Visitor (6/13)
by leiascully

Email: leiascully@gmail.com
Distribution: Ask, please

Rating: T for non-explicit sexual situations and some swearing
Categories: SRA
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance
Spoilers: XF Revival speculation (spoilers through series and 
IWTB)

Summary: Mulder tries to put his life back together after Scully 
leaves him.  

Disclaimer: The X-Files and all related characters are the 
property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox Studios. No 
profit is made from this and no infringement is intended.

Author's Notes:  I had to get all of my feelings out somehow.  
Stories from all fandoms are archived at 
http://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully.

+ + + + 

6 - Conversation

Three weeks later she opens the door and walks in. She's got her 
keys in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. She's 
dressed for work in heels and a suit, but her hair is pulled 
back messily and her face is flushed.

"I need a drink," she says, brushing past him on her way to the 
kitchen.

"It's nine in the morning," he says, shuffling after her in the 
sweatpants he put on after his shower. His days have routine now 
outside of the pills he swallows. He gets up, he works out. He 
waits for the Bureau to call him. He works on his book. Now 
there's Hurricane Scully blowing through his living room, 
ruffling the couple of papers he left out on top of his laptop 
for special attention and reducing his plans to rubble. Somehow 
he doesn't mind.

"I don't give a damn what time it is, Mulder," comes her voice, 
punctuated by the clatter of cabinets. The tile is cool under 
his bare feet. He wraps his hands around the steaming cup of 
coffee in his hands and watches her almost rip the cap off the 
bottle.

"I just called in sick to work," she declares, tipping a measure 
of whiskey into a mug and topping it off with coffee. She sniffs 
his milk before she adds a splash. It's out of habit, he 
understands, and lets it go. The food in the fridge is all fresh 
now, but she wouldn't know that. She hasn't lived here for a 
long time. She puts the milk away and glares at him with 
blowtorch-blue eyes.

"You don't do that very often," he says.

"No, Mulder, I don't," she says. "Unless I'm in quarantine or 
dying, or previously, unless I was making some kind of excuse to 
chase down your sorry ass in whatever state you'd ended up in."

"Are you okay?" he asks, a sliver of ice in his heart at her 
mention of her health.

"I'm fine," she says. "I am actually, literally, medically 
fine."

"Emotionally?" he offers, as she sips at her coffee and winces, 
either from the heat or from the concentration of whiskey.

"Emotionally, I'm pissed as hell," she says, her eyes leveled at 
him like a pair of pistols. "I can't sleep, Mulder, because 
every night, when I go to bed, all I can hear is you saying that 
we need to talk. I've had this conversation with you twenty 
different ways in my head, and I can't have it anymore."

"Hopefully once more," he says, because there are some spots the 
leopard can't change. She just looks at him and takes another 
sip of her coffee, baring her teeth a little to spare her lips. 
He tips his head toward the living room and she sweeps out and 
sits down on the couch, kicking off her shoes. Almost as soon as 
she sits down she's up again, pacing the room. He leans against 
the doorjamb and takes a swallow of coffee. He has a feeling 
he'll want whiskey in his before too long, and he isn't even 
psychic anymore.

"Where should we start?" he asks.

"Did you ever even want a baby?" she bursts out. "Or did you 
just want me to be happy?"

He sets his mug down very carefully. "At the very beginning, 
huh. Don't pull your punches on my account, Scully."

"You never wanted a house and a dog," she says. "You never 
wanted a family. When I asked you to be my donor, you took days 
to decide."

"It was a big decision," he says. "It was never - Scully, I 
promise you, never for a second - that I didn't want to."

"You said you didn't want it to come between us," she says. Her 
cheeks are bright pink; her eyes are bright too, and that 
terrifies him. It still wounds him every time he sees her cry. 
He has wrapped her in his arms to soothe away the thoughts of 
monsters and funerals. Right now, he's not even sure she'd let 
him touch her. They have to have this out, like lancing an 
abscess. In the meantime, it's going to hurt like hell.

"Think about my family," he says softly. "I told myself I'd 
never have children. I'd convinced myself I'd never want them. 
Nobody else needed to inherit what I'd gotten. I wanted to say 
yes the second you asked me. I wanted all of that for us. But 
how could I?"

