"Questionable Expectations"

author: Mo (ohohmo@usa.net)
rating: PG-13

spoilers: Very mild Tunguska/Terma
category: A, S, MSR
summary: A simple, innocent question -- and a little
something from the past -- bring with them dire consequences
and confusion.

disclaimer: They don’t belong to me. They belong to Carter and
Fox and Ten Thirteen and all of them. And . . . since they don’t
belong to me, I really wish they would get out of my head, and
let me get some sleep every once and awhile. Thank you.

A Few Quick Words:

Thanks go out to Darkstryder for putting up with me, for
commiserating with me, and for saying what needed to be said.

And . . . let me just say that I would definently appreciate any
comments you may have. I get so few emails to begin with, it would be a thrill ;) ( ohohmo@usa.net )

Plus, this isn’t the usual for me, so, I can’t honestly judge
how it turned out.

**************************************************************

"Questionable Expectations"
by Mo

Pt. 1/9

"Do you love me?" he asked. His voice was soft, and ever-so gentle.
And in his tone she heard all the things she had ever dreamed about
turn to possibilities.

But still . . .

It would all be so easy if she knew the answer. She knew only
questions, though, and she couldn’t find the answer. Her gaze
fell downwards, reflective. All the things that had happened to
them over the years clamored for her attention. All the worry she
had felt when she had almost lost him once more, all the overwhelming
bliss she’d felt as she saw him walk back into her life after she
thought he’d given in to pain or revenge or curiosity . . . And all
the anger she had felt when he left her, time after time, all the
irritations he proved so adept at causing . . .

God -- what *was* love? Did she feel it for him?

And . . . could she stand it if she did?

She didn’t know. It was awful -- an awful thing to not know
what she felt, to not understand love enough to identify it, to
not know if she did, indeed, feel it for him. It frightened her.
Not knowing always did.

So, with one tear sliding down her cheek, she decided. She turned
her face upwards to face him again. If she didn’t know by now . . .
His eyes shone, and she thought how strange it was to see so much
emotion in his eyes. She could only assume they were shining with
love -- for *her* -- and she knew he understood, at least somewhat,
what he was feeling. She should know by now, shouldn’t she?

But, still . . .

She couldn’t explain her feelings. She could not reconcile them.
There was only one choice. Only one decision.

She *would* know by now, if she loved him.

"No," she mouthed, her voice a mere whisper, and in the silence
that followed, in the God-awful silence, she imagined she could hear
two hearts breaking.

And so she fled.

**********

Pt. 2/9

For the millionth time in his life, he wondered how something
so intensely personal could be so God-damned cliched. Everything
he felt could be easily categorized with a dead poet’s simplest
description.

He hated that. He hated his sudden predictability, his new-found
"normal-ness".

And he hated the way he felt. He hated being so alone, especially
when being alone had never bothered him before. He hated missing her.
He hated loving her.

He hated her.

But still . . .

How could he not love her? That was simple -- he couldn’t. He *had*
to love her.

How she expected him not to was the hard one.

He had been so sure this was something they shared. The way she had
smiled at him, joked with him, embraced him. When they touched, she
would let her guard slip away, she would let her fear and worry and
stiff protocol fall away, fall into his arms. The way they could
practically predict each other’s every action, every word, every
thought . . .

What was that if it was not love?

And did he really want an answer?

**********

Pt. 3/9

When he awoke it was in a hospital.

And she was there.

Why?

She’d been transferred. Away from him. It was to be understood
-- it was to be perfectly clear -- that it had been her own decision.
Her way of letting him know how badly he’d screwed up. Shit, he had
figured she was dating some rich doctor by now. Maybe even preparing
for a God-damned April wedding.

He’d expected that. Expected to get the cream-colored envelope in
the mail, patiently explaining to him in cursive and lace that *his*
Scully was now to be called Dana, and that she and the dear doctor
would be getting married in a few months.

And, oh, yes, please RSVP -- how many will be coming?

