Schisms (7/?)       
by Singing Violin (Pearl on Ephemeral/Gossamer)

Email: perlner@mit.edu
Rating: G/K
Category: X-Files VHRA
Spoilers: Redux II, Fight the Future, Tithonius, Requiem,
Seasons 8 & 9, I Want To Believe

Summary: What could possibly cause these two to break up? A series
of short stories explaining the reported status of Mulder and
Scully's relationship upon the revival miniseries.

Disclaimer: The X-Files characters and universe are not mine.
Archiving: Anywhere, as long as you let me know. I put stuff on AO3,
ffnet, and Ephemeral/Gossamer.

     
Chapter 7: Love

Dana Katherine Scully was exhausted after a long week. To boot, she'd
lost two patients: one to another hospital and another set of
doctors, and another to death. Neither was unexpected, nor a result
of anything she'd personally done wrong, but still she couldn't help
feeling that she'd failed them.

She completed the long drive to the secluded house in silence, afraid
that the radio would lull her to sleep. When finally she arrived, she
dragged herself out of the car and to the door, nothing on her mind
but collapsing into bed and sleeping until Monday.

Her companion heard her enter and quickly rose, then greeted her
near the door. Immediately he noticed her wearied appearance,
and carefully gathered her to him, one arm around her shoulders.
Gratefully, she rested her head upon his chest and sighed.

"What's wrong, Scully?" he muttered into her hair.

She pulled back and looked up into his eyes. "One of my patients
died," she admitted.

"Was there anything you could have done?" he asked, already knowing
the answer.

She lowered her eyes, swallowed, shook her head, then returned her
gaze to him.

"I know it's hard," he told her.

"Yeah," she agreed, not sure what else to say. She hadn't noticed
that during their whole interaction, he'd been holding one arm
behind his back, which now he moved to reveal the bouquet of
fresh flowers in his hand.

She gasped slightly. "What are those for?"

"For you," he answered. "I thought you might need some cheering up."

Her eyes widened as she took the flowers from his hand and inhaled
the inviting aroma. "You knew already?"

He chuckled. "No. I'm still not psychic, and no, I haven't gotten my
mind-reading ability back. But I knew you were having a hard week;
it was written all over your face. I hate to see you suffer, Scully."

She gave him a wan smile. "I'm fine, Mulder, just tired."

"And hungry," he observed as her stomach growled loudly. "I'll bet
you haven't eaten all day."

She didn't reply verbally, but her face admitted guilt as to his
accusation.

"Let me take you out for dinner," he offered.

"Like a date?" she asked incredulously.

"Exactly like a date," he told her, grinning. "We haven't gone on a
date in way too long, and I can't remember whether we've ever
successfully completed one without getting interrupted by...work
stuff."

"Maybe that bodes badly," she pointed out cautiously.

He made a sour face. "Now you sound like me, Scully. Just, indulge
me. Let me treat you, show you some romance." He pronounced
the last word as if it were magical in and of itself.

She eyed him askance. "I kind of just want to go to bed," she
admitted.

"We can go to bed afterwards. And," he continued before she
had a chance to object, "at the risk of sounding like my Jewish
grandmother, you need to eat."

She smiled again, this time more warmly, suddenly picturing him
with curly grey hair and in a dully-colored dress with loafers, then
quickly shaking the ludicrous image out of her mind. "All right,"
she concurred. "It's probably too early to go to bed, anyway. I
guess I don't want to be up all night."

"That's the spirit, Scully!" Mulder encouraged. Then, he moved
his hand towards her back, intending to lead her out.

"Wait," she told him. "Let me put these in water and freshen up
a bit first, okay?"

He nodded, and fifteen minutes later they were in the car: she
relaxed in the passenger seat while he drove. He sensed that
she wasn't interested in conversation, and figured she would
turn on the radio herself if she wanted to listen to music. She
didn't, and so they shared a comfortable silence. He thought
perhaps she might want to talk once he got her blood sugar
higher, but even if not, he'd be happy just to be with her. So
many times he'd almost lost her that just her presence was a
comfort to him, though he often wondered if she felt the same
way: she had always sought out solitude, and he felt as if she
were growing more distant by the day. There once was a time
he believed she needed him: desperately, even, when he was
presumed dead, or unavailable because he was hiding from
those who would kill him. But now, while she rarely objected
to his presence, he often felt superfluous.

