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The Falls at Arcadia
3:23 a.m.
He awoke with a start, his heart pounding, his last memory a strangled cry of "NO-O-O-O!"
It only took a moment to get his bearings. Different couch, different time zone, same old nightmare. But was it that? The voice was Scully's, not Samantha's, and Scully was just upstairs, in the oh-so-perfect master bedroom. He listened for a moment for any sign of a disturbance; the silence was broken by the sound of his own ragged breathing, nothing more.
He crept up the stairs, determined to make sure that Scully was all right. It was risky - things were tense enough between them already - the last thing he needed was to barge into her room in the middle of the night and wake her from a good night's sleep. Another argument, another lecture about his overprotective and paranoid nature.
But if something happened to her and he could have prevented it... Well, it was easier to live with her anger than his own guilt. And he had been living with her anger. 'Living with Scully.' The phrase conjured up all sorts of tantalizing images. The reality wasn't exactly living up to his wildest fantasies. Actually, it wasn't even living up to his mildest ones. At least in those, he and Scully liked each other, not this facade of forced affection with undercurrents of anger and resentment.
He wondered again what he had done to inspire her anger this time. OK, she didn't like their undercover names, but she definitely overreacted. Just as well he hadn't mentioned some of his other choices, Rob and Laura looked pretty subtle in comparison. Maybe it was the geography, this was their first time back to San Diego since...well, since. It wouldn't have been his first choice for a field assignment (or his seventeenth, for that matter), but this was their first chance back at the X-Files, and they couldn't afford to be picky. He had thought, or at least hoped, that Scully understood that. Or was it the fact that he had ignored her birthday? No, she should be used to that by now. He would make it up to her eventually, but San Diego just didn't seem like the right time or place for a celebration.
Maybe she just didn't want to be seen in public with him, and if he were honest with himself, he could hardly blame her. It wasn't that long ago he was playing kissy-face with Diana. And although he and Scully had pretty much gotten past all that, the thought of any kind of display of affection, whether simulated or genuine might be more than Scully was ready for. From the time they had gotten this assignment, it seemed, Scully had been 'all business, nothing but the facts, ma'am.' When he had suggested that she might try to catch up on her sleep during the red eye flight, she had muttered something under her breath, and buried her nose in a John Grisham novel. Since then, it seemed she only spoke when necessary. Things had gone downhill from there.
And now, as he stood at the top of the stairs, he could see a thin line of light from under the bedroom door. He stayed hidden in the shadows and listened to the sound of running water followed by the rustling of linens. Then the light went out and he was back in the dark...as usual.
He breathed a small sigh of relief as he made his way back down the stairs and to the couch. Scully was in no immediate danger, and probably just had a nightmare. But he was wide-awake and there seemed no point in trying to go back to sleep. He fumbled till he found the remote, muted the volume and started flipping channels. It was the usual late night fare - psychics, sellers of tacky jewelry, big haired preachers and movies that weren't quite bad enough to be funny. No 'adult entertainment' channels, not even HBO or Showtime. It seemed that in Arcadia, sex was unacceptable, but bad taste was not.
His thoughts turned back to Scully, and what could possibly inspire her nightmares. There was certainly enough raw material from which to draw, after all the years she spent around him. Just the psychos who had stalked her...men who wanted to violate her body or her mind, men who tried to lobotomize her, men with talking tattoos, or death fetishes or worse. Normal people counted sheep; Mulder was counting Scully's psychos.
He wondered if she ever had a night without nightmares. And once again, he realized, it was all because of him. Every time, he should have prevented it, should have anticipated it. If he was half the boy-wonder profiler he was made out to be, he should have seen the signs, should have seen the trouble coming and headed if off at the pass.
"Mulder?" a soft voice startled him out of his reverie. "What are you doing up at this time of night?"
"Just sampling the best of Arcadian culture. How about you?"
"Couldn't sleep," came the muffled reply from the kitchen. "Do you want some tea?"
"No, thanks."
Mulder listened to Scully rummaging through the kitchen. Water running, doors opening and closing, the soft clink of metal against china.
A few moments later, Scully came back into the room, carrying a mug, steam rising from its surface. She crossed in front of him, and curled up in the easy chair next to his couch. He could see her profile in the half light of the TV, as she stared at the contents of the mug. It seemed to Mulder that Scully was looking for the secrets of the universe hidden in its currents.
"Scully, is there something floating in your tea?"
"Marshmallows. Hot chocolate."
"Umm, have you noticed we're in southern California? Not exactly hot chocolate weather."
A nostalgic smile crossed her face.
"Habit, I suppose. When we were kids, my mother used to make us hot cocoa to help us get to sleep. Of course she didn't use the instant kind, so the tryptophan in the warm milk helped." Leave it to Scully to find a scientific basis for comfort food.
At that moment, the image on the TV shifted to a brighter scene and Mulder got his first good look at her. What he saw startled him. She had taken off that awful green gunk, but she still looked terrible.
Normally, looking at Scully without her make-up on was one of his secret pleasures. She looked younger somehow, softer, more vulnerable. Less the tough-minded Agent Scully, and more the woman Dana. But now, as he saw the dark smudges under her eyes and the freckles stand out in sharp relief against her pasty complexion, he finally put it all together. Her irritability, her anger, even her refusal to sleep on the flight out and now her outcry a few minutes ago. She'd been having nightmares for some time now and they were taking their toll. Yeah, the boy-wonder profiler was at the top of his game.
They sat in silence for a few moments, Scully slowing sipping her drink and staring blankly at the TV while Mulder considered the situation. How could he bring up the topic casually, without appearing to bring it up? 'Hey, Scully, have any good nightmares lately?' wouldn't cut it. Nothing put Scully into denial quicker than a direct question.
Luckily for him, Scully beat him to the punch.
"Have you ever had a recurring dream?" she asked.
Oh brother, it must be bad if Scully was willing to spill her guts. But she had said 'dream', not 'nightmare', so maybe she wasn't quite ready to spill everything yet. He chose his next words carefully. Somehow, admitting that this assignment embodied his favorite recurring dreams wouldn't help either of them.
"A few times. Mostly getting chewed out in Skinner's office...but when I wake up, I realize it wasn't a dream and I'm still in his office."
He was rewarded with a small smile. He took that as an encouraging sign and forged ahead. "So, how long have you been having these dreams?"
Scully sighed, obviously embarrassed to make the admission. Her voice was so soft, he had to strain to catch the words. "Ever since the day at the bank."
The bank? The bank??
"I don't get it, Scully," he fumbled for the words, his careful therapist demeanor disappearing in his confusion. "Why the bank? Yeah, it was a close call and unnerving, but nothing more. Compared to all the other shit you've been through, the bank was barely a blip on the radar. Not the stuff of nightmares."
There. Somebody had to say the word.
If Scully noticed, she gave no sign, but continued to sip at her hot chocolate.
"Well, much as I agree with you, apparently my subconscious doesn't." Her voice was stronger now, with a hint of an edge to it. Mulder sensed that she was retreating, regretting that she had ever started the conversation. The familiar struggle between her need to unburden herself, and the need to maintain her privacy. He decided to see how far he could push it, before she shut down completely.
"And you've been having nightmares every night since then?"
"Yeah, every time I fall asleep," she said. A small but important distinction.
Oh swell, several times each night was the clear implication. No wonder she was cranky, she must be dealing with some serious sleep deprivation by now. And that explained her fascination with John Grisham; can't risk a screaming nightmare on a packed plane.
"And is it always the same dream?" He went back to his soothing, clinical mode. Just try to keep her talking before she thinks better of it.
"No. Technically , I suppose, it's not a recurring dream, more like variations on a theme. The basics are the same, but some of the details change."
Ahh, Scully, always the stickler for details.
"And they're getting more..." she searched for the right word, "intense."
"Tell me about them?" It was partly a request, partly a plea.
She shrugged and avoided his gaze. "There's not much to tell. I'm in the meeting, you're not, I find you, we talk, we both wind up in the bank. Sometimes you go first and I wind up following you, sometimes I go in your place but you wind up following me. We're both in the bank, the robbery is in progress, he's there, she's not, something goes wrong, the SWAT team storms the building and we all blow up. End of dream, end of story, OK?" Her voice, flat and emotionless at first, had taken on an irritated edge as the words tumbled out. Clearly she regretted starting this conversation.
"No, Scully, that's not good enough."
"What?" From irritation to anger in one easy step. Well, angry Scully was better than stonewall Scully.
"Tell me like it really happened, not like you're ticking off your grocery list. I want all the gory details. Paint me a picture." Two could play at this self-righteous irritation game.
She gave him a piercing look, obviously wishing she had drawn an accountant for a partner. For a long, awful moment he thought that he had pushed her too far, and that she was going to storm back to the bedroom without another word. Instead, she took a long swig of her hot chocolate and paused a moment, as if the hot chocolate were alcohol and would bolster her courage.
The light from the TV dimmed, and they were thrown back into near darkness. Good, maybe Scully would find it easier if the atmosphere were more confessional. She seemed to be staring at something in the space between them, both hands tightly clasped around the mug. She took a deep breath and spoke slowly, measuring each word, all trace of her previous anger gone.
"It started out like the real day. We spoke in the basement, you went to the bank, and I went back to the meeting. A meeting, by the way, which gives new meaning to the phrase mind-numbing." He could almost hear the half-hearted smile break through her voice. "But you were taking too long at the bank, and Skinner sent me to drag you back. As you can imagine, I was a bit irritated at you."
"Only a bit?"
She sighed. "OK, I was pretty pissed, until I walked in the door."
Another long, awkward pause. She swallowed hard and her breathing deepened.
"Then what?" he prompted gently.
"I walked in and saw him coming toward me; he was holding a gun. I could see everyone was on the floor. I saw you stand and start to draw your weapon, and for just a second I thought everything was going to be all right. He couldn't see you, you were behind him, we could have had him surrounded. I tried not to react and tip him off. But before you could take aim, something distracted him, maybe a woman screamed, I'm not sure. Whatever happened, it must have panicked him. He spun around and shot you, full in the chest. I saw you fall...you just crumpled.... It all happened in an instant."
She tried to keep her voice calm and dispassionate, as if she were delivering just another field report. But Mulder could hear the raw fear behind her words.
"My gun was in my hand, but I don't remember drawing it. I yelled at him to drop his weapon. But he wouldn't; he wanted me to drop my gun. It was a standoff - but I needed to check on you, you were having trouble breathing and there was so much blood... But then he showed me the bomb strapped to himself, so I was outgunned... I had no choice. I gave him my gun." Her voice was trembling and her words halting. But the tone of defeat and humiliation was unmistakable.
Mulder wanted nothing more at that moment than to put his arms around her, to tell her everything was all right and that it was only a nightmare. To kiss the crown of her head and reassure her that there were no monsters under the bed. But he knew that her need to talk was greater than her need for reassurance. And they both knew that monsters had better hiding places than under the bed. So he tamped down his instincts and listened. But she seemed reluctant to continue, the memory too painful to recount.
"So you gave him your gun...."
"Mulder, it was so damned real... I was trying to assess your condition and negotiate with the suspect... keep him talking. I remember I had trouble getting your tie off, it was so soggy."
"Soggy?" Mulder was puzzled.
"With blood."
Oh.
"There was blood everywhere; it was sticky on my fingers. I had my hand pressed over the wound; I knew I was hurting you, but I had to try to stop the bleeding. I could feel your pulse, it was thready and getting weaker. You were conscious and I think you were trying to tell me something, but you were too weak to get the words out. I knew you didn't have much time, you needed help right away." Her voice was unsteady. She was clutching the mug as if it were the last lifesaver on the Lusitania.
"So I just kept talking to Steve, or whatever his name was. I knew there would be SWAT teams surrounding the building and they didn't know about the bomb. There was no way to let them know and there was no way to talk him down." He could see her eyes were glistening by the light of the TV and realized just how much effort it took to keep the tears at bay.
"As the SWAT team started to storm the building, he moved to detonate the bomb. The last thing I remember is screaming 'No'."
Mulder mouthed the last word silently along with her.
"That was tonight's version. The details change, but it always ends up with both of us in the bank and the bank being blown up."
There was an awkward silence as Mulder tried to absorb it all. Next time, he'd think twice before asking for the gory details.
"So what do you think it means, Scully?"
"I don't know. I'm a pathologist, not a psychologist. You once said a dream is the answer to a question we haven't learned how to ask yet. But if that's the answer, I'm not sure I want to know the question."
"Maybe that's the problem. You said it yourself - your unconscious has other ideas."
"Look, it's too late to start going into this now."
"Are you ready for another trip to the bank tonight?"
Dead silence greeted him.
"So then, let's start with the obvious: fear of death," he said.
She shook her head, quickly dismissing the notion.
"No, it's not that. I don't want to die, Mulder, because I have too much to live for. But I don't fear my own death. I've come close enough to know that there's sadness and some regrets, but no fear."
He found the answer both reassuring and unsettling. What regrets did she have, and how many was he responsible for? No time for that now; save that for another night's insomnia. Now, to word the next question so he wouldn't sound like an egomaniac.
