Mulder's Fear
He turned slightly, and felt the hot sun on his face. Bright. Cracking open
an eye, he looked around him. And groaned. He'd fallen asleep on the couch
again. This was not good, for his back, or his health. Pushing himself up
unsteadily, he winced. A sharp stabbing pain. Damn, he cursed silently. With
an inhuman effort, he thrust his left hand at a disturbing angle under his
waist and dug out the remote control.
Horrible habit. Pulling his legs after him as he headed toward the toilet,
he shook himself, trying to clear his mind. But that didn't work -- his legs
buckled once or twice, and he almost tripped over the rug when he
encountered it. Sour taste in his mouth. Came from shovelling sunflower
seeds into it till he fell asleep every night. Without brushing his teeth.
He felt sick.
Finally he came face to face with the mirror. I look fantastic, he told his
image drily. One huge tuft of brown hair stuck out in back, and he had a
huge white ridged line running clumsily all the way down the front of his
face : probably from having his face pressed against the couch cushion in an
uncomfortable (and unnatural) position all night.
Sometimes it just took way too much to get up in the mornings. Especially
when this was what greeted him every day. He frowned at his reflection and
flashed a rude sign at it. His hands felt thick and unwieldy from disuse,
but he managed to force them into some semblance of working order. Gripping
the tap hard, he pushed and watched the water trickle out of the faucet. Had
he forgotten to pay his utility bills again? He poked a finger at the
leaking tap. Shit. It was ice cold.
At least it would perk him up. Gathering what little liquid he could in his
bare hand, he bent down and flung it at his face, scrubbing hard. It felt
good. And he was beginning to feel more like a human being. Just a few steps
away from becoming fit to be seen in public. Good.
The phone rang. He cursed. Should I just leave it? He changed his mind. It
could be the office. Or it could be her. Whichever one it was, he couldn't
ignore the call. Not even at this goddamn early hour of the morning. So he
stumbled out again. And frowned.
He couldn't for the hell of him remember where he had put the receiver. Damn
all portable phones. The earlier enthusiasm left him suddenly; he felt
deflated. Listlessly, he poked at a nearby pillow (what was it doing in the
living room?) with his toe. It wasn't under there. He took his time as he
wandered around the room, following the incessant ringing. Whoever was
calling had a whole lot of patience. Either that, or a lot of time. He or
she could wait.
Finally, after a long enough search, he found the black receiver wedged
under the couch. It looked like it had been there for months. Strange. He
jabbed the flashing button, choking off the annoying ringing at last. There
wasn't time for him to say a word.
"Mulder?" It was a gasp almost, a whisper of pain. "That you?"
He didn't notice anything different.
But he knew who it was. It was her. Scully.
He was awake in a flash. Somehow, whenever he heard her voice, he became
more energised. "Yeah Scully, how're things? I might be a..." he paused,
searching for the right words. "...a little late. I'm...being held up."
Looking around at the mess he called a home, he realised that it was a
pretty huge understatement.
There was no reply. Only a silence. An eerie, long, drawn-out silence. He
couldn't be quite sure. But there was a soft, almost imperceptible, groan.
And then a thud, as if the phone had slipped from her grasp.
His stomach folded in two. Something was wrong. He cursed himself from
taking so long to realise it. Scully was in trouble. As he called the FBI
headquarters to get them to trace the line, he noticed his fingers were
shaking. They seemed to have expanded to ten times their normal size, and he
kept punching the wrong buttons. Damn. Concentrate! he yelled to himself.
Concentrate!!!!!! He willed his fingers to be calm.
He had to save her.
@@@
The ambulance had been dispatched to the approximate coordinates he had
managed to get when his contact had traced her handphone. It was a long
shot, but they should not have a problem finding her. He couldn't rest easy.
Though he didn't know why.
It was as if there were dozens of little needles, cold sharp metal, poking
playfully at the insides of his stomach. Jeering at him. Fear. He recognised
the anxiety associated with it. He couldn't leave well enough alone. Not
this time. He had to get out there. Do something...so that he could at least
feel that he was of some use to her.