When they arrived at their destination, he got out of the car
first, then opened the passenger door and extended a hand to
help her out, and as he did so, she graced him with the warm
but rare smile he had grown to cherish. With an arm around
her shoulder, he escorted her inside, and as the hostess led
them to their table, he moved his hand to its familiar spot in
the middle of her lower back. It occurred to him that he'd
thought of that spot as "his" since the very first time he'd
led her through the doorway of his basement office, on their
first case, shortly after meeting her.

He knew she was famished when she spent less than a minute
perusing the menu before closing it and setting it down in front
of her. With her hand free, she reached it across the table
towards him, and he extended his own arm and took her hand
in his own. The warmth of her palm seemed to radiate into him,
spreading comfort through his entire body. He wondered if she
derived the same sensation from his touch.

Only when the food arrived did she reluctantly remove her hand
from his, so that she could eat, and even then she hesitated, as if
contemplating whether she could just eat with one hand: she
might have managed; the salmon was soft and could be cut with a
fork, but perhaps she'd become slightly self-conscious, too, and
Mulder, after all, needed both hands to cut his steak. Her quick
glance towards his eyes told him that, although her stomach was
demanding food, her brain wanted nothing more than to cuddle
with him until she fell asleep.

Soon, he attempted to convey with his own gaze.

In response, Scully looked down and went to work on her food. Before
digging into his own entree, Mulder took a moment to relish in her
appetite: too often he worried she ate only because she felt she had
to, and not because she had any particular hunger or desire for food.
She'd become quite thin, and he'd taken it upon himself to make sure
she was getting something substantial into her every day. He couldn't
help imagining her embarrassment should she faint at work.

When their plates were clean, she reached over the table again in
order to hold his hand, and when he complied, she gave it a quick
squeeze to let him know she was ready to go.

"No dessert, Scully?" he asked, pouting slightly. "They have a
chocolate cake to die for."

The corners of her mouth turned up once again. "Maybe next time," she
offered noncommittally, and the twinkle in her eye said, "I don't
need chocolate when I have you."

He grabbed the check before she could argue, and handed it back to
the waiter along with a credit card.

They were waiting for it to be returned when suddenly Scully rose
from her seat and lurched towards Mulder. "Get down!" she ordered,
and before he could react, she was pushing him to the floor.

As they fell, a tangled mass, two gunshots rang out into the air, and
the splatter of blood indicated that someone had been hit.

Scully assumed it was Mulder, and immediately attempted to pull
back, even as she lay on top of him, in order to assess the damage.

In doing so, she became dizzy, and briefly wondered how she, as an
experienced doctor, could become lightheaded at the sight of blood,
when she'd never been bothered by it before.

All the while Mulder's expression was so stricken she was sure he
must have been hit: that was pain in his face, wasn't it? And fear?

Then she realized she was feeling more than a little faint: she felt
the lovely dinner she had just consumed making its way back up
her esophagus and managed to roll away from her erstwhile partner
just in time.

She could feel herself fading at the edge of consciousness when
Mulder's face swam into view above her.

"Stay with me," he begged. "Help me out."

"Are you hurt?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "I'm okay. It's...someone else," he explained,
realizing that she wasn't fully aware of the situation, and wanting
to use that to his advantage, at least for the moment.

She understood that he needed to treat the gunshot wound, but
was still unclear on the victim. Still, she was the doctor, and knew
what to do.

"Keep pressure on the wound," she murmured, and then his hands
were on her abdomen, pushing desperately against her.

"Good. Now what?" he asked her, his eyes full of panic.

"Keep the patient warm," she recited, and he shrugged off his
jacket, awkwardly trying to keep at least one hand pressing down
on her while he did so. Then he took the jacket and draped it over 
her, leaving it open where the blood was spurting out between
his fingers.

"Anything else?" he asked, hoping that by keeping her talking,
he'd be keeping her alive.

"So tired," she muttered, her eyes fluttering closed.

