Chapter Text
It’s stonily silent in the living room after her impassioned exit. He doesn’t hear the snuffle of tears or the clack of her loading the magazine into her gun, and hopes that means that she’s neither so hurt nor so angry that they can’t overcome it. Again he is faced with a decision: stay or go? Give her space, or insist on a resolution? As of late, every decision he’s made when it comes to Scully has felt like the wrong one, so he errs on the side of giving himself ample time to consider his options.
He notices for the first time that her coffee table is remarkably messy, at least for her. There are stacks of books and magazines, both their empty glasses, a collection of pens and pencils. He realizes that they’re the items she kept at her bedside in the hospital, and immediately promises himself not to read whatever is on the pages of the leatherbound journal. She’s not likely to forgive him for such a trespass a second time.
He picks up the book of poetry and finds the e.e. cummings poem, which is marked with a tiny dog-ear fold on the top corner of the page.
I carry your heart with me (i carry it in
My heart) i am never without it (anywhere
I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
By only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear
No fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
No world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
And it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
And whatever a sun will always sing is you
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
And the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
Higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
He closes the book and replaces it exactly as he found it. It’s so quiet that he can hear the blood rushing through his veins with each persistent beat of his heart, and the hush of air filling and then escaping his lungs. It’s so quiet, as the sun begins to set and people find their way into the warmth of home and hearth, that his thoughts become louder and louder, drowning out his heart and his lungs.
He can still smell the antiseptic air of the hospital wing where Scully almost died. It smelled different than the parts of the hospital they typically frequent, the parts where people get better and go home. Sometimes he catches a whiff of it and a shock of panic jolts through him, just remembering what it felt like to watch her slip away. Remembering how it felt to know that there was nothing he could do. He’s never felt so helpless in his life, and he’s felt helpless on far too many occasions.
For the first time in a while he thinks about David, the man he met while visiting Scully there. He remembers David’s face as he walked out of the hospital knowing that he’d never see his wife again. Never kiss her, never hold her, never laugh with her or see her smile. Their daughter Noelle was so young that her memories of her mother will likely fade into photographs and contextless snippets, and David will spend the rest of their lives telling her all the things on Marjorie’s list. Mulder wonders where they are now, what they’re doing. What does their life look like with a Marjorie-shaped hole in the middle of it? What would David say if he knew that Mulder got his miracle and is successfully squandering it?
He knocks on Scully’s door softly, taking great care to avoid giving the impression that he’s anything but contrite. When she doesn’t answer after a second round of knocking, he turns the knob and finds it unlocked, so he slowly pushes it open.
It’s dim, the only light afforded by what is spilling over from the living room through the open door. He can make out the curve of her waist where she lies on her side in the bed, her back to him. Cautiously, he crosses the small room and sits on the edge of the mattress behind her knees, then waits a beat to see if she will acknowledge his presence.
“Scully?” he says softly, but gets no response, and he considers the possibility that she may have fallen asleep.
He once read an article positing that both parties lying down while engaged in an argument may help diffuse anger and defensiveness, the theory being that the human body associates lying down with physical safety and relaxation. To this end, he moves to the other side of the bed and lies down on his back, glancing at her face only long enough to catch the sheen of her open eyes in the low light.
He allows several more beats of silence while he stares at the ceiling, but she says nothing. The weight of the silence builds and builds, pressing down on his ears, and he knows he needs to say something, but he can’t quite work out what. He swallows, pulls in a deep breath, and forces words out of his mouth before he loses his nerve completely.
“I think it’s possible that I may be engaging in a bit of self-sabotage,” he blurts out, and he feels her startle at the sudden sound of his voice.
He waits for her to reply or ask for clarification, but she doesn’t, and he’d be irritated with her at her lack of responsiveness if not for the fact that this entire situation is of his own making. He sighs a blustering sigh, rubs his hands over his face, and shifts a little to get more comfortable.