Bring a date? He couldn't even see himself going at all -- bringing a
date was then, of course, out of the question. There was no way he
could possibly sit in the church and watch Dana Scully on the happiest
day of her life -- the day she finally severed all ties with him.

No more Mrs. Spooky, huh?

He’d probably gotten off easy. Cheapest divorce he’d ever gone
through. Only cost him his heart. And the best partner in the Bureau.

So, he’d expected a wedding invitation, and one last dance with the
bride.

He’d expected getting drunk and trying to beat up the groom.

He’d expected sitting in the back of the church, holding his pounding
head while even Mrs. Scully frowned at him.

He’d expected watching her walk away, he’d *expected* that nightmare.

He hadn’t expected to wake in a hospital. He hadn’t expected to see
her at his bedside, acting for all the world as if nothing had
happened.

Her head was drooping to one side, he realized, as his vision slowly
cleared.

Huh. He hadn’t even noticed his vision had ever been unclear. That
couldn't be a good sign. He looked closer at her. She was asleep, he realized. He almost laughed, his head providing him with imaginary
pictures of what she would look like with drool trickling from the
side of her mouth. She wasn’t drooling, though. Of course. Dana Scully, specialist for the FBI, most certainly did not drool.

And she did not snore.

Mulder had smiled with the thought, wondering momentarily from
where it had come. Then he realized that either he had just gone
into cardiac arrest or Scully *did* snore.

Probably a one-time thing, he rationalized. Probably got it from
her father. He could imagine Maggie Scully snoring even less than he
could imagine Scully actually drooling.

As the warm happiness thinking about the Scully family had brought
cooled, Mulder remembered what had happened with Scully four weeks
earlier.

He remembered his initial curiosity at why Scully would even come
to see him. She’d seemed so angry -- and scared -- when she’d left
him, alone, in their office.

Angry at him for asking, he mused, or angry at herself for not
knowing the answer? After a month he still couldn’t answer that
question. Either way, she was never the type to easily forgive and
forget. To give in like this -- to come to him . . . it wasn’t her
style.

He wondered if maybe she wasn’t here for her own reasons. He wondered
if someone had requested she visit him. Visit the poor man with few
family members, and even fewer friends.

It made a sort of sick sense, he decided. Scully always had been
the proud owner an over-developed sense of responsibility. If perhaps
Skinner, or maybe even her mother had asked her to sit vigil, she
would have. She would do it out of pity.

She would do it for Skinner or Maggie or whoever. She would even do it
for her damn Church -- her faith.

Be the Good Samaritan, Scully. Help the man all the others shy away
from.

The man in that story -- in the Bible lesson -- had been attacked,
beaten, left for dead on the side of the road.

What had happened to him? He wondered.

He cast his memory back as far as he could.

He remembered his . . . conversation with Scully. He remembered her
transfer out of the X-Files division. He remembered the expected --
and at that point, almost welcome -- reassignment to VCS. He remembered
the dozens of cases they had thrown at him. He remembered the longs
days spent profiling killers, and the even longer nights. Nights when
the only sign marking the change from one day to the next was three
hours of restless sleep that lasted from two AM until five AM.

He remembered awakening each morning and running -- running to the
point of exhaustion. Then, heedless to the screaming in his body, the
anger in his chest, running past it. Running until it was all he could
do to collapse into his shower.

And he remembered starting it all over again, day after day.

But most of all, he remembered the hours between work and sleep when
all he could do was lay on his couch watching the flicker of the TV.
Staring mindlessly as he flipped from one channel to the next, only
giving up the pretext of channel surfing when his thumb and index
finger -- on both hands -- had given up.

That was when he let his eyes lose their focus, staring half-heartedly
at some awful ‘80s movie with ugly actors and scripts where the
writers showed even less talent than the actors. If that was possible.

Unfortunately, when his eyes lost their focus, his mind found its.

His mind liked to focus on Scully. In the few weeks since she had left
him, he’d replayed every single moment of their partnership, beginning
with when she’d walked through his door, half a decade earlier, looking
for all the world like Jodie Foster, from "Silence of the Lambs".

