Work Text:
May 1997
After the events of Elegy
Mulder doesn’t make it all the way home. He pulls the car over. He sits there in silence.
As if in slow motion, he lifts his own hand in front of his face. He aims his fingertip towards the bridge of his nose. He places his finger there and lets it rest in place.
His mind is overtaken with images of healthy brain cells, flashing like lightning, embedded in a weblike network—magical and prosaic, multitudinous and precious.
What he imagines aren’t his brain cells, obviously. They’re hers. All that makes her scared, all that makes her frustrating, all that makes her brilliant, all that makes her irreplaceable, all that makes her everything, all that makes her Scully.
The doctor said I was fine.
I hope that’s the truth, he’d said.
He mouths those five words right now silently to himself. I hope that’s the truth.
Honestly, those five words should be emblazoned across his personal crest in some old-fashioned, swirly letters: I hope that’s the truth. Phrased differently, maybe. Maybe worded like the essentially synonymous phrase on his poster at work: I want to believe.
I hope that’s the truth. I want to believe.
The doctor said she was fine. And I want to believe that’s the truth.
For the remainder of the drive home, he ruminates on death omens, the ones involved in the case and the phenomenon in general. Is it better to know death is coming? A sign, a scan, a diagnosis? Or better to walk into it caught unaware?
He thinks about the victims in the case. Women, taken from those they love, drained of life, limbs without will to move, mouths silenced. Someone grieved all of those women, he knows. Someone sobbed late into the night for them.
It seems stupidly unfair that Mulder’s body lumbers on, grips the steering wheel, blinks, coughs, puts the car into park. His muscles, tendons and whatever the fuck else effortlessly maneuver his lanky bag of bones out of the car.
In fact, in a pinch, he could kickstart his body into a five mile run (although he’s not currently wearing the right shoes) or guide it to sluice through cold water to swim a very long series of elegant laps (although he obviously doesn’t have his Speedo).
The physical movements of living prove no challenge for him at all. For whatever that’s worth.
I know what you’re afraid of. I’m afraid of the same thing.
This, he knows, is a shitty attitude. He needs to get over this shitty, morbid, depressive-ass attitude.
She’s the one dealing with cancer, not him. She’s the one whose fears matter, not him. He’s the guy watching the walls rattle and the world turn upside down, but he’s devastatingly healthy. You don’t complain about being devastatingly healthy. You don’t talk about the curse of surviving when people you love have the opposite problem.
He unlocks his apartment door, allows himself one unbearably slow exhale, and throws his keys on the side table. He’ll call her tomorrow. Maybe they can grab lunch, some deli sandwiches or something. The day ended weirdly. He didn’t like the feel of their conversation. He was too harsh on her. Tomorrow he can make things right over sandwiches.
Bending his head downward and closing his eyes like he’s remembering a dream, he imagines her brain cells again. Alight with raw energy. Crackling with mysterious power.
Thoughts about this won’t line up in an orderly way for him, so he lets them unspiral, spinning out all over the place. I’m afraid of the same thing. I’m afraid of the same thing. I’m afraid of the same thing. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid.
“Surprise, Agent Mulder.”
At once his head jerks up at the unfamiliar voice. Mulder gapes, appalled, from where he’d been slipping off his shoes.
It takes him a moment to even place the person standing there—the man is so ridiculously, stupidly out of context, standing in the middle of Mulder’s living room. His hands are in his pockets, like he’s at home, like he’s entirely at ease.
It’s Robert Patrick Modell. A man Mulder hasn’t seen in more than a year. When he’s thought about Modell at all, he’s assumed he would be dead by now. The man looks pale, gaunt, wearing clothes too big for him, but alive. Much too alive.
“Bet I’m the last person you expected to see,” the man says like he’s commenting on the weather, a pleasant smile on his face. He jiggles his pockets casually and takes a few sauntering steps around the room, looking up and down the walls like he’s taking in an exhibit at a museum.
“Modell,” Mulder says, keeping his tone even. He’s still wearing his holster. In a flash of movement, he reaches inside for his Sig, producing and instantly extending it.
“Are you impressed that I remembered your address, Agent Mulder?” Modell says, his smile unchanged. He doesn’t even acknowledge the gun. “From back when sweet little Holly gave me your file? Hegal Place. It’s memorable. Hegel … like the philosopher Hegel. Freedom and truth and all that.”