He wore a rumpled grey T-shirt, faded and worn to pieces in the shoulder. A
pair of ratty boxers he'd had since college. But he didn't really care about
his appearance right then. Grabbing his car keys off the table, he ran down
to his car, pausing only to throw his sneakers on. He revved the engine.
Finally. It felt good to be in control of something at last. His hands
tightened on the steering wheel, and he could feel his heart slowing
considerably, his breathing becoming more regular. Of course she'll be fine.
Wherever she is.
Aiming his car in the direction that was indicated by the crumpled paper on
his dashboard, the humming of the engine slipped slowly into his ears and
wrapped itself around his heart. It helped him stay calm. He didn't know
why, but every time he turned another corner, his eyes would search the
scene before him restlessly even as the blood thundered back up to his head.
He couldn't afford to get into an accident. Not now.
He had been travelling along a lonely dirt path for some time, the tires of
his car churning up gravel and throwing up dust behind him. He could hear
the patter of little granules of sand as they hurtled against the metal
underside of the car. His mind remained carefully blank.
Then he saw it.
A car. Her car. And a tree. A huge tree. He couldn't see a fender. His
throat tightened and his eyes swam. He couldn't see a fender. Because there
wasn't one. It was crushed into the car, pushed so far in that the metal
hood seemed to have melted into the wooden trunk of the tree.
He was losing control of his bodily functions. His fingers loosened on the
steering wheel, and his feet went limp on the gas pedal. His stomach churned
uncomfortably, and his eyes seemed to dilate of their own accord. With
extraordinary strength, he brought his foot down hard, blindly, hoping
against hope that it would stop the car from its relentless hurtle forward.
It worked.
The squeal of rubber on gravel jarred him to his senses, even as he was
thrown almost headlong into the front window. The seat belt pulled him back,
but for a second, he had feared the worst for himself. As well as for her.
His fingers fumbled with the catch on his door. It seemed an interminable
length of time before he pried it up. He didn't quite know how, but he
stumbled towards the other mutilated car, as if propelled by some force or
strength he had never imagined he possessed.
He yanked the door on the driver's side open. And his heart stopped.
She fell out almost immediately, landing softly in his arms even as he knelt
to catch her. It was as if she had been propped up only by leaning against
the door, and without its support, had not been able to stay upright. His
muscles froze into their present position, refusing to work under his
orders. He couldn't make them work. For some reason, tears came to his eyes.
Why wasn't his body cooperating with the rest of him?
"Scully?" The strangled word dropped easily from his lips. "Scully, wake up.
You're going to be fine." Her face was pale, her lips drained of all colour.
Her usually perfectly-maintained crop of reddish-brown hair lay mussed on
her brow, the stray tendril escaping to crawl over her pallid countenance.
This wasn't the Scully he was used to. It hurt him beyond expression to see
her so weak. So helpless. So unconscious.
"Scully, don't scare me. Wake up." He tried to laugh, but it turned into a
coarsely unnatural cough instead. He gently pushed the hair off her
forehead. "You got me. You win. Next time, I'm buying. Scully?"
His mouth hardened mid-sentence. Blood. So much of it, trickling from an
angry gash on her pallid skin. The stark contrast imprinted itself on his
mind, and he knew he would never be able to forget it. He could only look on
in horror. It was so deep, the cut, and yet, it didn't seem to be affecting
her in the least. Her face showed no pain.
He couldn't understand it. "Scully, wake up! Goddamnit!" The anger flowed
easily from his lips now, as he pushed her almost roughly into a sitting
position. "You can't do this to me. I can't do all this without you. You
know that." His tone was more than a little panicked now, as his eyes
ravaged her face for some sign of understanding. He got none.
Her head slumped down to her chest, as if she were ignoring him
intentionally. Shunning his penetrating gaze. He groaned. This couldn't be
happening. It was unreal. It was wrong. This was never supposed to happen.
He wasn't supposed to lose her. He couldn't lose her. And she wasn't allowed
to leave him. She couldn't leave him.
The fear was wringing his heart in his chest, forcing tears out of his eyes,
so many he didn't know where they all came from. Slowly, almost
deliberately, his hand moved up to her face, and his finger marked a gentle
path down her cheek, pressing itself momentarily against her still-warm
lips, travelling up to her nose. He held his own breath, hoping that he
would find hers. Nothing.