He found now that he'd learned something, wallowing in his memories.
He’d had enjoyed living those moments a hell of a lot more than he
liked remembering them.

Living them . . . living them he was with her. Memory, when it’s played
endlessly on a sticky leather couch is a poor substitute for reality,
even when that reality is painful.

He missed her. Even with her in the same room as him, he missed her.

Seeing her now, asleep -- and no longer snoring, thank God -- he knew
he couldn’t stand it if she walked out on him again. If they had to stay
like this forever -- her perpetually asleep in that plastic hospital
chair a mere foot from the bed that held him, a victim of some unknown
crime -- if they had to stay like this for her to remain with him, then
he prayed that she was tired enough to do so.

**********

Pt. 4/9

He was waking, she knew.

But still -- she simply did not know what to do. She still could not reconcile all she knew and thought and felt.

Her heart quickened.

His eyes fluttered.

And she slammed hers shut. If she was asleep, he couldn’t talk to her
-- right?

He couldn’t ask her how she’d been ( without him ). He couldn’t ask her
what she’d been doing ( without *him* ). He couldn’t ask her why she was
here ( with him ). He couldn’t ask her --

Oh, God.

She’d thought this would help.

Her mother had assured her this would help show her the truth.

And that truth was she no more knew if she loved Mulder than she had
six weeks ago. When he’d first asked her.

She no more knew. Of course, she knew no less than she had then.

She still knew the answer was there.

She still knew how terrified she was of that answer -- how terrified she
was that she already knew that answer.

She still knew how angry she was at Mulder for having always been the
impractical one, the one who never realized *anything* emotionally.

Except this. Except now.

Damn him.

She peeked an eye open. He was still awake. Thinking. His mind was
elsewhere.

Elsewhere . . . and still on her, she knew.

Damn him.

Why was he suddenly the practical one? Had he done this to make her
look childish? Immature? To show everyone that Spooky Mulder knew
himself better than she did?

Foolish question, Scully.

She froze. In her thoughts, she called herself Scully. In her deepest,
most private thoughts. What had happened to Dana? Where was she?

Quantico, she realized. Teaching at Quantico -- five years ago.

That was the realization that sent it all crashing down.

She had tried so hard to be that girl again -- to be Dana. She’d left
the X-Files. Attempted to go back to where she had come from.

When now, she realized, all she wanted to be was Scully.

Because she was Scully . . . and Scully was the one he --

Don’t go there, she thought. Don’t go there.

She was crying, she found.

If Mulder saw her crying, he’d know she wasn't asleep, he'd know she
was faking.

So, she snored. Loudly.

She couldn’t quite see the logic in it.

Then again, since she had met Mulder, logic had gone out the window, had
it not?

It covered the tears, though -- snoring covered the tears. Only one or
two had managed to leak out through her closed eyelids. The rest were shut
up tightly.

He would never know she was awake, he would never know he had made her
cry.

Damn him -- he had no idea what he did to her.

Why did she keep up this pretense? She wanted to see Mulder. To know he
was going to be fine. He had made her angry, yes. He had made her
confused. She was still confused. She was still a little angry. But now,
she was also scared -- and she needed to know he would be fine.

After all she’d gone through -- after all he’d put her through in the
last month and a half, the last two weeks especially -- she deserved to
see him. To see he would be okay.

Hell, she more than deserved it.

Still she couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- open her eyes.

Because if he was awake . . . she still did not know what would happen.

So, she waited. She’d give him ten more minutes. He’d be asleep again
by then, no question.

After what had happened to him, being awake wouldn’t last.

She knew from experience. His.

She heard the bed rustle softly next to her.

And then she knew. It was no great revelation -- and for a moment she
was startled by her own certainty. Until she realized that she had
known all along, and was just too frightened to recognize what had
happened.

She was still scared. She just had other things to fear now.

>From next to her came the muffled sound of movement once more. He was settling back into bed, settling into sleep. Her mouth turned up, just slightly.

She could tell him later -- he needed his rest. She would have the chance to
tell him later.

So she waited for him to sleep, knowing that she loved him.

