Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She’s quiet on the drive. I run through my mental Rolodex of ways to fill the silence, car games or stupid jokes or waxing lyrical about something I read in one of the files, but the words won’t come. A few minutes in, I turn on the radio, and we listen to the oldies station for a while. I steal glances at her, unable to shake the irrational fear that she might disappear if I look away for too long. She pretends not to notice.

Early morning light dances across her features as we glide through the quiet streets, light and shadow shifting and changing, like she’s standing in front of one of my slideshows. It starts to rain, and she rolls down her window, holds out a hand to catch the drops.

We pull up outside her building, and I kill the engine. The sudden silence is heavy, humid, the kind that fills your lungs and makes it impossible to draw breath.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Scully says, her voice cutting through with medical precision. “For... everything.”

Her tone is so serious, so... final. It scares me. I think back to a few hours ago, her face when she told me she wouldn’t let this thing beat her, the way her eyes blazed like blue fire, with the kind of fearless determination I’ve come to associate with this small but mighty partner of mine. I try to hear that Scully in her voice now, but find that I can’t.

“I meant what I said,” I tell her, reaching out to touch her chin. When she doesn’t pull away, I tip her face toward me so that we’re eye-to-eye. “You will find a way to save yourself. I know it.”

She offers a small, dry-eyed smile, but won’t hold my gaze. It feels like someone’s cleaved my chest in two. She reaches for the door handle and the wound gapes wider.

“Hey, are you hungry?” I ask, suddenly. “Why don’t we grab some breakfast?”

Scully shakes her head. “I’m tired...”

“Do you want me to come up, I could -”

“I’m fine, Mulder,” she says sharply, cutting me off. I look at her pleadingly. Give me a clue here, Scully.

“Really,” she relents, and I’m relieved to hear some of the same softness in her voice from our conversation at the hospital. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

I nod, unable to speak around the lump forming in my throat. Scully gets out of the car, pulling her overnight bag from the footwell and slinging it over one shoulder. Too late, I realize I should help her, at least offer to walk her to the door, but she’s halfway up the steps before I think to move, and she’d just tell me she was fine anyway. I watch her put her key in the door and will her to look back, but she doesn’t. She steps inside, swallowed by the dark mouth of her building, leaving me staring at the empty space she left behind.

Back at my apartment, I find I’m too exhausted to sleep. Some old movie I’ve seen a dozen times plays on the TV and I stare at the box, letting my eyes drift in and out of focus. I think about the women in Allentown—all dead, now—and try not to imagine Scully’s pale face among theirs, blood dripping from her nose, stark against too-pale skin.

I rub my eyes until I see stars, but the picture doesn’t change. The events of the last few days tumble over and over in my head, and eventually my thoughts turn to the contents of the little glass vial now sitting in my freezer drawer.

I don’t know why I didn’t tell her. The plan was to tell her everything as soon as I got to the hospital. But then she wasn’t in her room, and I found the journal, read the things she’d written, and then she was there and Penny Northern was dead and she looked so sad, and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t break her heart all over again.

Barren. That’s what the Crawford clones said. These women were made barren by whatever was done to them. The thought makes me nauseous. I don’t know if motherhood is something currently on Scully's radar—and why should it be? Up until a few days ago, she had all the time in the world. My mind wanders back to Home, Pennsylvania; a conversation about mankind’s instinct to propagate, the first time I’d really considered that Scully might harbor dreams of one day settling down and starting a family. To think now that that chance may have been stolen from her, on top of everything else...

I glance at the digital clock on the desk. 9:20am.

Before I know what I’m doing, I find myself standing in my kitchen with the freezer drawer open, staring at the vial.

I’ll tell Scully everything. I will. Just as soon as I have answers. When all this is over, she deserves to know whether she still has a shot at a normal life... if a normal life is what she wants. Until I know for sure, I won’t burden her with this. Let her focus on getting better.

Decision made, I grab my jacket off the hook on the door and slip the vial into my pocket.

Coward, says the voice in my head, the one that sometimes sounds like Samantha. You’re afraid to tell her because you already know the truth. There is no normal life for her, not now and not ever again. You can’t save her. Just like you couldn’t save me.

I screw my eyes shut, trying to block out the voice and the creeping dread spreading up from the base of my skull. It occurs to me that I haven’t slept in nearly forty-eight hours. If Scully were here, she’d tell me to get some rest.

The glass of the vial is cool beneath my fingertips. This can’t wait. I’ll rest once I have some answers. I’m out the door and dialling the gunmen before I can convince myself to drop it.

Chapter Text

I decline Mulder’s offer for a ride home from the station, telling him I’d rather get a cab. He looks visibly hurt, giving me that kicked-puppy look that can either break my heart or make me want to throttle him, depending on the day. Today it’s the latter.

The night air hits me like a ton of bricks as I spill out into the street, leaving Mulder standing by the front desk and gaping at me like one of his fish. I’d almost forgotten about the wine, but it makes itself known, my head spinning a little at the sudden change in temperature. I think I hear Mulder calling after me, but I pretend not to. I hail the first cab I see, bundle myself into the backseat and tell the driver to take me home. We drive for a few minutes before I have a sudden change of heart and give him Mom’s address, instead.

She answers the door in her nightgown, and only now does it occur to me how late it is.

“Dana?” she says, unable to hide the alarm on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Hi, Mom,” I say, and suddenly it all hits me at once. The humiliation. The shame. Tears burn the back of my throat, and I can feel my lower lip tremble.

Seeing my distress, Mom gathers me into her arms like I’m eleven years old again, crying over my first crush. The smell of her lavender night cream envelopes me, and I hug her back, allowing myself the indulgence of just a few, quick tears. She asks me again what’s wrong, but I just shake my head and allow her to usher me into the warm glow of the house.

“I’ll make us some tea,” she says, once I’m settled on the couch, and I nod and smile, gathering myself. When she returns with two steaming mugs, she nestles in next to me, reaching out to brush a stray teardrop from my cheek with her thumb.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong?”

A shaky laugh escapes me. How the hell do I even begin answering that question? It’s difficult enough trying to explain mine and Mulder’s relationship to my mother as it is, without factoring in shape-shifting janitors.

“Is it Fox?” Mom prompts. “Did something happen to him?”

