***********


From "Stay or Leave" by Dave Matthews


Stay or leave
I want you not to go
But you should
It was good as good goes
Stay or leave
I want you not to go
But you did

So what to do
With the rest of the day's afternoon, hey
Isn't it strange how we change
Everything we did
Did I do all that I should

That I coulda done


***********


She paused for a moment, kneeling as if in prayer.
Her hands covered her face in the silence of the
room. The cold touch of skin on porcelain gave
her goose bumps. She was waiting for a sign of
improvement, for any hint that things would be
okay. It did not come.

She let her hands drop to her lap, head still
bowed and eyes shut tight. She breathed deeply
for a few minutes, calmed by the cool air.
Finally, she felt the strength to move again, so
she arose from her position in front of the
toilet. The still water rippled under a thick
yellow coating, flecked with white and brown. The
permeating scent of vomit made her stomach churn
again, so she flushed away the offending waste,
watching with disgust and a twisted fascination
as the emesis swirled down the drain. She tried
to convince herself that her future had not left
with it.

She stepped over to the sink on unsteady legs and
leaned against the counter, placing her hands on
the edge. Her arms trembled under the burden. She
paused for a moment then ran cold water into a
paper cup and rinsed the acerbic taste from her
mouth. The cup crumpled in her fist before
tumbling into the trash can. She had always hated
to be in a vulnerable position, her weakness
displayed to the world. Before, she had been able
to find a way to avoid it. She knew how to deal
with tough situations, adapt and conquer, but the
threat she now faced was beginning to seem
insurmountable. She would fight to the bitter end,
but what to do in the meantime? She had to deal
with every day as it came. At some lonely point,
she had decided that, even if she could not be
strong, she could at least appear to be. This was
the only way she could find to steal small
victories from the invader inside her body, to
continue living as if the cancer did not exist.

Her instinct for survival commanded that she
continue putting one foot in front of the other,
but she was only numbly following its lead. It
was easier at work. She could allow herself to
become engrossed in the endless parade of files
or bury her worries in a million pointless tasks,
if necessary. At home, there were pictures of her
family everywhere she looked. There was crushing
silence as she tried to convince herself every
evening that she did not miss them already.

She tilted her head forward, watching drops of
blood coalesce in the sink. They stopped falling
after forming a small pool of red. She remembered
that she would be having company soon, so she
dabbed under her nose with a wad of toilet paper.
She had invited him on the pretense of asking him
questions about a case she was closing. They had
both gone through the motions of pretending that
her need to see him was work-related. It was a
painful but necessary game.

She was shocked when she looked up, seeing her
ghostly pale reflection in the mirror. Dark
circles bruised her eye sockets. Her lips were
dry and cracked. Stipples of blood covered her
nose and upper lip. Her hair was awry, a few
bangs plastered firmly to her forehead by beads
of sweat. There was not much time before her
visitor would arrive. She could not let him see
her like this.

She turned on the faucet and splashed some cool
water on her face before drying it off with a
towel. Then, she brushed her hair slowly, coaxing
it back into place without much fuss. Her
reflection was still unsightly. She sighed and
opened the cabinet, removing her cosmetic
supplies. She arranged them all carefully on the
countertop before starting to apply the base. She
stopped the application at her jaw line. Her face
looked three shades darker than her throat, a
much starker difference than usual. She applied a
little blush, a tiny bit of mascara, and yellow
concealer around her darkened eyelids. She
paused as she was rubbing the concealer against
the bridge of her nose. The cancer, the mass that
was slowly devouring her, was somewhere beneath
her fingertips. It lingered just out of touch and
sight, subtly working its evil. A shiver ran down
her spine.

She had always preferred a natural look. Not a
lot of makeup; just enough to cover the flaws. In
the midst of her struggle, though, there was not
enough makeup in the world to mask her sickness
and her insecurity. She was finishing with her
lipstick when she heard the knock at the door.

She deliberated for a moment, part of her wanting
to run to him and tell him all of her
insecurities. Part of her wanted to hide from him,
hide from her vulnerability, her anger, and her
failure. The disease was taking its toll, and she
could feel it. It was only a matter of time
before she succumbed, and she knew that by losing
the battle, she would disappoint everyone she
loved.

The rapping stopped. She simply could not force
herself to face him. One minute passed. Two.
Three. Finally, guilt overrode her fear, and she
walked to the door. She listened carefully. There
was no sound from the other side. No one was
visible through the peephole. She swallowed hard,
gathered her emotions into a strict semblance of
stability, and opened the door.

He was leaning against the wall, his back to her.
She tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder.
She was worried that he would be mad at her for
leaving him to wait. When he turned to look at
her, however, she saw no sign of anger. He smiled
at her sheepishly, as if he had interrupted
something. She knew his smile was forced, but he
was trying the best he could. They both were.

"I got here as soon as I could. You
sounded...lonely."

He lowered his eyes before saying the last word,
unable to meet her gaze. She nodded at him,
noting that he was no longer making an effort to
pretend that his visit was anything but personal.
She backed away a couple of steps, leaving the
door wide open. He stepped inside and closed the
door behind him. He stood fidgeting with the cuff
of his trench coat, waiting for a cue, for a hint
of what she needed from him. He was willing to do
anything for her.