And when he finally did, she pulled his hand to her chest and kissed it
softly.

Whispering, just as softly, that she knew her answer.

Knowing didn’t make her less frightened of what it meant. Knowing just
made her more sure that she couldn’t leave him again.

**********

Pt. 5/9

When he woke again, she wasn't there. There was no one there.
His heart sank, his mind numbed.

It was as he'd thought. She didn't love him. She'd come for honor,
nothing more.

It must be that he was healing nicely, and she had relieved herself of
duty.

He swallowed. Damn it, he had hoped . . .

And what do hopes matter here? What do hopes matter when no one knows
them, no one sees them, no one wants to?

She had walked out on him again. Maybe to go back to her fiancé. Maybe
back to the job, maybe back to her mom.

All that mattered was she had left him. Everyone leaves Mulder -- nobody likes him, everybody hates him -- he should go eat worms, huh?

Too bad they didn't serve worms here.

Come to think of it, they didn't seem to serve much of anything.

He had seen no staff since he'd woken up. He'd seen no staff the first
time he'd woken up.

No doctors. No nurses.

No one.

Only Scully, and she had left. So . . . where did that leave him?

He turned his head -- there should be a call button, somewhere. He didn't
see one, though. He felt himself begin to panic. He was alone -- he was alone.

There was really no here, was there?

He wasn't in a hospital, was he?

"I've got a feeling, Toto," he mumbled, trying to keep the panic from his
voice, "I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore."

He stood, slowly, pulling the hospital stuff off him, away from him. He
surveyed the room.

Empty.

He took a breath.

Cold.

Another breath.

Too bright, glaring.

So cold.

Another breath.

It was like winter here. All the light glinting off the walls, glinting
off the snow, off the walls, off the -- what? He wasn't sure he knew
anymore.

Too cold.

He forgot to breathe.

It didn't matter.

Why breathe?

No need.

He stumbled. His hand fell upon a wall, and he jerked it away. The wall
was wet -- slick. He reached out slowly, beating down his trepidation.
He pushed out two fingers to feel it. It was so very cool. He slid his fingers across the surface, and brought them back, close to his face --
ice? The wall was covered in ice?

He ran his fingers back over the wall. Ice covered the wall in a silver
sheen -- everything was frozen

It didn't make sense -- it was impossible.

Panic swelled in his chest.

Where was the staff? Where was the heat? Why was he so alone?

Where was Scully?

He shivered, remembering suddenly to breathe -- he choked, and slumped to
the floor.

It wasn't so cold there.

He took a breath.

He could feel the heat enveloping him again.

Another breath.

He could breathe now.

One more, take one more breath, he urged, and he sucked in the air.

The heat was coming back, but he was still so cold. Still so tired. Still
so alone. He didn't want to be alone now. He didn't want Scully to be gone.

He stood, pushing himself painfully to his feet.

He hurt.

That was odd -- he hadn't hurt before. He hadn't felt anything, just the cold.

Now, he felt everything. Every intake of breath burned terribly.

But he could breathe -- that was what mattered.

Every step back to the back to the bed shot pains through his legs,
threatening him, threatening his breathing, hurting his chest.

But he could walk -- he could make it back, where he would be safe, where
he would be warm. And not alone.

Every moment he stood, his vision grayed, his eyes saw black and white,
only black and white. He saw spots, and the spots dizzied him.

But he could see. But he could stand.

And when his hand grazed the soft sheets of his bed, he let his legs give out, he let his vision die. He fell into the bed, and slept.

**********

Pt. 6/9

He hadn't awoken again. She'd lost her chance. He had been awake, and she
had hidden, she had lied.

That lie, she knew with terrifying certainty, was the last message she
would ever send him. Because she would never see him again, he would never wake up again. She'd failed him. Because she couldn't see, she'd robbed
his vision, and now he was dying. Through her insecurity, her selfishness, her deceit, he was dying. This was, indeed, all her fault.

Her mother had said otherwise. Her mother had reassured her, and comforted
her.

Had patiently explained that none off this could possibly her fault.
Mulder wouldn't blame her for being confused, she had said. He would understand.