“No, he’s okay,” I say. “I mean, he’s not hurt. Something... something did happen.”

Mom sips her tea and watches me, waiting for me to continue at my own pace.

“Something almost happened,” I correct myself. Only, that’s not true. Because it wasn’t Mulder. It was Eddie Van Blundht. There is simply no way to explain this to my mom, so I plough ahead. “I thought I wanted something to happen. But then it... didn’t. And I don’t know how I feel about it.”

Understanding lights her face, and she offers an awkward smile. “Oh... I see.”

Of course, she doesn’t see. Not really. God, I practically threw myself at him—at Eddie—and all it took was an hour of conversation and a couple glasses of Merlot? I grimace, accosted once again by the look on Mulder’s face as he burst through the door and saw me, inches away from locking lips with an imposter. An imposter wearing his face. Oh, God.

Mom is watching me with a curious look on her face. I think she is waiting for me to explain, to go into more detail, but when I don’t, she sets her mug down on the coffee table and folds her hands together in her lap, before sighing heavily.

“So this... almost something,” she says, and I can tell the subject matter makes her a little uncomfortable. God only knows what she’s imagining. “Whose decision was it to... stop things going further?”

I feel the warmth of blood rushing to my face. I suddenly find I can’t look directly at her. “We were interrupted.” A half-truth.

She pauses, apparently considering this. “And did you talk... afterwards?”

I shake my head. “No... there was a work thing. We didn’t have time.” After getting Van Blundht to the station and hurriedly giving my statement, I’d just wanted to get the hell out of there and lick my wounds in private. I take a long sip of my tea—peppermint with a dash of honey, hot and sharp and with just enough sweetness to disguise the bitterness of the over-steeped leaves. It soothes my dry throat as it goes down.

“But the thing that... didn’t happen,” Mom presses. “You both wanted it to happen? You feel that way about each other?”

Placing my mug next to mom’s, I lean back into the couch and put my hands over my face, struggling to make sense of what I’m feeling. If it really had been Mulder, and not Eddie... If we hadn’t been interrupted, how far might it have gone? When he leaned in, his breath hot on my face, I had wanted to kiss him—to kiss Mulder—to close the space between us and press my lips against his, push my tongue into his mouth...

No. What the hell am I thinking? It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Mulder. It doesn’t matter what I may or may not have wanted in that moment, because the fact is that Mulder’s feelings toward me are an unknown quantity. It was Eddie that wanted to kiss me—nauseating as that thought is, I have to face it—not Mulder. Of course, I can’t say any of this to mom.

“No,” I say, uncertainly. Then, with a little more resolve, “It doesn’t matter. He’s my friend, my partner. What we have is too important. Besides, he doesn’t think of me... that way.”

“What about you?” she asks, tilting her head.

“What do you mean?”

“You said Fox doesn’t think of you that way. How do you think of him?”

That is the question, isn’t it? How do I think of him? As a partner, a confidant? A friend, maybe my best friend? I love him, of course I do. We’ve been through so much together in the few short years we’ve known each other. He’s saved my life, and I his, more times than I can count.

And yes, there has always been this... thing between us. An energy. Static before a thunderstorm, the way our eyes meet and I feel the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck stand on end. His touch, featherlight, on the small of my back. Electricity.

But it’s Mulder. He’s my partner and we have a job to do, a mission. His mission that has somehow become mine, and nothing will ever come before that. Everything we’ve done, everything we’ve seen together, it’s all been in service of our quest for the truth. Regardless of how I may or may not feel about him, there is just no universe in which pursuing any kind of romantic relationship with Mulder would work, for either of us.

So then why would I have let him kiss me tonight? When I thought it was Mulder, when he leaned in, my heart hammering wildly, an animal trapped behind my ribcage. Why didn’t I pull away?

All this storms through my mind like a flash flood, a dizzying rush of feeling and memory. The silence seems to yawn and stretch, punctuated only by the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hall, and suddenly it’s been too long and I realize my lack of an answer is answer enough.

Mom is quiet for a long time, her eyes searching my face. Her expression is unreadable. I feel myself blushing under her scrutiny, and pick up my mug again just to have something to do with my hands.

Finally, she speaks, her voice suddenly loud in the stillness.

“I think you’re wrong, Dana.”

“Wrong?”

I realize she is no longer looking at me. She’s staring straight ahead, but her eyes are misty and faraway.

“When you were gone,” she says, and the catch in her voice makes my chest ache. “There was going to be a memorial. A funeral...”

I’m stunned. She’s never told me this before. I try to speak, but find that my mouth is suddenly desert dry.

“I’m sorry,” she adds, still not looking at me. “After so long without a word... I just felt that it was time. I had a headstone made.”

A small noise escapes me, somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

“I’m so sorry, Dana,” she says again, finally looking back at me with watery eyes. “I just couldn’t bear the uncertainty. I needed to put you to rest.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

“But Fox... He knew it was too soon. He told me as much.”

I try to picture it; Mulder standing over my headstone, his hazel eyes dark with grief, the muscle in his jaw pulled taut. I imagine our roles reversed, how I would feel in his place. Tears burn the back of my throat.

“He refused to give up on you,” Mom is saying. “I don’t think he ever would have.”

I try to take this in, turning the words over in my head. I’ve never thought much about how it was for them, when I was gone. Those missing months are a blank space, my only memories fractured and vague, flashes of images and sense memory—the white place, pain, fear. Of course, it has occurred to me that the world must have kept turning while I was gone, that the people in my life were left to wait and wonder. But in the aftermath of my return, I just wanted to put it behind me. To try and move forward. I couldn’t torture myself thinking about what it must have been like for them. It was easier to just keep moving.

Mom places a hand over mine. Her skin is cool and dry. I give her hand a little squeeze, still unable to speak but needing to let her know that it’s okay.

Composing herself, she goes to speak again. “I suppose my point is, if there is something between you... you have time. And whatever did or didn’t happen tonight, the opportunity will come again. I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” she adds, with a warm smile. “Give it time. Things will fall into place.”

I force myself to smile in return, but there is a coldness in the centre of my chest, spreading out to my extremities. Time. And I realize, suddenly, the thing I have been ignoring. The thing I have been forcing myself not to think about. The reason I would have let Mulder kiss me, tonight. The reason I would have let it go even further than that.

