Work Text:
Kitsunegari
Mulder stood wide-eyed, jaw dropped, in shock at what he had just seen. He couldn’t speak, and he felt like he wasn’t really there, like he was numb, like none of this could really be happening. He could hear Scully talking to the 911 operator, but she sounded far away, almost as if she were in a barrel. He looked at her, then back at the ground where he had just seen her lying in a pool of her own blood only moments before, trying to comprehend. Linda Bowman had made him see Scully shoot herself. He had stood frozen, helpless, as she had pointed the gun at him, heard her tiny frightened voice beg him to stop her, to stop Linda Bowman, that she was pushing her to do this. He had seen the terror in her blue eyes, her small hands trembling, and a tear ready to fall from her eye. Before he could react, the gun was at her temple, the blast of the gunshot ringing in his ears, and she was down. He was instantly by her side, sick to his stomach, feeling her head all over, begging for it not to be true. He was confused by there being no wound, but paralyzed as he watched the crimson flow from the other side of her head and surround her. He didn’t have time to process the logic of it all. He couldn’t see anything else, there was nothing else, but Scully lying there lifeless.
He heard footsteps behind him, and suddenly all he could think of was revenge. He saw red, felt the blood pulse in his head, felt nothing but pure, unadulterated hate. He had to kill Bowman. He had to do to her what she had done to Scully. He reached for Scully’s gun, still in her hand, gently pulled her fingers away from the cold steel, and aimed the gun at Bowman’s head. He really had no idea what had stopped him from squeezing the trigger right away. Linda Bowman had aimed her gun at Mulder in return, and he couldn’t understand why she kept trying to tell him she was Scully, that this was what Bowman wanted him to see. He couldn’t believe her. No. No. No. Scully was dead, and Bowman was going to pay. He refused to listen. His Scully was on the ground, his world colder and emptier than he could have ever imagined. He had no reason to care what happened now beyond getting vengeance for her. He had never before known the rage and loathing that he had felt rise in him as he yelled at Bowman to shut up, told her that he was going to kill her, and the fact that she was claiming she was Scully made him even more furious. She tried to tell him, “your mother is Teena. Your sister is Samantha.” He had hesitated, thankfully, just long enough that it gave Bowman, the real Bowman, the Bowman who was really lying on the ground behind him instead of Scully, long enough to rise and for the real Scully who stood before him to shoot her. The sudden gunshot had caught him off guard, and he looked away, trying to make sense of it all. When he looked back up where Bowman had been in front of him, gun drawn, Scully stood in her place. She had called to him, “Mulder?” as if to ask, are you okay? Can you see me now? She stepped towards him and squeezed his arm, assuring him it was her, everything was fine again.
As he stood frozen to the spot, she pulled her cell from her pocket and dialed 911, keeping a concerned eye on him. After several moments of trying to process everything, telling himself Scully was okay and trying to erase the violent image of her body on the ground from his mind, he wandered from the scene slowly and made his way outside, thinking he may vomit. He went to the car and sat behind the wheel, his feet out with the door open. His elbows were on his knees and his face rested in his hands. A little while later, he had no idea how long, he could hear the sirens in the distance coming closer. Soon, the ambulance and police cars splashed through the mud and stopped just past where he was parked. Scully had stepped just outside so she could guide them to Bowman’s body.
A moment later, she came out to the car where he was talking to an officer who was filling out a report. Mulder quietly answered his questions, really just wishing he could disappear and not have to relive it all again. Scully took over with the cop as she could see Mulder was in no condition to. Mulder rubbed his eyes and hung his head. After a few final questions, Scully thanked the policeman and turned to where Mulder was sitting in the driver’s seat. She stood in front of him and put out a hand to rub his shoulder and gently offered to drive. He obliged, standing to go around to the other side of the car, placing the keys in her open hand, never meeting her gaze.
The entire drive back to his apartment, he never said a word. When Scully parked in front of his building, she turned off the engine and watched him for a moment. She’d stay with him until she knew he was okay. The yellow glow from the street lights cast a sickly hue across Mulder’s face. But not all of it was from the lights. He could feel her looking at him, but still he couldn’t face her. He stared at his hands, looked out the window, anything to avoid looking at her because he thought he would fall apart if he did. He bit his lip, nervously cleared his throat, and sighed.
“Mulder? Are you okay?” she asked cautiously, barely above a whisper, aware of his fragility, fearing even the slightest sound too suddenly jarring would break him completely. He kept fidgeting, the fingers of his right hand tapping on the door’s arm rest, his left arm resting on the console, his thumb and fingers anxiously rubbing together, constantly moving, his jaw nervously clenching and unclenching. She gingerly reached out and slid the fingers of her right hand along his palm, between his thumb and index finger, reading him, carefully measuring his every move. His fidgeting stopped immediately, and he turned his palm up to take her hand in his without hesitation. He held it tightly, but he still didn’t look up, still didn’t make a sound, he just stared at their hands for a long moment, constantly adjusting his grip as if afraid to let go. She could feel him trembling. Suddenly, he stretched open his hand and just stared at the top of hers. He shifted his hand so he could hold her pretty fingers out flat to look at them, rub them with his thumb as if they were the most beautiful things he had ever beheld. He brought it up a little closer to his face for a better look and traced a line around the neat round ends of her nails, up each delicate finger, and back down again. He held them out, displayed them, carefully, as if they were made of glass.
He studied them adoringly, appreciatively, as if he had never seen them before. These were the precious, delicate hands, his partner’s hands, which he knew from experience fit so perfectly into his. These hands that had protected him, defended him, gently nursed him, and comforted him had also performed dozens of autopsies, fired weapons, driven thousands of miles with him through country roads and city streets, and typed up reams of paperwork for X-Files. These are the fingers she had run through his hair when he was so near death nothing was keeping him alive but her sheer determination to not let him go, the fingers she had held against his forehead when he was sick. Just like Scully herself, they may look fragile and innocuous, but he knew them to be strong and highly skilled. She watched him, intrigued, deeply moved by this gentle act, so simple but so meaningful. She empathized with her partner, the weight of his pain an almost tangible darkness pressing in on them both. She forced back tears that threatened to spill over. She so wished she could take some of his pain from him. She had wished that so many times in their five years together. He shouldn’t have to bear it all himself.
He lifted her hand to his cheek, and she could feel him exhale each unsteady breath against her skin. She saw him allow himself one tiny grateful grin. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed a deep sigh. He held her fingers there for several beats, finding comfort in her scent - a faint trace of something floral, probably hand cream, and just Scully - thanking God or the cosmos, or whoever deserved the praise, that she was still here, that she was with him, that she was whole. He slowly shook his head, answering her question, his stubble from the long day rough against the back of her fingers. Not okay, not yet, no, not okay. He wouldn’t be okay until he could close his eyes and not see that image of her lying there on the cold, hard floor, not until that sinking sick feeling, the realization that he almost killed his partner, he almost shot Scully, that he had yelled that he was going to kill her and pointed a gun at her head, all went away or at least began to fade. He turned his head slightly, eyes still closed, and kissed those fingers, her fingers, pressed his lips to them for several seconds and made a small noise, then pulled them away and readjusted his grip once again, protectively, possessively, as if they were the only thing holding him together. He brought her hand down, still in his, so that both their arms once again rested on the console between them. He laid his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. He placed his other hand on top of hers, hiding it within his own. He swallowed hard and answered, “But I will be.”