Scully knew it wasn't true. She knew it couldn't be. It was only true in
one fashion: Mulder never would blame her -- he would never get the
chance. He was asleep. A dead man could not place blame.

Her conscience could, though.

It already had.

She had been sitting in the same chair for nearly a week. Holding his
hand, whispering to him, begging, sobbing. She had never thought she
would sit by his side, crying for him to live. But all she did was plead these days. Plead and hope and pray.

Her faith had run out two days ago.

After he had fallen back asleep, she remembered, he had slipped back away from her, back to where he had been for so long. Two weeks in a coma, only
to emerge, and fall back again. She sighed, the air filling her chest with
a bitter sense of malaise. As if that hadn't been enough of a reprimand,
as if she hadn't learned her lesson for hiding from him, he had chosen
to flat-line on her two days ago.

She had believed he was dead.

Even in his most trying times, even when his beliefs were stretched so thin it seemed inevitable they would crack, he had never given up on her. When
she had disappeared, he hadn't lost faith.

Never.

She had. It had been so easy. She remembered shivering as she heard the
tone, announcing Mulder had decided to take a break from life. She
remembered being pushed from the room, just vaguely. She remembered little. Strange how weak she'd gotten recently. Strange how thin-skinned she'd become, how dependent. She had never been dependent on anyone before,
early childhood excepted.

He had lived then, and she had prayed her thanks in relieved sighs. And the cold had abated -- at least physically.

She still felt so numb inside. She'd said she loved him, and still he'd
left her. She'd said it too late. Much too late.

Memory still brought chills of that same cold, of when she had believed in her heart that he was gone.

So cold. So alone.

Helpless, hopeless.

She shivered. God, how it still frightened her.

Remembering where she was -- *when* she was -- she grasped Mulder's hand
tighter. It was warm -- she could feel his body heat blaze against the
cool of her own hand.

Maybe . . . maybe she could allow herself hope. Maybe she could allow for
her beliefs. Because she was damned tired of this listless depression game, she was damned tired of being so weak.

One of them had to be strong. He needed her now.

So, maybe, just maybe, she could believe.

Maybe she would be his strength. She could teach him how to hold on again. How to live. She would teach him to hold on to life.

She would watch over him, and he could have her strength.

**********

Pt. 7/9

" . . . skinner . . ." he rasped, startling Scully awake. His eyes shut
again as soon as she saw them flicker open, though. "skinner . . . send
you? . . ."

His voice was weak, rusty, tinged with some emotion Scully couldn't
immediately identify. "send you," he repeated wearily, "help 'spooky'?"

Bitterness. It was tinged with bitterness, she realized.

For a moment, she paused.

Damn it -- she'd thought she'd figured this all out. But . . . even
through all her justifications, all her determination to make this right
-- lingering between them there were already hurts. Her stomach had
lurched agonizingly as she had understood what he was asking her. Skinner *had* sent her -- without his prodding, without her mother's sharp words
she would have stayed away. She would have convinced herself it wasn't her place and he would have died alone.

She grabbed blindly for his hand, her eyes shut tightly against the angry
tears that pooled behind her eyelids.

Why were things so wrong between them now?

Her eyes still shut, she didn't see the wince that ran across his face as
she held his hand tight. She didn't see the eyes that darkened in pain. She didn't even hear the shuddering gasp for air that tore through him.

"Damn you, Mulder," she whispered. "Do you know what's happened? Because,
by God, if you did, you wouldn't question me." She blinked her eyes open,
her anger coursing freely through her now.

"Don't you understand?" she hissed, grabbing his chin with her free hand
-- forcing him to open his eyes, to look at her. "Don't you understand?
You were fucking *gone* -- you disappeared and when you came back, damn
it, you died on me! I don't know what's going on here, Mulder -- I don't
know anymore!" She let her hand fall from his face, focusing her attention away from the red marks her fingers had left on his face. "Mulder," she whispered, her voice weak and tired -- worn-out. "Mulder, you were *dead*." Her heart whispered in her chest, achingly.