Mom is watching me carefully, and I realize my thoughts must be written all over my face. Her smile falters. We finish our tea in silence, the only sound the ticking of the clock. I try not to think about the fact that eventually, the ticking will stop.

Chapter Text

Sometime around 2am, I give up on sleep. I pace my small apartment aimlessly, a lost soul unable to move on, stuck in perpetual limbo. I feel the walls closing in, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

It takes all my willpower not to pick up the phone.

The doctor said I was fine.

Four years and however many months spent banished to the basement together, four years of cross-country flights, car games, connecting motel doors, shitty diner food and burnt bullpen coffee. Four years of her face opposite mine, the arch of her perfectly shaped eyebrow, the twitch at the corner of her mouth when she tries not to smile at one of my stupid jokes, the glint in her eye when she knows she’s about to prove me wrong.

I know her face better than I know my own. After four years and however many months, I can tell when she’s lying.

Or choosing to deliberately omit something important, which ultimately amounts to the same thing. Besides, I think bitterly, it’s not like she’s not capable.

The fridge is empty aside from a carton of milk that’s almost certainly past its sell-by, and a solitary bottle of Shiner Bock, the last of a sixpack I don’t remember buying. I take it out and pop the cap off, taking a long pull. It’s cold and malty and refreshing, but I find myself wishing I had something stronger. Hear that, Scully? You’ve officially driven me to drink. What a mess.

I lean against the kitchen counter sipping the beer. Pale moonlight filters into the living room through the gaps in the blinds, but the kitchenette remains swathed in shadow. Somewhere outside, a car alarm goes off. I run a weary hand over my face, unable to shake the image of Scully as I last saw her; eyes shining with tears she refused to shed. For the hundredth time, I ask myself if I was too harsh.

I know what you’re afraid of. I’m afraid of the same thing.

Fuck this. I finish the rest of the beer in one long swig, toss the empty bottle in the trash and wipe the foam from my mouth with the back of my hand. I slip into my running shoes and out the door.

The night air is cool on my skin. I run with no plan, no destination, on autopilot. My feet hit the pavement in time with the thumping of my heart, the rush of my blood drowning out the sounds of Alexandria at night. As my body falls into a rhythm, I imagine my mind as a lake, still and undisturbed, the surface like a dark mirror, but the thoughts I’m trying to ignore continue to float up from the depths like so many bodies.

Scully thinks she’s dying. If she really saw the dead girl, then she believes she saw it because she doesn’t have long left. That’s why she couldn’t tell me. For the first time in our partnership, I hope desperately that I was wrong about this case. I want her to swoop in with science and hard fact and tell me Mulder, you’re crazy, there’s no such thing as a death omen.

I run faster, legs pumping, breath tearing from my lungs. I push myself harder and harder, anything to ignore the inevitable, but once the thought has taken root it becomes impossible to shake. She thinks she’s dying. She’s giving up.

A blood curdling scream splits the night, and I stop in my tracks. I’ve wandered onto a street I don’t recognize, and up ahead is the entrance to a small cemetery. Frozen in place, I listen intently, and sure enough I hear another voice—male—and the sounds of a struggle. I jog into the cemetery toward the source of the noise.

Between rows of headstones, I can just make out two figures—a man and a woman—locked in a violent embrace beneath the shadow of a live oak tree. I run toward them, instinctively reaching for my firearm only to realize I’ve left it behind.

“Hey!”

The woman yells something—help me?—and the man turns toward me. Roughly tossing her to the ground, he rushes me. I try to dodge, but he’s too fast, his head hitting me square in the abdomen, knocking the wind out of me. We tumble to the floor, a mess of thrashing limbs. He stinks of stale booze and cigarettes.

I try to flip us and get on top of him. I’m still recovering my breath, but the other man is shorter, less coordinated, and before long I’m able to get him under me, driving my knee into his back to pin him down.

“Stay down!” I yell, trying to pin both his arms with one of mine while I reach into my pocket for my cell phone, realizing too late that I didn’t bring it. I look over my shoulder at the woman, dazedly getting to her feet somewhere behind us. “Do you have a phone?”

She stares at me, wide-eyed, and I realize she can’t be much older than eighteen. She’s dressed in a tiny black mini-skirt, torn net tights and a tank top that shows off a belly ring. Her dirty blonde hair is wild and unkempt, and she has the beginnings of a bruise blooming on one cheek. She looks feral. Terrified. From her pale neck hangs a thin gold chain, a small cross dangling over the hollow of her throat.

Before I can repeat my question, she turns on her heel and takes off running.

“Wait -” I start to say, but the man beneath me bucks up suddenly, taking advantage of my momentary distraction. I lose my balance, and he manages to scramble out from under me, knocking me on my back. He’s on his feet before I know what’s happened, and I feel his foot connect with my ribs—hard—knocking the wind out of me again. Wheezing, I curl into a protective ball and roll away, hoping to avoid another blow to the ribs and earning one in the kidneys instead. The pain is intense, and I have time to think gonna be pissing blood later before his foot connects again, this time square in the centre of my back. He gets in another couple blows and it’s all I can do to curl further into myself and bring my arms up to try and protect my face.

By the time I realize it’s over, my assailant is long gone and I’m left coughing pathetically in the dirt.

As my ragged breathing slows to normal, I eventually get to my feet. Wincing a little, I pat myself down, assessing the damage. Definitely going to be sore in the morning, but nothing broken as far as I can tell. Limping, and a little dazed, I make my way out of the cemetery and back onto the street.

I’ve not made it a dozen yards before I feel eyes on me, the telltale prickle at the base of my skull. Expecting the man and wanting to make damn sure he doesn’t get the drop on me again, I turn around and instead lock eyes with the girl from before. She’s perched on the cemetery wall, watching me. She awkwardly raises a hand in greeting, before jumping down from the wall and tentatively stepping nearer. Streetlight glints off the gold cross around her neck.

“Thanks,” she says, nonchalantly. “For stepping in. Sorry you got your ass kicked.”

Her demeanor is so casual, so antithetical to her terrified look from before, I can’t help but laugh. “It’s nothing. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

She snorts. “I’m fine. Not my first rodeo.” She eyes me, fluttering heavily mascaraed lashes. “Looks like you could use a little TLC, though. You looking for a date?”