"You and I are not your parents," she says, and it's so throaty 
it's almost a rough whisper. "You and I are not other people."

"I did want you to be happy," he says. "I wanted both of us to 
be happy. Whatever that meant. I'm sorry it hurt you that I made 
you wait. I'm sorry it hurt you that I had your ova and didn't 
tell you. I thought I was protecting you."

"I can protect myself," she says, and now there are definitely 
tears quivering on the rims of her eyelids.

"You always could," he agrees.

She looks away, glancing down at her coffee as if she's 
forgotten all about it. She picks up the mug and brings it to 
her lips. Her fingers are trembling, just a little.

"What I wanted scared me," he says softly. "I was selfish. I 
wanted you all to myself. I wanted it to be you and me the way 
it always had been, and I also wanted all the rest of it. My 
mind was reeling, Scully. I wanted the apartment and the Bureau 
and the X-Files and I wanted the house and the dog and the kid 
and a life we could make together, but I knew those things were 
mutually exclusive."

"I wanted that too," she whispers. "All of it."

"How could we bring a child into that situation?" he asks. "How 
could we ask each other to give up the work that had made us who 
we were? But, god, Scully, I wanted it so bad. I laid awake at 
night wanting it."

"I'm sorry," she says.

He shakes his head and drinks his coffee. She drinks hers too, 
looking at him over the rim of her mug. Her toes are pale and 
distinct in the pile of the rug. They look like pearls.

"You know what the worst part was, for me?" he asks, trying to 
make his voice conversational. "The worst part was that you 
didn't ask me to be with you. You didn't ask me to make a life 
together. You only asked for my donation."

"Mulder," she says, and he knows, but he's going to make her say 
it. He waits, takes another swallow of coffee, scuffs his foot 
over the floor. She sighs. "There's a literary device where 
referring to a part represents the whole of something."

"Synecdoche," he says.

"I thought you knew," she said. "What I wanted."

"How could I?" he asked. "We had never even kissed. Apis 
interruptus."

The look she gives him could wither an old growth oak. It's a 
look he knows so well he sees it in his dreams, and all at once 
he's swept by a wave of nostalgia for the days when things were 
simple: they searched for his sister and they searched for the 
truth about Scully's abductors as they crisscrossed the country 
looking for anomalies. Something about it had been so pure. They 
had been bound up in each other and their quest and their faith 
in each other was absolute. Maybe they have been remaking 
themselves, but they don't have to start from nothing. They have 
a foundation. It's still there, somewhere under the ashes of the 
latest conflagration.

"You knew I had feelings about you," she says. "You've always 
had a remarkable intuition."

"I had a hunch," he says. "But you can't build a life on a 
hunch."

"You could," she says. "If anybody could."

"I love you," he says. "I've loved you almost half my life now, 
so I better be able to say it. I love you so much it makes me 
stupid."

She smiles, just barely. "Is that what it is?"

"That and about a hundred other factors," he says. "Your turn."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," she demurs, and sips at 
her coffee.

"Tell me about these feelings you have for me," he says. "Or 
had."

She holds her coffee close to her mouth but doesn't drink. 
"Have."

"Present tense," he murmurs. "I like that."

"There are a lot of feelings, Mulder," she says, and there's 
that quirk to her lips, even if it's wearier than he likes to 
see it.

"And?" he prompts.

She sighs. "Irritation. Anger. Sadness. Frustration."

"It's like the worst lottery scratch ticket in history," he 
says. His heart gives a little more, like a sagging wood floor. 
Self-doubt nibbles at him like termites. He sets down his mug.

"Of course I love you," she says, gazing at him steadily. "But 
it's not always enough, Mulder. I'm not always enough for you."

"You are," he says, and he has never sworn an oath with more 
fervor.

"I'm not," she says, and this time the tears are in her voice, 
though she restrains them. She swallows some coffee. "If I were 
enough, you wouldn't have nearly torn yourself to pieces when 
you came back."

"I'm in therapy for that," he offers. "It helps."

"I saw your prescription in your file," she says. "I'm glad. But 
if I were enough, you wouldn't have gone with Diana every chance 
you got."