"You died, Mulder. You really left me." A tear fell from her eyes, and Mulder, stunned -- but only too aware of the truth in her words -- watched its path, fascinated.

"I was so cold," he rasped, moments later. "Scully, it was so very cold."
His eyes fluttered shut, then back open, and he stared at her. He looked
so frightened, and his eyes were shocked wide open, wondering.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered, "I didn't mean to, but I just . . .
forgot. I couldn't even remember to breathe." There were more tears now
-- Mulder's, this time. He couldn't see clearly through them, but he could tell Scully had frozen.

He tried to turn away from her, he didn't want her to see him. He didn't
want her to see this. He didn't want to hurt her anymore.

Hospital machinery, pain . . . it didn't register within him as he turned
on his side, huddling into himself. Scully watched him turn from her silently.

"It was so cold, so cold . . ." She heard him moan softly, so softly she could barely hear him. She doubted he wanted her to hear this. She didn't care. She reached out the hand that had held his hand until moments earlier, and rested it on his shoulder. It was the only comfort she knew to give.
". . . there was no one there," he murmured, "no one. The wall was so
cold, it was ice everywhere, and you were gone again. You were gone again, Scully," he murmured, his voice almost panicked.

She pulled him into her arms, letting her anger dissipate. So she pulled
him close. Let him cry. She even felt a few tears trace her own cheeks.

"Mulder," she whispered, when his tears ran out. "Mulder?" She heard him
sniffle one last time, as her voice broke the barrier he'd set between himself and the world. She let him roll back over, and she leaned back
into her chair as he did so, only keeping her grip on his hand. Then she heard him gasp -- in pain? He was staring up at her, and she worried. His eyes were wild, helpless, tortured.

"Oh, shit," he moaned, "oh, God, Scully, it *hurts* . . . why does it hurt?"

His eyes pleaded with her to do something, and even as she was calling
anxiously for a nurse, even as his eyes calmed with medicine, she worried.

He had disappeared.

Vanished -- for four days. They had no idea what had happened to him. He
had simply disappeared. No one knew whether it had been afternoon, evening, night, morning . . . No one had any clear idea what had happened.

So they had counted on his memory to fill in their blanks. They'd expected him to have the answers. They'd expected him to be able to
tell them what had happened to him.

This was not in the game plan.

They had *not* expected memory loss.

Scully squeezed Mulder's hand, trying to reassure herself that he was
still there. His eyes flickered open, then closed again, and she watched
him drift to sleep.

They should have expected this. She knew as understanding came to her that they *should* have seen this coming.

When they had found him, he'd been already in the hospital for about three
hours. He'd been dropped there, completely drugged.

And about two steps from death's door.

The pieces fell into place for her then. She held the now placid Mulder
closer.

Skinner had told her he'd been paid a visit by that damned smoking man --
the man had asked about Mulder. He'd wanted to know what Skinner was doing about finding his wayward agent, about locating Mulder. Then he'd thrown
some cryptic message about Mulder always landing on his feet in Skinner's face.

Shit.

*They'd* had him.

God-damn it all, she moaned. Mulder had been "abducted" -- and most likely
by the same people who had taken her.

Oh, shit.

This was not going to go over well -- with anyone.

Mulder was asleep, he was safe right now. She didn't have to worry about
him anymore. He was still hurt, but he wasn't about to die, not anymore.
Medically, Mulder was clear of the woods.

If that were all she had to fear. . .

She rubbed Mulder's hand gently.

She was so worried now.

She had to call Skinner.

As she headed for the phone, she wished the question of love between her
and Mulder was once again her biggest problem -- because this was so much worse.

This was so much worse.

**********

Part 8/9

Skinner hadn't believed a word she had told him. She had heard the doubt,
the incredulity, the surprise, the shock . . . the disappointment in his voice.

She had heard all of it. It was irony at its worst, she decided. She was finally paying off all the bad karma she had wracked up abusing Mulder's ideas and theories. Payback was one hell of a bitch.