I look her up and down. Now that she’s standing right in front of me, I realize my assessment from before was correct; this girl can’t be older than eighteen. I suspect younger, possibly a runaway. I wonder where her parents are, if they know their little girl is out walking the streets, and something tightens in my chest.

It must show on my face, because she rolls her eyes irritably and shoves past me. “Whatever, dude.”

“Wait,” I call, limping after her. “Do you live around here? Let me walk you home.”

“I’m fine -”

“I’m a federal agent,” I say, stopping her in her tracks. “Either I take you home or I take you downtown for soliciting.”

I’m sure she’s about to take off running again, but she doesn’t; she turns back to face me, looking me up and down with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“You’re a cop?”

“FBI,” I say.

“Where’s your gun?” she asks, eyebrow arched in a way that reminds me of Scully.

“Left it at home.”

“Badge?”

“That, too.”

The girl scoffs. “No offense, dude, but you’re not much of an FBI agent.”

I shrug, you got me. “Where do you live?”

She pauses, considering. After a few seconds pass, she sighs in resignation. “I’m staying at a shelter in Crystal City.”

I hold out my arm in a lead the way gesture. She rolls her eyes again, but she’s smiling now. I smile back.

We walk together in silence for a while. I think about asking how old she is, but figure she’ll only lie to me. Eventually, I ask her name.

“Kandi,” she says without missing a beat. I chuff a laugh, and she glares at me. “What’s so funny?”

“Cause you’re so sweet, right?” I shake my head. “I meant your real name.”

She gives me a yeah, right look. “I don’t know you, man.”

“Fair point. Name’s Mulder. Fox Mulder.”

“Fox? Seriously?”

I nod. “I’d show you my ID, but I left it in my other pants.”

Kandi offers a sarcastic smile. The bruise under her eye seems to be getting darker. I gesture to it and ask if it hurts.

“I’m fine,” she says, a little bluntly, and I’m once again reminded of Scully. I wonder briefly what she’d make of all this, before the thought of her brings it all rushing back: the case, her cancer. The look on her face when we last spoke; the fear in her voice.

I saw something, Mulder.

“What are you thinking about?” Kandi asks, snapping me back to the present. She is watching me with unguarded curiosity, her big doe-eyes the color of fall leaves in the amber glow of the streetlamps.

“My partner,” I tell her. “She’s sick. She thinks she’s dying.”

“Is she?”

I don’t know how to answer that question. Since the day Scully told me about her cancer, I have held onto the hope that together we might find a way to save her. It is a belief I had hoped we shared, until tonight.

I want to deny it, but for the first time, I find that I can’t.

“I... don’t know.”

Kandi doesn’t say anything, and we slip back into silence, our footsteps echoing in the still air. By the time we reach the outskirts of Crystal City, the streetlights have begun to blink out and the sky has gone from tar black to navy blue, shot through with streaks of pink and lilac as the sun peeks over the horizon. Kandi leads me down a series of side streets, before coming to a stop in front of a nondescript building that could be office space, were it not for the discreet sign out front reading New Hope Residential Center.

“This is me,” she says, pausing by the gate. Her eyes skim over me again, her lids drooping seductively. “You know, we’re not supposed to have guests, but I could probably sneak you in and out before anyone else wakes up... You sure I can’t make it up to you? I won’t make you pay.”

Maybe if you were ten years older. But, even then, probably not. I just smile and shake my head. Kandi shrugs—your loss—and pushes the gate open. She looks back over her shoulder and I raise a hand to wave goodbye.

“It’s Sam, by the way,” she says, and my heart jumps in my chest. “Not Kandi. I’m sorry about your friend. I hope she makes it.”

I just nod, dumbstruck by the coincidence. Without another word, she enters a code into the keypad by the door and disappears into the shelter. Part of me wants to go after her, to make sure she’s okay, that she’ll be safe here. But even as the thought crosses my mind, I realize there's nothing I can do for her. She's not mine to save. I turn back the way I came and begin the long walk home.

By the time I make it back to my apartment, the day has begun in earnest. I shutter the blinds, blocking out the daylight, hoping I can catch an hour or so’s rest before I have to get up again. I’m exhausted, my entire body aching from the beating I took and spending hours on my feet. I kick off my shoes and practically stumble to the couch, collapsing onto the old leather with a huff.

Just as my eyes fall closed and I feel the blessed void of sleep beginning to tug at my consciousness, the phone rings, jolting me awake.

“Hello?”

“Mulder, it’s me.”

I sit up straighter. “Hey, Scully. Everything okay?”

“I’m fine. I just wanted to let you know that Skinner gave us the day off. I already sent over my report...” There’s a pause. I hear shuffling on the other end of the phone, imagine her anxiously winding the cord around her fingers. “I also wanted to... apologize about yesterday. You were right, I should have told you what I saw.”

I feel a familiar pang of guilt. “You don’t need to apologize, Scully... I was an ass.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it,” she says, and I swear I can hear her smile. The weight that’s been sitting on my chest since I left her yesterday finally begins to ease. I can’t help it; I smile back. Before I can speak again, I have to stifle a yawn.

“You sound tired—I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. Long night. Weird night. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll see you Monday, Mulder.”

“See ya, Scully.”

When I go to put the phone back in the receiver, I notice my answering machine is flashing red with a new message. I press the playback button and Frohike’s voice fills the room.

“Hey Mulder, got something for you. A doctor by the name of Goldstein, working with abductees. Apparently he’s got this new fangled treatment that helps people access repressed memories. Thought you might be interested. I’m faxing you over the deets. Call me back when you get this.”

Glancing over at the fax machine, I see a single sheet of paper sitting in the output tray. I snatch up the document, my eyes scanning the page, sleep momentarily forgotten.

Chapter Text

I am getting so sick of hospitals. The ache behind my eyes that has been building since yesterday pulses under the glare of fluorescent lights, the stench of antiseptic clinging to the back of my throat, making me want to gag. Monitors beep, sneakers squeak against linoleum. Even here in the relative quiet of the ward, there is no peace. I close my eyes and long for silence.

Someone—one of the local officers whose name I’ve already forgotten—hands me a steaming cup of coffee and I take it, willing my hands not to shake. It’s scalding hot and bitter as death, but I gulp it gratefully anyway, hoping the pain might offer some distraction. The scene keeps playing over and over in my head: Mulder, face contorted in pain or rage or anguish, the barrel of his gun tracing the line of his jaw. If I hadn’t gotten there when I did...

