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They’re at Panera among a crowd of soccer moms and graphic designers, eyeing up pastries neither of them will order. Two middle-aged men choosing the apples instead of the chips, Skinner asking them to hold the aioli because his wife gives him grief about his cholesterol.
Mulder chases a noodle around the soup bowl with his spoon. “I’ve thought it over,” he says, his reflection rippling in the chicken broth. “I’d like to take the consulting position.”
“Good,” Skinner says. “I brought the paperwork.”
Mulder looks up. Skinner’s got turkey on whole grain, drinking unsweetened tea. Kimberly bosses him shamelessly and he thrives on it, wearing stylish glasses and leaving work at a reasonable hour. He has the sleek, satisfied air of a housecat in his prime.
Mulder suspects that, by comparison, he looks more like one of the rangy mutts that skirt the edge of his property. Unable to put it off any longer, Mulder asks the question that must be asked. “What’d Scully say?”
“What do you mean?” Skinner’s forehead is wrinkled in confusion.
“Look, I know you must have asked her back too. It’s fine, I mean…we don’t keep up much but it’s not acrimonious.” It had been though. He used to get a terrible satisfaction from making remarks as sharp as her scalpel, watching her flinch beneath them. Tad had been a particularly rich source for him to mine.
Skinner puts his sandwich down. “Mulder, I’m not sure how to say this. Jesus, I knew you and Scully didn’t talk much but I didn’t….” he sighs heavily.
“What the hell, Walter?” He has a bad feeling about this.
“She’s been out of remission for almost three months,” Skinner says, his eyes infinitely sad.
The clench of nausea makes Mulder swallow hard. He presses his fingers to his temples, breathes through his nose. Fucking Scully, that fucking bitch, how could she keep this from him how could she lie and say she was fine when she called on his birthday they may be having a rough patch right now but she’s still his goddamned wife and he’s going to-
“Mulder? You need some air?”
He shakes his head, trying to banish the image of her cancer-hollow eyes and cheekbones, the way her hair burned against her pale face. Dying, and she was still the most beautiful woman he’d seen, she was so noble she-
“Mulder.”
“I’m okay.”
“Clearly,” Skinner says in a dry tone. “It never occurred to me that she wouldn’t have told you.”
He laughs in a way he knows is bitter but can’t disguise. “Oh, sure. Scully’s like a priest and a diary and a doctor and a lawyer all rolled into one. Quite the little secret keeper.” Bill probably loves this, that petty son of a bitch.
Skinner drums his fingers on the table for a moment, then pushes his plate away. “Let’s go,” he says, standing.
“Are we gonna fight?” Actually, he’d like to punch something right now.
“Mulder, shut up. They admitted her to Georgetown on Wednesday and you two need to have a conversation because this bullshit inconveniences me. I don’t like to be inconvenienced.” Skinner rebuttons his jacket as he walks to the door.
Mulder follows him out like the stray that he is, unable to resist the prospect of home.
***
Skinner navigates maze of pale green corridors. “She
looks pretty bad, Mulder, I’m not going to lie. A lot of her hair is gone and
she’s very thin. I know you’re pissed and I get it, but just… go easy on her.”
Mulder clenches his jaw and grunts in reply. He does not trust himself to answer.
They finally stop in front of a room like any of the dozens of others he’s visited her in. He wonders if this will be the end of the line for her ravaged body, and the idea nearly unmans him.
Skinner opens the door. “Hey, Scully,” he says.
“It’s nice to see you,” she replies from within. “I wasn’t expecting a visit.” Her voice sounds stuffy.
Mulder pauses to collect his hurt, his anger, and then enters the room.
Scully is propped up in bed with a stack of manila folders on her lap. A gray silk scarf is tied about her head, her face more drawn than the last time this happened. Her eyes are unnaturally large and bright above sharp white cheeks, collarbones like albatross wings. Tubes and wires flow from her arms, a cannula at her nose.
“Scully,” he says, as though dual knives aren’t twisting in his gut and back. She can’t weigh more than ninety pounds and yet he wants to shake her.
