This was my first attempt at X-Files fiction. It's set after "Ascension" and between "3" and "One Breath." First posted to alt.tv.x-files.creative in December 1994, and subsequently published in "X-Treme Possibilities" in 1995 (thanks, Betsy!).
Many thanks to Polly, Melissa, Pam, Kellie and Melinda/Max for their words of encouragement. This story is dedicated to the DDEB2: Coincidence...or X-File?
Based on characters and situations owned by Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting Company. No copyright infringement is intended.
Send roses and brickbats to redshoes@ix.netcom.com
Mulder woke in a cold sweat, not for the first time, his hand automatically going to the phone before he remembered again that Scully was gone.
He rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling. Scully. Gone. He still couldn't believe it, that he had failed to rescue her, failed to save her.
He looked at the clock, hands glowing dimly on its luminous dial. For all his fascination with electronic, digital gadgetry, he found comfort in the old-fashioned Big Ben alarm clock. Not now, though.
Three a.m. He cursed softly. This was getting ridiculous. He'd long had trouble sleeping, but usually could get three to four hours in at a time. But he had turned out the light after the late movie this time, at two a.m.
He sighed. At this rate, he'd start falling asleep at his desk. Hell of an impression to make on Skinner, now that he had the X-Files back at last. Shit. He clenched his fist and punched the mattress. After all he'd gone through to get the X- Files re-opened, with Scully's disappearance, the effort seemed almost wasted.
He could still hear her voice ringing in his ear, calling to him, appealing to him: "Mulder! I need your help! Mulder!" He ground his teeth against the sudden wrench of despair. So much like Samantha. "Fox! Help me, Fox!"
Sitting up, he scrubbed at his eyes with his fists, then swung his feet over the side of the bed to the floor. No point trying to get back to sleep now; his mind was already starting to race, working over the problem again. No more sleep tonight. Might as well get up and get on with it.
He started through the motions of a shower and shave, but it was a desultory effort. He couldn't stop thinking about Scully. It had been several weeks of concentrated effort but there were no leads, none. He was facing a brick wall.
The enigmatic Mr. X was nowhere to be found. Skinner, if he knew anything, wasn't talking. He didn't think Skinner would hold out on him, not about one of his agents. For that matter, he didn't think Skinner would hold out on him about Krycek, either.
God damn Krycek anyway. If he ever found him, he'd...he'd what? Beat him up? Kill him?
Shit. Damn Krycek anyway. For that matter, how could he not have realized what Krycek was doing? "Trust no one," indeed. Jesus, Mulder, when you screw up, you screw up in a big way.
Standing under the shower, he let the spray beat down on his back, head hanging. He turned into the water, scrunching his eyes against the spray, the better to wash away angry tears.
Scully. Christ, what if he couldn't pick up a trail, what if he never saw her again? He turned off the spray and leaned his forehead against the wet tile, palms flat against the wall. His head hurt from lack of sleep and too much worry.
After awhile, starting to feel a chill against his skin, he stepped out of the shower and began to towel off. Tucking the towel around his waist, he ran hot water into the sink and began the shaving ritual. Splash hot water on face. Shake shaving cream can. Spritz shaving cream into hand. Spread on face. Rinse hand. Dry on towel. Pick up razor. Begin upward stroke on right cheek.
On the third stroke, he cut himself. He dabbed at the nick, and thought of Kristen with a smear of his blood on her fingertip, just before he'd kissed her, made love to her. He still felt baffled over what had happened to him, why he'd fallen for her so quickly and so hard. Was he that emotionally vulnerable, that needy? What would Scully have said?
He contemplated the edges of his misery and wished, not for the first time, that he had Scully to talk to, to lecture him. Kristen's death had left him feeling numb, empty and aghast. Contemplating Scully's fate, by comparison, felt like an open wound.
Was Scully dead? Abducted? By aliens? By the government? God, Mulder, you're pathetic. He stared at himself in the mirror, noted the bloodshot eyes, the sunken, hollow circles under his eyes.
He finished shaving, dressed quickly and sat down to review the case file for the umpteenth time. He turned the pages blankly, reading yet seeing nothing. After awhile, he closed the file, rubbing his eyes again. Scully, Scully. He turned the television on, and was mindlessly channel-surfing when the phone rang. Margaret Scully was calling from the hospital.
***************************************************************
Days later, he stared down at Dana Scully in her hospital bed. She was looking very much herself, albeit very tired. A far cry from those first terrifying moments when he'd seen her on the ventilator, covered with tubes and tape. He realized again just how tiny and fragile she looked, and how tough she really was, how relieved he felt to see her again as Scully, and not an empty shell of a woman connected to machines,
He hoped he didn't look as giddy as he felt when he handed her the videotape of "Superstars of the Super Bowl." It was a stupid gift, and he knew it was stupid, and that she knew it was stupid. But he could never tell her how he really felt. Never, never.
He still didn't know quite why he hadn't pulled the trigger on the Cancer Man, blown his brains all over that lonely apartment. Except, thinking about what Scully's sister had said: he *had* been in a very dark place indeed. As he'd told Skinner, he didn't like what he'd become. He'd come within a hairsbreadth of becoming something worse.
Maybe by going to Scully instead of waiting in the dark to assassinate her abductors he could take a brighter path, one that was cleaner and more resolute, back on the trail of truth. He hoped so.
He dug the small gold crucifix out of his pocket and poured it into Scully's hand.
"I was holding this for you," he said.
She gazed at him, a world of understanding in her eyes. He blinked, and though his mouth twitched up only slightly, his eyes were full of gladness.
He turned then, and left the room, not saying another word. He walked quickly away, not looking back. What was that line from the movie, he thought, tomorrow is another day? Yeah. OK. What the hell.
END