“Stay where you are, Modell,” Mulder orders, “Or I’ll—”
Modell raises his hand, and Mulder finds the words frozen on his lips. “Now, now, that’s enough of that,” Modell says amiably. “Why don’t you go ahead and hand me your weapon?”
The feeling of being pushed is sickeningly familiar, even after more than a year. Mulder remembers Holly describing it as like watching yourself do things from across the room. He hates the sensation—feeling his own limbs do things he’s not directing them to do. A nauseating betrayal of self-autonomy. The ultimate in powerlessness.
Mulder watches himself walk to Modell and place his Sig in the other man’s palm.
“Good job,” Modell praises. He walks to the couch, and Mulder can see now that he’s moving slowly and gingerly, likely still weak from the weeks spent comatose. “Now we have some time to talk.” He sits and gestures to the chair across from him with the end of the Sig. “Come take a load off.”
Mulder’s body turns at an abruptly sharp angle and walks in a straight, unnatural line, lowering itself stiffly across from Modell.
“You didn’t expect me to survive,” Modell says, making a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “Awfully short sighted of you.” He surveys the room curiously. “Nice place you have here, I guess.”
Mulder tries to speak, but finds he can’t move his lips.
“I’m disappointed your little partner isn’t around tonight,” Modell says, a leering smile creeping over his face. “Does she spend much time at your place?”
He’s not being compelled to do anything in particular right now except stay seated, so Mulder just cooperates by saying nothing, sitting on the edge of the seat, his hand tightening into a fist. There is a cold feeling in belly that he recognizes as pure, unfiltered fear.
“I thought she was pretty good-looking,” Modell continues conversationally. “Your partner.” He winks and lowers his voice. “Don’t worry. I know you think so, too.”
Mulder presses his mouth together, the only movement he seems to have under his control right now. He doesn’t like Scully as the topic of conversation. He wants Modell to change the subject.
Making a show of his relaxed posture, Modell leans back, extending his arms over the top of the couch, letting the hand with the Sig rest there casually. He gives Mulder an appraising, amused once-over.
“This conversation would be more fun with her here,” he says. “Remember how much fun the three of us had at the hospital?” He sees something flicker over Mulder’s face, and he laughs. “No, you don’t like that idea much, do you? You’re very protective of her. ”
“...No.” Mulder can only manage to spit out the single word.
“Yes,” Modell says, his words suddenly a siren song. “Definitely yes, Agent Mulder. Call her. Ask her to come over. I bet she will.”
Like a puppet with its string yanked, Mulder abruptly is tugged to his feet. He feels himself walking to the desk to pick up his phone. Don’t, he tells himself. No. No. Fight it. Don’t call her. No part of his body seems to heed his brain. His treacherous hand wraps around the phone; his finger presses the speed dial.
“Say what it takes to get her here,” Modell says, a look of fascinated delight creeping over his face. “Actually, wait, I have a few specific ideas.”
Mulder prays she won’t answer. Maybe she’ll be in the shower. Out for a run. Gone somewhere out with her mom for the evening.
“Hello?” Scully’s voice says.
“Hi, it’s me,” Mulder says robotically. He can hear the strain in his voice, but he doesn’t know if it’s obvious enough to give it away to Scully without context. “I need you to come over.”
“Now?” She sounds confused, a little wary. “I left you an hour ago.”
“I need you to get here,” Mulder says.
“What’s up? Something with the case?”
He closes his eyes in utter humiliation at the words Modell is making pour out of his mouth. “I have important things I need to tell you. I can’t wait any more. Things I can only say face to face.”
There’s a pause on the line. “What kind of things?”
“Things I think we both know. Things we can’t just say on the phone.” Mulder shakes his head in agony, trying not to imagine what she’s thinking. From the couch, Modell is silently laughing.
Another pause. “What’s bringing this on, Mulder? It’s not … our conversation today…”
“Can you just get here?” he says quickly, almost snapping. Last time he believed Modell could get little peeks inside his victims’ minds to some unknown extent, and he doesn’t want to give Modell any more information about them than he already has. He doesn’t want him to know anything about Scully’s illness, for one, if he can avoid it.