She pins Skinner with an accusing glare. “I see,” she says, closing her file. “Hello, Mulder.”
“Cut the bullshit,” he snaps.
Scully blinks. Skinner pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Excuse me?” she asks, haughty as ever.
“You do not get to be annoyed, you do not get to act affronted that I’m here. What the fuck, Scully?”
“This was your idea?” she asks Skinner.
“You could have mentioned he didn’t know, Scully.”
She shrugs, turning to Mulder. “I started getting headaches about three months ago. I had an MRI and here we are.”
Mulder snorts. “Your story’s missing a few chapters. Like why you didn’t call to tell me.”
“There was no reason to ‘tell you’ anything. My doctor had me cleared for work and my treatment was going well until things took a downturn this week. It’s been sudden.”
“God, it’s like old times. The three of us get in a room together and the bullshit just rolls right off your tongue.”
She laughs and it turns into a hacking cough. She waves Skinner off when he goes to her side. “I’m okay,” she says after a moment. “Just some water, please.”
He pours her a glass from the pitcher and she gulps it down. “I’m sorry you’re hurt, Mulder,” she says, clearing her throat. “But this isn’t about you.”
She is so exasperating he can’t stand it. He can’t stand her haunted eyes and her alabaster face, the proud angle of her silk-wrapped head. “For better or worse, Scully,” he says, approaching her bedside. “Sickness and health. You signed up for it to be about me, or did Tad fuck that loose with your other vows?”
“Mulder, I warned you,” Skinner growls, refilling her glass.
“If my wife wanted me to give a shit about her fragile health, she should have apprised me of her condition.”
A heavy hand comes down on his shoulder.
“It’s fine,” Scully says. “Really.”
Skinner, looking uncertain, retreats to the armchair in the corner. He glowers, arms crossed.
She straightens up, her narrow shoulders squared. “First of all, I did not sleep with Tad. Which is not actually any of your business, but I might as well set the record straight. Secondly, what was I going to say? Mulder, come save me? Mulder, break into the Pentagon?”
“Don’t. Don’t play that game with me. You could have had the decency to call me as a…hell, what are we? As a friend? Are we still even that, Scully?” He searches her face for an answer, no longer certain of what it will be.
She holds his gaze for a moment before something breaks behind her eyes. Her hand reaches out to grasp his. Mulder almost winces at her cold fingers, skin papery dry and smooth. “Of course,” she breathes.
His heart starts again.
Scully coughs and this time blood drips down her lips, spattering onto the sheets. She pulls the cannula away, hand cupping her nose. “Fuck, it’s nothing, just…”
“Oh, Scully,” he murmurs, casting about for a tissue. Mulder grabs a handful from the box and she reaches for it, her hand and face smeared with dark blood.
Scully dabs at her face with the Kleenex. “Thank you,” she mumbles, not meeting his eyes.
“Hey,” he says, finger under her chin. “Let me see.” There is still blood on her jaw. He dips the corner of her blanket in the water glass, then gently wipes her face clean. “All set,” he tells her hoarsely, hoping his voice will hold.
Skinner rises from his chair and walks past them to the door, leaving as silently as he is able.
Scully repositions the cannula, drops her head back on the pillow. “I didn’t want you to see me this way. I didn’t want you to remember me like this.” Tears slide down her hollow cheeks, unchecked.
Her words bring him to his knees. “No, no,” he says, taking her hand again, pressing it to his lips. “This isn’t how the story’s going to end.”
“It might. It very likely will.” She strokes his mouth with her thumb. “We need to talk about…how I want things. I want you to contact Bill Bass at the University of Tennessee, okay?”
He can’t discuss it, he can’t think it, he will follow her into the earth when she goes. Mulder remembers that he did this to her once and renews his hatred for the cards she’s been dealt. “Tomorrow,” he says.
She clutches his hand, nodding.
Mulder climbs into the bed, holding her as tightly as he dares.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers into his neck. “I’m so sorry.”
He kisses her mouth, her forehead, her eyelids. “Live,” he says. “And I promise I won’t be mad.”