She sighed, dropping back into the chair that had come to symbolize her
vigil by Mulder's side. She was tired. Things had moved so fast since
Mulder had left their defined path of acceptable conversation nearly two months earlier. Everything had changed so quickly, she found that even
now she was recovering from the tailspin it had thrown her life into.

And now there was this.

There was no evidence, of course -- nothing to back her up. His DNA was
already so messed up from the retro-virus, from everything he'd been
through that even if there had been something there no one would be able
to see it. There was no implant in his neck. The expected signs were
simply not there.

There was nothing to prove her beliefs. This time she was alone.

Even Mulder was doubtful. He wasn't often credibly lucid, but when he was,
he had assured her that there was no way he had been abducted by . . .
well, by aliens or the government, or whoever it was that ran the show.
He'd told her straight-out that he thought she was reaching.

But damn it, the FBI certainly had no idea what had happened. This explanation made as much sense as some of the bullshit they had put out. Mulder hadn't bought that stuff, either.

She knew he was confused. She had caught every look that had crossed his face, every stray expression of fear, uncertainty, uneasiness . . . Every misgiving he had about this, she'd seen.

She'd wrapped her hand around Mulder's again, she saw. When had that
become automatic?

Oh, God . . . this was so hard.

She'd thought it was difficult when she had been returned, no memory, nothing, but even for what his disappearance lacked in sheer time, it was still so much worse.

She knew back at work there were the people who made fun of Mulder, she
knew they were having a holiday cracking jokes about how he'd finally
gotten himself abducted by his little green men.

She knew Mulder was questioning himself, she knew he felt so lost right
now.

She knew how frustrated she herself felt. How helpless. They were chasing
their tails in this one, there were no certainties. She preferred the wild goose chases Mulder tended to drag her on to this constant dread, constant
incertitude.

"Mulder, what's going on?" she whispered, laying her head on their entwined
hands.

She needed something -- *anything* -- to hold on to now. Every truth she
knew was riddled through with questions and doubt.

Even her friendship with her Mulder -- that one stability she thought she'd
always have to fall back on when all else fell apart -- even that relationship was unsettled, unstable. She was drowning in this, as surely
as Mulder was.

Oh . . . and how she worried.

He slept, constantly. When he awoke it was for mere minutes. He'd gaze at
her with confused eyes, and fall back to wherever it was he hid. They were falling apart, thread by thread.

She couldn't take it anymore.

It would all be so easy, she realized, if she didn't know her answers anymore.

She did know, though, and she could never go back.

She could not go forward. They were floundering, and she could do nothing. Her hand slipped from Mulder's.

Was he even real? Nothing else was anymore. How could he be, when all else
had been taken away?

Her vision flickered before her eyes. The lights seemed to dim, her
surroundings seemed to fade. She stood quickly, her eyes gazing around blindly, her head tickled by pinpricks.

This loss, this uncertainty -- this was the only reality she had anymore,
and she felt herself slip into it, letting it consume her with its faithful
inconstancy.

**********

Part 9/9

He blinked his eyes open, resigned to the melancholy haze he had created
for himself.

It wasn't the way it should be, though. The daydream state he had been
living in had been disrupted somehow.

Scully was missing. His eyes blinked clear for the first time in days in
his all-consuming panic. In the midst of that fear, a hand grabbed his.
Big and rough, it was not gentle like Scully. He winced pulling away.

"Mulder!" The voice called out, equally gruff, equally strong -- matching
the hand that had once again encompassed his. He turned his head towards
the sound, letting the explosion of pain that still echoed in his head at movement die away slowly.

It was Skinner.

Where was Scully?

"Agent Scully went home early this morning," Skinner answered, in reply
to the question he hadn't thought he'd voiced. "She was in dire need of rest and nourishment." In spite of the fog of depression he still carried with him, Mulder laughed harshly. Who spoke like that, really? Other than ex-marines in positions of authority at the FBI, of course.

Of course.

Skinner frowned.