This time, the fingers raced down to her neck, searching desperately for a
rhythm. A sign. Anything that might mean she was still with him.
Nothing.
His legs gave way and he dropped limply to the ground. His arms, still
tightly wrapped around her lifeless body, pulled her down to him. She fell
neatly into his lap, and he could smell her shampoo as her hair brushed past
his face. Her thick black coat, dotted with the darker stains of blood,
shrouded the now painfully tiny figure.
Aside from the garish welt on her head, she looked perfectly normal.
His worst fear had come true.
@@@
It seemed strangely appropriate somehow. That the wind should be howling
around him as he stood by the freshly-dug grave. That the rain should be
pouring down into his eyes, making up for the torrent of tears still pouring
down his face. At least no one could tell he was crying. The storm proved to
be little comfort.
The past week had been a blur. He had lived out of his apartment, accepting
no one's calls and declining to return to work. He hadn't changed out of the
clothes he had been in ever since he found her. He had barely eaten, his
mind at a loss once the knowledge that she was waiting for him somewhere in
this world was gone. He kept himself busy by sharpening all the pencils in
the house, watching aimless cartoons, reading magazines. Nothing seemed to
work. He was still waiting for her to return, waiting for the day when he
could hear her call him Mulder again, waiting for the woman he had spent his
whole life waiting for.
The woman he had killed.
The thought was unwelcome. He did not want to start blaming himself all over
again, not when he was standing in her presence. But he couldn't help
himself. That body, which had walked beside him; those hands, which had
reached out both to help him and to ask for his help along the way; those
eyes, which always renewed his strength and conviction whenever he looked
into them. They were all gone now. Sacrificed to feed the hungry and gaping
earth in which whatever remained of her now lay buried.
A shiver. More tears. He sank to the ground, feeling the cool wet mud soak
through his pants and wrapitself around his knees. The rain continued its
endless journey into the ground, slipping down his face and bringing his
tears with it. Hopefully, they would both reach her. He knew no other way to
communicate with her now.
Not that he had the right to. His hands found the yielding grass beneath
him, and tightened into fists around them. Trembling with sadness and more
pain than he had ever thought possible to endure, he yanked the helpless
strands of grass free from their roots. It was unfair. These plants, these
weeds now shared her world, shared them in a way he could never again
fathom. She was gone from his universe, and from his life. Forever.
If only he had answered the phone faster. If only he hadn't dawdled. If only
he had known. If only his hands hadn't shaken so much. If only he had had
the strength to save her. If only he could give his life for hers. He would
do it all. But he couldn't. It was too late.
"Scully." The crack in his voice as he uttered her name was heart-rending in
its misery. "You didn't have to go so soon. You said, you promised me that
we'd be together. That if you quit, they would win. Don't you remember?" he
sobbed. "How can you leave me here? You know I can't go on without you. I
told you that. Scully!" The last word came out as a hoarse anguished scream,
yelled out to the thundering skies above the otherwise silent graveyard.
He was alone. As he always had been, as he always would be. He feared the
loneliness, more than anyone knew. He feared what might happen without
Scully, without a tether to keep him rooted to reality. Once again, he
screamed, an almost feral heaven torn right out of his soul.
No one heard him. As he poured his heart out to the only one who could
understand him, he watched helplessly as his tears seeped into the ground.
Hoping vainly that they might reach the only person he had ever allowed
himself to trust whole-heartedly. Hoping that she might forgive him.
Wherever she was. And no matter how much she must hate him.
+++
He was soaked to the bone. His key took an unusually long time to click into
position, and when he finally pushed the door open, he was met with
darkness. Automatically, mechanically, he reached to his left and flicked
the light switch. The room brightened to a blinding degree, and his eyes
screamed a raucous protest. Turning the lights down to a mellow glow, he
navigated himself towards his couch more from a force of habit than from
actually being able to see.
Sinking onto the soft plush cushions, he remembered all too late that he was
wet and smelled of dirt. Tiredly, he pushed his coat off his arms and leaned
back to work it out from under him. He threw it in the general direction of
the coatstand. It made a satisfying sloppy sound as it hit the wall and slid
down slowly into a heap against the door.