The door to his room opens, and I look up sharply. A young doctor ushers me over.

“How is he?” I ask.

“He’s doing better. Much more lucid than when you brought him in. I want to keep him overnight for observation, and to give the ketamine a chance to wear off, but if there’s no more seizure activity by the morning, then you’re free to take him home.”

I let out a breath, my body relaxing incrementally. “Thank you.”

“He’s resting now, but you can go in if you’d like to see him.”

I nod once and thank the doctor again.

I slip into his room, pushing the door gently closed behind me. Mulder is lying on his side facing the wall, head resting on his hands. I quietly make my way around the bed to see if he’s asleep or just trying to avoid a difficult conversation. His eyes are closed, lashes resting on his cheeks, and his face is slack. The shadows beneath his eyes are a deep purple. Something loosens in my chest as I take in the soothing woosh of his slow breaths. Fine. We can talk tomorrow.

There’s a hotel nearby. I consider spending the night at the hospital, but the doctor assures me Mulder’s going to be fine, and the prospect of an actual bed is too good to pass up. I check myself into a single room, eager for a hot shower, but before I can do so, I call Skinner to fill him in. No doubt the Rhode Island PD have already informed the Bureau about what happened; now it’s time for some damage control.

Skinner listens as I run through the events of the last few days: the phone call from Mulder, his memory loss, the seizures. The ill-fated Cassandras. He assures me that he’s already pulled some strings to keep this under wraps. Although cleared of any wrongdoing, if this story gets out it could mean the end of Mulder’s career—the end of the X-Files—a fact both Skinner and I are all too aware of.

“What about you?” Skinner says, once we’ve gone over everything. “How are you doing, Agent Scully?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. A lie.

He makes a noncommittal hum, and I’m grateful to him for not pushing the subject. He tells me he’s signing off on vacation time for the two of us, but that he expects to see us when we’re back in DC for a debrief. I suspect that he wants to see Mulder for himself, to get a sense of where his head is at, some combination of professional interest and genuine concern. We say our goodbyes and hang up, and I lie on the too-soft hotel mattress and stare at the plaster patterns in the ceiling, suddenly too exhausted even to get up and walk to the bathroom.

Mulder has done a lot of impulsive, reckless things in the time that I’ve been partnered with him, but this was something else entirely. In the past, his actions, however foolhardy, have always been in the interest of solving the case. Rarely has he been so needlessly self-destructive.

I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened if I hadn’t gotten to him in time. The look on his face when I found him, the barrel of his gun kissing his jaw... The image is burned into the backs of my eyelids, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t keep my thoughts from barreling toward their inevitable conclusion. This time, I was there to stop him from pulling the trigger. But what about next time? The time after that? The fact is, I may not be around much longer. Who’s going to look out for him then?

I feel tears begin to pool, followed immediately by a hot flash of anger right in the center of my chest. Damn him.

My anger galvanizes me. I force myself to get up and take a shower, running the water as hot as I can stand it. The pressure is good, a step up from some of the shitty motels Mulder and I usually end up in, and the room quickly fills with steam. I take slow, measured breaths, methodically washing my hair and body, focusing on each action. Stepping out only when my skin is scrubbed raw and lobster pink, I feel somewhat calmer, grounded. I wrap myself in the complimentary robe that came with the room and curl up on top of the bedcovers, willing sleep to come quickly. Mercifully, it does.

We don’t talk on the drive. Mulder sleeps on and off, waking occasionally and mumbling something about letting him drive—not a chance—but his heart’s not really in it. We stop around the halfway mark at a roadside diner for something to eat. Mulder orders pancakes and bacon, and I order a chicken salad and black coffee. Halfway through the meal, I notice him watching me expectantly.

“Is this the silent treatment?” he asks, suddenly, letting his fork drop onto his plate. The resulting clatter is loud in the busy diner, and there’s a hush as the other patrons turn in their seats to find the source of the noise. I shoot him a look.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve barely said two words to me since you picked me up,” he mutters, quieter now. He picks up his fork and starts jabbing at his food.

“You’ve been asleep,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. There are things we need to talk about, but not here, not now. “I figured you needed your rest.”

He scoffs irritably, and anger swells behind my ribcage. Is he really going to sit there and pout? I feel a rush of sympathy for Teena Mulder for having to deal with him as a teenager, which only makes me angrier because truthfully I can’t stand the woman.

“I’m not doing this now,” I say through gritted teeth, spearing my last piece of chicken with a little more force than is absolutely necessary. Mulder doesn’t respond, just continues playing with his food, the muscle in his jaw working.

I see it before I feel it, a fat crimson droplet soaking into a soggy piece of lettuce on my plate, followed by a tickle in my nose, the telltale warmth on my upper lip. Dropping my fork, my hand flies to my face. Mulder looks up and our eyes meet, his widening in surprise and concern.

“Damn it,” I hiss, grabbing at the napkins with my free hand. I shuffle out of the booth and head for the bathroom. I can feel Mulder’s eyes boring into me as I go.

The bleed is a bad one. By the time I make it over the sink, the gush has slowed to a trickle, but blood has already soaked through the napkins and is dripping down onto my shirt. I lean forward and run the tap, resting my arms on the porcelain on either side of me as the last of it drains away. Splashing cold water on my face, I stare at myself in the dirty mirror, barely recognizing the pale, gaunt woman staring back at me.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“Scully?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that could somehow make him go away. He knocks again, a little more insistent.

“Scully, are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine, Mulder!” I try for reassuring, but my words come out a little harsher than I mean them to.

Once I've cleaned myself up as best I can, I step out of the bathroom only to find Mulder waiting on the other side of the door with an anxious look on his face.

“Are you ready to go?” I say, before he can ask if I’m okay again. His jaw twitches and I think he’s going to anyway, but instead he just nods once. Head high, I march out to the car, tossing some notes down on our table as we pass it.

The silence stretches between us, taut as animal skin on a drum. This time, Mulder doesn’t sleep, and throughout the last leg of the journey, I feel him watching me. A few times I hear him suck in a breath, as if he’s about to speak, before quietly sighing, obviously thinking better of it. After a while, I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose to goad me into initiating conversation. I keep my mouth firmly shut and my eyes fixed on the road.