“Yes,” she says cautiously. “Is … is everything all right?”
He breathes heavily as he says, “Yes.” He can only hope that he sounds strange enough that she understands something is afoot. But he’s probably called her so many times sounding strange that he has, unfortunately, set a precedent.
“I’ll be there soon.” She hangs up.
“Good job, Agent Mulder,” Modell says in a patronizing tone. “You might be unhappy, but I, for one, will enjoy some female companionship.”
“Leave … her … out of this,” Mulder enunciates with effort.
“Come sit down again,” Modell says. “I have some things to say to you before she gets here.”
Mulder’s body obediently walks back to the chair, lowering itself to face Modell directly. He wants to scream, to cry out for help, but now he finds he can’t move his face at all. In this split second, Modell’s control feels absolute and all-powerful.
“You shot me,” Modell says with a lift of an eyebrow, lightly accusing. “What do you have to say about that?”
Mulder tries to fight the compulsion, his eyelid flickering once.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry,” comes Mulder’s forced, monotone answer. “I’m sorry I shot you, Mr. Modell. I will make it up to you.”
“Thank you,” he says, a closed-lip smile. “That’s all I ask. I can tell it comes from the heart.”
The corner of Mulder’s mouth twitches ever-so-slightly, but he can’t say anything.
“You will make it up to me,” Modell continues. “But we need to wait. I’d like Agent Scully to get here first.”
When Scully knocks, Modell remains sprawled on the couch like some kind of petty emperor. He gestures for Mulder to answer the door.
Mulder tries to fight it every step—at least just to stop moving — but it’s pointless. No thought originating from his mind seems to be able to wrest control back of his body.
Truthfully, Modell’s power feels even more intense than he remembers. Mulder doesn’t recall feeling this possession so completely, so thoroughly, like even at the cellular level Modell is calling the shots.
Scully stands in his door in her black trenchcoat looking small, wide-eyed and nervous.
She looks at him expectantly, but Mulder doesn’t greet her or step out of the way. He simply stares at her, his jaw clenched very tight.
“Mulder?” She frowns. “Are … you going to let me in?”
He doesn’t say anything, trying futilely to control his mouth enough to try to give her some kind of warning. He probably just looks very slightly weirder than usual.
“What’s wrong?” She pushes past him and steps inside, starting to slip off her coat. “It seemed like it was important on the phone.”
“It was important,” Modell calls from across the room.
Scully’s head swivels instantly to him.
“Good evening, Agent Scully,” the man says, barely containing his delight.
She’s stopped midway through taking off her coat, her face registering Modell’s presence in horror.
“Modell,” she says. Her gaze shifts from Modell, to the weapon in his hand, back over to Mulder. He can practically see her assessing the dangers in the situation. Her lips twist in a calculating way. “You pushed Mulder … to call me and get me here.”
“That’s right,” Modell agrees mildly. He gestures to the coatrack with the gun. “Hang up your coat, Agent Scully. Come sit down. You, too, Agent Mulder.”
Immediately Mulder’s body pivots and walks back to the chair, leaving Scully standing there.
Scully seems to hesitate for a moment, and Mulder, watching her from the chair, feels a pang of shame that she’s seemingly better able to resist being pushed than he is. Likely it’s because she’s the second person entering the situation. Last year, back in the hospital, Modell seemed to have a harder time with control once there were two people in his thrall. But he seems so much stronger now.
Her resistance seems to falter, and she finishes taking off her coat, robotically placing it on the coattrack next to the door, then walking in a straight line to the couch, where she lowers herself next to Modell.
“Well hello,” the man says. “It’s Dana, isn’t it?” He flashes her a grin.
“Yes.” Her voice is clipped and short.
“Thank me for inviting you, Dana,” Modell goads. “Tell me that you’re grateful.”
Scully’s face is a master class in contempt. With her chin lifted like a queen, she shifts her gaze to him and utters coldly, “Thank you for inviting me. I am grateful.”
Modell laughs. “You’re very welcome.” He gestures to Mulder sitting across from him. “Would you believe that your partner didn’t much want you to come?”
Scully’s eyes shift to Mulder’s. She holds his gaze.
“Pretty rude, wouldn’t you say? Disloyal,” Modell says. “I had the impression you two were closer than that.”
