Title: This Can't Be Happening: Part 4 Author: Maria O'Rourke Feedback: dk_scully_101@yahoo.com Archive: Anywhere it usually goes, yep. Anywhere else, I'd be honoured, just let me know? Keywords: angst, S, MSR Spoilers: none specifically, set after S9. Rating: PG (strong use of bad language in this part) Summary: Mulder thinks things through. Author's Notes: For LB, a great woman with a tremendous heart who will always be an inspiration to me. IMU. Disclaimer: Not mine. --- Tuesday, 9th November 2004 --- Fuck. Shit. Some of the words that come into my head in the two minutes it has taken me to digest what I see in front of me. A whole two minutes? I must be slipping. And to think that I actually believed her. Okay, I'm a stupid son-of-a-bitch. I admit it. But, you see, the sad fact is that I did trust her. Right then, if she told me that the sky was purple I wouldn't have questioned her. It wouldn't matter that the truth was staring me in the face. How naïve am I? I don't want to answer that because I really don't want to know. The last time I believed someone on nothing more than their word, I had been let down. "It's okay Fox, I'll find her. I promise you, I *will* find her." I suppose even he had believed it in the beginning. But we both found out soon enough that he was lying. Fooling even himself. My father would never find Samantha, no matter how hard he looked. Is that what Scully is doing now? Fooling herself? I'm still staring at the caked droplets of blood that stain the tile below me. Before Scully developed cancer, blood had been unimportant to me. Yes, I needed it to live. I knew that much. But when I was shot or stabbed or even got a paper-cut, I never thought of the blood-loss. I thought of the god damned pain that wracked my body and who was going to continue the good fight while I recovered in hospital. Well, it applied to stabbings and gun-shot wounds. Paper cuts I could handle. But her cancer changed that. A single drop of blood falling from her nose made my world stop and my head spin. It signified her life slipping away, a single solitary drop of blood at a time. I wanted to find a way to get it back into her somehow, reverse time and stop it from happening at all. Give her the drop back. What would that mean? An extra minute of life? A week? Month? Yes, I was naïve. After she went into remission, the fear of blood continued. I nearly died of a heart attack when I saw her lying on the floor of my apartment during the Philip Padgett case. She was covered in blood, precious blood. But it didn't scare me half as much as those damned nosebleeds had. A gunshot wound - get her to a hospital. Stabbed? - hospital. Paper cut? - band-aid. Nosebleed? Headache? Scully has always been the strong one. She has the ability to push her emotions deep inside until even she doesn't know where they've gone, and stay in control. She's 'fine'. That's part of the reason why I let her stay with me so long. Because I thought that she could handle it, that she was okay. But then her cancer came. And she wasn't fine. Worse, she couldn't hide it. Pain wracked her body day and night. Her dizzy spells became prolonged periods of earth- shattering headaches that even morphine couldn't quell. Nosebleeds featuring a single drop of blood progressed until small rivers of red escaped her nostrils. And those were the good days. Even they were rare. But then it went into remission. And the world reverted back to it's perfect state. We reverted back to our perfect relationship. Yes, we were closer. Hell, three years later we were sleeping together. But there was always that dark cloud hanging overhead. It had been a miracle. It had to be. But from whom? I voted the chip, her mother said it was God and Scully never voiced what she thought. I think she didn't want to tempt fate. But the trouble with a miracle is that it can be rescinded or worse, only temporary. William was proof of that. But now what? There's no doubt in my mind that she thinks It is back. That's the reason she hasn't spoken to me about any of this. Suddenly, that's not a problem any more. There is no magical cure this time. No chip that I can run after, or even a chain-smoking-son-of-a- bitch that I can threaten to kill. I don't think God can be approached either at this point. After spending a year being tortured in a dank prison, with drills, injections and surgery morning-noon- and-night, I don't think God even listens to me anymore. So what can I do? I've never felt so helpless. Then I hear the door open. --- "Mulder?" she questions, staring at the top of his head, before taking a sharp intake of breath. The blood. "You lied to me." Strangely there is no anger in his voice. There is a small element of hurt, but no anger. Even stranger still, she is relieved by this. She offers no response. He doesn't ask for one. Slowly he rises, encircles her with his arms and holds her. She squeezes her eyes closed, the tears slipping through nonetheless. His chin rests on her head, his hands moving slowly up and down her back while he bites his lip and attempts not to let her hear his anguish. ---