"That was different," he says automatically, but he knows it 
wasn't. He remembers his dream, the last temptation of Fox 
Mulder. At the time, it had made perfect sense that Diana was 
waiting for him. The Cancer Man, his father, would never have 
brought Scully to his suburban haven. Scully never would have 
gone willingly. And Scully, he had thought, had made it clear 
that all she needed from him could be caught in a specimen cup. 
He hadn't known he had a choice.

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "I thought you didn't want me. And 
she came to me when I was sick, after the artifact. She cared 
for me."

"Mulder, the reason I wasn't there is that I was out working our 
case," she says. "Every time you went with her, I was working 
our case. I can't be sure that if she were alive today, you 
wouldn't leave me if she showed up with something interesting to 
bait you away."

"I don't know what to tell you, Scully," he says. "It wouldn't 
be like that."

"And isn't it lucky we have no way of testing your hypothesis?" 
she mumbles into her coffee.

He crossed the room to her and takes her mug gently to set it on 
the table. Her hands fit between his, small and cool. "Trust 
me," he says. "That's all I have. But I'd marry you today if 
you'd say yes, and you know it."

"I'm not sure I'm the marrying type," she says, and the frost is 
back in her eyes. She draws her hands gently out of his. "I'm 
not sure you are either. A few words don't change who people 
are, Mulder."

The Gunmen must have told her. His marriage to Diana had lasted 
months, not even half a year, before she had gone to Europe. 
He'd sold his ring. Their divorce had been almost easier than 
the wedding. He added it to the list of things they hadn't 
talked about. He hadn't told her before because it seemed 
irrelevant; he hadn't told her after because she was wounded 
enough already. Today was the day for it, apparently; there were 
decades of grievances to air.

"We got married," he says. "We were young. We were stupid. It 
didn't work out. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was ashamed, 
maybe, or I don't know, I didn't want you to think anyone else 
compared to you, because nobody did. Not Diana, not anybody. I'm 
sorry I made you feel like you mattered less than you did."

"If it were going to work, I would have to know," she says, and 
her voice is uneven. "I would have to know you wouldn't leave."

"I wouldn't," he says.

"You always do," she says sadly. "Mulder, I needed you, and you 
weren't there."

His heart creaks again. "Scully," he begins, but she cuts him 
off with a shake of her head.

"I know why you left," she says. "I know you thought it was for 
the best. But we were lost without you, Mulder. William and I. 
We needed you. And I couldn't even call you." Her voice hitches. 
"I had Spender, of all people, but I didn't have you."

"I wanted you both to be safe," he says helplessly.

"I know," she says. "I know. But you knew by then I wanted you. 
You knew I needed you. And we weren't enough. You leaving didn't 
stop us being in danger. You must have known it wouldn't change 
things."

"I hoped," he says.

"Hope isn't always enough either," she says.

"I know that," he says. "But sometimes it is."

"When?" The word is fragile, hanging in the air between them.

"Now," he says. "Look. I'm changing. I'm better. Well," he 
corrects, "I'm in the process of getting better."

"For me?" she asks.

"For me," he says. "I won't put that pressure on you. If all you 
want to be is my doctor, then be my doctor, but I'm telling you 
things are different."

She shakes her head, slowly and sadly. "I want to believe that, 
Mulder."

"Trust me, Scully," he says.

"I've always trusted you," she says. "And look where it's gotten 
us."

He's quiet for a moment.

"Mulder, you made the same promises in Virginia," she reminds 
him, crossing her arms. "And the darkness followed us anyway."

"We didn't say these things," he says. "We had to have this 
conversation before anything could really change. Didn't we." It 
isn't a question. "We had to talk about William, or we would 
never be able to move on with our lives the way we were supposed 
to. We could never be anyone but the people we were then."

She turns her head away and reaches down for her mug, draining 
the rest of her coffee. She sets the mug down again with 
finality and looks at him. The whiskey has given her dreamy eyes 
and a deeper flush to her cheeks. She looks utterly kissable. He 
knows better than to touch her.

"I was angry with you," he says. "For giving him away. For 
giving up. I just needed you to hold on a little longer."

"I was angry with you for leaving," she says. "You weren't there 
for the most difficult decision of my life. I needed you."

"I'm sorry," he says, because there's nothing else to say. At 
least the words don't sound hollow.

"I'm sorry too," she says, but she says it like her heart is 
breaking.

"I'm sure you made the right choice," he says.