A muscle ticks in Mulder’s jaw.
“Maybe he’s jealous,” Modell says. “Maybe he thinks that you and I might hit it off, Dana.”
Very slowly and intentionally, he moves his hand to rest on Scully’s knee, and his eyes shift over to Mulder, watching him with interest.
“Stop,” Mulder manages to hiss from his clenched jaw.
“Whoa ho,” Modell says, with another laugh, letting his hand remain on Scully’s knee a moment longer. “I told you you were protective.” He removes his hand theatrically, then folds his hands in front of him and regards Mulder seriously. “See, Agent Mulder, your mistake is that you don’t leave yourself outside the battle. You fail to achieve self mastery. And a warrior must.”
“Have … you achieved self mastery?” Scully says in a tight voice.
Modell looks at her, raising his eyebrows.
“Impressive willpower,” he says. He bows his head. “An onna-bugeisha, a female warrior of great strength.”
Scully directs an acid glare back at him, her lips pursed. Mulder knows she would normally be deploying an eyeroll.
“I don’t pretend my journey is complete,” Modell says, his palm to his chest in a nauseating display of false modesty. “But I’ve mastered my fear of death. I was ready to go last January when Agent Mulder shot me, and I’m ready to go now.” He gestures towards Mulder with the Sig. “Now this guy, he showed some strength. He wasn’t afraid to risk his own life.” He smiles at Mulder like a predator. “But … he sure was scared once Dana walked in the room.”
Suddenly he aims the barrel of the Sig at Scully’s temple. “Weren’t you, Fox?” Modell asks.
Mulder feels himself shaking with the effort of trying to move.
“Why is that?” Modell says softly to Mulder. He uses the gun to caress Scully’s hair, slowly stroking it in a way that makes Mulder’s insides lurch. “What is she to you?”
“...Stop,” Mulder growls.
“I don’t want to stop,” Modell says lightly. “I want to understand the mind of my adversary.”
He regards Mulder and lets the gun drop casually from her head. “Your feelings for her, they’re all about fear, aren’t they? More fear than anything else.”
He shakes his head as if to show his disappointment in this human frailty. Then he rubs his hand over his mouth, like he’s mulling things over.
Scully’s eyes dart wildly between Mulder and Modell.
“Stand up,” Modell tells Mulder. He sounds curious. “Sit next to her.”
Mulder finds himself jerked upwards, forced forward, moving until he’s sitting on the couch on the other side of Scully, their legs touching.
“Put your arm around her,” Modell says, watching him intently.
Mulder’s arm slides around Scully, involuntarily drawing her closer.
Modell nods his approval. “Give her a kiss.”
Mulder swallows, then leans over and kisses Scully on her soft cheek.
She remains aloof and formal, looking straight ahead. Modell laughs a little.
“Not exactly warming to you, is she?” the man says. There’s a gleeful gleam in his eye that makes Mulder’s blood run cold. “You’d think you’d both be enjoying this, but you’re not. Should we try to take it a little farther?”
Mulder feels his heart, which is apparently not currently under Modell’s compulsion, pick up pace. He doesn’t understand what this game is. He doesn’t think Modell is the kind of sicko who would target Scully in some unthinkable way… he doesn’t think that fits the profile. He wishes he were slightly more sure.
Modell has always demonstrated some twisted sense of honor, and his known victims last time were men, not attractive women—except for Holly, who was used for clear instrumental reasons. Pushing has an obviously dangerous potential for sexual assault, but there were no obvious sexual overtones to any of Modell’s crimes last time.
But he does like to prove dominance over other men. He likes to prove his superiority. And Mulder isn’t sure how far he’d go in pursuit of that goal.
“You’re frightened to the core,” Modell observes, his eyes boring into Mulder’s. “So many fears. Can’t you feel how they’re making you weak? Causing you to fall apart? It’s plain as day.”
Mulder feels the warm shape of Scully’s body pressed into his side—is she pressing herself closer, maybe? The sensation isn’t as pleasant or comforting as it would usually be. Mulder channels his hostility towards Modell through his eyes.
“What are you so afraid of, Agent Mulder?” Modell says in a suddenly silky voice. “Tell me.”
Oh no, Mulder thinks. Oh god. The violation of his mind horrifies him, too. He bites his lip, tries to fight it. He feels sweat starting to bead up on his forehead.
