"Agent Scully to see you, Sir,"
© 1997 [email protected]
"Just a moment, Kimberly." I barely hear her assent. I know why Scully's here, I just don't know what to do about it. I cannot sway her with a story from Vietnam, she would see that for the manipulation it is. Her wary perceptiveness is one of the many things I admire about her, but it will not work in my favor this time. Not that it usually has. I have spent the last month desperately working to keep Mulder and Scully together, to keep them as the pair they were meant to be. And then this.
How can she leave? I understood what drove Mulder to the edge, understood it all too well. That's why I could approach him, why I could refuse to accept his letter of resignation. I knew he didn't want to leave. But, Scully? Sometimes, I think I never really understood her at all. She has always fought to protect what is hers, especially Mulder. She has gambled far more on him than I will probably ever know, just as I have gambled more on her than she will ever know. But now... is she giving up? Or is this the same silent cry that her partner gave? If I refuse to accept her resignation, will she accept, like Mulder, or will she simply go over my head? She knows procedure as well I as do, and I know that she will use it to her advantage. Will she see it as the offer of help it is meant to be, or will she color it with the same dark shadows she always sees when she looks at me? I wish I knew.
"Sir?" I glance up. Scully has entered, Kimberly stands behind her, a bemused expression on her face. I feel the approaching danger like a rumble of thunder in the distance.
"Scully." I wave her to a chair, without commenting on her unauthorized entry. I will not make it easy for her. I can't. She smoothes her suit, then pulls a long, thin envelope from an inner pocket. My face remains expressionless. I have plenty of experience covering up the panic clawing its way through my chest. She lays the letter gently on my desk, then sits down. She will not meet my eyes, which perversely gives me hope. If she is unsure, there may still be a chance. I straighten in my chair, and give the letter a calculated, contemptuous glance.
"What's this, Agent Scully?"
"My letter of resignation, sir." She finally meets my accusing stare. There is pain there, yes, but it's not the pain that chills my heart. It's the determination. I long to tell her that she doesn't have to do this, that I will find a way to re-open the X-Files, and reunite the partners. The words die before they are even half-formed. I cannot promise what I cannot deliver. And I am not even sure that it matters to her, anymore. I reach a hand out towards the accursed letter, moving as slow as possible. Take it back, Scully, take it back. She doesn't move, and I rest my fingers lightly on the edge of the paper.
"Agent Scully, there is no reason for this action." Her reply is calm, simple, absolute.
"I disagree, Sir." I raise an eyebrow, another orchestrated gesture. I lean back in my chair, leaving the paper where it is.
"If you're worried about Dallas' effect on your permanent record, let me assure you..."
"No," The interruption is firm, but with an underlying weariness. As if she's gone over this before. "I'm not worried about my record, or my career. I want out, Sir. That's all." Her face is closed to me. I know now, known all along really, that she won't listen to me. I'm one small step above the enemy to her. "I believe my letter is order, Sir." She stands up, dismissing herself.
"Agent Scully." She glances back at me, and for a moment I almost see something else in her face, as if she wanted to take it all back, before her professional mask surfaces again. Nothing left, now. Nothing but the truth. "You are one of the best Agents I've ever had the pleasure to work with. It would be a... shame to see you quit now." It's all I have left to say. One frail strand of truth to lure her back into the web of lies.
It doesn't work. She turns and leaves without a word, without even a flicker of emotion. The door closes behind her with a soft, but final, click. I've failed. I can feel my head bowing, my shoulders slumping, the weight of all that might have been draping heavily upon them. Still, just because I've failed, doesn't mean *he* will.
Please, Mulder, say what I could not.
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