Schisms (12/?) by Singing Violin (Pearl on Ephemeral/Gossamer) Email: perlner@mit.edu Rating: PG Category: X-Files VA Spoilers: Beyond the Sea, Never Again, Millenium, Per Manum, Within, This Is Not Happening, DeadAlive, Existence, Nothing Important Happened Today, Trust No 1, The Truth, 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'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 12: The World Didn't End She's never really enjoyed sex, but she bought into the romantic platitudes. It would be different with the right person, at the right time. Without a doubt she was with the right person. She hadn't loved anyone more in her entire life. She couldn't even imagine herself with anyone else anymore. And maybe it wasn't the right time when they first met; she was too young and eager and focused on her career. And she probably wouldn't have thrown herself into his arms so readily on their first case together, had she perceived romantic potential. But now? If not now, then when? The first sign was New Year's, 2000: their first kiss. As he so aptly put it, "The world didn't end." "No, it didn't," she'd replied, and hoped the utter disappointment wasn't too evident on her face. Wasn't the world supposed to end when you kissed the right person for the first time? After that, she wasn't sure if they'd ever be together, but one thing led to another: her request for his sperm, the failure of IVF, his utter sweetness and support during the whole ordeal. All while hiding his own illness from her, so she wouldn't have one more thing to worry about. As the Shadow Man had somehow known, one lonely night she'd simply invited him to her bed. All she'd really wanted was to have his arms around her, as they had been so many times, but she could tell he wanted more. He needed more. And she didn't refuse. Even when it hurt. She couldn't say no. Not when he had given her so much, and had suffered so much, and had hinted for so many years at what he really wanted. She owed it to him...didn't she? And it wasn't his fault, either. He was gentle, caring, attentive, and far more experienced than she. He offered more than she was willing to take: some things she just couldn't be comfortable with, not ever, no matter how much other people might enjoy them. She pushed him away more than once, and he retreated every time, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the hurt look on his face. Surely he didn't want to hurt her, and if he'd known, he would have stopped, but she couldn't tell him. Afterwards, she tried to hide her tears. She curled up into fetal position and allowed him to spoon around her, relishing the soft touch of his lips upon the back of her neck. He'd gotten what he needed, and she'd gotten what she wanted. It was a fair exchange. As a physician, she was aware of how it was supposed to work. And as a physician, she could posit a number of diagnoses that would explain her lack of success: asexuality, vaginismus, endometriosis, pelvic inflammatory disease...and yet no medical diagnosis quite fit. Maybe she just wasn't doing it right. Maybe it would get better with practice. She didn't get a chance to try again for a long time. First Mulder disappeared, then died, and finally when he returned from the dead, she was very pregnant, and he was very lost: sex was the last thing on either of their minds. And then she gave birth, and it wouldn't have been comfortable or safe so soon post-partum, and days later, he disappeared again. It was nearly two years later when the opportunity arose: they were on the run, sharing a hotel room. He was hurting; she was scared for their futures, and as he cuddled up to her, kissing her tenderly, she tensed, knowing what he would expect, what he wanted, what he deserved. She knew he would do anything for her, including going without, had she only said the word. But it was precisely because of this knowledge that she felt obligated to do the same for him. She told herself it didn't hurt as much the second time around. Maybe because of the physiological changes associated with pregnancy and birth. But the world still didn't end. Far from it. Years later, they were living together in the house in the middle of nowhere, and the situation had not changed. Finally he confronted her. "We don't have to, you know. If you don't want." But I do, she wanted to say. I want to make love to you and have it be a wonderful thing. It just isn't, and I don't know why. Instead, she replied only, "I know." But she didn't say no. She kept hoping. And she kept being disappointed. And she could tell he was disappointed too. There was only so much she could fake, especially around the world's foremost expert on pornography. "What's wrong, Scully?" he finally asked. She frantically scrambled for an explanation, one that wouldn't crush his ego or his spirit. She fingered the cross around her neck and it triggered a thought. "I guess I've never been comfortable