“I obviously have no idea how to say this,” he tries again, his mouth dry and sticky with nervousness, “so I’m just going to say it and ask that you forgive me if I don’t explain myself very well.” He waits. More silence. “I’m just—I’m terrified, Scully. Of everything, all the time. I’m afraid that something will happen to you and I won’t be able to fix it. I’m afraid you’ll leave, though I wouldn’t blame you if you did. When you got better, I promised myself that I’d stop taking you for granted. I know that I do, and I’m sorry. I promised myself that I’d tell you—I promised I’d do things differently, and I haven’t. I think it’s because I’m just as afraid that if we…cross certain lines, I’ll mess that up too. At some point, I’m going to mess up badly enough that you can’t forgive me, and I don’t think I’ll be able to live with myself if I push you away. Now I’m realizing even the things I’m doing to try to prevent that are pushing you away. But I shouldn’t have put any of that on you, that wasn’t fair. The honest answer is that I wanted to stop because I got scared, but in the moment it seemed easier to make it about you. I’m sorry.”
Who knew silence could be so sharp? The blade of it sinks deeper into his chest by increments as the seconds tick by, and it seems like the only thing left for him to do is leave. He said what he needed to say, and it may be the case that she needs some time to ruminate on it. He begins to count backwards from one hundred with the intention of leaving her apartment on zero. As he passes twenty and moves through the teens, he counts slower and slower. Maybe this was his unforgivable mess-up. Maybe it’s too little too late.
“What were you going to tell me?” she says roughly when he’s down to eight.
He’s so stunned by her speaking that his mind goes momentarily blank.
“About what?”
“You said that when I went into remission you promised that you’d tell me something,” she clarifies, her voice thick with exhaustion.
The fear freezes his vocal cords, pins his lips shut.
“I don’t think it’s anything you don’t already know,” he says after a beat. Fucking coward , he chastizes himself.
She sighs impatiently, and it just makes him love her more.
“So you promised yourself by my deathbed that you’d tell me something I already know?” she asks tartly, and he can’t help but smile.
“Touché,” he says, thankful that the tone of the conversation feels just a touch lighter. “I guess I should just admit that I’m afraid to tell you that, too.”
“What are you afraid will happen, exactly?”
“Well,” he begins, “there are layers to that, Scully, if you can believe it.”
“I can,” she agrees. “What’s the first one?”
“Rejection. Actually, I think they may all be rejection, but at different times and under different circumstances.”
“Hm,” she says noncommittally, and then is quiet for a moment before adding, “As a person who’s been rejected twice today, I suppose I can empathize.”
He opens his mouth to ask about the circumstances of her rejection, ready to assert that no one in their right mind would possibly reject her. He turns abruptly to his side and her eyes widen a little at his sudden closeness.
“I didn’t reject you, Scully,” he insists.
She blinks at him.
“Regardless of your intent,” she says carefully, “it certainly felt like a rejection, Mulder. Especially the second time.” He can smell the warmth of her breath and it thrills him to realize that he’s associating it with the taste of her mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to lay his hand over her cheek before he has time to think better of it. He can barely make her out in the dark, but he sees her eyes close briefly and feels her lean into his touch. “If anything, I was rejecting myself. I know that probably sounds trite, but it’s true. It’s hard for me not to feel like—like I don’t deserve it, after everything I’ve put you through. You would be justified in hating me, Scully. And that was a decidedly non-hating move you pulled out there.”
He feels her cheek stretch against his palm when she smiles, but it quickly falls. Her hand covers his, pulling it away from her face and then holding it against her breastbone. He feels the beat of her heart against his knuckles, steady and strong. Alive. Opening herself up to him. He tries to absorb some of her bravery through osmosis.
“You haven’t put me through anything, Mulder. And I don’t blame you for anything, you have to know that.”
“If I hadn’t—”
“No,” she says sternly, and he immediately acquiesces. “When you try to take responsibility for every bad thing that’s ever happened in my life, you completely negate the fact that I chose, and continue to choose to do this work with you. Even if some of the outcomes have been devastating, and even if I wish things may have happened differently, they were my choices to make.”
