Blind  Rain
 

Alexandria, VA
8:15 a.m.
 

Balancing an armload of case files, Mulder managed to slip out of his
apartment and get the key in the lock before he heard the phone ring
inside.  Figures.  He was already running late, which was unusual.  He had
overslept--not such a bad thing considering it was an accomplishment for
him to sleep more than a couple of hours in a row.  He fumbled with the
keys, and began to unlock the door.
 
A month ago he would have let the machine pick it up, but now Scully had
cancer and many of the trivial events within his daily routine took on a
larger significance.  He no longer assumed it was just the traffic if she
arrived at work later than usual.  Carrying a handkerchief was no longer a
formality; he knew it would likely be blood-soaked at day's end, courtesy
of another nosebleed.  And Mulder no longer ignored the telephone.

He reentered the apartment.  It would be Scully, probably wanting to know
if he could squeeze a little paperwork into his busy schedule.  Or maybe
she would chew him out for burying some important evidence in the abyss he
called a desk.

He raced to the phone and snatched it on the fourth ring.  "Hello?"
 
"Mulder."  She sounded more than a little relieved.
 
"Hey, Scully.  You just caught me--I was halfway out the door.  What's
up?"
 
"Mulder," she said again.  "Do you think you could come over?"  He glanced
at his watch and couldn't believe she was still at home.  "I think I need
to go to the hospital.  I can't drive myself," she finished.
 
In one second everything was different, and his entire world seemed now to
depend on this proclamation--the hospital.  Fear wrapped its cold fingers
around Mulder and threatened to squeeze.  He couldn't remember how to
breathe, or maybe someone had sucked all the oxygen out of his apartment.
He could hear her ragged breathing and his own heart slamming its beat
against his ears.
 
He tightened his grip on the telephone.  "What is it, Scully?  What
happened?"  His effort to remain calm for her benefit utterly failed.
 
"Mulder."  Her voice was quiet and too far away.  "I can't see.
Everything is black."  He heard her draw a shuddery breath and knew her
emotional control was due to sheer determination.
 
Mulder, I can't see.  She only said it once, but he heard her repeat the
words over and over in his head a dozen times in the span of one
heartbeat.  A thousand questions screamed for his attention, each begging
to understand what this meant.  He shoved them aside and commanded himself
to pull it together, knowing she needed him to be the strong one now, for
once.  He concentrated on making his voice as reassuring as possible.
 
"I'm leaving right now, Scully.  Will you be alright until I get there, or
should I call an ambulance?"
 
"No!"  She blurted it out, then took a deep, slow breath as if to suppress
her rising anxiety.  "I'm okay."  Her shaky voice didn't gel with her
brave words, and Mulder wondered who she was trying to convince-him or
herself.
 
"Okay, Scully.  Just try to stay calm.  I'll be right there."

*************************

Georgetown
8:17 a.m.

Scully clumsily returned the phone to the receiver, which she had pulled
from the night table to the edge of the bed.  She then scooted to the
middle and leaned against the headboard, pulling the covers up to her
waist and clasping her hands together on her lap.
 
I am blind, her mind stated.  Unbelievable.  She couldn't wrap her mind
around it without feeling the beginnings of real panic, so she forced
herself to focus on something else.
 
She and Mulder had returned only last night after wrapping up a case in
Louisiana.  She tried thinking about the report she needed to write,
concentrating on the medical details relating to the case, when she felt
an overwhelming desire to open her eyes, realizing anew that they were
already open, just unseeing.  She took a deep breath and released it as
slowly as she could, counting, trying to make it to number ten.  Then she
did it again.  Breath therapy.  Whatever.   It wasn't helping.
 
The only sound to mark the movement of time was the patter of a light
rain, staggered pinpoints of water, the plop of one raindrop fading away
as another announced its arrival.  This was Scully's lone assurance that
time was indeed passing, even as it seemed to stop for her.  She
acknowledged bitterly that no amount of wishing would stop time for those
rare moments of undiluted joy in life, but only in those occasions of
abject terror did time seem to pause, prolonging agony enough to give it a
face and a name.

Mulder would be here soon.  Then she would be able to better focus on what
to do.  He always sharpened her mental processes, as she believed she did
his.

She didn't want to admit it, but she felt uneasy sitting here alone in
this enforced darkness, maybe even a little scared.  She needed to anchor
herself.  She thought about the solidity of the bed supporting her and the
coolness of her lavender silk pajamas against her skin.

And wished she could confirm that they were, in fact, lavender.
 
She pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest.  Rain, rain, go away
. . . come again another day, her mind sang.  She imagined tiny rivulets
of water sliding down the windowpane.  Imagined her own childlike fingers
on the inside, tracing its course down, down, until it slipped away, lost
to her.  And pondered the irony.

She had lost all sense of time and couldn't help wondering what was taking
Mulder so long.
 
A nagging voice in her head insisted that the blindness was simply due to
the natural progression of the tumor.  That it was permanent.  An
unfortunate side-effect.  She didn't want to assume the worst, but still
found herself fighting anxiety.  Fortunately, she had developed quite a
gift for proposing alternative explanations over the years, and in this
case she was highly motivated to accept another possibility, however
extreme.

She had started taking a round of experimental drugs just three days ago,
before leaving for Louisiana.  Her doctor hadn't been comfortable with her
going on the road while on new medication, but Scully had assured him she
would seek treatment if she noticed anything unusual.  And Mulder would be
with her.  Mercifully, there had not been a problem, the only side effects
being fatigue and a loss of appetite, both of which Mulder had noticed
aloud more than once.

She wondered if the blindness could have been caused by the new meds.
 
She sunk her face into her hands and groaned audibly.  The truth was she
had no clue why this was happening.  For all her medical expertise, she
knew it was quite unwise to try to diagnose or treat herself.  So she
waited.
 
Apprehension snuggled in as she wondered about Mulder's tardiness.  She
told herself it had probably only been ten minutes or so since they spoke,
but it felt more like an hour.
 
It seemed nearly a day later when she finally heard him bounding down the
hallway outside her apartment, then the door being unlocked and opened.
She was amazed at the clarity of every sound.

"Scully?"  His voice was laced with concern.  He wasn't even trying to
hide it.

"In the bedroom," she called.
 
She heard his quick steps growing louder and closer until there was only
silence.  She turned her face in the general direction of the doorway,
waiting.  Say something, her mind cried.  I know you're here, so just say
something.  Her stomach rolled violently.  Tell me everything will be
okay, Mulder, and I promise to believe.  But he said nothing.
 
Panic crept up on her from inside herself.  She could feel it tingling in
her spine and knew her control was slipping away with every second of
silence.  Why didn't he say something?

She gasped inwardly.  My appearance, she thought with alarm, I must look
bad.  She entertained visions of her usually clear blue eyes red with
blood or covered in a gray film.  Or maybe she just finally looked
undeniably, terminally ill.

And still, this silence.

She very nearly cried out his name, but staunchly refused--knowing it
would burst the dam holding back a rumbling panic.  Instead she attempted
a weak smile.  "I believe you have the advantage here, Mulder."
 
He snapped out of it and started toward her.  "Scully," he said as if he
hadn't noticed her until that moment.   "Sorry."  He had been staring at
her vacant eyes, nearly unable to recognize her without the intelligence
and amusement that usually shone there.

She felt his weight settle on the bed and the slight pressure of his hand
on her own.  She could tell he was facing her, looking at her.  She
dropped her chin to her knees.
 
"You okay?"  He searched for some indication of how she was really doing,
but came up empty.  She nodded.  "Tell me what happened," he prodded.
 
She sighed and brought her head back up.  "I woke up like this." She
gestured to her eyes. "At first I thought it was just really dark and for
some reason my eyes wouldn't adjust.  When I realized I couldn't see, I
thought I was having a nightmare.  But eventually I started hearing noise
in the building, meaning it must be morning and this must be real."  He
didn't respond, so she added, "That's when I called you."
 
He thought for a moment.  "You can't see light or shapes or anything?"
 
"Nothing, Mulder.  It's the purest darkness," she explained with strange
wonder, as if giving him details about a medical anomaly she had
discovered during an autopsy.
 
He gave her hand a little squeeze and marveled at her detached manner.
When he had first seen her only a few seconds ago, she'd looked wild,
cornered.  Now, she appeared to be more in control, more like herself.  He
thought it unbelievable that his presence could have had anything to do
with that transformation.
 
"You're the medical expert, Scully.  What should we do?"
 
His use of the pronoun 'we' was not lost on her.  "I need to see my doctor
and find out why this is happening." And if it's permanent, she added silently.
 
He leaned across her, grabbed the phone from where she had left it on the
edge of the bed, and dragged it to rest between them.  "What's the
number?"  After she told him, he dialed and placed the phone in her hand,
wondering if it had been difficult for her to dial his number.  Then he
remembered.  Speed-dial.

Scully spoke to her doctor and Mulder paced the room.  The guy's name was
Chambers, Mulder gathered from Scully's end of the conversation.  To
Mulder, she'd always spoken of him as if he were not a real person, sort
of like the grown-up version of an imaginary friend.  "My doctor" this and
"my doctor" that.  A vague identity.  Never the actual name of the actual
person officially in charge of curing her disease.

Mulder listened as she recounted the situation to Chambers, answered
questions, thanked him, and hung up.  She turned to her partner.   "He's
headed to the hospital now for rounds and suggested we meet him there so
he can examine me as soon as possible."
 
"Great.  Let's go," he said, grateful they now had a plan of action.
 
"Mulder, I'm not even dressed," she pointed out.
 
"Scully, this is an emergency.  It doesn't matter."
 
"I'm getting dressed, Mulder, and I'm going to need a little help."  She
pushed back the covers and scooted to the edge of the bed.
 
"Oooh... Scully," he leered, "I thought you'd never ask."  He waited for
The Look, but felt little humor when he saw her expressionless eyes--a
sobering vision eased just a little by her slight smile.
 
They set to work on the task at hand--Scully brushed her teeth and cleaned
up a little, asking for help only when absolutely necessary, while Mulder
followed her directions to find her clothes.  That done, she stood holding
a hairbrush and fingering an outfit Mulder had placed on the bed.
 
He hesitated at the door.  "Sure you're okay?"
 
"Yeah, I'm fine."  He resisted a sarcastic comment to that familiar line,
and went into the living room, closing the door behind him.
 
She took off her pajamas and put on her bra and a white T-shirt, all the
while thinking how grateful she was that she had taken a bath last night.
Mulder would have loved that scenario, she muttered to herself.  She
pulled on the black pants, then a dark green cardigan, managing the
buttons with ease.  Well, she thought with satisfaction, at least I can
get dressed by myself.  She located the brush where she had placed it on
the bed and ran it through her hair several times.  She was about to tell
Mulder she was ready when she remembered her necklace.  She wanted it, but
there was no way she was calling him to get it for her.  She knew it was
on the end of the dresser, and decided to get it herself.

She turned and faced the right direction, using the bed as a landmark, and
took a few steps before tripping on something.  Her shoes.  She had
forgotten that Mulder had laid them out for her.  She bent over, slipped
them on, and stood, realizing with frustration that she'd lost her
bearings and didn't know which way the dresser was now.

She steeled herself, ignoring that familiar sense of distress in her
spine, and walked forward, arms out in front of her.  Dana Scully was not
afraid of the dark and didn't believe in monsters under the bed.  She
could do this.  She touched wood and knew she was way off course.  A door.
The bedroom door or the closet door?  She decided it was the closet and
turned, making another attempt for the dresser, walking slowly, and
growing more alarmed by the second.

Lost . . . in her most private, intimate space.

She realized then that maybe she had never been afraid of the dark because
there was always the possibility of turning on a light.  She needed to get
a hold of herself.  What was happening to her that the biggest challenge
of the day was walking from the bed to the dresser?  She tried to relax
but panic was overwhelming her.

The functioning part of her brain reminded her that she was in her own
bedroom, in her apartment.  There was nothing to be afraid of.  But the
rest of her was screaming that her bedroom and the pit of hell looked
exactly alike in the dark.  Her mind whirled and she wondered irrationally
if she was even in her bedroom at all.  She imagined herself walking
toward a steep cliff or on the ledge of some building.

Fear was bubbling up inside her.  "What if this is permanent?  What if my
last vision was the bedroom ceiling last night?  The questions arrived in
her mind unbidden."  If she had only known this would happen, she would
have paid more attention.  She would have noticed the view from the window
on the flight back to Washington last night.  Looked through her family
album.  Reread Moby Dick.  She would have noticed which tie Mulder was
wearing yesterday and what color his eyes were when he dropped her off
last night.

She was trembling now.

She hit the dresser with a thud and was searching frantically for the
necklace when she struck something and knocked it to the floor, making a
racket.  She cringed, feeling the noise like a physical blow as the
remainder of her control ebbed away like water down a drain.  The darkness
grabbed her and shook her as she choked back a scream.
 
Then Mulder was calling her name but she couldn't answer.  For one second,
she wanted him to burst in and throw his arms around her, squeezing out
all the fear, holding her so close she wouldn't be able to see and
wouldn't need to anyway.  Then the more familiar voice took over.  Don't
come in here, she wanted to scream.  Leave me alone!  I'm fine!  But she
wasn't, and she heard him come in, felt his hand on the small of her back
for an instant, then knew he was retrieving the thing from the floor.  His
hand brushed her back again.  "It's okay.  It's not broken."
 
"What is it?"  Her voice was barely a whisper and she was still trembling.
 
"It's a picture."
 
"My dad."  She reached for it and he put it in her hands.  She held it a
moment, then reached to place it back on the dresser, and would have
dropped it to the floor again had Mulder not guided her hand to the
surface.
 
She stood a little straighter, feigning confidence.  "Mulder, I was
looking for my necklace," she informed him, all business, trying
desperately to steady her voice and failing miserably.  "It's on the
dresser."
 
Mulder was scared.  He had never seen Scully like this.  She was teetering
on the fine line between self-control and someplace else he didn't want to
consider.  He wasn't sure how to pull her back.
 
"Here it is," he said slowly, nearly whispering.  He retrieved the
necklace and moved behind her to fasten the chain around her neck.  He
felt as if he were trying to diffuse a bomb, terrified he would trip the
wrong wire.
 
She fingered the cross as she turned to face him.  "So," she started in a
voice he didn't recognize, "am I presentable?"
 
Mulder was conscious of a growing lump in his throat.  Why was she doing
this?  Why couldn't she just be honest with him about how she felt?  Why
this performance?  She was visibly shaking now, coming apart at the seams.
He swallowed hard, and tried to play along.  "You are more than
presentable, Scully.  But you, uh, missed a button." He hesitated, then
gingerly touched a button against her stomach.  "Do you mind?"
 
She lowered her head in defeat and slowly shook her head no.  He corrected
her mistake, putting the right button in the right hole, and following
suit with those beneath, which were all one off.
 
Scully stood there with her arms at her side, her best friend buttoning
her sweater because she couldn't do it herself.  She had never known such
humiliation.  She remembered a time when she was a child, standing in the
kitchen in one of the many base-housing residences.  Her mother was
zipping up her winter coat, saying, "Keep your hood up, Dana.  I mean it--
it's cold out there."
 
She was mortified by the truth that this scene was no different, really.
Only now she was a grown, competent woman who needed her partner to button
her sweater because she couldn't handle it herself.  How had this happened
to her?  How had she gotten to this place?
 
Terror swept over her like a blanket, smothering her.  She imagined
herself made of crystal, plummeting down to some unknown destruction, so
fragile, destined to shatter.
 