"You can't sleep yet," he told her. "Soon. What else do I need to
do?"

She blinked, trying to focus. "Call for help," she said.

He looked up for a moment and yelled at the crowd that had
gathered around the two former agents. "Did someone call
911? Anyone?"

Heads must have nodded, because he returned his attention to
Scully, completely ignoring their audience once more. "You're
going to be okay," he told her, not really believing it.

"I'm...?" she asked, as realization dawned on her face. "I'm shot."

He nodded, swallowing harshly. "Yeah, but you've got a good doctor."

That got the faintest hint of a smile from her, and more relief than
was warranted spilled into his chest.

Then she frowned. "Where'd he go?"

Mulder shook his head, immediately fearing she was referring to
the apparition of death, the one she'd supposedly avoided once
before, when she was mortally wounded by another gunshot, that
one fired in a moronic move by her temporary FBI partner. "Who?"

"The gunman," she insisted. "Where...?"

Mulder looked up and around. "I'm not sure. He's gone. But you saved
my life, Scully, and now it's my turn. Did you get a good look at
him?"

She shook her head. "Too quick," she admitted breathlessly, then
coughed, blood spattering out of her mouth and onto his suit jacket.

"Okay, Scully. Don't worry about it. Don't try to talk; just focus on
my voice, okay? Maybe you'll remember more later, but if you don't,
that's okay too. Just don't...." He couldn't bring himself to
complete the thought aloud: don't die. He continued to babble
at her: gossip, weather, whatever random things he could think
of, as she became more and more unfocused.

Finally, she lost the battle for consciousness, and when her eyes
slipped closed, tears spilled from his. He was barely aware when the
paramedics pried him away from her and whisked her onto a gurney
and into the waiting ambulance. He wanted to go with her, but knew
he would just be in the way: they'd have to act fast in order to save
her life. Still, icy fear crept into his core as he remembered
another time she was in grave danger, when he'd tried to accompany
her into the ambulance and they wouldn't let him, then left him shot
in the head, lying on the street as they whisked her away...not to a
hospital, but literally to the end of the earth, where the Antarctic
weather had almost claimed both their lives during his valiant
crusade to rescue her. He had no reason to believe this ambulance
wasn't legitimate, but still the memories haunted him.

He wished there was something more he could do now.

They'd left the FBI; they weren't supposed to be in danger anymore.
But he was convinced this wasn't a coincidence, wasn't some random
shooter. He also had a sinking feeling that they'd never see the
gunman again; there would be no forensic evidence, and likely not
much of investigation.

It was all far too familiar.

If he hadn't been so distressed, he might have laughed when the
waiter reappeared briefly, apologetically slipping the credit card
back into his hand. "Forget about the bill," he said, by way of
apology...and Mulder bit his tongue, knowing the poor guy likely
had nothing to do with what had transpired, yet still ready to place
blame on the nearest available target.

He would find out who did this, but not now. Now was the time to
make sure Scully was okay. Or perhaps, he could tackle both
problems simultaneously.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made a call to the FBI,
asking for one Walter Skinner.

As he hung up, he ran to the car and drove as quickly as he could to
the hospital, running at least two red lights in the process,
forgetting he no longer had his magic "FBI" badge to wave at
any policeman who pulled him over.

Luckily -- or perhaps as a result of his phone call -- he wasn't
stopped, and made it to the ER in record time.

They made him wait; she was in surgery, and he lamented the fact that
while she was always with him when he was injured -- a privilege of
being a doctor herself -- he couldn't return the favor.

He felt helpless and useless, and spent the eternity of waiting
contemplating his proper role in her life.

He was her protector...but not lately.

He was her endangerer...as long as he'd known her.

He no longer had a badge and gun, and neither did she. But somehow,
someone still wanted him -- or her -- or maybe both of them -- dead.

He wasn't religious, but he suddenly felt the urge to pray for
Scully's life.

He hoped the doctors would perform a miracle in there. Scully was a
fighter; she'd pull through, if anyone could.

But that wasn't an excuse to put her in danger. Even if she didn't
die, she didn't have to suffer.

It was all his fault. He'd dragged her into this, years ago, and it
was his responsibility to drag her out.