Glancing over, he noticed a bright yellow envelope partially covered only by
the coat. Legal paper : stationery for lawyers. This seemed far too
important to ignore, even from him, in his present state. Someone must have
pushed it under his door when he had been out all evening.
Skinner. His handwriting covered a small square of paper fastened to the
envelope with a paper clip. It took Mulder some time to decipher it, for the
loops and heavy 't' crosses made for an untidy scrawl not entirely pleasant
to the eye.
Agent Mulder : I know you are grieving for your loss, and I assure you that
I feel Agent Scully's passing as deeply as you do. I can only offer empty
words of consolation now, for I know nothing can replace or even begin to
make up for the loss of another human being in this world. Her lawyers sent
this package to the office today. I thought you might be interested and
delivered it here personally, only to find you gone. But I am leaving this
here. Read it at your leisure.
- Walter Skinner
Her lawyers?? Mulder's hands trembled. With fear? Anticipation? Eagerly, as
if he would find a clue to bring her back to life within, he ripped open the
envelope, and devoured its contents. The first page of the thick stack of
looseleaf paper was standard legal procedure. His eye flicked down its body
in a practised manner, and he quickly moved on.
The second page proved more interesting.
In the event of her passing, Miss Dana Scully has made specific arrangements
with us for certain members of her family and close friends. They are to be
given messages she herself has written personally for them, as well as
invitations to attend a reading of her will to be held.....
He stopped reading. A message...from Scully? Rushing over to his desk, he
swept all the clutter on it to the floor, and switched on the desktop lamp.
There was not a moment to lose. If something in here was from Scully, he had
to find it. He riffled quickly through the papers, hardly daring to breathe.
The lawyer had sent him a form letter : one that was sent to everyone on
Scully's list of relations. There was only a slim chance that she had
actually bothered to write a....
There. Clipped to another page of legal rubbish, was a small white envelope,
the kind he knew she loved to use. On the front, she had written his name,
Fox William Mulder, in her delicate hand. It was her handwriting, there was
no doubt about that. He had perused the X-Files enough, had seen her
scribble some notes for herself and stick them to her desk before : there
was no mistaking it. After all, he had memorised every loop, every dash,
every full-stop, a long long time ago. His index finger traced the words
gently, his eyes staring hard to make sure that the writing did not
disappear.
This was the last bit of Scully he had. The last part of her he had with
him, to remind him of the woman he had worked with for five wonderful years.
He swallowed. The woman whom he had sent to an early death.
The guilt was gnawing away at him. Refusing to give him peace. He almost
threw the letter aside, into the dustbin. He did not deserve Scully. He did
not deserve her care, or this little bit of herself she had so carefully
planned for him before her death. But...
His eyes returned to the envelope, and he grappled with the knowledge that
in there, she had written words that were meant only for him. There was no
way he could keep his hands off it for long. As his fingers slipped under
the loosely-sealed flap, his stomach danced nervously and his heart turned
upside down. These were Scully's thoughts, captured forever in her
handwriting. He felt almost as if he were desecrating it. But he couldn't
resist, no matter how wrong it felt.
				   *
         						1998
Mulder :
It feels more than a little strange to be writing to you under these
circumstances, knowing that your eyes will be reading these words only when
I am no longer around to say them to you. But I have done this every year
for the past five years, writing you a new letter each time. Is it morbid? I
don't know. Probably. But somehow, I can't just leave without tying up the
loose ends. You know how structured I am.
I can't imagine you reading this. Because I know it means that I will be
dead. And I certainly hope that doesn't happen. Not just yet. But if it
does, I suppose this is inevitable. You are not used to my writing like
this, and neither am I. Usually, I restrain myself, try to keep as tight a
rein on my emotions as I possibly can. This time, I can't. It's a very
different situation now, isn't it?
Personally, I can't predict what you are feeling, and how badly-hit you are
by all this. Maybe it's selfish of me, but there's a small part of me that
hopes you care, at least a little. But there's also a larger, more insistent
part of my psyche, which is telling me that you WILL be having a hard time
with it. I know you, Mulder, and I know how deeply-affected you allow
yourself to be when it comes to people who are close to you. It might be
presumptuous of me to assume that you care so much, but I cannot believe
that I have been so blind as to read all the signs wrongly. The truth is, we
care a great deal about each other. And I know that, were this situation
reversed ( God forbid ), I would be at a complete loss, emotionally and
physically.
