This is a quickie in response to SciNut's "Never Again" challenge ...
Mulderangst after Scully's Philadelphia adventure. Mild MSR.

"Never Again" spoilers.

This tale is based upon those characters created by Chris Carter and Ten
Thirteen Productions, used without permission (no duh -- if I had
permission, I'd have a book deal by now ;-) or at least much more cash than
I have) and without meaning to infringe on CC's copyright.

Thanks to Debbie (Goddess among Editors) and Jude (for the food).

Morgan and Wong are gone.  Long Live Morgan and Wong ...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

You Wouldn't Abandon Me
An X-Files Tale
by Terri Monture
xfactore@inforamp.net



Her eyes were opaque glass that bored into him like a spear made of ice.
"Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life."  As clearly as if
she had spoken aloud, her eyes said, Now back off.

The instinct to have the last word overcame common sense.  "Yes, but it's
..." His mouth formed the words but they stuck in his throat.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, to tell her that
her life had become entwined with his and that the things that happened to
her he shared as if he been there. To tell her how important she was to
him. To tell her that would mean to cross the invisible, impenetrable
barrier that they had built so early in their partnership.

To cross the line that he himself had drawn.

The silence between them grew thick and uncomfortable; it was a living
thing that squirmed and muttered and curdled the air with tension. Mulder
looked at the ceiling, at the floor, at anything but Scully.

She sat with her copper head bowed, fingering the dried rose petal like it
was a rosary. And now he saw that she hadn't even been listening to him.
The Kevlar vest she wore to protect her emotions had completely deflected
his clumsy attempts at taunting her.

Mulder was filled with a remorse that stabbed through him, a hot blade
buried deep in his gut. He had been cruel to her, using his wit to try to
wound Scully, trying to hurt her as deeply as her actions had hurt him. He
wanted to apologize but didn't know how. He wanted to shake her, to make
her see how stupid and careless she had been. How her impetuous actions had
nearly gotten her killed.

How finding her lying in a hospital bed, battered and bruised and high from
the ergot reaction, her lower back swathed in white gauze bandages, had
very nearly destroyed him.

Mulder wanted to tell her how he really felt. But he was paralyzed with
self-doubt, his stubborn pride battling with his need to be honest with
her.
And as always, his pride wrestled so fiercely that honesty cried uncle and
surrendered without a fight.

He fumbled with the contents of the file on his desk, not really seeing
them. Scully stood and walked over to the wastebasket, dropping the dried
fragment of a long-dead rose inside.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. Scully still wouldn't look at
him. "I'm going to get a coffee," she said and strode out of the office,
shutting the door quietly behind her.

Two hours later she still hadn't come back.

Mulder sat pinned in his chair, randomly fanning the papers on his desk
into patterns as intricate as origami, watching the minutes on his desk
clock march inexorably forward. He tried to think of nothing, and when that
failed, he wrenched his concentration into examining the paperwork on the
Arlington case.

He found himself wondering what her tattoo looked like now, if it hurt her.
If it was scabbed over, if its colours still gleamed brightly against the
soft creaminess of her skin ...

Mulder pasted his eyes to the paper in front of him, to words he had
already read a thousand times, hoping this time they would register and
transport him back into work.

When that failed, Mulder waited for Scully. Waited for her to come back and
pretend that nothing had happened. Waited for her to broadcast her mute
apology that would make everything all right again. An apology that would
cast off the dark cloud that had descended between them so that they could
work together again.

But then again, why should she apologize? She'd endured so much aberrant
behaviour from him that turnabout was really only fair play ...

It was all too apparent that she wasn't coming back. He shoved the papers,
now wrinkled and out of order, back into their file. In a sudden and
childish fit of pique he threw the file across the room. The papers
scattered like confetti. Like snow. Like ashes spilled on the floor of a
crematorium.

Mulder stared at the trashed file and slumped back into his seat. He
remembered this feeling -- this dark depression, this panicked need for
fight or flight if he could but get her to listen to him -- only too well.
It harkened back to Phoebe, this strange female behaviour that he was
supposed to figure out and then go crawling back to her like some kind of
suppliant begging for benediction.

No, he reminded himself firmly. There really is no comparison. Phoebe
excelled at mind games, she had made it her life's work. Scully had never
played with his head, never in the entire time he had known her. Which to
this point was a hell of a lot longer than he had ever known Phoebe. Scully
was honest, forthright, and forthcoming, a straight shooter to the end.

Mulder found himself fingering the place where the bullet wound on his left
shoulder had left a raised, thickened scar. Thank God, or whatever
available deity on call, that Scully was a straight shooter. Or he wouldn't
be sitting here morosely contemplating a life without her.

He was suddenly ashamed of himself, of his earlier smugness with her.  He
had been so overwhelmed upon actually being in the King's inner sanctum
Scully was the only person he could call. The only person he cared enough
about to call. It was a measure of just how much she cared for him when the
first question out of her mouth was, "Mulder, what's wrong?"

And then he had to spoil it by declaring with frank and arrogant assurance,
"I knew you wouldn't abandon me."

But what if she did? What would happen to him then?