“You know you’re going to tell me,” the man croons. “The truth will set you free, isn’t that what they say?” He speaks in a beguiling, coercive melody. “Tell me all your fears.”
Mulder shakes his head back and forth violently.
“Stop,” Scully barks. “Leave him alone.” She picks up Mulder’s hand in her own, grasping it tight between both palms. “Mulder, can you fight him?”
“Tell the truth,” Modell says in a sing-song, ignoring her. “What are you afraid of?”
“I’m scared because … I don’t understand what you’re having me do here with Scully,” Mulder blurts out, his heart thumping. “I’m afraid you’re going to make me do something that will hurt or humiliate her. I’m afraid you’re going to make me do something I can’t take back.”
Scully tightens her hold on his hand, but he can’t look at her. Instead he’s trapped in Modell’s gaze.
“There you go,” Modell crows. “Was that so hard? What else?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to kill her,” Mulder continues to vomit words, his pitch rising. “Through me. Or through her own actions.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m afraid this is all my fault,” Mulder continues. “I’m afraid I missed something that led to you being here.”
Modell nods, scowling like he’s thinking this over seriously.
He raises the Sig and runs it slowly and obscenely down the outline of Mulder’s nose, resting it on the tip. Scully sucks in a sharp inhale.
“There’s more fear than that, though,” Modell says. “I’m feeling it. It’s coming off of you like electricity. It’s crackling.”
“What exactly do you want here, Modell?” Scully says in her most calm, rational voice. “Let’s talk about that.”
Briefly he shifts his attention to her. “I’ve got to hand it to you, you’re an intriguing girl, Dana. More strength of will than most. But I’m talking to Agent Mulder right now. He’s the one who conquered me last time. He’s my adversary.”
“No,” Scully replies coolly, “he’s a law enforcement agent who did his job. Nothing special to you. Anyone would have done the same. The smart move here for you is to talk to us about getting out of here safely, with no one getting hurt.”
Mulder is able to turn his head to look at Scully. Frosty blue eyes, chin high, her focus entirely on her target.
“You sound like the perfect little g-woman, Dana,” Modell says dismissively. Abruptly he swings his head back to Mulder, a crooked smile. “Agent Mulder, what is this sentence you keep repeating in your head?” he murmurs. “You keep thinking the same words, over and over again, like a line from a song. What is this fun little ditty?”
Mulder bites his lip hard, willing himself to say nothing. He’d suspected there was an element of telepathy at play in Modell’s ability
Modell leans back, looks him directly in the eye, and quotes carefully, “I’m afraid of the same thing.” He smiles in obvious delight. “How mysterious.”
Mulder instinctively tries to draw back, but he can’t; he is pushed in place. He feels Scully shift next to him, and he wishes he could see what her reaction is. She, at least, knows what that sentence refers to. It’s an embarrassing revelation of his vulnerability yet again, an admission he’s more afraid than he shows.
“I’m afraid of the same thing,” repeats Modell, like he is trying the words out. “I’m afraid of the same thing, I’m afraid of the same thing, I’m afraid of the same thing.” He tilts his head. “What the heck does it mean, Agent Mulder? Tell me.”
Mulder feels himself quivering again from the exertion of holding back his real answer. Scully squeezes his hand again.
“It means none of your business,” Scully retorts coldly.
Modell turns to her suddenly. “Ahh. Of course you know what it means.” He reaches over and picks her hand up out of Mulder’s, grasping it himself. “I’m afraid of the same thing. Tell me. What is it he’s so afraid of?”
Scully’s eyes widen, and her lip trembles. She looks at Mulder, and then back at Modell.
“Aw, come on, Dana,” he says, caressing her hand. “You know how this works. You’ll tell me eventually. Don’t make us go through all this back-and-forth. What’s he afraid of?”
“No,” she protests tremulously.
“Tell me,” Modell says in the seductive voice again, a finger running over her knuckles. “Tell me the truth.”
Scully straightens her back and stares unflinchingly back at Modell. “Mulder said that sentence to me,” she says formally. Mulder feels a clutch of nausea. Scully hesitates. “We were going to become physical. I told him I was scared for us to take our relationship beyond partnership,” she says. “And he said he was scared of the same thing. So we didn’t act.”
For a period of three seconds Mulder thinks he must have misheard. He gawks at Scully in utter shock. She … lied. She intentionally lied. He knows beyond any doubt they’ve never had any discussion about taking a relationship beyond partnership. He’d fucking remember that conversation. How is she able to lie while being pushed to tell the truth?
“Ohhh boy, I see the situation now,” chuckles Modell knowingly. He drops her hand and pats Mulder aggressively on the shoulder. “I really called that, didn’t I?”
Scully is still staring straight ahead at the apartment wall, not looking at Mulder or Modell, and Mulder’s mind is racing.
How is she able to resist? Has she been resisting this entire time?
He reviews her behavior the entire time since she’s entered the apartment—whether she’s seemed as though she was ever seriously under duress. He considers how often she may have been playing along to get the advantage.
“So you all have really been holding it back. I guess you don’t really mind when I have him kiss you, huh?” Modell asks her playfully.
“I do,” she replies promptly, “because I know he’s not doing it of his own free will. He’s doing it because you’re making him. That’s not a real kiss.”
Modell turns to Mulder. “Would you like to give her a real kiss?” Modell asks, like he’s talking to a child. “Is that something you think about?”
“Yes,” Mulder replies, before he can even make the effort to keep himself from giving the truthful answer. He closes his eyes in humiliation, and mercifully, Modell doesn’t prevent him from this small act of dignity
“Then here’s our next game, Agent Mulder,” Modell says. “It’s a rematch. Two closed doors before you. Behind one door, life. Happily ever after with the lovely Agent Scully. Behind another door, death. A bullet propelled into a brain.”
Mulder’s stomach sinks. He tries to look at Scully, but Modell is now keeping him from turning his head. Modell theatrically opens the chamber of the Sig and removes most of the bullets, letting them drop on the coffee table. He then closes it back up, spinning the chamber. Mulder knows he’s left one bullet inside.
“The task of the warrior is to choose correctly,” Modell says. “You are, of course, at a disadvantage. You desperately want life and fear death. You’d like to kiss your pretty partner, to hold her in your arms. The budo warrior is above the fray; he does not shy away from the door that brings death. He does not crave worldly pleasures… like the body of a woman.”
He watches as Modell lifts the Sig and holds it out to him.
“Take the weapon, Agent Mulder,” he says.
Mulder takes the gun, his hands trembling.
“We’ll play by the same rules as last time. Me first, then you, then Agent Scully,” Modell says. He smiles archly. “You know, if you’d really followed the rules like you were supposed to, it would have been Agent Scully who lost last time.”
Please let Modell or me die instead of Scully. This is Mulder’s simple wish as he lifts the gun to Modell’s head.
“No,” Scully whispers in frustration. “Not again.”
“Same rules as last time,” Modell repeats, all business. “You get one pull.”
“Don’t do this again,” Scully pleads in a low, miserable voice, almost a groan.
“In the hospital, we were in a room with pure oxygen,” Modell reminds her cheerfully. “You should be happy, Dana. This time we’re being downright safe.” He shifts to Mulder. “Game on, Agent Mulder.”
Mulder can’t stop the muscles of his hand and fingers, and truthfully, he’s not sure he would try. He pulls the trigger towards Modell’s face.
Just like last time, it merely makes a click. No bullet in the chamber. Modell releases a ragged sigh.
No, no, no, no. He feels involuntary tears springing to his eyes.
“Ah,” Modell says, looking a shade paler than before, despite his brave talk. “The warrior survives. Now it’s your turn, Agent Mulder.”
“Mulder.” Scully presses forward to try to catch his eyes. If she isn’t being pushed, why doesn’t she just run? She could run right now. Mulder wishes she would.
“Patience, Dana,” Modell says. “You’re up next, after Mulder.” He lets loose an explosive laugh. “If you get your turn, that is.”
“Mulder.”
“Take your turn, Agent Mulder,” comes Modell’s authoritative command.
Mulder lifts the gun to his temple. I didn’t even see a death omen today, he thinks. Yet death waits for me around the bend after all. Just goes to show.
In an uncanny flash of clarity, he sees a truth he doesn’t much like: he feels strangely ready for death, no matter what Modell says. It doesn’t sound altogether unwelcome. His death now means not seeing hers, and it’s the easy, cowardly way out, the fast release.
“No,” repeats Scully emphatically. “Don’t do it, Mulder.” Her glacial blue eyes meet his, a blast of pure cold air.
“You have to,” Modell insists.
Mulder places a finger on the trigger. Just a tiny, feather-light touch of pressure.
In an abrupt movement, Scully seizes forward and knocks his arm, sending the Sig skittering across the living room floor.
Modell gapes at Scully a moment in apparent shock, then turns to Mulder. “Go grab the gun. Turn it on her.” Mulder’s body stands immediately to obey.
“No.” Scully’s voice isn’t panicked. It is low, and it is quiet, and it is absolutely commanding. “No. Mulder, sit down.”
To his surprise, he does.
“Go!” Modell says, standing up suddenly, and Mulder feels a strange and unfamiliar sensation, like a hand pulling inside his chest cavity. “Damnit. What the hell! I said go. You should—”
“Modell, be quiet.” She speaks with dark, firm power, and she points her finger. “Sit down on the couch. Don’t move. Face straight ahead.”
Mulder watches in complete astonishment as Modell follows her instructions, a bewildered expression on his face.
She stands and looks at both of them, a series of unreadable expressions passing over her face. She twirls the tips of her hair and lets out a shaky breath.
“Mulder,” she says in her normal voice, “can you give me your tie?”
“Yeah,” he answers her. “Yeah, yeah, of course.” He begins taking off his tie, loosening the knot and unthreading it through his collar, then hands it to Scully.
“Thanks,” she says. “Can you … do you have your cuffs?” She gestures to Modell.
He nods. Cuffs, of course. Subdue the suspect. Bureau procedure. He goes to get his cuffs on the table by the entry.
When he walks back to the couch, she’s gagging Modell with the tie. The man doesn’t move a muscle as she does this; he simply continues to face the opposite wall like a statue, even though he could very easily fight her. Although his limbs are still, his posture eerily straight, Mulder can see that his eyes are wild and panicked.
“Here.” Mulder shows Scully the cuffs. She pushes Modell’s shoulder down, and Mulder cuffs the man’s hands behind his back. She takes a step away from the couch, her back to Mulder.
“You want to call it in, Scully?”
She doesn’t say anything, and he sees her hand go to her face.
“Scully?”
She turns around, her knuckle pressed firmly under her nose, and he can see the flash of bright blood pooling there.
“I just need to use your bathroom,” she says shortly.
“Yeah, of course,” he says, stepping towards her, wishing she would ask him for something else.
She hurries out of the room, leaving him standing in front of Modell, who stares resentfully back at him.
Mulder calls for officers to come pick up Modell. When he hangs up, he studies the man; he remains gagged, cuffed and still sitting upright, facing the wall, apparently following Scully’s instructions. He appears unable to move his feet. Mulder decides he’ll feel better if he binds the guy’s ankles anyway. He finds an extension cord behind his TV and uses it to loop tightly around the man’s legs.
“There,” he says to Modell.
Modell glowers at him.
“Just remember,” Mulder adds seriously, “not to get too mad. The warrior should really be above the fray.”
The man only stares.
“The warrior has mastered his fear of prison,” Mulder continues piously. “He doesn’t shy away from the door that means life in solitary confinement.” He gives the man a brief childish smile, and then turns to the bathroom. He wants to find Scully.
His partner is leaning against his bathroom sink, looking straight in the mirror, bloody tissues wadded in one hand. When he steps into the doorway, she doesn’t look at him.
“I’ve been thinking about last year,” she says, her eyes on her own reflection. “The confrontation in the hospital.”
He gazes at her. “Yeah?”
“He never pushed me that time either,” she says. “Not once. I think he was trying. At the time I thought it was because he wasn’t strong enough to push two of us at once. But now I wonder.”
“Wonder what?” His words sound so fragile.
“Whether I have some … anatomical abnormality, maybe. Some unique feature that makes me naturally immune to his compulsion.”
He just can’t bear to argue with her. He won’t do it.
He just stands there looking at her in sad disbelief, his painfully beautiful partner, clutching tissues soaked in her blood.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says quickly and defensively. She looks directly at him now. “I know why you think I can resist.”