By the time we pull up outside Mulder’s apartment, the sky is a deep, inky blue, the first few stars winking to life, barely visible beneath the glow of a thousand streetlights. I kill the engine and we sit in the heavy silence, neither of us going to move. Finally, I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn in my seat to face him.

“We need to talk.”

Mulder sighs. Without looking at me, he unbuckles and opens the passenger door, climbing out into the cool evening air. When he pushes the door shut behind him, I’m not sure if he’s ignoring me or if he expects me to follow, so I just sit and stare after him as he begins toward his building. Halfway, he pauses and looks back at me expectantly. I follow him inside.

When we get inside the apartment, Mulder turns on the floor lamp, casting the small room in warm amber, then sits heavily on the couch, letting his head fall back against the old leather. I take a seat in the chair at his desk and try to figure out how to begin. So many hours on the road with nothing to do but think about what to say, and suddenly my mind has gone blank, all the words left scattered somewhere across the I-95.

“I’m sorry, Scully,” Mulder says, surprising me. I look up to find his hazel eyes locked on mine. “I made a mistake.”

“A mistake?”

“I shouldn’t have gone back to Goldstein. It wasn’t fair. I put you in danger -”

“Me? Mulder, what about you?”

His brow furrows. “Me?”

“Mulder, you held a loaded gun to your head!” My voice comes out high-pitched and shaky. The thin veneer of control I’ve clung to these past few days is suddenly in danger of eroding completely. His eyes widen in surprise—as if the prospect of his own demise is something he has only now considered—and this just makes me angrier. He shakes his head incrementally, and I clasp my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking.

“I pointed a gun at you,” he says, and damn him for sounding so calm, so reasonable. Yesterday, he let a lunatic drill holes in his head. Now, suddenly, I’m the one who’s acting hysterical.

“You wouldn’t have hurt me." I hope I sound surer of this than I feel. “I was never in any danger. But you... Mulder, you could have been killed.”

He shakes his head, not in disagreement but dismissal. As if it doesn’t matter. I want to grab him and shake him. Instead, I ask, “Can you just tell me why?”

Mulder leans forward, resting his face in his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled, his answer predictable. “I thought if I could access my repressed memories, it might lead me to some answers about my sister.” He meets my gaze again, and his eyes are dark in the low light. After a pause, he adds, “And about you.”

This throws me. “What?”

He stands abruptly, the sudden movement making me flinch. As he begins to pace the length of the small room, the words fall out of him in a torrent.

“It’s all connected, Scully, don’t you get it? What happened to my sister, what they did to you—the same men are responsible. I thought if I could remember what happened, if there was something I’d forgotten or-or repressed, then maybe it would lead me to answers, or at least a place to start -”

“Don’t you dare tell me you did this for me!” That too-familiar anger burns bright behind my breastbone, and suddenly I’m on my feet, too. “Don’t you dare. You can tell yourself that if you need to, but it’s bullshit and we both know it. This wasn’t about me, this wasn’t even about Samantha. This was about you not being able to face reality.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

His capacity for denial is staggering. Suddenly exhausted, I fall back into the chair, the anger draining out of me as quickly as it arrived.

“I’m dying, Mulder,” I say, and as soon as the words leave my lips I know it to be true. Cancer is cancer, treatment isn’t working and there will be no miracle cure. “I’m dying and there’s nothing anyone can do.”

He looks like he’s been slapped, his body sagging as the fight drains out of him. Part of me wants to go to him, to cross the room and touch his face and offer some comfort, but I find that I can’t. I have nothing left to give.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for getting sick, for leaving you. I’m sorry that I’m not going to be around to see this thing through with you. But you have to keep going. You can’t follow me.”

“Scully -”

“Just, please. Let me finish, okay? I know how hard this is for you, because I know how I’d feel if our roles were reversed. And I know you. It keeps me up at night, Mulder. I think about... after, about what you’ll do, and it scares the hell out of me. And it’s not fair -” I choke back a sob, the words caught in my throat. I try to continue, but find that I can’t, all my energy going toward holding myself together. I cover my face with my hands so he won’t have to see me cry.

Then, his arms are around me, my head tucked beneath his chin, and the dam finally breaks. I sob into his chest, and he holds me, pulling me down off the chair and into his lap on the floor. My hands grasp at him, acting of their own accord, bunching in his shirt. His familiar scent is everywhere; I breathe him in with each shuddering inhale. He presses his lips softly to the crown of my head, runs long fingers through my hair and whispers nonsensical words of comfort.

We stay like that for some time, wrapped up in each other, my tears soaking into his shirt. Finally, I pull away, just enough that I can see his face. His eyes are glistening, and he looks so lost.

“I’m sorry,” he says, reaching out to brush his fingertips along my cheekbone.

“I need...” I start to say, not sure how to finish the sentence. We stare at each other, the air between us thick with four years of unspoken words. It occurs to me again that I could have lost him, the memory of the house in Quonochontaug still clinging to me like seaweed, pulling me down into the dark.

But I didn’t lose him. He’s alive. The manic drumbeat of my heart reminds me that, for now, so am I.

Before I can think about what I’m doing, I lean forward and press my lips to his, satin-soft and sea-salty with tears. He gasps into my mouth, before returning the kiss, his hands immediately wrapping around me once again, pulling me into him. We fall back onto the floor as the kiss deepens, and it feels inevitable. Four years I’ve been caught in his orbit; it was only ever a matter of time before gravity did it’s work and we collided like dying stars.

Holding me close, he rolls us over so my back is against the hardwood, and he’s above me, surrounding me, the weight of his body pressing into mine. He runs his lips along the length of my jaw, down my neck, leaving me gasping, before finding my mouth again. Warmth blooms low in my belly like whiskey, spreading south.

The kiss grows in intensity. My head bumps against the coffee table and I hiss in pain—before I know it, Mulder is helping me to my feet, guiding me over to the couch, where he sits, looking up at me. His lips are wet and swollen, his hooded eyes dark with lust, but there’s an uncertainty in his face, a silent question in the slight crease of his brow. In answer, I kiss him again, letting him pull me down onto his lap. I straddle his waist, my knees digging into the leather, and through his jeans I feel him, hot and hard and eager. His hands find their way under my shirt—one kneading at my breast over the bra, the other splayed across my back. All the while, our lips remain joined, our tongues locked in battle. I grind my pelvis experimentally, and he lets out a low groan that sends a bolt of pleasure straight to my aching core.