"At least one of us is," she murmurs.

He opens his arms, tentatively, and she steps into them, 
pressing her face against him. He holds her close and feels her 
arms lock around his back. Her tears are hot against his skin; 
they trickle down his belly to soak into the waistband of his 
sweatpants. He kisses the top of her head and lets her cry.

"I just wish I knew he was okay," she whispers, her lips 
brushing his chest.

"Me too," he says. "Scully, I know I left, but it didn't mean I 
didn't love him. It didn't mean I didn't love you. I was scared. 
It was all I knew to do."

She cries for a few minutes. His throat aches and his eyes 
sting, but only a few tears actually roll down his cheeks. He 
mostly feels an emptiness in the space between his ribs, except 
for the way his heart thuds. God, he's missed the way her hair 
smells. It's the easiest thing in the world to tip her face up 
and gaze into her eyes. She stares up at him, sniffling, and he 
leans down to kiss her. She kisses him back, tender at first and 
then harder, as if she's punishing him, and he takes every 
moment of it.

"My therapist thinks that sleeping together is setting back my 
recovery," he says when she releases him. "Potentially."

"Your therapist can go to hell," she says fiercely. "In this 
regard, anyway."

She leads him up the stairs to the bedroom and undoes her 
buttons one at a time as he watches. It's easy enough to shuck 
off his sweatpants. She pushes him onto the bed and fucks him 
like they're still fighting, and he gives back in kind. It's 
rough, it's raw, and it's exactly what he needed, a microcosm of 
their greater debate. At least in bed nobody's ever fatally 
wrong and everybody ends up satisfied. Afterward, they sleep, 
and when he wakes up, she's still there.

They lie in bed most of the morning, not saying much, not 
touching much, just watching each other until the flint and 
spark of their eyes meeting becomes too much, and they pull each 
other close. We made a baby this way once, he thinks, and 
wonders if they could do it again. She would say that she's too 
old, but he believes in miracles. So far, in his experience, it 
has never been too late to try again, to fail again better. 
There are moments that she looks at him and he is afraid this is 
the last time, but there are moments when he looks at her and 
dares to hope. She always kisses him then, so close he can't see 
her eyes.

Eventually they're too hungry to linger any longer. She dresses 
carefully as he drags on his pants again and clomps downstairs 
to make omelettes and toast. On a shelf he never uses, she finds 
an album that Maggie made full of William's baby pictures. They 
sit on the couch together, knees touching, and she shows him all 
the milestones he missed.

"I can't believe we never did this before," he says.

"You never asked," she tells him.

The silence fills the room, but there's a little less ache in it 
now.

"I should have," he says.

"At least you're asking now," she tells him.

She closes the book and her hand absentmindedly caresses the 
cover, as if she can touch the infant in the pictures. "I wonder 
what he looks like now."

"I hope he has your nose," he teases.

"I hope he has your eyes," she says, and smiles a little.

"Are you coming home?" he asks.

"I don't know," she tells him. "I need time, Mulder."

"You've had time," he says, and it sounds pathetic to his own 
ears.

"I need more," she says, her face grave. "If I can, I will. That 
has to be enough for you."

"If," he says hollowly. Not when.

"If," she agrees. "If I can be sure we won't fall into the same 
old cycle. Two steps forward, three steps back."

"That's how I feel," he says. "That's what I want."

She brushes his jaw with her fingertips. "Not today," she says. 
"But maybe. If that isn't good enough, then tell me now."

He catches her fingers and kisses them. "You're my constant," he 
says. "That hasn't changed."

She looks into his eyes. "I can't make you a whole person. And I 
can't see in the dark."

"I know," he says.

"I know where we live," she tells him. "If. But one fight 
doesn't solve this." Her gesture encompasses twenty years of 
ditching, of unanswered calls, of quiet betrayals, of cheap 
motel rooms when they were on the run, of parents lost and 
children stolen. "I need time."

He nods. It's all he can manage.

She stands and kisses his forehead, slips on her shoes, and 
leaves. He goes into the kitchen and pours a splash of whiskey 
into a glass, then caps the bottle and puts it away in the 
cabinet. It stings going down, but there's a sweetness to the 
burn.

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Feedback is welcome at leiascully@gmail.com.  Stories from all 
fandoms are archived at http://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully.