"losing through you what seemed myself, i find
selves unimaginably mine; beyond
sorrow's own joys and hoping's very fears

yours is the light by which my spirit's born:
yours is the darkness of my soul's return
you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars"

 --e.e. cummings
 

LOSING THROUGH YOU WHAT SEEMED MYSELF
by: Jennifer Maurer
 

The danger is over and I am angry now, all my sentimentality pushed aside.

I left the hospital before Mulder woke up.  First time I've ever done that.  Usually my worried face is the first sight that greets him when he returns to the land of living.

It's a toss-up sometimes as to who's worse for the wear.

He's finally stopped twitching for good.  I'm allowing myself to feel relieved.  The seizures are apparently over.  They'll want to keep him a few more days for observation, but when he wakes up they'll likely take off the restraints.  I consider suggesting they do that on my way out, then think better of it.  I'm not Mulder's doctor.  Let that person make the decisions for awhile.  He's alive. He doesn't need a next of kin.  My usefulness is finished.  I might as well go home.

I sit awhile longer after the thought comes over me.  I'm tired and would like to sleep in my own bed, but that would require that I move, not to mention drive a car.  I'm not sure I have the energy.  I could ask the nurse for a cot, but some perverse part of me doesn't want to put myself out for Mulder anymore.  I want to go home and really relax.  Bubbles, candles, the whole nine yards.  God knows I've been wound tight since his Sunday morning phone call.

Is it still Sunday?  I can't remember. It might be Monday by now.  I should call Skinner, tell him Mulder won't be in for a few days.  Fuck that.  Let Mulder call Skinner himself.  If I call him, it will only be because *I* need some time off.  And I do.  It is oddly liberating to admit this.  I, Dana Scully, need a break.  From work, from my partner, from contact with the outside world in general.  I need to distract myself from the image of Mulder pointing a gun at me, snarling that learning the truth is worth all this to him.  It is worth shooting me for.  I close my eyes at the memory.  Goddamn it.  I don't need this right now.  I know he didn't mean it, don't I?  He was out of his mind---yet the truth of his statement came through anyway.

Of course, it's then that my nose starts to bleed.  I step into the tiny bathroom off Mulder's room, pinching my nose shut.  It's not a bad one.  I clean myself up in no time.  I tiptoe back into his room, afraid somehow that this silent symptom has woken him, and I'll have to face his pity.  No, he's still sleeping like a...well, I don't know what.  It is definitely time for me to go.  I stand looking down at him for a moment.  I want to touch his hair, to comfort him, but I don't want to have to face him if he wakes up.  He needs to rest.  *I* need him to rest.

"Sometimes, Mulder, I just..."  My whisper trails off into silence.  What were you about to say, Dana?  Want to kill him?  Want to leave him?  Want to help him?  I am not sure anymore.  I sigh quietly and leave.

My conscience tugs at me as I pass the nurses station, and I leave my card at the desk, telling them to call me if necessary.  The young woman looks at me sympathetically, and assures me Mulder will be fine.  I should go home and get some rest, she advises.  I smile, refrain from saying something snide that she wouldn't understand anyway, and thank her.

Once I get in the car I can barely keep my eyes open.  The adrenaline of running after Mulder has worn off during the hours spent sitting at his bedside.  I always feel like I've been hit by a train after one of these episodes.  Mulder will come back to work, black and blue but ready to keep fighting, as usual.  I watch his scars fade as he renews his quest, more certain than ever that the truth is out there.  I, on the other hand, almost always require a few days to whip myself back into shape.  I tail after Mulder like a shadow for awhile, almost daring him to make a move without me.  Sometimes there are nightmares.  I've never told him that.  He thinks he's the only one who has trouble sleeping.  Eventually, we settle back into our routine, such as it is.  Until the next time.  The next phone call, the next disappearance, the next chilly request for me to come collect my wayward partner from whoever he's offended this time.  It's a pattern that time has not changed.  I wonder if anything ever will.  I wonder why I am still surprised that it never does.

The blinking red light on my answering machine gets my instant attention.  Damn it.  I was supposed to have lunch with Mom on Sunday.  I wonder why she didn't try my cel phone.  I press the button, guilt overtaking me.

"Hi Dana, it's Mom.  I thought we were supposed to meet for lunch today but maybe I have my dates mixed up.  Anyway, sweetie, call me when you get in from work.  I love you."

Tears sting my eyes as I sink down on the couch.  That's so like Mom, trying to turn my forgetfulness around and take it on herself, to avoid upsetting me.  I know very well she doesn't have her dates wrong.  She just assumed I'd forgotten, and gone into work over the weekend.  And why not?  It's not like I've never done that before.