He nods, though he’s not sure if she can see it. He knows she’s right, but that does nothing to change the fact that he feels completely unworthy of her.
“I mean honestly, Mulder, which is it?” she continues. “Am I so hopelessly devoted to you that I’ll destroy my life and career just for the pleasure of your company, or do I find you so insufferable that I kissed you solely for the purpose of rejecting you? That doesn’t even make any damn sense.”
She’s just prickly enough that he knows she’s not really mad anymore, so he scoots closer and she lets go of his hand, lifting her arm in invitation that he cuddle up close to her. He tucks his head under her chin and she runs her fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp. It feels incredibly safe, and that safety gives him courage.
“I love you,” he says, whisper soft. His heart surges and begins to pound, and he hopes that she heard him because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to bring himself to say it again if she didn’t.
Her chest expands against his cheek when she pulls in a deep breath and then releases it slowly.
“I know,” she says sympathetically, and he quickly pulls his head back to look at her face. Her mouth is upturned in a soft smile, just a little bit coy. “It’s still nice to hear, though,” she adds.
Kissing her in that moment feels like the most natural thing in the world. She immediately reciprocates, and for minutes they explore pecks and lingering smooches, tangling tongues and gently bitten lips. They seem to mutually intuit that this is as far as it will go for now. Why rush it? They’ve waited this long.
She hums and slows until she lays one final kiss on his lips, then traces the curve of his jaw with her finger while she looks at him in the dark.
“You know that I love you, don’t you?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious.
A feeling of calm washes over him like a tropical tide. He shakes his head gently.
“Too far-fetched,” he says, and she huffs a little laugh.
“Must be an X-file,” she quips.
They shift around until Scully’s head is resting on his chest, her body nestled up against his flank. He suddenly wonders if she’ll ask him to stay, and the thought of getting to sleep with her like this makes his heart ache. He has the urge to ask her if she wants him to leave, but realizes that he’s up to old habits. If she didn’t want him here, she wouldn’t be tucked up against his side, her arm draped possessively across his chest.
“You asleep?” he asks quietly.
“Mm-mm,” she hums. “I was just thinking about my appointment. I was thinking—I was wondering how I’m going to explain…”
She stops and sighs, and he gives her a squeeze.
“If there’s anything I can do, drive you there or pick up dinner after, let me know. I don’t want to invade your privacy, but whatever you need, I’m here for it. Okay?”
She nods, which rubs her cheek against his chest.
“I think you might just be trying to get out of that meeting, but I appreciate the gesture.”
“I would never,” he says lightly.
There’s another space of silence, but it feels comfortable.
“What are you doing for Christmas, Mulder?” she asks hesitantly.
“Aside from trimming the tree and leaving cookies and milk out for Saint Nick, not much,” he offers, his curiosity piqued.
“I’m going out to Bill and Tara’s with my mother,” she tells him, which is something he already knew. “Tara is eight months pregnant.” The gravity of that hangs in the air for a moment. “I don’t want you to feel obligated in any way, it’s completely fine to say no, but if you’re free—”
“I’d love to go with you,” he cuts in, taking a risk that it wasn’t the direction she was headed in an attempt to save her from having to ask.
She lifts her head and rests her chin on his chest. Her hair is all fluffed up and he wishes he could see her more clearly. He knows even without seeing that she looks vulnerable and beautiful.
“Really?” she asks, seeming genuinely surprised.
“Of course,” he says emphatically, pushing her hair behind her ear.
“Thank you, Mulder.”
They get comfortable again, and while she doesn’t directly ask him to stay, she doesn’t seem to want him to leave. When he hears the deep, even breathing of sleep, he allows himself to relax fully and doesn’t fight it when he, too, starts to drift off.
He sleeps deeply, his normally fitful bouts of dreamless slumber replaced with a seemingly endless maze of vivid forays into his imagination. He dreams of a yellow house and the twinkle of Christmas lights, and a little girl with Scully’s eyes.