with living in sin," she said, hoping he would buy it. His jaw dropped. "Then let's get married," he suggested when he'd regained his composure. "Let's go to the courthouse right now and sign that paper." She furrowed her brow. "Now?" He nodded eagerly, taking her hands in his. "Now." I'll do anything to keep you around. So they went, and signed the paper, and nothing changed. She could tell he wanted to talk about it, but she just couldn't bring herself to do so. Maybe it was her Catholic upbringing; maybe it was her deep-seated desire to be the virginal angel she'd envisioned herself as when she was a child. Luther Lee Boggs had mentioned her sole childhood venture into rebellious territory, when she'd smoked her mother's cigarette. What he hadn't mentioned, but she suspected he knew, was how guilty and dirty she felt afterwards, and how she'd vowed to be good for the rest of her life. Cigarettes, sex, drugs, even alcohol: that wasn't her, and never would be. There was a period of time during her life when she'd strayed from the path she set for herself, again. Getting drunk with Ed Jersey, getting a tattoo, almost having sex with him, only to barely make it out alive after he attacked her. Mulder's swift and harsh judgment of her afterwards, his ultra-protectiveness turning to accusation. Later, she blamed the brain tumor she'd found out about not too long afterwards; surely the growth itself had affected her better judgment. Perhaps it was because of what Mulder thought of her then that she was afraid of what he would think of her now. Or perhaps she merely didn't want to crush his spirit any more than she already had. I love you, Mulder, but you suck in bed. How could she possibly tell him that, or even imply it? Especially when it was at least in part her fault. If she admitted she wasn't enjoying it, he'd want to try new things, things she wasn't comfortable thinking about, let alone actually doing. And if that didn't work, or if she was unwilling to try, he'd blame himself. And he already had more guilt than any human being should ever have to bear, starting with his failure to protect his sister, and ending with his failure to protect his partner. One night, she was working late, and fell asleep in her office. She had a spare set of clothes at the hospital, so she showered and changed there, and only returned to the house the next night. "You didn't come home last night," Mulder observed. "I fell asleep in the office," she told him honestly. "By the time I woke up, if I'd gone home I would have just had to turn right back around again." He nodded, seeming to understand. Without conscious intent, she began to work late more and more, and come home less and less. And when she did come home, she snuck in after Mulder was asleep, and snuck out before he awoke. She still enjoyed his arms around her as she drifted off to sleep; no matter how far gone he was, he always cuddled up to her and curled around her when she crept into their bed. But it was naive to think he wouldn't notice, wouldn't know something was up. "You're not cheating on me, are you Scully?" he asked point-blank one night, having stayed up into the wee hours of the morning in order to be awake when she came home. He was only half joking. She scoffed. "Of course not, Mulder. It's just...." "Work. I know." he finished for her. "You know, it's a long commute. Especially so late. I won't mind if you get an apartment closer to work, just for those late nights." His voice cracked as he spoke, as if his very heart were breaking at the suggestion. But it was an offer, an opportunity, and if she said no, she was sure his heart would completely shatter. "All right," she agreed. "We'll see." The studio was right across the street from the hospital, and other than being lonely, it was perfect. Even when it wasn't late, she found herself too exhausted to get in the car and drive for so long, just to see her husband. At least, that's what she told herself. First it was consecutive days, then weeks. She rarely came home on the weekends anymore. And then one day, she realized she hadn't been home for a whole month. And then she realized that Mulder hadn't said a word about it. Hadn't texted, hadn't emailed, hadn't called. She wondered what he was doing all alone in that house in the middle of nowhere. And she found she didn't really want to know. She suspected his video collection was going to good use, a superior alternative to anything she was ever able to provide. Now, it's been years, and aside from the occasional text or phone call, they don't even speak. And even when they do, it's only because it's someone's birthday, or there's some bit of inconsequential news to share. She wonders, sometimes, whether he knows why she left, but she hopes he doesn't. And she misses his arms around her when she wakes in the morning, but she relishes the freedom that comes with being alone. The world still hasn't ended.