It hurts that Mom could figure out where I was, more or less.  I have become predictable.  A workaholic. Someone who sacrifices family for work.  My father sometimes did that.  I resented him for it.  Now I am the one who often forgets the little things.

I have become Mulder.

When did I cross that line?  I used to have a life.  I used to have friends.  I have lost touch with most of them, for one reason or another.  I suspect I might have even lost touch with my mother if she didn't live so close by.  Aside from the disaster in Philadelphia, I have devoted my life to the X-Files.  To Mulder.  I told him not everything was about him.  Which of us was I trying to convince?

I may not have much time left.  This is true of everyone.  You never know what can happen.  My father reminds me of that still.  Life narrows to the space of one breath, one heartbeat.

I want more than this.  I don't want to be defined by my work with the X-Files.  I am proud of what Mulder and I have done, of course.  But there must be more to my life than that.  I don't want to have my last words be an apology.  No regrets.

I wince at the thought.  That was what Philadelphia was about, supposedly.  Breaking out of the endless loop my life had become, striking out on my own.  Instead I end up almost getting shoved into a furnace by my date.  Lovely.

As I shed my work clothes I crane over my shoulder to inspect the circle on my back.  My experiment in dating may have been a disaster but I love having this tattoo.  The idea still seems racy, daring.  An FBI agent with a tattoo.  How hip is that?  I snort a bitter laugh and turn my back on my reflection.  Sure, now I have a permanent reminder on my body that I always end up going in circles.  It seemed such a pat theory at the time: Dad, Mulder---they're all authority figures, trying to thwart my dreams.  Somehow I thought the tattoo would change me.  It reminds me, yes, but things are still the same.  I still chase Mulder around in circles.  It's a little like chasing a tail.  I never catch up and it always frustrates me.  I used to watch Queequeg do that and wonder why.  I wonder if other people watch me and ask themselves the same question.

Something has to change.  Something will change, soon; I'll have to leave the FBI, leave Mulder to his own devices.  Who will chase him then?  Who will look after him as I have done?  Skinner may be our ally but he could never take care of Mulder like I do.

It sounds like I'm his baby-sitter, or a spy; I "take care" of Mulder.  Yes, I patch up his bruises and talk gently on the phone during the nightmares.  It is a two way street, though, even if my side is wider.  He held me while I cried on his shoulder after Pfaster.  For the most part, however, I expend the majority of the effort.

I'm tired of it.

I'm tired, period.

I start to run the bath and swirl some bubble mix into it, watching the pearly streaks thin out and fade into the water.  Like Dad's ashes did.  I shake myself.  When did death start occupying my every waking thought?  Okay, dumb question.  Here's another: why do I let it?

I slide down in the bath up to my chin, trying to clear my mind of death, if only for a moment.  The hot water loosens muscles I didn't even know were tense.  Mulder has me stretched like a violin string.

This can't go on.  I can't chase him forever.  I can't look at him over the barrel of a gun, his *or* mine, anymore.  Their games won't stop as long as he and I are partners.  I don't think Mulder knows what it all does to me.  Not really.

I should tell him.  Not that I could just walk away without a word, but I could make up some excuse.  The thought leaves as abruptly as it came.  I can't lie to Mulder, even if I think I can get away with it.  It goes against every fiber of my being.  I'm a terrible liar anyway.  I should just sit him down and be honest.  Then again, if he hasn't figured it out by now, what good would telling him do?  Perhaps I have relied on our silent communication too long.  Words are sometimes necessary, if difficult.

I'll cross that bridge when I get to it, I decide as I drag myself from the tub.  The steam and vanilla scent have made me sleepy.  Wrapped in my bathrobe, I crawl into bed and curl around a pillow.  I close my eyes and suddenly there is Mulder, his haunted eyes cutting into me.  I cry for a long time before I fall asleep.

I awaken slowly the next morning, unsure what exactly has roused me.  I must have heard something.  There it is again.  Knocking.  I consider crawling under the blankets and pretending I haven't heard.  Bad idea.  I know it's Mulder, and he will just panic and break down the door.  I shuffle out of the bedroom, shivering at the cold, damp feeling of my bathrobe.  A cursory glance through the peephole proves me right: it's Mulder, looking down at his feet.  I take off the chain and open the door.

His head pops up when I open the door and for a long moment we just stare at each other.  I can't decide how I feel.  I want to punch him for leaving the hospital so soon, obviously against doctor's orders.  I want to yell at him for dragging us into this mess in the first place.  I want to take his pulse and shine a penlight in his eyes and drag him back to the hospital and have him restrained to give me time to decide what I want to do.  About him.  About us.  About my life.  *My* life.

