Schisms (9/?)       
by Singing Violin (Pearl on Ephemeral/Gossamer)

Email: perlner@mit.edu
Rating: PG/K+
Category: X-Files VRA

Spoilers: Pretty much the whole series, including IWTB.

Summary: What could possibly cause these two to break up? A series
of short stories explaining the reported status of Mulder's 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 9: Wet Pillow

I roll over, expecting to cuddle against a warm body, but find the
other side of the bed regrettably unoccupied. My arm flops over
the empty space, my hand brushing against the pillow: it's
unexpectedly cold, and I realize belatedly, damp.

Last time I woke up next to a wet pillow, I made the mistake of
asking my companion directly what happened.

"Sorry," she replied hesitantly, "I must have drooled a little." She
even had the good sense to blush a bit, though I doubted the idea
of drooling next to me was what prompted that response.

My mind instantly wandered back to a time many years ago, when I'd
accused her of drooling as she'd fallen asleep on my shoulder during
a stakeout. Her response had been similar: an apology, and slight
embarrassment, but I think even then she knew I'd merely been
trying to lighten the mood, distract from the mounting sexual tension
that increasingly made our time together perilous.

After seven years of dancing around each other, we eventually gave
in: I'm surprised how long we lasted...though looking back on it,
abductions, cancer, and conspiracies threatening our very lives might
have had something to do with our hesitation.

We finally have the opportunity, now, to be together, really
together. And not even in secret, as I was granted a full reprieve
for my alleged sins upon our brief return to working with the FBI.

I was always sure that, once we had the right time and place, I
could make her happy.

Wet pillows suggest differently.

When we first met, she was reluctant to show me her tears, or really
any weakness. She was always "fine." Even after she was abducted
and almost died, she was "fine." After her father died, she was
"fine" and wanted to work. I suspect she was afraid that, had she
allowed herself even a moment of vulnerability in front of me, that
it would somehow compromise our partnership.

Then there was Donnie Pfaster. And Melissa. And cancer. And Emily.
And a psychic surgeon. And failed IVF. And my own abduction and
improbable return from the dead only to be sentence to death again.
And our miracle child, William, that she had to give up because I
wasn't there for her when she needed me.

She was finally comfortable crying in my arms, and I thought for sure
that if she'd just let me hold her long enough and tight enough, I
could make all her pain go away.

Wet pillows are the evidence I was wrong.

She's withdrawn again: I'm not sure exactly why, but perhaps it's
because her tears, now, have something to do with me.

Doggett and Reyes told me in confidence that she cried a lot while
I was gone. I thought perhaps it was hormones, due to her pregnancy
and post-partum, but I'm with her now, and her tears haven't stopped,
and she doesn't even let me see them anymore.

When she suspects her grief might wake me, she leaves, hides in the
bathroom or wherever, and all I've got for evidence is a wet pillow.

I know now that I cannot make her happy.

I wish more than anything that I could, but I can't. I can't make
Scully happy any more than I could protect Samantha from getting
hurt.

I'm not even sure what's bothering her anymore. When I dare to ask,
she's reverted to being "fine." I know she's not: there are a million
reasons for her to weep, all of which stem from her original
involvement with me and the X-Files.

I can only imagine that my continued presence in her daily life is a
constant reminder of all of her pain, and that's why she can't heal.

There's only one way I can think of that I can help, now.

I have to break up with her, release her from whatever obligation she
feels is keeping her with someone who makes her so melancholy.
                    
I know that when I disappeared before, she was profoundly unhappy,
but this time, I won't be gone completely; she'll know I'm okay, just
not in her everyday life anymore. This is the only way I can think of
that she can be happy.

Oh God, Scully, I hope this is the right choice. It's going to hurt
me a lot more than it hurts you.

I find her in the bathroom, as usual, trying to look like nothing's
wrong.

I play along, pretend I don't see the redness of her eyes or the
wetness on her hand where she must have wiped at them right
before I came in.

This time, I won't ask what's wrong or whether she's okay. I know
I'll just get an "I'm fine," so what's the use?

"Scully," I tell her matter-of-factly, "we need to talk."

At least I won't be waking up next to a wet pillow anymore.