"What about the deaths of other people? The bystanders in the bank?"
What about me?
As if reading his mind, she said, "It's been a while since you've had a near death experience, huh? And as I recall, I was instrumental in hauling your ass out of the Bermuda Triangle. I suppose there's always a certain concern that you're going to do something that I can't fix, but I think I've learned to live with that. I think I can cover your back."
"What about the opposite - my ability to cover your back?"
"Mulder, you've gone to the ends of the earth to haul my ass out of danger.... I think we're pretty safe on that score."
"Career ambitions? Scully, you know working on the X-Files is holding you back. Any regrets or resentment over that? Remember, this is your therapist speaking. What you tell me will never get back to your partner."
"Well, 'Dr. Petrie', there is nothing I'd rather be doing, either inside or outside the FBI. And if my blockhead partner is too dense to realize that, I doubt anything you or I could say would get through to him."
"I'll keep that in mind next time I run into him... But while we're on the topic of your blockhead partner...any issues there?" He held his breath waiting for her response - would she take advantage of the situation and tell him what an asshole he had been over Diana? The moment seemed to stretch out endlessly before she finally answered.
"Nothing major; just the minor misunderstandings that are bound to occur when two people work as closely as we do. I'm sure I get on his nerves as much as he gets on mine."
"Does that mean he's forgiven for 'Rob' and 'Laura'?"
"Don't push it, Mulder."
"Scully, a minute ago, you said you'd learned to live with the idea that I might do something you couldn't fix. Are you sure about that? Not just me, but life in general."
"You mean is this about losing control? Or being out of control? Feeling like I have to fix the whole world? I don't think it's anything that cosmic... that's more you're area than mine."
"Maybe not the whole world, but what about your own life - being in control of your future?"
"I don't know, I think I'm in as much control of my life as anybody...in a healthy, appropriate, non-anal, non-overbearing way, of course," she said, anticipating his next question.
"Then let's try a different angle. What was the overriding emotion you remember? Fear? Anger?"
"Speed. Not an emotion, I know, but the strongest impression I have is the speed at which everything happened once I hit the bank. I felt like I was in the middle of a whirlwind. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't juggle everything I needed to do -- make sure the civilians were safe, check on your condition, negotiate with him, listen for the SWAT team, tell yo-"
She stopped short, suddenly aware that she had said too much.
His ears perked up. "Tell me what, Scully?"
"I... I don't know, that's where things get fuzzy," she said lamely.
"Fuzzy?" He looked at her sharply. What kind of crap was that? Just a minute ago, every detail of her dream was crystal clear, now it had conveniently gone 'fuzzy'.
"Yeah," she replied softly, studiously avoiding his eyes, "I can't quite pin it down."
Scully always was a lousy liar, probably from lack of practice. But he thought he deserved better. Apparently she had some kind of breakthrough, some revelation or insight that she wasn't willing to tell him about. And though he knew he should be relieved that she had discovered some kind of answer, he wasn't. He was angry and frustrated. Why wouldn't she trust her blockhead partner enough to be come clean? Why did she insist on closing herself off?
He thought of a half dozen retorts, each one more caustic than the last. He let out a long sigh, determined to keep his emotions in check. They were both too exhausted for a confrontation right now and he didn't want to risk saying something he might regret later.
But if Scully had some dramatic revelation, she gave no sign. She sat, her face impassive, her expression inscrutable, the epitome of the enigmatic Dr. Scully, as she slowly finished her cocoa. She stifled an obviously forced yawn. "Thanks for the effort, but I guess I'm not going to get any answers tonight. I'm going to try to get a little sleep before morning. Goodnight, Mulder."
She took the mug and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later, he saw her silhouetted in the doorway, hesitant, the picture of indecision. Finally, she took a deep breath, smoothed the folds of her robe and straightened her shoulders, adopting her best military posture. He recognized the ritual - it usually preceded a particularly rough confrontation with Skinner or the OPR. It was Scully's way of summoning up her courage before battle.
Her decision made, she acted quickly. A few steps brought her to his spot on the couch. In a swift gesture, she leaned down and gave him a short, fierce hug. A brief touch of lips to cheek and a husky voice in his ear, "I love you, too, Mulder." And just as quickly, she was gone.
A slow smile crossed his face. He rubbed his cheek, as if he could prolong the sensation of her lips.
"Sweet dreams, Scully."