He is here now, though, and I can't just slam the door in his face.  I step aside and wave him in.

"I was, uh, worried when you didn't come to work today," he says.

Silently, I grasp his wrist and lift his arm to look at his wrist watch.  Almost noon.  Oh, well, I'm entitled.  I drop his arm and take in his casual attire.

"*You* weren't planning on coming into the office today, were you?" I ask ominously.  Mulder picks up on it immediately and starts shuffling his feet.

"No, but I figured that's where I would find you, and I wanted to talk to you."

Oh, great.  Here we go.

"Let me just get dressed, okay?  Make yourself at home.  I'll be right back."

I walk away without waiting for an answer.  No way are we going to have a deep, heart-felt discussion with me in my bathrobe.  I pull on jeans and a sweatshirt, returning to find Mulder fidgeting on the couch.  He looks like hell.  I probably don't look much better.  I sit down on the opposite end of the couch and dive right in.

"How did you manage to get discharged?"

Mulder has the good grace to look embarrassed.

"I told the doctor I was fine and didn't really need any more observation."

I sigh in exasperation.  "Mulder, isn't that *my* line?"

He is silent, obviously put off by my annoyance.

"Never mind.  I know what kind of patient you are.  At least promise me you're going to take a few days off from work."

He nods.

"I'm going to take some personal time as well.  I think we both need to decompress after this.  Want some coffee?"

My abrupt subject jump leave no room for discussion.  Again, Mulder simply nods.  I stalk into the kitchen.  Coffee's already made, thanks to the timer in my machine.  I can't stall forever.  One breath, one heartbeat, I remind myself.  Say it now because you may not get another chance.  God knows I've let enough of them slip by.  I'm giving him the potential to shatter me.  What am I thinking, especially after all that has transpired?  The emotions bubble just below the surface, a heady mixture of anger and desperation and tenderness.  He's my poor wounded Mulder, whom I would often like to beat up myself.  I don't think this is going to come out nicely.

I walk back into the living room and immediately notice Mulder's expression of determination.  He has something on his mind and by God, he's going to share it with me.  I have a fairly good idea what's coming but I sit down silently and let him begin.

"Scully, about what happened the other night..."

I sip my coffee with nary a comment.  Mulder hesitates, then continues.

"I just wanted to say how sorry I am.  I-I didn't...I would never hurt you."

You hurt me every day, Mulder.  You have no idea.  I purse my lips, willing myself not to say this comment out loud.

"Scully, I...please, say something."

I set my cup down slowly, deliberately.  Mulder has not touched his coffee.

"What do you want me to say, Mulder?"  I ask coolly.

His face darkens and his hands clench into fists.

"Damn it, Scully, don't shut me out!  I---we---need to talk about this."

"Excuse me, I'm sorry, *what* did you just say?"

Mulder hesitates, knowing he's in trouble.

"Did you just ask *me* not to shut *you* out?  Did I hear you right?"

"Yeah, you did," he answers, a little more defiant now.  "Take off the porcelain mask, Scully, and *talk* to me."

"Right," I snap, "Like you talked to me before you left for Rhode Island?"

His face shuts down.  Bulls-eye.

"That was---"

"Don't you *dare* say that was different, Mulder, because you damn well it's not!  Whether *I* say I'm fine or *you* run off again without a word, what's the difference?  In the end it only leads back to the same thing: we may not lie to each other, but there's an awful lot we're not being completely honest about, either."

He pauses.  Gulps.  Forces himself to ask the question.

"Are you going to leave me, Scully?"

Ordinarily I would be touched by his plaintive question.  Today it is my breaking point.

"God *damn* it, Mulder!  Is that all that matters to you?  That I stay with the X-Files?"

"No," he says in a low voice, "I asked if you were going to leave *me*."

The thought snatches my frustration from me.  The door's open a crack, he's giving me a chance to walk in and finally unburden my heart.  I could tell him everything that rattles around in my head when I'm sitting by his hospital bed, when I'm sleeping in the room adjoining his on cases.  I could, I could...

In the end I do not.  I find I am still too afraid.  The knowledge that time is running out for me is too distant and unreal at this moment to carry any weight.  The habits of four years win out and I answer him honestly, but simply.

"No, Mulder, I'm not going to leave you."

He reaches out and takes my hand in a hot, sweaty grip.  He is so desperately afraid of losing me.  I am just as afraid of losing myself in him.
 

END

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