Her nerves seemed to get the better of her now that she had finally set things in motion, and she was jumpy and on edge with each day closer to Friday. Mulder had gone from amused to puzzled to wary at her behaviour, and part of her was tempted to just write him a long letter, tuck it under his windshield wipers, and flee the country for a few days until he'd read it. Why did she have to pick Friday? If she'd said Wednesday instead, this would all be over by now.

It didn't help that Diana was still making her daily appearance at Mulder's desk, shooting Scully little half smirks as she leaned over him to point out some fascinating inaccuracy she'd uncovered in one of the files she and Mulder no longer had access to — although she was clearly more than willing to grant him access to more than just the files. If she had to hear that woman purr out his name like she was about to orgasm all over his desk, Scully thought she might lose it completely.

Her new tattoo was healing nicely at least, and she derived a weird sort of comfort whenever her clothing brushed across it. Somehow, that twinge of pain reminded her that it was there, that she was capable of breaking out of the patterns of behaviour that kept her circling but never advancing. A psychiatrist would have a field day with her, she thought with a wry shake of her head.

She was a wreck by Friday morning, and had lost her appetite completely. She'd gone out for lunch with Mulder, as was their usual routine, but she just picked at the lettuce and bits of chicken, barely tasting the few bites she was able to get down.

"Everything okay, Scully?" Mulder frowned at her worriedly and she noticed that he'd turned his plate towards her to make it easier for her to reach his french fries. The thought of them made her stomach roll over.

"Yeah. Fine." She gamely speared a chunk of tomato and forced herself to chew and swallow.

"Are you not feeling well? Would you rather I didn't come over tonight? We could always—"

"No!" The word came out more forcefully than she'd intended, and he looked startled. "No, we don't have to cancel." She set her fork down and fidgeted with her napkin. "I wanted to… to talk to you about something, something… important, and I don't want to put it off any longer."

She looked up through the sheen of hair that had fallen into her eyes. He was looking at her with concern, but she didn't know how to allay his fears without getting into everything right here, right now, and she didn't want to do that. Not in a restaurant with a full afternoon of work still ahead of them.

"Okay. No problem."

She nodded, picking her fork back up again and pretending to eat.

When they paid the bill and headed back to the office, she pretended not to notice that he hadn't eaten any of his fries, likely still hoping she might take some, and he didn't mention how much of her salad she had left behind. They were good at pretending, at not talking, and that thought made her melancholy, like putting on a pair of socks right out of the dryer and discovering after you'd put them on that they were still damp.

They walked in silence back to the office.

Newton's Third Law of Motion - Whenever one body exerts a force on another, the latter simultaneously exerts an equal and opposite force on the first. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Scully rubbed her palms on her slacks as she paced. Mulder would be here at any moment and she still had no idea what she was even going to say to him or how she was going to say it. He was going to be hurt — of course he was. There was no avoiding that. What did she want him to say? What did she want to happen? What did he truly want? She didn't know any of those things either. The only thing she could say, with any certainty, was that she missed the calming presence of Stella's cool professional reserve and wished that she could channel some of that for herself.

She did another circuit back and forth across the kitchen, pausing to stir the vegetable barley soup bubbling on the stove. The salad was already made and in the fridge, and the loaf of French bread she'd picked up at the bakery on the way home just needed to be warmed up a little in the oven. Her stomach ached like it had been twisted into a balloon animal and she felt a little light headed from being unable to eat much all day. God, she was a mess, as Stella had told her with perfect honesty over the phone. Somehow, she'd always thought she'd have had it all together by this point in her life. The thought almost made her laugh. Had she laughed out loud, she was quite sure it would have come out slightly hysterical.

Her eyes settled on the bottle of red wine on the counter. She could open it now. That would keep her occupied and prevent her from looking at her watch. Any minute. Any minute now and Mulder would be knocking on her door and she would be initiating what might possibly be the most awkward conversation she'd ever had.

With shaking fingers, she twisted the corkscrew down into the soft cork and began to wiggle the cork free from the neck of the bottle.

He knocked. Three times. The door rattled in the frame. It never hung right with the number of times it had been busted open and rehung.

She nearly dropped the bottle. How was she going to do this? Maybe she could put this off for another few weeks or months. Maybe they could just continue on in this endless purgatory…

Okay. She just needed to breathe, slow down the way her heart was racing in her chest. One step at a time.

She took a step towards the door.

Her breath was coming too fast, like her ribs were compressing her lungs inward; clawed hands of bone choking and squeezing. Dammit! Her pulse was echoing in her ears and the edges of her vision were ringed with the encroaching darkness. She leaned back against the edge of the counter and wiped away the clammy sweat that had formed on her forehead.

The sound of knocking came again — at least, she thought it was a knock, but the thudding of her heart was so loud, drowning out everything else. She couldn't see, everything had gone black. Her chest was heaving as she tried to pull in panicked gasps of air, fighting against the sensation of being crushed like plastic pop bottle in a vacuum chamber.

So dark. No air.

Then, nothing.

Apologies for the short chapter, but the next one is long, so hopefully that will make up for it. :) Squishy hugs and a giant thank you to Josie Lange for her mad beta skillz.