She knew she was about to fall apart, and feared the collapse of a
fortress she had spent years building.   A fortress of strength and self-
sufficiency.  Respect and independence.  Crashing down.  Right now.
 
"Mulder."  Her broken voice was raw honesty, betraying her loss of
control.  His name on her lips was a warning and a plea.
 
His head snapped up.  Her eyes remained blank, but she was clearly
terrified.  So was he.  "What is it?"
 
She brought her hands up to her face as a frightened child might, and
said, "I'm losing it, Mulder, I can't do this.  I'm falling apart."  Don't
let me, her mind begged him.  Do something.  Hold me together.
 
"Thanks for the warning, Scully."  He didn't feel the humor, but wanted
her to know he could take whatever was about to happen.
 
"I mean it, Mulder. This is it."  A long pause.  "I can handle the cancer,
you know, and the treatment.  The nosebleeds and the headaches . . . . "
Her voice gradually rose in volume and pitch, words tumbling out on top of
one another.  "I lay in bed at night and wonder if tomorrow will be the
first day I really start to feel sick.  And I wonder if people look at me
and know--".   She brought her hands up in a sweeping motion, emphasizing
her next words.  "But I handle all of it."  She paused, dropping her arms
again.   "And the worst thing is thinking about leaving behind . . . . "
She didn't finish that thought.  "But I get up every morning and go to
work and do my life and figure out a way to handle it."  She emphasized
the last words and stopped momentarily.

She had really been hurting these past few weeks, Mulder realized.  In
truth, he had known, but was willing to make believe if she was.  Now he
knew that had been a mistake.  As much as it hurt him to see her like
this, he recognized that an emotional response to her diagnosis was long
overdue.

Then he saw something pass across her face, as if she had just witnessed
some before-unknown evil so frightening.  He put his hands on her
shoulders, encouraging her to continue.

"But this . . . this darkness--".   He feared she was on the edge of
hysteria.   She went on, "I can't see anything.  I can't do this, Mulder.
I can't."  Her voice broke on a sob, as panic gave way to something no
less frightening.

Sorrow.
 
She dropped her head to her chest and put her face in her hands.  The
tears would no longer be denied.  A wave of shame washed over her as she
wept.  So much for my brave face, she thought bitterly.
 
"Scully," he breathed.  Mulder gently pulled her hands away from her face
and placed his own on either side of her neck, thumbs resting on her
cheeks, effectively holding her head up.  She was startled by this
intimate touch, but didn't pull away.  He lowered his head until his cheek
was a breath away from her temple.  "Ssh . . . Scully," he said softly
into her ear.  "Just relax . . . okay?"
 
He moved his thumbs back and forth on her skin in a gentle rhythm,
speaking to her quietly, slowly, taking lots of time.  "Relax . . . it's
alright . . . you're gonna get through this."  Her tiny body shook with
her soft cries.  "You know why?"  A long pause.   "Because the only
alternative is giving up . . . and I'm not gonna let you do that, Scully."
Tears rolled freely down her face.   "Not ever.  Do you hear me?"
 
He took a tiny step toward her, eliminating the inches that remained
between them.  He slid his arms around her, one across her back, the other
hand buried in the hair above the base of her neck, holding her close.
She didn't resist, but instead complied willingly, burying her face into
his chest, tucking her arms between them.

"Ssh," he said again.  "You're okay, Scully."  His fingers traced a gentle
pattern on her scalp, calming her.  "I know you're scared.  So am I.  But
you are so strong.  I know you can get through this.  You can't give up."
He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head.
 
They stood there for a long time as the rain continued to fall outside.
Scully didn't know if it was his words, or the way he was caressing her
head, or just being in his arms, but she felt his strength seeping into
her, becoming her own.

The tears subsided as time crawled, her sobs yielding to a silence broken
only by her uneven breathing.  She hated herself for losing control, but
had to admit this felt good.  Unbelievable, actually.  She couldn't
remember ever being held like this by anyone, at least not since she'd
lost her father.  Desperately and on purpose.   Gently, but with
intensity.

Her face was pressed against his tie, which was now wet with her tears.
She decided that this must be the safest place in the entire world, and
that she was a fool for not coming here more often.  The darkness had
robbed her of every defense, stripping her down to raw emotion.  Yet, when
all was said and done, she wasn't alone.

She felt a soft peace falling around them, quiet and still.  This is what
she continually denied herself--Mulder's strength, his encouraging words.
He was always there, offering this comfort to her, and she invariably held
him at arm's length, making him afraid to even try.  She had always
thought it a sign of weakness, dependence.  But he was telling her that
she was strong, that she could do this.

She needed to see his face.  So she called to her mind another embrace,
not so long ago, in a hallway.   Promises had been made.  She had vowed to
fight, and Mulder . . . he had promised volumes without saying a word.
She remembered looking up into his face, seeing him gaze at her with such
compassion and love.  And she knew that if she could see him now, it would
be the same.
 
She turned her palms to his chest and pushed away just a few inches,
sniffling.  She sighed and managed a feeble smile.  "I'm okay, now.  Sorry
about that."
 
He tilted her chin up with his fingers so he could see her face.  "Don't
apologize, Scully.  You're the one with the rules, not me," he teased,
resting his hands on her shoulders once again.
 
"I know," she admitted, "right now I can't even remember what the rules
are for."
 
Mulder laughed softly and stepped back a little, dropping his hands.  "I
never knew," he admitted.  And they both laughed.
 
Scully wiped her face with her hands and said, "Well, I guess we're
ready."

They stood there a moment longer, each regrouping, letting silence have
the last word.

It was then that Scully realized she hadn't called Skinner's office.
Mulder noticed she opted for voice mail, apparently seeking to dodge
uncomfortable questions from the assistant director.  Her message was so
casual as she spoke into the phone that anyone listening would only think
she had a case of the flu.  Of course, Mulder could hear the truth in her
tone of voice, but Skinner?  She might fool him.

********************

Northeast Georgetown University Hospital
Washington, D.C.
9:20 a.m.

If Hell were specifically tailored for different individuals, Mulder's
would most certainly be a hospital waiting room.  In the case of
exceptionally aggravating  punishment,  he would be waiting on Scully.  It
was just hard.  He much preferred tearing down hallways, demanding
answers; or flashing his badge to secure necessary information.  But there
was no information yet, and he could only wait.

Getting around had not proved to be a problem, much to his relief.  There
had been a brief, awkward moment when they had moved to leave her
apartment, each hesitating to make physical contact--ironic given the
intimacy they had succumbed to only minutes earlier.  Mulder's first
instinct had been to lift her up into his arms "honeymoon style" and be
done with it.  But this was Scully, and unless he wanted to spend the rest
of the morning picking his teeth out of her carpet, he figured he should
let her have the reins on this.  After trying a couple of different
positions, she had decided the easiest way for him to guide her was for
her to stand to his right and hook her left hand just above his elbow.
That way she could follow him and still have her right hand free to feel
her own way.

After arriving in the ER, they had been ushered to an examining room to
wait for Chambers.  They hadn't said much to one another during the wait,
each preoccupied with their own thoughts, grateful there was no pressure
to clutter the silence with words.  Scully sat on the edge of the exam
table, legs dangling.  Mulder stood to her right, leaning on the table,
allowing his arm to barely brush hers, reluctant to terminate the physical
contact she herself had initiated on the way to the hospital.

In the car, Mulder had slipped into their normal traveling mode, not
saying much, consumed with his own thoughts.  It was their way, talking
from time to time, but mostly relaxing in a companionable silence.  But
things were different for Scully today; and Mulder could not have been
more surprised when, halfway to the hospital, she had said, "you're still
here, aren't you, Mulder?"  Her voice had been light, but he had
understood what she was trying to tell him.  He had reached over and
folded her tiny hand into his own, again surprised when she gripped it
ferociously and held on tight the rest of the way.

Their relationship was characterized by some touching, but not a lot.  He
often rested his hand on the small of her back as they walked together or
entered a room.  A hand on an arm or a shoulder was no big deal, but
rarely hugs and rarely handholding.   Scully had no choice but to rely on
physical help now, but Mulder thought it was more than that.  She needed
some tangible proof that she was not alone.  She needed him, needed his
touch.  And though he despised the circumstances, being needed by Scully
was definitely something he could get used to.

He rose from his seat and began to pace the small area, glancing every few
minutes at the curtain that hid his partner.  Though he liked to think of
himself as cautious, many would argue that paranoid was a more accurate
description.  So his natural tendency was to be suspicious of Scully's
doctor, especially after the close call they'd had with Dr. Scanlon in
Allentown.  Mulder was still having nightmares detailing what might have
happened had they not stopped her treatments in time.  He took comfort in
the fact that Scully was an excellent judge of character and had chosen
Chambers herself from a large field of oncologists, but he was more than
surprised to find himself liking the guy immediately.

Dr. Lyle Chambers had arrived in less than twenty minutes, apologizing for
the delay.  He immediately focused all his attention on Scully, putting a
hand on her shoulder, asking questions, and thoroughly looking her over.
She interrupted briefly to introduce Mulder, who had stepped away to give
the doctor more room.  The two men shook hands before Mulder excused
himself, telling Scully he would be in the waiting room.

And that's where he'd spent the last hour, trying not to worry.  Right.
No problem.  He sighed and returned to his chair.

The familiar ring of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts.  He dug it
out of the suit jacket he'd tossed on the chair next to him.  "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, where are you?  I've been trying to reach you."  Skinner.
Mulder mentally kicked himself for not calling the Bureau when Scully did.
The assistant director did not sound happy.

"Sorry, sir.  I intended to call-"

"Are you in the building?"  He used a strict tone, but sounded relieved.

"No.  I'm not working--that's why I meant to call.  I need to take a
personal day."

Skinner hesitated for several moments before answering; and Mulder could
swear he heard puzzle pieces snapping together in his boss's mind.  "I
don't suppose your personal day has anything to do with Agent Scully's
sick day?"

Mulder didn't respond.  Skinner didn't really expect he would.  He knew
how important privacy was to Scully, and he certainly knew that Mulder
would sooner die than betray her trust.

What scared him was that he also knew his agents.  Scully didn't ask for
help, and Mulder didn't take personal days.  Something was wrong.
Scully's cancer, without question.  "Agent Mulder, are you concerned?"

Mulder chuckled under his breath and glanced around the waiting room.
"I'm always concerned, sir."

"Very true."  Skinner relaxed their roles a little.  He leaned back in his
chair and looked out over his empty office.  Enough beating around the
bush.  "How is she, Mulder?"

Mulder sighed and looked toward the green curtain that led to Scully.
"She's doing okay."  How could he convince Skinner when he didn't believe
it himself?

"Should I be concerned?"

Mulder thought about it, wishing he could tell him everything.  "Maybe.  I
don't really know anything right now,"  he replied honestly.

"I see."  Skinner paused.  "Well, take as much time as you need," he
finished.  He was about to hang up when Mulder spoke again.

"Sir, why were you looking for me?"

He hesitated a moment.  "I, uh, wanted to tell you your partner was ill."
There was a brief, thick silence before Skinner disconnected.
 
Mulder pressed the "END" button and returned the phone to his jacket,
feeling slow and sluggish.  Or maybe he was in real time and everything
around him seemed to be dragging along in slow motion.  He sat hunched
over, elbows on his knees, hands clasped behind his neck, head down.  He
stared at the floor.  He noticed that it was one of those floors with all
the squares, like in the elementary school cafeteria and the grocery
store.  Mulder was struck by the bizarre memory of an age when both of his
feet could fit inside just one square and he could walk anywhere without
touching any lines.  No more.  He was grown up now, feet and everything.
 
Your partner is ill.   Your partner is ill.
 
There it was.  As if he were simply informing Mulder that the ballistics
report was in on a murder weapon.  Statement of fact.  But there was so
much more, wasn't there?  The accusing voice in his head sounded
distinctly like his own.  Your partner is ill.  Scully . . . the only
person who really knows you, the only person you trust, the only one who
understands you, believes in you.  Scully, who is brilliant, competent,
and good.  And there's more . . . she's got cancer and she's going to die.
There's this tumor right between her eyes, growing, growing.  And they
can't operate or treat it effectively, so she's going to die.  Scully, who
cares and laughs and loves.  She can't see anymore.  Oh, and one more
thing.  Your fault.  You did this to her, because if not for your arrogant
quest, they would never have taken her at all.
 
Mulder started when he heard the swish of the curtain, and looked up to
see a woman in a pink jacket walking toward him.  He stood.
 
"Mr. Mulder, Miss Scully's examination has been completed," she said.
"You can go in now."
 
Mulder grabbed his jacket and followed her behind the curtain, eyes
scanning the room.  Scully and her doctor sat across from one another in
chairs, in earnest discussion.  Chambers looked up, obviously surprised at
the interruption.  "Uh, Mr. Mulder . . ."

Scully's head whirled toward the sound of the curtain closing behind them.
 
The nurse immediately realized her mistake.  "I'm sorry, doctor, I thought
you were ready.  We'll be just outside," she said apologetically, taking
Mulder's arm and turning to usher him back towards the waiting room.
 
"Wait."  Mulder turned back at Scully's voice.  "It's okay.  He can stay."
She set her jaw and tried to face Chambers again, missing him by a couple
of feet.

 Mulder received an approving nod from the doctor, oddly feeling as if
he'd passed some kind of test.  He walked over and briefly rested his hand
on Scully's shoulder before leaning against the wall to her right.
 
"Actually," Dr. Chambers said to Scully, "I guess we are about finished
here, Dana."
 
She turned in Mulder's direction.  "There are basically two possibilities.
Obviously, it may be the tumor.  But X-rays don't show any substantial growth."
 
"Which is good," the doctor added.  "I don't want to get your hopes up,"
he continued, addressing them both, "but it seems more likely that the
blindness is associated with the new medication."
 
Mulder looked at Scully.  "The medication you just started a few days
ago?"
 
She nodded.  "The truth is . . . I didn't have a lot of options.  The
drugs are unconventional and highly experimental.  I knew it was risky,
but not as risky as doing nothing."
 
"Dana is right.  She made the only decision she could under the
circumstances." Dr. Chambers explained.  "The drugs have been tested, but
certainly all the possible effects are not known.  We agreed it was worth
a try."  He sighed heavily.  "But no more of them."  He faced his patient.
"Since you haven't had a dose since last night, your system should be
clean by tomorrow or the next day.  If there is no improvement in your
vision by then, we will have to rethink this."   He began writing
something on her chart.  "I'm giving you a mild sedative to relax you and
make sure you get enough rest, but no heavy medication until we see what
happens, okay?"
 
"Yes, thank you," she replied.
 
"I'll stop by and check on you during afternoon rounds," he added.
 
Mulder watched as Scully's face drained of color.  She struggled to
reclaim her voice.  "What?"
 
"You'll be admitted, of course."
 
"But, why?"  She hadn't seen this coming.  The thought of being in the
hospital when she felt absolutely fine was ridiculous.  She could manage.
Circumstances were trying enough without having to be admitted to the
hospital.
 
"You can't see, Dana.  You are going to have trouble getting around.
You'll be sedated and you're coming off some very powerful drugs.  I'm not
expecting any problems, but you certainly shouldn't be alone."
 
Mulder watched her as she tried to come up with a reason her doctor would
accept.  Her mind was obviously reeling; and under other circumstances,
her expression would be comical.  He couldn't blame her for wanting to be
in her own home, not laying in a hospital bed with strangers waiting on
her. It would be different if she needed intravenous medication or a
special diet or something, he thought.
 
