Summary: Scully is faced with a difficult decision.
Categories: SA
Rating: G
Spoilers: Set just before Gethsemane, so anything up to that
point is fair game.
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Chris Carter and
his entourage and are used without permission. No copyright
infringement intended. And an apology to Elizabeth Swados, for
pilfering a line from Runaways.
Distribution: Okay to archive on Gossamer; otherwise do not
distribute without my permission.
Notes: After almost a year of work, I finally have this story
where I want it. Hopefully it was worth the effort. Thank you,
Amy, for allowing me to torture you with this for the past few
weeks, and to all the girls- we had fun, right?
Zero Hour
by Em Laurence ([email protected])
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. . . Every minute in that room might have been an hour.
I remember footsteps, on the carpet in the hallway. Time after
time they drew close, and I waited for the door to open, for
someone to enter with that awful look on their face that says
more than you need to hear. Time after time they would pass by
without stopping, and my heart would beat a little bit faster,
and the room would be a little bit smaller.
When the door did open, I was asleep. The doctor had to wake me
to give me the news.
- - - - - - - - -
Mulder knew.
Scully was sure of it. He had been watching her carefully all
night. Twice, she'd glanced up from her plate and caught him
staring at her, his eyes troubled. He knew, had to know, that
something was wrong; worse, he knew how to draw it out of her.
His gaze was unnerving. It was far easier to avoid his questions
than it was to avoid his eyes, and she knew that if he continued
to silently pressure her, she would give way.
"Do you have to stare at me like that?" She winced inwardly at
the sound of her own voice- harsher than she had intended it to
be, but it had at least broken his gaze long enough for her to
regain her composure.
He sighed. "You're not eating."
"I'm not hungry."
"Do you feel all right? You look-"
"I'm fine." Her head hurt, but she wasn't about to tell him.
He'd want her to go home, and home- alone- was not what she
needed.
"Scully..."
She turned away. "Please, Mulder."
"Look at me, Scully."
His voice sounded odd. Strangled. She looked up.
"You're bleeding," he said, softly, and she closed her eyes. Not
again, please, no, not now, not in front of him...
When they reopened, he was beside her, a napkin in his hand.
"Hold still."
"I'll do it," she mumbled, but he shook his head, placing one
hand on her shoulder. Gently, he began to wipe the blood away,
and she made no protest, letting him finish.
"That's most of it." His voice, calm and steady, was at odds
with his shaking hands. "You might want to go clean up..."
She nodded and walked to the restroom without a word, feeling
Mulder's worried gaze burn into her back.
When she returned, he had paid the bill and was waiting with her
coat.
She changed out of her blouse as soon as she entered the
confines of her bedroom, throwing it in the laundry basket
without bothering to rinse the bloodstain off the sleeve first.
It could have been removed easily, even hidden, but she was too
tired to care.
God forbid she should have a blouse that wasn't ruined anyway.
Emerging from the bedroom, she was surprised to find Mulder
seated on the couch. Instantly she lowered her head, hoping he'd
take the hint and leave her alone. The control she fought to
maintain was fast giving way to exhaustion. "I didn't think you
were going to stay."
He shook his head, standing. "I wanted to make sure you were
okay."
"I'll be fine." She nodded, eyes fixed on the carpet. "I'm just
tired..."
"You look it." His hand touched her arm briefly. "Get some
sleep, okay?"
The touch nearly broke her composure. She nodded, unable to
speak without betraying herself.
When he wrapped his arms around her, she made no protest.
Her own arms slipped around his waist and she collapsed against
him, too drained to support her own weight. "I'm tired, Mulder,"
she whispered.
He pulled her closer. "I know."
For one brief moment, she was safe with him.
Too safe.
Abruptly, she pulled away, focusing again on the floor. She
could not allow herself that safety, could not risk letting him
further in. Not now. Not yet.
"Scully?"
She glanced up. His eyes, confused and hurt, met hers. "What's
wrong?"
She had to answer.
She couldn't.
The words, poised on the tip of her tongue, would not leave her
mouth. Saying them aloud would mean they were true, would mean
believing them, and she didn't want to believe. But silence...
No one would have to know. No one would have to feel sorry for
her.
Selfish, but true.
"Nothing," she mumbled. "Nothing's wrong that wasn't wrong
before."
He sighed, defeatedly. "You want me to help you... how? How can
I help you, when you won't let me? If you'd just tell me the
truth when I ask for it, I could help, but you make me drag it
out of you every time... God, Scully, why torture yourself like
that?"
She remained sullenly silent.
"Look, I know I never make it easy for you either. But,
Scully..." He lowered his voice. "If something is wrong, I
want... I need you to let me know."
Frustration could mask the worry in his voice, but not in his
eyes.
She bit her lip.
Speaking would mean watching his face fall, watching him
collapse beneath the weight of the words, and she couldn't
handle that. It was too soon- she herself had known for less
than a day. To regain and remain in control now would be
impossible. More time, she needed more time; time to think, to
understand, to prepare.
Even as her mind made the decision, her heart protested every
word.
"It's nothing." The words stung, and she turned away again.
"Okay?"
A long pause.
"Yeah."
She had expected him to be angry, had prepared herself for it,
but the fire never came. His voice was devoid of emotion. No
irritation, no anger, no worry; just empty, empty space, and
with it the realization that she was the one to blame.
The door closed behind him, quietly. Salt in the wound- a slam,
at least, might have given closure to the evening.
Sinking onto the couch, she buried her face in her hands.
God, she felt sick.
- - - - - - - - -
. . . This disease has wreaked havoc on my mind, body, and soul,
and I hate what I've become because of it. I hate the way it has
changed my life and myself, dangling a thread of hope when I'm
most desperate and then suddenly pulling it away. I hate the
fact that it has control over me, I hate knowing I cannot take
back that control. I hate living with a gun to my head. I hate
being restricted by myself.
I hate the way it's pushing Mulder and I apart.
I can accept condolences from almost anyone with dignity,
without feeling anything, and walk away. The words have been
repeated so often that they no longer have meaning.
But coming from him....
When he speaks, there is guilt attached, and nothing I do or say
can destroy that guilt. "Don't blame yourself", like any other
repeated phrase, loses meaning quickly. "It's okay" is an
out-and-out lie. "Don't worry" is asking for the impossible.
I should have told him today.
But I didn't. Ten seconds of relief in exchange for a day, a
week, a month of tension. Until we reach this point again- and
time will not make things any easier.
If I don't tell him then, he'll never have to say "I'm sorry."
But I will.
*end*
Feedback is always appreciated...
Em Laurence ([email protected])
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my fanfic:
http://members.aol.com/lilxphile/fanfic.htm