
Droplets, rich and dark, fell like black tears to the floor of the shower where they shattered into red slashes that were quickly gathered up and swirled away by the hot water.
"Shit," Scully swore, clamping her fingers over her nose and tipping her head back, fumbling with the taps to try and stop the water. The world started spinning and she staggered dizzily, leaning against the wall, the tiles slick and cold against her hot skin.