He turned to the doctor.  "So the only reason you want to admit her is to
make sure she doesn't hurt herself."
 
"Mainly, yes."
 
He shot a glance at her before returning his gaze to the doctor.  "What if
I stayed with her?"
 
Scully jumped in.  "No, Mulder," she said with determination.
 
"Why not?  It makes more sense than being in the hospital."  He faced
Chambers again.  "She could manage a lot better in a familiar environment
where she could feel her way around."
 
"Well, that's true."  Chambers consulted her chart as he mulled it over.
"I suppose I would be comfortable with that."  He looked up at Scully.
"Dana?"
 
She looks like she wants to strangle me, Mulder thought gleefully.  She
was definitely acting more like herself.  She seemed to be thinking it
over for a minute or two, then turned toward Chambers and smiled sweetly.
"Perfect," she said agreeably.  And Mulder knew he was in trouble.
 
Fifteen minutes later, Mulder tossed his dripping umbrella in the back
seat, climbed into the car, and fastened his seatbelt, wondering
absentmindedly if it would rain all day.

He glanced at his partner.  "Okay, let's have it."
 
"What?" she inquired with restraint.
 
"You know what," he said, starting the car and pulling into traffic.
"You're mad that I interfered back there."
 
"Interfered?  Oh, you mean when you jumped in with your big idea and
proceeded to talk my doctor into it?  Or when you interrupted me and acted
as if I wasn't even in the room?  Or maybe you're referring to the moment
when you made a decision about what was best for me when I was standing
right there, perfectly capable of making that decision myself!"
 
"Scully--"
 
"Don't 'Scully' me like you're my father or something."
 
He couldn't resist.  "Your father called you 'Scully'?"
 
She faced forward, still seething, frustrated at her inability to think of
a satisfying comeback.
 
"Besides," Mulder said calmly, "you did make the decision."
 
Her head whirled in his direction.  "How is that?"
 
"You said you didn't want to stay in the hospital."  She didn't respond.
"I only stepped in to make sure your decision would be accepted.  You have
to admit I made a good argument, Scully."  He chanced a quick glance her
way before returning his eyes to the road.  "Don't sweat it.  You can
repay me later."
 
His calmness and humor were disarming her.  He was right, as usual, and
she hated him for it.  Well, almost.  She knew she shouldn't be angry with
him.  If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she had been
hoping Mulder would jump in when she couldn't convince the doctor herself.
But the way he had done it just aggravated her.
 
She sighed with exasperation.  "You're infuriating, you know that?"
 
"You love it, Scully.  Why else would you keep coming back for more?"  She
could imagine the smug look on his face and turned away so he wouldn't see
her inevitable grin.
 
They rode in silence for awhile before she spoke again.  "This isn't the
way to my apartment."
 
He chided himself for forgetting that she couldn't see where they were
going.  But he was impressed that she'd noticed the different route.  "I'm
stopping by my place to pick up a few things."
 
No more was said until they were within blocks of his apartment.
"Seriously, Mulder," she began quietly, "you really don't have to do this.
 I can call my mom to come stay with me."
 
He looked at her, wondering why she was trying to wiggle out of it.
Surely she's not uncomfortable with the idea, he thought.  They had spent
the night together before . . . in harrowing, work-related circumstances,
of course.  She had never been uncomfortable with him on those occasions,
of that he was sure.
 
"Scully, if you'd rather I didn't--"
 
"No," she interrupted.  "It's not that.  I just . . . Mulder, this is a
lot for me to ask from you."
 
"You didn't ask.  I interfered, remember?"
 
She smiled.  "I just don't want you to feel obligated.  My mom would be
glad to do this."
 
Several moments passed.  He asked quietly, "Would you be more comfortable
with your mom?"
 
She chuckled.  "Honestly?  No.  She's wonderful, but she coddles me more
than you do.  Which I hate, as you know."
 
"Scully, I had no idea," he remarked sarcastically, feeling relieved as he
parked in front of the building and killed the engine.
 
She insisted on waiting in the car while he went upstairs, knowing it
would take twice as long and they would get twice as wet if he tried to
drag her along.  Funny thing that she stayed in the car to avoid getting
soaked . . . because the more she sat there listening to the downpour, the
more she wanted to feel the water on her face.  Feeling only a little
childish, she climbed out of the car and stood, holding onto the door
handle, loving the feel of the rain on her hair and skin.  She didn't dare
move an inch away from the security of the car, but only waited there,
feeling slightly less like an invalid.
 
Mulder wasn't sure what to think when he returned to find her like this.
There was a brief moment of concern when he saw that she'd gotten out of
the car.  But it passed when he caught the look on her face.  She liked
it.  Clearly this was a spontaneous, on-purpose kind of thing that seemed
strange only because it was Scully.  But, hey, he was nothing if not
flexible.  He stopped directly in front of her.  She opened her eyes.
 
"Hey," she said, having heard him approach.
 
"Hey, yourself," he replied with amusement.  "So I guess I don't have to
drag the umbrella out on your account, huh?"
 
She allowed a small smile.  "No, I guess not."
 
"Good."  He walked to the rear of the car and opened the trunk, tossing in
a small bag and his briefcase, having already changed into black jeans and
a black T-shirt.  A moment later they were both back inside the vehicle.
Her hair was plastered to her face.  She apologized for not thinking ahead
enough to avoid getting the seat all wet, but, fortunately, he couldn't
care less.
 
Somehow everything seemed a little easier to Mulder after this.  Back at
Scully's, he made some sandwiches for lunch and she changed into black
leggings and a huge NAVY sweatshirt that Mulder assumed had been her
father's.  She took the sedative and was soon feeling tired.  She lay on
the sofa with her knees bent, staring blankly at the ceiling, seeing
nothing.
 
Although she had encouraged him to turn the television on, Mulder couldn't
imagine watching it when she could only listen.  So he put on a CD
instead.  He wasn't surprised to find that she had a lot of classical
music in her collection.  He chose Debussy, thinking it might lull her to
sleep.
 
He sat down on the end of the couch and rested his right elbow on the
armrest.  "Need anything?"
 
"No," she replied, letting her eyelids slide down.  Her toes were a few
inches from touching his thigh and she was unnerved by her overwhelming
need to have some kind of physical connection to him.  She scooted her
feet out until they barely touched him, and tucked her toes under his leg.
The contact was less than minimal, but she blushed anyway.  "Is this
okay?" she asked.
 
He had been watching her make this apparently monumental move.  "Sure," he
said, marveling at what a dysfunctional pair they were.  How was it that
they could be so connected, so intimate, and yet so afraid of each other?
He dropped his left hand down to rest on her socked feet, tilted his head
back, and closed his eyes.

***********************
 

As her mind gradually emerged from the cloud of a heavy sleep brought on
by the sedatives, its first thought was that it was still raining.  She
couldn't explain why, but it seemed as though a lot of time had passed,
possibly several hours.  It felt like early evening.  She had turned onto
her left side in her sleep and had scrunched further down the couch, which
explained why her shins were now pressed against Mulder's leg.
 
Since she didn't open her eyes, she could almost trick her mind into
believing she was choosing darkness.  Purely psychological, she knew, but
it was a little less terrifying with her eyes closed.  She noticed that
the music was gone, probably having ended hours ago.  Now all she could
hear was the rain and the sound of Mulder plodding along on his laptop.
She assumed he was writing his report for the Louisiana case, and wondered
how long he had been working.
 
She smiled a little when she realized she could probably identify the
sound of Mulder typing out of a lineup.  She knew his rhythm as well as
her own.  He would go at it like crazy for awhile, then stop suddenly, his
thoughts playing host to a parade of questions and answers, assembling the
pieces of the investigative puzzle, then hitting the keys with fervor once
again.  It was a comforting cadence, somehow assuring her that everything
would be okay, that this was all normal and familiar.
 