Mulder would continue with his work, of course. It would be the only thing
he would have left. But he would be alone, bereft of all human contact, of
any kind of compassion and care in his life at all.

He would turn into the Cancer Man.

He shuddered. He could easily see himself walking down that dark path ...
willingly walking deeper into darkness ...

Mulder hung his head and rested it in his hands. For him, Scully had been
abducted, jailed, injured, terrified, her sister murdered, all chances of a
normal life snatched away from her. For him Scully had endured ridicule,
censure, career suicide, mortal danger. And how did he repay her for her
unquestioning trust and loyalty?

By taunting her. By ignoring her, ditching her, ridiculing her. And most
importantly, by believing that everything that happened to her was because
of him. That his work and his attendent needs were somehow more important
than her life.

He sighed heavily and ran his hands through his hair. Glancing at the
clock, Mulder saw that it was nearly noon. He would have to go and look for
her.

But not until he ran a few errands.

Mulder found Scully on the bench overlooking the Potomac. Somehow he knew
in his heart that she would be here. It was the place where she had, in her
gentle and straightforward way, convinced him to stay with the Bureau, to
swallow everything they were dishing up for him because he would live to
see himself vindicated.

It was probably arrogant to think of it as "their bench", but he did.

Even though it was a sunny day, it was bitterly cold, the damp air sending
a chill straight into the marrow of his bones. Scully was folded into her
coat, huddled inside it like a child. Her nose and cheekbones were flushed
deep  rose with the cold as she stared into the black choppy depths of the
river.

Mulder dropped onto the frozen bench beside her. "Is this seat taken?" he
asked softly.

Her only response was the slight, barely-there lift of her eyebrow. "No,"
she replied, her voice as quietly neutral as his had been. Her classical
profile was like an ice-engraved cameo; her gaze could have cryogenically
frozen him had she been looking in his direction.

Mulder chewed reflectively on the inside of his cheek as he pondered his
next move. A well-timed, dry quip wouldn't work; neither would a
fantastical statement of how sorry he was for being such a dick. There was
nothing to do but to have faith in her eventual forgiveness and leap into
the breach.

He took a deep breath. "Scully, I --"

She turned her head at last. Her eyes were dark blue, shadowed with --
pain? Discontent? Anger? Contempt? Or just a deep, physical weariness? He
had no idea how to read her.  "Mulder, don't."

"No, really, I --"

Scully made a small gesture with her hand. "Whatever.  Let's just forget
it, okay? I'll come back in a little while." She exhaled sharply. "I -- I
just need a little space."

"I want to forget it too, but I need you to know that I'm sorry." Mulder
blurted this out before she became adamant that he leave her alone. "I
really am. I've known you needed some time to yourself for awhile now but I
wasn't willing to let you have it. And I've been taking you entirely for
granted. It's not at all fair to you.  But you see, I'm ..." He swallowed
hard. He wasn't used to confessing his feelings, especially not to Scully.
She could read him only too well, and therein lay great danger.

Because she would be able to read the truth about how he really felt about
her. And then he would probably lose her.

Mulder plunged on, smothering his fears. "I was afraid that ... that you
would abandon me. So I -- I've been keeping you too close. And now you're
trying to tell me to let you go."

Scully's eyes flickered over his face. "Mulder --"

"So -- if that's what you want to do, I won't prevent you from leaving.
Transferring, if that's what you want. But I -- I don't think I -- what I
mean is  --" He gave up trying to be articulate and looked at her, looked
deep into her eyes. "I don't think I could go on without you."

She sat perfectly still, searching his eyes. After an eternity she blinked
and looked back out over the black surface of the river. "I don't want to
transfer," she whispered. "That's not what this is about."

Mulder nodded, relieved. "I know that."

Scully sighed. "I know you do."

They sat quietly for awhile. This time the silence was comfortable,
bearable. Companionable. Mulder stretched his legs out in front of him. "I
have to get back to the office, contact the Dallas field office."

"Okay."

He reached inside his jacket. "Before I forget --" He handed her the object
and turned away, too shy to see her response.

It was a nameplate that he had had hastily made up, "Dana Scully" etched
into its black surface in bold white letters.

Tied clumsily to the nameplate was a single long-stemmed rose, a perfect
white bud tinged with deep scarlet at the very tip, like God's own
paintbrush.

The man at the florist shop had called it a "Fire and Ice" rose. Mulder had
chosen it because it was like her. White at the center with a glacial
purity of heart, tinged with the fire of conviction and truth on the
outside.

Beautiful. Like Scully.

Scully looked up at him. "Oh, Mulder," she said sadly.

He shrugged. "I know." He shuffled and looked down at his feet. "But better
late than never again." He turned to go, wanting nothing more than to flee
from under her dark blue gaze.

"Mulder." Something in her voice made him turn back.

Scully had picked up the rose and was gently caressing its soft petals with
her fingertips. Her blue gaze had melted and for a sweet, dizzying second
Mulder knew that he could die drowning in her eyes and be blissfully,
completely happy.

"I knew you wouldn't abandon me," she said.


The End