This letter makes it much easier for me to tell you some things which I
have never been able to admit to your face. And probably never will be able
to. Mulder, I don't know what force it was that brought the both of us
together that day in 1993. When I came to your office, and saw you seated
there, cracking your usual jokes and making your typically scathing (yet at
the same time paranoid) remarks, I never expected our relationship to
develop to where it is now. I thought of you as only a male co-worker,
someone I had to get along with for the sake of my job. I guess I was wrong.
Totally wrong.
You mean so much to me, Mulder, that you probably will never be able to
understand what it means to me to be able to see you everyday, to be by your
side and to watch you in action. I hurt when you do, I cry when you cry, and
a little bit of my heart dies with you everyday as I see your hopes to find
Samantha and the real truth gradually diminish. I started out as a
non-believer, schooled entirely in the sciences. Even now I can't be sure I
am completely won over to your beliefs, Mulder. But there IS one thing I do
believe in. And that's you.
I know you can do whatever you set out to, Mulder. Even without me.
Remember, if you quit now, they win. If I do die, and you do read this, you
must bear in mind forever that I have not quit. Neither did I bail on you,
Mulder. I don't think I had a choice in the matter. I'm pretty sure I
didn't. I'll always be with you, somehow. Just remember that you're not
alone, that you're never alone, Mulder.
And don't blame yourself for whatever happened. If anything did happen. I
know how easily you allow yourself to do that too. Take the troubles of the
world onto yourself, and seldom, if ever, allow me to share them with you,
to alleviate the pain and the burden you must feel. This one time, please
let me help you, Mulder. I don't want my death to cause you any more pain
than necessary, and I don't want you to grieve.
Go back to work, Mulder. I know how hard that must seem right now. I don't
think I would have the strength to do it if I were you. But YOU have the
strength inside you, Mulder, if you would only look for it. This is small
comfort now, I'm sure, but could I just tell you one of the least rational
theories I personally suscribe to about us, Mulder? It might make you feel
better, if nothing else.
I'm not one to believe in Fate, really. I'm sure you know that. I'm far too
rational. And yet....somehow, I think that we would have met each other, no
matter what. In whatever capacity, even if we weren't colleagues, even if we
were 80 years old when it happened. Because somehow, my life just doesn't
feel right without you. As if some huge part of it were missing and couldn't
be replaced by anything else. No, I'm not going sappy on you, Mulder.
I...just think that you should know that...well, I found you once, Mulder.
I'll find you again.
       							 DANA
				   *
His eyes were drenched with tears, but he didn't notice them. His heart was
full of words he could not say in any intelligible fashion, for his throat
seemed to be blocked by a sadness that was inexplicable. He read the letter
again, once, twice, three times. Somehow, she had known, even before her
death, that he would feel so much sorrow he might never be able to work
again. That he might give up on everything that had meant the world to him,
except for her. It was almost as if she had reached out her hand to him from
beyond the grave, as if she had heard his weeping and ranting at the
graveyard, and had pre-empted him with this letter.
This wonderful, touching letter. "I'll find you again", he read quietly to
himself, savouring the words, relishing the love he could detect in every
sentence of the letter. He knew it for certain now. He did love her, beyond
a shadow of a doubt. And she had loved him. Or more accurately, she still
did. He had thought he was alone, that he would lose everything : his mind,
his job, the love of his life...when she died. But he wouldn't, he knew that
now.
It would be difficult without Scully. There was a world out there in which
he feared he might not survive for long without her. That his fears might
all manifest themselves, and swallow him up because he no longer had the
will to live on. But he knew that he would have to face them as best as he
knew how, if only to ensure he could see her again one day. He had met with
his worst fear. He had watched Scully die. And he had been sure he would die
with her. If not physically, then mentally and emotionally. But he had been
wrong. She had offered him the strength that she no longer had any use for,
her own strength, and had used it to replenish his own nearly-depleted
resources.
He knew that the only woman he had ever trusted would keep her promise to
him. She would find him again someday.
And he would wait for that someday for as long as it took.
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