“Scully,” he pants, arching his hips for more contact. His large hands bracket my ribcage, and I wonder if he can feel the new prominence of each rib, the thinness of my skin. As the cancer has taken root, my body has begun to change; I'm thinner than I was, paler, my bones beginning to show in places they didn’t before. I wonder if he’s noticed. If he’s noticing now.

I try to shake the thought, to focus on the feel of his mouth on mine, the friction of our bodies. My heart beats wildly in my chest, each beat another tick of the clock. I fumble with his jeans, overcome with a sudden urgency, my shaking fingers struggling with the button. There is no more time to go slow. I just need to know what it would be like, to love him completely. To be loved by him. I can’t go to my grave not knowing.

My grave. Mulder, tossing handfuls of dirt on my casket. Mulder, climbing in after me, burying himself alive.

“Scully?” he says again, still breathless, but there’s a hesitancy in his voice. He touches my face, and I realize I’m crying. The spell is broken, the warmth in my belly suddenly turning cold.

For a second, I’m frozen in place, still straddling his lap, the two of us staring at each other. His eyes are shining, liquid gold, full of such tenderness. I climb off him, backing away until the backs of my knees hit the coffee table. Looking down at myself, I straighten my blouse, run my hands through my hair. Mulder says something, but I can’t hear him over the roar of my blood in my ears.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Avoiding his eyes, I turn to leave, while I still have the willpower. Mulder is on his feet, reaching for me, his fingertips just brushing the skin of my arm, setting the fine hair there on end. I flinch away, as if burned.

“Scully -”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say, my back to him now.

“Scully, please -”

I’m through the door before he can say another word. When I make it to the elevator and the door closes behind me, I grasp the handrail as my body folds in on itself, the air pushed from my lungs in a great gasping sob.

By the time I make it to the car, my hands have stopped shaking, my tears finally running dry. Mulder might hate me for leaving, but it was the right thing to do. It would be selfish of me, to let things go further. I have to believe he’ll understand that, eventually.

I sit in the driver’s seat and chance a look back up at his window, still tacky with the remnants of a masking-tape X.

Chapter Text

In the weeks since the hearing, we’ve settled into a strange rhythm. When she’s not receiving treatment, Scully spends her days with her family. When she’s awake, Maggie likes to read to her; when she sleeps, she sits vigil at her side, holding her hand. Sometimes they pray together. I don’t know what Bill does; from what I’ve seen, he seems to just stomp around looking pissed off. Not that I blame the guy. I’m pissed, too.

Once visiting hours are over, Maggie and Bill say their goodbyes, the nurses on Scully’s ward change shift, and I slip whoever’s on nights a few bucks to turn a blind eye. After the first few times, they stop taking my money.

If she’s not too wiped out from the treatments, we play cards, taking turns letting each other win. Sometimes, we watch old movies, Scully propped up on her pillows, me folded uncomfortably into the hard plastic chair by her bed. One night, we watch Casablanca, and just as Isla is telling Sam to “play it once, for old times’ sake”, Scully shuffles over and pats the space next to her. I’m hesitant, afraid to touch her lest she shatter like porcelain, but she rolls her eyes at my apprehension and tugs on my arm until I climb up next to her, where we lie side-by-side. From then on, this becomes the norm, the two of us stretched out on the bed together, our bodies flush against each other. Sometimes, I put my arm around her, her copper head resting against my shoulder.

When we’re not playing cards or watching movies, mostly we just talk—about ourselves, our lives before we met, our families. The kind of stuff we never used to talk about before. Certain topics remain off limits. We don’t talk about the hearing, about what will become of my career, the future of the X-Files, all of which remain in limbo. We don’t talk about her treatments, or her prognosis. We don’t talk about the chip.

Despite the specter of death hanging over her, there is a strange ease in Scully that both fascinates and frightens me. An acceptance. She’s quick to laugh, soft around the edges. It reminds me of how she was when we first met, before the losses began to chip away at her. Before Duane Barry. Before Melissa.

And then there are the losses she never even knew about. I could never bring myself to tell her what the Kurt Crawford clones showed me. When I took her ova for testing, the doctor said they weren’t viable. I guess it doesn’t matter now.

When I think back on all she’s lost since she threw in her lot with me, I want to find the men responsible, strap a bomb to my chest and blow them all to hell, myself along with them. Good fucking riddance. Once all this is over, maybe I’ll do just that.

These are thoughts I don’t share with Scully. When I come to her room, I leave my rage at the door. If I could trade my life for hers, I’d do it in a heartbeat. If I can’t yank her back from the brink, the least I can do is be there with her as she tumbles over the edge.

The ringing phone wakes me. A nightmare clings sticky to my skin as I drag myself to consciousness—I don’t remember the details, only that I was somewhere dark and cold and I was entirely alone. Breathing hard, I sit up on the couch, wipe the sweat from my face with one hand and reach for the phone with the other. Afternoon sunlight slices through the gaps in the blinds.

“Mulder.”

“Mulder, it’s me.”

Scully’s voice, watery with tears. My heart falls into my stomach.

“Scully?”

She sniffs once, then she’s silent for what feels like a lifetime. Finally, she asks, “Can you come?”

Time slows to a crawl, the ground falling out from under my feet. This is it, then. I force my lungs to draw breath, will my heart to keep beating, just a little longer. Working to keep my tone light, I tell her, “I’ll be right there.”

She’s with her family when I arrive, so I hover in the corridor. The door to her room is open ajar, and I can hear Maggie’s voice, soft and tearful. My heart drops another few inches, leaving me hollow. I stare at the floor.

When I look up again, Bill Scully is standing in the doorway. He’s not looking at me, just staring straight ahead, a strange look on his face. I step forward, raising a hand awkwardly in greeting.

He startles, looking at me sharply, but before either of us can say anything, Maggie appears behind him.

“Fox,” she says, hurriedly wiping her eyes, before stepping forward and hugging me tight. “I’m so glad you could come.”