“Scully—”
“It isn’t the same kind of tumor,” she insists sharply. “It isn’t in the same part of the brain. It doesn’t make any sense that it would affect my mind in the same way that it affected Modell’s. It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Okay,” he says gently.
She turns to throw out the tissues in the wastebasket. “And last year, also, he couldn’t push me,” she argues. “He couldn’t do it last year either. I’m almost certain.”
Mulder nods slowly, but he’s wondering. What if, he thinks, her tumor was already there last year? What if it was already growing, and we just didn’t know it?
The thought seems to occur to her at the same time. Her eyes settle once again on her reflection and fill with hollow dread. Not only dread, Mulder thinks. Dread tinged with something sharper, something more like immediate fear.
“Oh Scully,” he whispers. Knowing she could reject his overture, he steps forward to wrap her in his arms, discovering as he does that her small frame is actually trembling. To his surprise she burrows her face into his shoulder, and for a few sacred moments, she allows him to hold her.
He ought to savor this, he knows. But it’s him, it’s Fox Mulder, and he can’t just watch the truth slip down the drain.
“Scully,” he murmurs to her softly, “you know … it wasn’t just that he couldn’t push you. It was more than that.”
She pulls away quickly, aggressively wiping her eyes, and turns to check in the mirror again.
“It was … that you pushed him,” Mulder insists, watching her closely. “You did it yourself. You—”
“That’s ridiculous,” she says dismissively. “You know I can’t do that.”
“I don’t know that,” he says. “Tonight I saw evidence of the opposite. You told Modell to do something— me, too, actually—and we both just did it.”
“If I knew how to push people,” Scully protests, “wouldn’t I be doing it all the time? To defend myself?” She gestures emphatically with her hand towards him, and makes a face. “To win arguments with you?”
“I don’t know how it works,” Mulder says truthfully. “Maybe you don’t know how to do it consciously. Maybe it was a fluke this time, because you were under particular stress.”
“No,” she says with finality, shaking her head.
“Then what’s your explanation for how he behaved?” Mulder asks in frustration. “For him just going quiet like that? For him just … sitting there?”
“I think he was shocked that I could resist him,” she says to her reflection. “In his distraction, he dropped his hold on you. And because he didn’t expect it from me, he was convinced I could do more than I could. I think that’s all. He thought I could push him, so I sort of could.”
“Scully, he didn’t fight back when you gagged him. You’re saying he let you do all of that … because he was dazzled by your free will?”
Her nostrils flare, and he can tell she is angry now. She whirls to face him head on, her face faintly pink.
“Mulder, why does it have to be like this with you?”
He frowns, taken aback. “Like what?”
“Does it make this better if I’m seeing death omens and possessing psychokinetic abilities?” she asks, her voice rising. “Does that somehow make my cancer better?”
“No,” he says, the breath knocked out of him.
“Does the supernatural turn my death into something interesting for you?” she continues, stepping towards him. “Does it become something beautiful?”
He stares back at her, her face abruptly turning blurry, shiny and distorted. He blinks fast. “No,” he says in a small voice.
“It’s not beautiful, and it’s not special,” she insists stubbornly, sniffing. “It’s just natural and ordinary and ugly and small. It’s just … wadded up bloody tissues in a wastebasket.”
He nods, completely unable to say anything else.
Her face crumples, her lip protrudes, and she dissolves into silent sobs.
Again he steps forward, fearing being pushed away. Again his arms tentatively move around her.
She presses her face wordlessly against him, and her tears soak his shirt. She makes almost no sound as she cries, as though emitting a noise would make this outburst something real and acknowledged.
Nothing about your death could ever be beautiful, he thinks. There is nothing that could ever make it beautiful.
He feels a sob threaten to wrack him, too, but he fights it.
What’s beautiful is your mind. What’s beautiful are your brain cells, ripe with power. Their sparks allow you to move your mouth to say these hurtful things, their fire allows you to move your body across a bathroom, their energy allows you to save my cowardly life.
Modell, like Scully said, is a little man who wants to feel big.
But Scully, Mulder thinks, she’s the opposite. She’s always failing to see how vast she is. How vast she’s always been. How much room she takes up. How empty the world would be without her in it.
He holds her small body and tries not to cry. He can’t move. He can’t move. He can’t move.
***