Scully let her thoughts turn to the drama that had occurred earlier in her
bedroom.  He had been so supportive, acting like it was no big deal.  It
must be hard for him, she thought, knowing from experience that it is just
as painful to watch someone you care about suffer as it is to suffer
yourself.  She couldn't help but wonder why he wanted to be here with her,
sharing this nightmare.  God knows he has enough problems of his own.
There was no pressure; he knew she could call her mom and she would come
right over.  Not that she didn't think he appreciated her company--they
were nearly inseparable most of the time due to the excessive hours
required on the job, but this was a burdensome guard duty.
 
This was a frustrating line of thought because she could usually read him
so easily.  She involuntarily opened her eyes, wanting to look at him, and
saw instead a consuming blackness.  Her eyelids slid down again.
 
Whenever she was uncertain about what was going on in Mulder's head or how
he was really feeling, she could gaze into his eyes and know everything.
But now she couldn't see his face, his eyes.  She finally moved, pulling
her arms closer to her chest and shivering with a sudden chill, sending up
a silent prayer that this would please be only temporary.
 
The typing ceased and she could feel Mulder shifting positions.  She kept
her eyes closed, even as she felt an afghan being settled over her, the
one she kept on the back of the couch.  He thinks I'm still sleeping, she
mused, reveling in even this small independence.  When he was satisfied,
he took a slow deep breath and let it out.  She could feel his eyes on
her, warm like sunshine, for what had to be nearly a minute before he
began again on the report.  Scully decided to try very hard to remember
this moment the next time Mulder ditched her on assignment or infuriated
her with an insensitive remark.  He could be so sweet when he thought no
one was looking.
 
She settled herself under the afghan and resumed her thoughts.  She knew
Mulder blamed himself for her illness, the same way he felt responsible
for his sister's disappearance, his father's death, and on and on.  Is
that why he was so insistent on being the one to stay with her?  Misplaced
guilt?  She had grown accustomed to Mulder's self-incrimination--however
misguided--and wouldn't be angry if it were the source of his current
attentiveness.  Guilt was the root of nearly everything in his life, and
as much as she wanted to lift that burden, she wondered if it would only
deconstruct him somehow, like removing a limb.
 
If being available to her now could relieve even a little of his guilt,
she was glad he was here.  In fact, she was glad he was here no matter
what his reasons were.
 
She paused.  No.  That wasn't quite true.  If he felt sorry for her . . .
she wouldn't be able to cope with that.  She had to admit that the cancer
had been showing itself in the last few weeks.  She knew she was pale, a
little thinner, a little low on energy.  Nothing drastic.  Probably no one
at work had even noticed the changes.  But Mulder . . . he never missed a
thing.  He could read her like a book, and they both knew she wasn't
fooling him.
 
She pulled the afghan up to her chin and snuggled deeper, feeling guilty
herself for questioning Mulder's motives at all.  The trust between them
was the only thing that kept her going anymore.  It was one of the few
things the cancer had not been able to weaken, at least not yet.  Though
it was never spoken, she knew he cared for her.  Deeply.  Probably he was
here because he just wanted to help.  But somehow . . . she needed to hear
the words.
 
"Mulder."  He was not going to like this, she knew.  But she asked him
anyway.  "Why are you here?"
 
"Mulder."  He stopped typing at the sound of her voice.  She hadn't opened
her eyes and he thought she was still asleep.  He wondered at this and
realized that the darkness was probably less frightening if her eyes were
closed.  His stomach suddenly felt like it was lined with granite and he
wished for the thousandth time for her sight to return soon.  He swallowed
hard and turned to look at her.  She was waiting, and looking serious.
Uh, oh, he thought.  Obviously she'd been awake for awhile and been busy
thinking up hard questions.
 
"Are we talking metaphysics here, Scully?"  The question won him a small
smile.  His heart felt lighter.
 
"Mulder."  She was using the I'm-serious-quit-trying-to-make-me-laugh
tone.  Music to his ears.  "You know what I mean."
 
Yeah.  He knew what she wanted to know, but thought the joke might
distract her.  She would expect nothing less.  Classic Mulder.  Humor as a
defense mechanism.  He sighed inwardly and realized he suddenly felt
weary.  Do we really have to do this, Scully?  He wished she would open
her eyes and look at him and see him.  Then she would know, and he
wouldn't have to figure out the words and say them out loud.  Actual
conversations about their intense but complicated relationship were few
and far between, which Mulder believed was for the best.  And though most
of their conversations had not been completely destructive, visions of the
whole "why don't I have a desk" ordeal were swimming in his head.  He
encouraged himself not to say something stupid.
 
He turned his attention back to the computer and studied the monitor.  Why
am I here?  Good one, Scully.  There were the obvious answers.  Because
you can't see.  Because you need help.  Because the doctor said . . .
 
She would never go for it.  Way too easy.
 
Mulder was thinking hard.  Being a woman, Scully would have to make him do
this the hard way.  Out loud.  With words.  The thought crossed his mind
that he shouldn't be required to participate in relationship analysis
discussions because he didn't have a wife or a girlfriend.  Ahhh . . . but
he had a Scully.  So here they were.
 
The cursor pulsed on the screen, encouraging him to continue.  Typing or
thinking?  He wasn't sure, but he concentrated on its steady rhythm.
 
It wasn't guilt.  He was pretty sure Scully would expect this to be his
motivation.  Not exactly a leap in logic.  Mulder and guilt were life
companions.  He hadn't known a moment without its company since he was
twelve.  He had not been able to protect Samantha.  Now Scully.  If she
had never crossed his path, she would be whole and healthy.  Not blind.
Not afraid.  Not dying.  His thoughts tripped over the understanding of
it.  Dying.  The word echoed in his head as if it had come from an audible
voice.  Panic seized him as it always did when this reality hit home, and
he felt the irrational urge to hold on to something heavy.
 
He looked at her then.  Watched her chest rise and fall with each breath.
Took comfort in it.  She was so still, waiting.  He smiled and marveled
that sharing silence with Scully was never awkward; rather it was
strangely intimate.  She would let him think it over, and he would answer
when he was ready.
 
At this moment, he knew for sure.  It wasn't guilt.  If her cancer had not
been given to her deliberately, he would still be here.  If it were
completely unrelated to him or the work, there still would be nothing
capable of dragging him away from her.
 
"Scully, why is this important?"  It wasn't an accusation.  He just
thought it should be enough that he was here.  Wasn't that the most
significant thing?  But she wanted to know why.
 
She shrugged, thinking it over.  "I don't know," she finally admitted.
 
Her face betrayed her own uncertainty and filled Mulder with
understanding.  "But it is."  It was a statement and a question.
 
"Yes."  She sounded relieved.
 
"Okay."  Why was he badgering her?  She needs to know, so figure it out.
 
Looking at her then, he could see everything inside her, laid bare.  An
epiphany, maybe.  Whatever it was, for one moment she wore no mask.  And
he knew what she was afraid of.  She thought he felt sorry for her.  There
it was, like a message across the sky.  He felt foolish for not making the
connection earlier.  Scully's worst nightmare: weakness, loss of control.
She despised pity.  In fact, he was fairly certain she would reject his
help, throw him right out the door, if she thought he was driven by some
kind of pity.
 
But why would she think that?  Scully was nothing if not strong, and they
both knew it.  Her strength had proven time after time to be enough for
both of them.  How many times had she kept him from shattering into a
million pieces?  From destroying himself with guilt and obsession?  He
wasn't even counting the numerous occasions on which she had physically
saved his life.  She saved him a hundred times a day with a look or a
smile, and, of course, the occasional bullet.  He relied on her strength
continually, absolutely.  It was the only thing he could rely on at all.
The truth was . . . he wouldn't know how to feel sorry for her if he
wanted to.
 