"Agent Mulder," he seethed, "I do not care for your attitude. I do not
appreciate your humor, and I most certainly do not appreciate the fact
that your escapade in self-pity sent Agent Scully home, exhausted and
clearly upset. Wherever you are, Agent Mulder, I suggest you find a way
out of it."

Mulder blinked. Once. Twice. Twice more.

The world around him was spinning, Skinner was long gone. Scully was sick, and he was lost.

Quite a situation.

He moaned silently.

He blinked his eyes shut.

He blinked them open, and saw a window to his left. The room was the same
one he'd been in since he'd woken up the second time. This was the first
he'd seen of that window.

He was awake now. He was seeing clearly again.

He stood. He needed to see out that window. Ignoring his pain, ignoring
the injuries Scully had catalogued for him days ago, he stood. He pushed himself across the room grimly.

Outside, rain pattered softly on the glass.

He peered down through the fogged glass at the ground. Puddles had filled
the gutters, mud had risen around the grass. It had obviously been raining
a long time.

This was the first he'd heard the rain.

Slowly, he reached his hand out, spread his palm across the glass. A shiver ran through him, unbidden, racking him with pain. The glass was frigid.
He leaned harder against it, the pain in his hand clearing his head. It
was cold here. It was cold, and he was alone -- he had driven them all away.

He looked up at the sky. Dark. It was night. Scully had left in the early
morning, Skinner had said. It had been a full day.

He leaned into the glass even more, feeling the palm of his hand absorb the
icy temperature.

His chest tightened, his ribs ached. He knew he should be lying down.

He needed to see this, though.

His knees wobbled unsteadily beneath him. He felt himself slipping to the
ground, felt himself falling.

*No* -- What came out as an angry shout in his mind resolved itself out
loud as a weak moan. His frustration swelled and he grabbed the tiny
crevice that marked the bottom of the window, willed himself to stay
upright. His fingers dug into the wall, and the grip burned. He would
hold on, though. He was not going back again.

The tears bit at his eyes, the pain lapped hungrily at his chest and legs -- he held on.

And he began to fear he would disappoint Scully once more . . . the cold
realization that he could not hold himself up much longer tore bitterly at his heart. It was then that from behind him, steady hands -- warm, gentle hands -- grabbed him and pulled him up. He leaned on her, feeling his world right itself.

They could do this -- they could go on.

"Scully," he murmured softly, as she helped him back into the bed, "I'm
not gonna leave you." She pushed aside the wisp of hair that had fallen
into his eyes. His eyes stared back at her, stronger than they had been in
a long time.

"Scully," he whispered, his voice drowsy, his tone gentle, "Scully, I love you."

She smiled softly.

Her truths didn't seem so obscure any more.

"I know, Mulder," she whispered in return. "I love you, too." He smiled
drowsily at her, and murmured his content.

"We'll be okay, Scully. Whatever happened," he mumbled, "we'll be okay."

**********

EPILOGUE

The lab was heavily lit -- too much so. He motioned for the other man -- a
small, young doctor, to follow him out of the lab, out to hallway. He wouldn't stay in here, where the brightness reflected off of every surface, glaring painfully in his eyes.

"Things are as to be expected," the doctor informed him, wringing his
hands nervously. "We were right, about him." He shrugged away the doctor's nervous comments.

"Yes, yes -- of course. What is our expected timetable, then?" The younger man winced. He had wanted to avoid this particular question.

"That's the problem," he stuttered, "we couldn't tell. Mul -- the patient's
reaction has been different from the other's we've encountered."

"I don't need you to tell me that!" his superior frowned, pointing his
cigarette at him in distaste. "With his history, anyone could have figured that out. What we need to know is how to proceed. How is his body reacting
to his experience in Russia? "

The doctor swallowed nervously. He didn't have the news his superior had
wanted.

He couldn't tell him that this Mulder would be their pot of gold when it
came to finding a cure.

All he could tell him was that their "check-up" hadn't gone according to
plans.

That they had been surprised by what they had found. That Mulder had reacted
quite adversely to what they had tried to do -- not at all how they had
expected.

No, their expectations had been quite off-the-mark.

**********

THE END
ohohmo@usa.net