I return her embrace, acutely aware of Bill’s eyes on us. I want to ask if this is it, if there’s been bad news, but I can’t seem to speak past the lump in my throat. Maggie lets me go, reaching up to rest one hand lightly against my cheek. Her eyes are shining, ocean blue like her daughter’s, and there’s an emotion there I can’t name. She pats my face once, smiling at me with a tenderness I’m sure I don’t deserve.

“She’s waiting for you,” she says. I hear Bill scoff, but Maggie ignores him. “Go on. We’ll be back in a little while.”

With that, she steps away, taking Bill’s arm. I watch them leave, my mind racing, a million scenarios running through my head. As they turn the corner at the end of the corridor and disappear from view, I turn my attention back to Scully’s open door. Taking a steadying breath, I rap my knuckles lightly against the wood before poking my head into her room.

The curtains are thrown open, the room suffused with sunlight. Scully is sitting up in bed, the blanket pooled around her waist, pale skin glowing like alabaster. When I enter, she looks up at me with wet eyes, her face breaking into a smile, and she’s so beautiful I could cry.

My heart beats painfully in my throat. I cross the room to her side, falling into the chair next to her bed and taking her hand in both of mine.

“Hey,” I manage to say, hating how choked my voice sounds. I brace myself for whatever she has to tell me, knowing that I’ll never be ready to hear it. I bring her hand to my mouth, press my lips against her cool knuckles. “How are you feeling?”

“The cancer's gone.”

Her voice is so soft, I’m sure I’ve misheard her. “Scully?”

Her smile widens; she threads her fingers through mine and squeezes my hand. “It’s gone, Mulder. I had another scan this morning. The cancer is gone. I’m in remission.”

My brain must short circuit. It’s too good to be true. I open and close my mouth, unable to find the words. Scully laughs, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. Before I can think about what I’m doing, I throw my arms around her, crushing her body to mine. She gasps, then laughs again into my neck, her breath warm on my skin.

Suddenly aware of the uncomfortable position she must be in leaning half in and half out of bed, I relinquish my grip. Too late, I realize there are tears in my eyes, too.

“I don’t understand...?” I manage. “Are you sure?”

“I had them rerun the tests,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Twice. I’m sure.”

Realization dawns. “The chip?”

Scully’s hand goes to the back of her neck, and her smile falters. “We don’t know that for sure. It could’ve been something else, a delayed response to the treatments, even spontaneous remission—it’s rare, but not unheard of...”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter,” I say, cupping her face with my hand. I mean it, too. None of that matters. All that matters is that she’s okay. She’s going to be okay. A profound sense of relief washes over me in waves, making me lightheaded. I can’t stop smiling. “So, what happens now?”

“My doctor wants to observe me for a few more days, give my body a chance to regain its strength. I imagine there are some more tests to be run. But after that...” she trails off. We sit in silence for a moment, considering.

Until this morning, Scully had no future to plan for; now, the possibilities loom large in the room with us. If Skinner has good news for me—if my crimes can be forgiven in return for exposing Blevins, and I still have a career to go back to—then I hope desperately that Scully will come with me, back to the basement. After four years of her partnership, I can’t imagine going back to being alone.

At the same time, a small part of me wonders if she might not be better off leaving all of this behind, getting a fresh start. A chance at normality. My relief at having her safe and well is somewhat dampened as I consider, once again, all she has lost because of her association with me. Perhaps she’s been given a second chance; perhaps the right thing to do would be to send her away, to tell her to get out now, while she still can.

She must see something on my face, because she squeezes my hand and gives me a reassuring smile. “Later,” she says. “Right now, I’d like to get out of this bed.”

The hospital cafeteria opens onto a small courtyard, a little hexagonal patch of grass surrounded by flower beds, a large eastern redbud erupting in the center in a shock of cotton-candy leaves. After the sterility of the ward, the courtyard feels refreshingly organic. Insects chitter and buzz, birds chirp. Even the air smells alive, sunbaked earth and the scent of wildflowers on the breeze.

It’s a gorgeous mid-June afternoon, the sky an expanse of azure blue, yet by some stroke of luck we have the small garden to ourselves. Scully and I walk side-by-side; I watch her trail her hand through a patch of lavender, catching the fragrant flowers between her fingers, bringing them to her face and inhaling deeply.

She must feel me staring, because a blush rises to her cheeks, and she quirks an eyebrow as she meets my gaze. “What?”

I shake my head, unsure how to even begin. “It’s just really good to be standing here talking to you.”

She smiles—God, it’s so good to see her smile—and takes my hand. The atmosphere suddenly feels heavy, expectant. We stop walking.

Finally, she turns to face me. “It’s important to me that you know... nothing’s changed. When I first got sick, I told you I had things to finish, to prove to myself, to my family. All of that’s still true.”

I nod, not sure where she’s going with this.

“What I’m saying is,” she begins, and there’s a look in her eyes I recognize, a fire burning behind her irises, bathing me in warmth. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever happens now, with the X-Files, with our jobs. I’m all in, Mulder.”

I’m not sure what to say. It’s everything I had hoped to hear, yet at the same time I can’t shake the feeling that sticking with me is a death sentence.

“Scully...”

“I know you want to protect me, but this isn’t just your fight anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. It’s ours, mine and yours. And I need to see it through.”

She looks so sure of herself, her eyes bright and fierce and brimming with new hope and righteous determination. I can’t help myself. A smile spreads across my face.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” she raises both eyebrows in surprise, and I laugh.

“Yeah, okay,” I say and before I have time to second guess myself, I take her face in my hands and press my lips to hers. She gasps, and for a terrifying second I think she might push me away, but then her hands wind around my neck and she leans her small body into mine, opening her mouth and welcoming me in. As the kiss deepens, everything else melts away, and she is all that exists, real and alive in my arms, her mouth moving against mine. Eurydice to my Orpheus, only this time, she really came back.

When I finally pull away, her lips are wet and swollen, her eyes dazed and half-lidded. We stare at each other, catching our breath.

There is so much I need to tell her, but it dawns on me now that we’ve been given the gift of time. Scully is alive. She’s not going anywhere. For now, it’s enough.

So, instead, I just say, “I’m really happy you’re okay, Scully.”

She smiles back at me. “Me too, Mulder.”

Together, we walk hand-in-hand back through the garden. The future stretches out before us; what was once a dead-end road suddenly an open highway beneath an endless, ocean blue sky.