He had been staring at her.  She hadn't put any makeup on before they had
gone to the hospital and her hair was a little frizzy from the rain.  She
looked young.  And fragile--though he would definitely keep that thought
to himself.
 
"Scully, I'm not sure what you want me to say," he said honestly.
 
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly.  "This isn't a trap, Mulder."
 
A few moments passed.  "It just feels right."  He hadn't meant to say that
out loud.  He knew it wasn't the declaration of friendship and partnership
she had been hoping for, but there was no taking it back now.  "I mean,"
he started, draping his left arm across the back of the couch and leaning
toward her, "this entire thing is like a waking nightmare.  This disease .
. ."  He struggled to explain it to her.  "But when something happens and
you need help, it just feels right that I'm the one you call.  And it
feels right for me to come over and do whatever we have to do."  He
dropped his arm back to his lap and looked away from her, out the window.
 
He didn't say anything for awhile and just when she was about to respond,
he continued.  "As bad as this situation is, Scully . . .  being here with
you is the only thing that seems right about it."  He looked at her again.
 His eyes searched her face for some sense of understanding, that she felt
it, too.  "It feels like the most natural thing in the world."
 
She couldn't say anything at first.  He was right--it wasn't what she
expected him to say.  It was much, much more.  No one else could possibly
understand the magnitude of this confession.  It was so . . . direct.  For
Mulder, this was tantamount to a declaration of love, and she felt every
ounce of it.
 
"That wasn't the right answer, was it?"
 
She could hear the grin in his voice, and made certain he could hear the
lightness in hers as well.  "Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a
flower," she said.  He laughed softly and she knew he was remembering the
first time she'd made that observation.  Then she softly added, "Not only
was that the right answer . . . it got you a few extra credit points as
well."
 
"Good.  I hope that will bring up my overall grade."
 
"We'll see," she said, smiling.
 
She heard him messing around with his laptop, shutting it down.  Then he said seriously, "Now I have a question for you."
 
"O-kay," she said with hesitation, not wanting anything to ruin this moment.
 
"Pizza or Chinese?  Cause I'm starving."
 
****************************
 
 

Mulder felt hazy.  It was the feeling of walking through waist-high water,
struggling to achieve any forward progress, pushing one's body forward,
but strangely remaining in the same spot.  That feeling of standing at the
edge of the ocean when the earth seems to move beneath one's feet.  The
way a patient feels when heavily medicated, experiencing the events that
take place around him, but not knowing if they are real or imagined.  He
felt embraced by a thick fog, but walked on and eventually emerged.  Into
apparent clarity.

He sat at a round table in a hotel room, reading for the third time the
last few paragraphs he'd entered into his laptop.  Finally satisfied, he
clicked on "SAVE" and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out in
front of him.
 
There was a soft rap on the connecting door and a yawning Scully entered
at his invitation, walked to the table, and dropped a file on it.  She was
minus her shoes and the jacket to her black suit.  "Finish the profile?"
she asked wearily, sinking down onto his bed.
 
He nodded, glanced at his watch, and began rubbing the bridge of his nose
with his thumb and forefinger, attempting to stave off a persistent
headache.  It was after two in the morning, and they had been working
since midnight last night, when the murders had begun.
 
Mulder turned his attention to his partner.  She had been gone for hours,
two more victims necessitating two more autopsies.  He had forsaken the
police station and chosen to hole himself up in his room to work up a
profile of the murderer.
 
His eyes roamed her face.  She was as exhausted as he'd ever seen her.
Her skin was pale and drawn, her hair disheveled, and there was a darkness
around her eyes that hadn't been there when he'd last seen her around
lunchtime.  He watched her recline against the pillows and tried to keep
the worry out of his voice.  "Go to bed, Scully.  You look horrible."
 
She closed her eyes.  "Always a charmer, aren't you, Mulder?"
 
"Scully-"
 
"I'm fine," she silenced him.  She turned toward him, propping herself up
on her elbow, and looked him in the eye.  "Aren't you the least bit
curious about what I found?'
 
"Only if you solved the case," he said as he stood and stretched.
 
"Sorry to disappoint you.  But I did make some unusual discoveries.
Unfortunately, it's only going to complicate things.  It's all in that
file," she said, dropping onto her back again with a sigh.
 
"Scully, we're wasted.  I need a shower and you need some sleep."
 
"I have a feeling this is going to be an all-nighter.  I haven't even
begun to think through all I found in there, Mulder, and we still need to
go over your profile."
 
He wanted to argue; to insist she go straight to bed and sleep until noon,
but he knew she was right.  This guy wasn't wasting any time and the
bodies were piling up.  They needed to move.  But at the same time, no
case was worth risking Scully's fragile state of good health.
 
"Okay.  How 'bout this?  We'll break for forty-five minutes or so . . .
you sleep and I'll take a shower, maybe review your file here.  Then we'll
get a fresh start."
 
He realized the degree of her exhaustion when she readily agreed.  "Sounds
like a reasonable plan."  She gave him a threatening look and added, "but
you better wake me, Mulder.  Just forty-five minutes."  She sat up,
intending to go to her own room.
 
"Just stay there, if you're comfortable.  I'll be in the shower."  And he
disappeared into the bathroom.  She couldn't think of a good reason not
to, so she turned away from the bathroom door and curled up on her side
facing the window.  Her eyes dropped like lead and her weary body
succumbed immediately to sleep.
 
Mulder managed to finish shaving before returning to the table, unable to
suppress his growing curiosity about Scully's discoveries.  He spent
nearly an hour perusing her report before heading for the shower, tense
and frustrated.
 
He set the water as hot as he could stand it, relaxing under its massaging
fingers, allowing it to invigorate him.  He put on gray sweats and a white
T-shirt, unwilling to don his suit at 4:00 a.m.  By the time he reentered
the room, the promised forty-five minutes had become an hour and a half.
Scully would be livid, but she needed the rest.  And he would endure the
inevitable argument if it meant ensuring her health a little longer.
 
He sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched her back.  "Scully," he
said softly.  No response.  Her face was hidden from him.  "Hey, Scully,
rise and shine."  He leaned over her, tenderly pulling a lock of hair away
from her face.
 
Then he saw it.  Blood.  It was everywhere.  "Scully," he gasped, gripped
by unimaginable fear.  Blood covered her face and seeped onto the bed,
saturating it.  He felt paralyzed, but somehow grabbed her and rolled her
toward him, onto her back.  There was blood was everywhere.  Her face, her
neck, even her hands-which had been tucked under her chin.  Her white
shirt was soaked with it.
 
"Scully!" he cried desperately, "Wake up!"  He grabbed her shoulders hard
and shook her, trying to rouse her.  He couldn't think at all.  In the
edge of his mind there was something about a nosebleed, but it didn't mean
anything.  His thoughts were all screwed up, jumbled together.  He
realized with horror that he was shaking her violently, and to no avail.
"C'mon, Scully . . . don't do this to me!"  A voice from somewhere was
saying that it was too late, but that couldn't be right.  Then he was
sobbing uncontrollably, tears falling fast from his eyes into the blood,
mingling.  "Scully . . ."   His hands were full of her blood, but he
couldn't stop touching her.   His fingers pressed hard against her neck,
searching for a pulse.  Nothing.  He pressed harder.  Still nothing.
"No!"  It was a low, guttural cry from somewhere deep inside him.  Primal.
"Scully!"
 
 
He jerked awake, sitting up straight, every muscle rigid.  He was
breathing hard and all he knew was blood and cold and sweat and his heart
racing.  It took a few seconds to realize he was sitting on the end of
Scully's couch.  He checked his watch.  3:42 a.m.  He clutched the arm of
the sofa with his right hand, trying to figure out why he was in his
partner's living room in the middle of the night.  Slowly it all came back
to him--the blindness, everything.  He remembered her going to bed and him
sitting here in the dark, thinking.  He must have fallen asleep.
 