But how?

He sat at her bedside, now, holding her hand and waiting for her to
wake up. Two guards were posted just outside the door, but still he
was nervous. If someone wanted one or both of them dead, chances
were they'd be able to accomplish the task. Since he was still alive,
and it looked like Scully would pull through, he wondered when they
would be back to finish the job, and whether he had any resources at
his disposal to stop them.

As expected, there was no evidence to bring in a suspect, let alone
convict. Whoever held the gun in that restaurant was long gone,
possibly out of the country. Skinner had warned him not to pursue
the matter; as usual, he knew more than he was letting on, trying to
protect his two former charges, even though he no longer held any
authority over them.

Mulder appreciated the effort, but was frustrated at his lack of
power to control the situation. He didn't even know whether
Scully or he had been the intended target...or maybe it didn't
matter; maybe one was as good as the other, when it came to
hurting him.

Love and sadness bubbled together in Mulder's heart, and suddenly he
knew what he had to do.

Hours or days later -- time seemed eternal while she suffered -- her
eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him, and he couldn't bring
himself to smile back.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.

He bit his lip. "Welcome back," he told her. "You've made a
miraculous recovery...again."

She puzzled for a moment. "Then why don't you look happy?" she asked.

He sighed. "Not now."

She tried to push herself up on her elbow, but fell back down.

"Don't," he warned. "You're still weak."

Now it was her turn to sigh. "What's going on? I have nothing better
to do than discuss it with you right now."

"You need to rest and recover," he insisted.

"I can do that while I'm listening to what you have to say," she
responded. "Just talk. I'm going to be fine. Tell me what's on
your mind."

His mind flashed back to another hospital room, years ago, when
he'd killed a man and faked his death and she'd almost met hers,
and he'd been caught in the lie and she'd tried to take the fall.

He knew he should be gentler about it, but he didn't know how.
It was bitter news no matter how he presented it, and he owed
her the truth.

"I don't think we should be together anymore," he admitted flatly.

She blinked, and tears began to form in her eyes. "What?!"

He grabbed for her hand, but she pulled it back.

"As long as we're together, they'll use you to get to me," he
explained. "I thought we were safe now that we're no longer on the
X-Files, but obviously that's not the case. You almost got killed
last night, and neither of us even had a gun. I can't risk losing
you."

She remembered another time when he'd spoken those last five words
to her, a time before the heartbreak that was William had become
known to them; a time when he'd hidden his own terminal illness from
her, for reasons she still didn't understand and they'd never really
discussed, as his miraculous recovery after his abduction, death, and
resurrection had seemed to render the conversation moot.

Suddenly she was angry, and she felt the need to fight. "Shouldn't I
get some say in that decision?" she asked pointedly.

He shook his head. "I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me. Never
again. Let me protect you by getting away from you."

Warm tears began to fall from her eyes, and they trickled down her
cheeks into her ears. "What if that's not what I want?" she asked.
"What if I'd rather be with you than be safe?

He looked down at his hands, twiddled his thumbs. "Won't do you any
good to be with me if you're dead," he put it bluntly. "All it takes
is once. You were lucky this time, but...."

She couldn't help but gasp slightly; he wasn't giving her a choice.
Last time he'd left her "for her safety" it had been a joint
decision, one informed by Deputy Director Kersh at the FBI and
ultimately called by Scully herself. She'd told him she would be
okay without him, that he should save himself, and it had turned
out to be a lie. First, she'd had to give up her son, and then she'd
almost lost Mulder...again. One might think he would have
learned from that experience, yet here they were again, and this
time, he wasn't even letting her make the call.

She wanted to argue, to make him see reason: that if they split up,
whoever wanted to get to him would win. But she knew from experience
that while the vice of guilt was so tightly constricting his
thoughts, she would never get through to him. All she could do
would be to wait for him to come to his senses; she hoped it
wouldn't take too long. But she'd lived without him before; she
could do it again. Especially now that she had nobody else relying
upon her for their care.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he continued, rising from his seat and bending
over to kiss her forehead as a tear dripped from his eye and fell
into her hair. "I love you."

And then he was gone.