She wanted to let him hold her, but a lump was
growing in her throat. She was busy trying
desperately not to cry in front of him.

"It was too quiet here. I talked to Mom on the
phone for a while, but we ended up having an
argument."

She choked off the sentence, unable to explain
any further. Time was running out. She had never
wanted to lose those precious minutes arguing.
She suddenly regretted asking him to visit her,
imagining that this conversation could end just
as badly.

"I'm sorry," he offered sincerely.

He reached toward her, at a loss for words. She
was not ready, though, so he stayed where he was.
If she needed room, he was more than willing to
give it to her. He would not leave her alone,
however. The cancer had spread nefariously,
creeping not only further into her body, but into
the lives of everyone around her.

She sniffed back a few tears and wrapped her arms
around herself.

"This has been difficult for everyone. Don't be
so hard on yourself."

He knew the moment he finished speaking that he
has said the wrong thing. She was already blaming
herself for others' problems, and his statement
had only confirmed her suspicions. Her eyes grew
wide as she glared straight at him. Her bottom
lip quivered.

"Don't you think I see that?" she yelled at him.

Her red eyes were swimming. He flinched as from a
physical blow.

"Of course it's been difficult! I can't deal with
this. I've made it tough for Mom, for you, for
everyone. It's just...too much."

She was pushing him away, just as she had her
mother. She knew she was about to cry, and she
wanted him to leave before she did.

"Go home, Mulder. I'm... I'm sorry I bothered you."

He stared at her, unbelieving. Her face was
bright red, her arms shaking. She was breaking
down right in front of him, and he was not sure
how to respond.

"You don't have to face this alone. Please, let
me help you," he pleaded.

He placed his hand on her arm, trying to draw her
closer. She jerked away, but just barely. He knew
she was scared.

"You've done so much for me, Scully." He paused,
daunted by the openness their conversation
demanded. "You've always been there."

He looked at her lowered eyes. She glanced up at
him. When she blinked, a few tears fell from the
tips of her eyelashes. He held his hands out,
palms up, and lowered his chin in a submissive
pose. The last thing he wanted to do was
intimidate her.

"Let me help you get through this," he implored
in a soft tone.

She could no longer hold back the torrent. All of
her insecurities welled up from deep inside her.
She could not understand why he could want to
share the pain she felt. Suddenly, her bravado
gave way to reality. She realized that she needed
him, now more than ever.

She stepped into his embrace, closing the gap.
Her silent sobs wracked both of them as he held
onto her for dear life. The front of his shirt
was wet and sticky with her tears, but he would
not let her go. She trembled violently. She
pounded her fist against his shoulder in
frustration, her face pressed to his chest, but
he was grateful for every second with her. He
knew she needed to let out all of her anger.
Simply knowing that life is not fair did not make
anything easier for her.

She was afraid to look at him. She knew her face
was distorted by her emotions. She did not
understand how he could accept her. She felt ugly.
When she pulled away, he did not let go of her.
He kept his hands on her shoulders, unwilling to
break the connection.

She risked a glance at him.

He was watching her carefully. Her cheeks were
bright red, streaked with white tear tracks. Her
mascara had run, leaving black trails down her
face. The rest of her makeup was smudged, the
evidence obvious on his shirt. She knew she had
been foolish to try to hide her sickness, but she
was afraid he would reject her. She was shocked
to see a smile spread across his face.

"Have I ever told you that you're beautiful?"

She thought for a moment that he was playing the
cruelest of jokes, but his voice and expression
were totally sincere.

"You are."

Before she could respond, he reached up and
placed a couple of fingertips beneath her chin,
tilting her head back slightly. He studied her
face for a moment, not seeing her pallor or her
clumsy attempt to cover it up. He saw only the
love she had entrusted to him. He saw only the
fire in her eyes.

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her cheek.
Their lips touched slightly at the corners. He
allowed himself to linger for only a second
before respectfully breaking the contact. Her
tears clung to his cheek and rolled down a lazy
path, tracing the profile of his lip and
following its curve into his slightly open mouth,
where he tasted the bitterness of her frustration.

She held her breath, waiting for the illusion to
shatter, but it did not. He was still standing
before her, concern tempering his sadness. She
gradually felt ridiculous in her assumption that
her appearance, her bad mood, or even her illness
was stronger than their bond. She embraced him
again, this time in gratitude. She smiled
sincerely for the first time in a very long time.
She pressed her cheek against the lapel of his
trench coat and considered with wonder how cancer,
their common adversary, had broken each of them
down, yet made both of them stronger.

"Thank you for being here. I..." Her voice faltered.
"I don't know what I would have..."

He wrapped his arms around her, interrupting the
unpleasant rumination, and gave her one last hug
before letting her go. He knew he could only do
so much for her, that he was powerless to change
her situation. He felt as if he was trespassing
in a sacred place. He knew he had to leave.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow, Scully."

He could not tell her how he would sleeplessly
count the minutes until then or how he was
desperately trying to commit every second he
shared with her to memory. She could not express
the intensity of her desire that he stay or the
extent of her debt to him. He opened the door and
glanced over his shoulder, burning her image into
his mind once again before walking away. They
parted without another word, each awaiting a new
day.


***********

End

The X-Files and related entities belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox. I write only for the profit of feedback, not money.