Just a dream, he told himself, rubbing his face with his hands.  One of
many lately, but it definitely took the prize for the most horrifying.
And frighteningly real.
 
"Mulder?"  Her voice was sleepy and anxious as she approached him from
behind, feeling her way.
 
He draped his arm across the back of the couch and twisted to see her.
"Scully, what are you doing up?"

She maneuvered around the end of the couch and sat down next to him,
tucking her knees under her.  "You called me."
 
"What?"
 
"Mulder, you were screaming my name.  Is everything okay?"
 
He couldn't see her clearly in the darkness, but her presence was healing
after that nightmare.  "Yeah," he replied, still recovering.  "Sorry I
woke you.  It was just a dream."
 
"Oh," she said softly.   She had heard him screaming "Scully" and "no" and
"wake up."  She could piece it together from there.  She heard his mind
whispering that he would prefer to please not talk about it, and she was
comforted by the connection that remained between them, whether she could
see him or not.
 
She wanted to reassure him somehow, so she tentatively slid her hand
toward him; and he must have understood because she felt him cover hers
with his own.
 
When their skin met, Mulder was struck by the memory of his gory vision,
her milky white skin buried under a sea of blood, both of their hands
covered with it.
 
He reached behind him with his free hand and clicked on the lamp,
irrationally needing to see her in the light.
 
He didn't expect to hear her draw in a sharp breath.  He gripped her hand
tighter.  "What?"  He searched her face, finding it full of shock and
wonder.
 
Her voice was a whisper.  "Do that again."  Her expression was a mosaic of
surprise, confusion, and something else Mulder couldn't quite define.
 
He didn't understand, but obeyed anyway, clicking the light back off,
plunging them again into murky darkness.
 
"Mulder," she breathed, "turn it back on."
 
There was no mistaking her expression now: excitement, hope.  He turned it
on.
 
"I can see that.  I can see the light," she said, pointing.
 
"What?"  He was afraid to hope.  "Scully, what does that mean?  That's
good, right?"
 
"Turn on another one," she instructed eagerly.
 
He complied immediately, jumping up from the couch and hurrying to her
desk.  He flipped on the lamp.  She quickly turned her head that
direction, looking over the back of the couch, rising up on her knees with
excitement.  "I can see that!  It's the lamp on my desk," she exclaimed.
She heard Mulder chuckling as he bounded from place to place turning on
all the lights.  "That's the kitchen light!"  She was laughing now, too,
knowing the worst was over . . . that her sight would most likely be back
later today or tomorrow, because if it had been the tumor, there would
have been no improvement.
 
For his grand finale, Mulder flipped the switch for the overhead light,
illuminating every single thing, flooding the room in unfamiliar
brightness.  He'd never known her to use this light at all-probably
because it was so harsh.  But right now it felt like a promise to him, and
the little sound of joy that escaped Scully was its confirmation.  He
noticed then that her eyes were darting around, squinting.  The distant
stare was gone and she was still laughing.  He joined in as he returned to
sit with her on the couch, making a mental note to try to crack Scully up
as much as possible from now on.  Her laughter was electric.  And he
hadn't heard it in awhile.
 
As the moments passed, their laughter subsided.  They continued looking at
one another, grinning.
 
Scully broke the silence first, keeping her eyes on his face.  "I can see
you."
 
"You can?"  Incredible, he thought.  I can see you, too, Scully.
 
"Well," she admitted, "not really.  You're right in front of the light . .
. so I can see this dark shape that I know to be you."  She reached out
with her left hand and put it on his cheek.  "See?"  The seconds seemed to
stretch themselves beyond their full potential, leaving her to wonder if
time did occasionally show mercy to the happy moments in life.
 
He couldn't take his eyes off her.  Here she was in her pajamas in the
middle of the night with no makeup and her hair going every which way and
all he could think was how pretty she looked.  She could see.  And in
spite of all the intangibles Mulder spent his life seeking, he couldn't
think of any other thing that mattered to him.  He reached up and took her
hand from his face, drawing it down, and holding it between both of his.
 
"So, just for my understanding," he began, "this means it was the
medication . . . and now that you aren't taking it anymore, your sight
should return to normal."
 
She still smiled.  "Looks that way."
 
A moment's pause.  "Do you feel okay?"
 
She cracked up at this.  "I feel amazing," she said.  A few moments later
she added, "Actually, I have a little headache--probably from the
adjustment my eyes are making."
 
It certainly didn't seem to be bothering her much, Mulder mused happily.
"You should go back to bed," he suggested.
 
"I'm not tired."  She couldn't stop smiling.
 
"Here," he said, releasing her hand and grabbing a throw pillow from a
nearby chair.  He placed it between them, propping it against his outer
thigh.  Then he took her hand and laid it on the pillow, showing her what
he had in mind.  "Just lay down out here."
 
"Mulder, I don't want to sleep.  I'm not tired."
 
"You need to rest."
 
She sighed, but reluctantly complied, curling up on her right side with
her head on the pillow and her back against the back of the couch.
 
"Just think," he continued, "everything will probably be back to normal
when you wake up."
 
She tucked her hands under her chin, relishing this closeness.  "Mulder,"
she started, then paused, wondering if some things were best left unsaid.
After several minutes, she decided that too much remained unsaid between
them already.  "I'm not sure I want everything to return to normal."
 
Me, either, he thought, meaning it.  A long time passed; they were each
lost in their own thoughts, both comforted by this gentle intimacy.  The
silence stretched between them, familiar and easy, punctuated only by the
ever-present sound of the rain.
 
Mulder thought about Scully, and Scully thought about Cancer.
 
Twenty minutes or so had passed and he thought she was sleeping.  He was
growing pretty tired himself and had long since laid his head against the
back of the sofa and let his eyes slip shut.  He was surprised to hear her
release a small sigh.
 
"Mulder . . .  we got so excited back there."  Her voice sounded small and
soft, sleepy and sad.  He lifted his head back up as she continued, " . .
. but nothing has changed.  I'm not better."  She hesitated.  "It's still
there, you know?"
 
He thought about it for maybe one second before putting his hand on her
head, burying it in her hair, willfully obliterating any rules they had
left unbroken.  He felt her stiffen, then just a quickly she relaxed
completely.  Permission granted.  His fingers tenderly explored her hair,
weaving in and out, gently stroking her scalp, relaxing them both.  Mulder
couldn't shake the irrational fear that someone was about to kick in the
door and castigate them for unpartnerly behavior.  Even so, he didn't
care.  He was thinking of how soft her hair felt on his fingers, and--at
the same time--how only a few inches away from those fingers, an evil mass
lurked just beneath her skin, waiting to destroy her.  And how everything
she had just said was absolutely true.
 
"I know," he said hoarsely, both hands now playing with her hair.  "But
now you know what it is to be in darkness, then see."  He was having a
hard time finding the words to express his thoughts.  "You're right . . .
it's still there.  But you won this battle . . . you can't give up."  He
was looking down at her now, able to see her profile as she nodded
slightly.
 
"There is so much darkness, Scully, and I know you feel that so much.  So
do I."  He paused, formulating his thoughts.  "But tonight something good
happened.  You can see again.  So tonight we can hold onto that, and
tomorrow or the next day we may have to find something else to hold on to
. . . but that's enough to get through this night, isn't it?"
 
She was quiet for a moment longer.  "Yes."  She swallowed hard.  "Yes, it
is."
 
He brushed the back of his fingertips against her temple.  "Close your
eyes, Scully," he said softly.  He waited until he saw her eyelids slip
shut before settling his head against the back of the couch.   "Tonight
we're sleeping with the lights on."
 
 

the end
 

Thanks for reading.  This was my first try & I would love some feedback.
[email protected]
 

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