Recovery IV
By Shoshana

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mid-September 1999
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scully's gone. Well, not really gone. She's moved back to her
apartment, for appearances' sake. My protests reached deaf ears.
'Mulder, it shouts impropriety! It seems like I'm taking advantage
of a seriously confused man!' I'd never heard something so stupid in
my life. I'd lost memories, not sanity. I don't give a damn what
other people think. But Scully does. And she's home tonight instead
of in my bed.

We started sleeping together. Well, not making love, but close to
it. After cohabitating for three and half weeks, I couldn't resist
crawling in beside her, snuggling close to her warmth at night. She
made only a token protest, questioning the condition of my chest
wound. 'Really, not a problem,' I answered, pulling her back to my
chest, oblivious to what lingering pain remained. I was more
comfortable with her than without her, gulping down some Tylenol 3
before bedtime to dull whatever discomfort I might feel.

It's been just like heaven for half a week. Till she solemnly
pronounced that four weeks was long enough, she couldn't take up
permanence residence here. Just yet. I trust her, I love her,
dammit. But my latent insecurities emerged in a big way, making me
quite miserable the last few days.

She's assuaged those fears a little, promising me this won't last
long. Just till I get back to work, even if only for desk duty.
That's another two weeks from now and I'm going stir crazy, anxious
to get out of the apartment for something other than shopping or
entertainment. I've never been a good patient and I was dismayed
when the doctors wouldn't let me go back this week.

I passed my psychological exam with flying colors, persuading the
psychiatrist that I was dealing with whatever memory loss I've had.
I knew how to manipulate her evaluation, citing the support of family
and friends and my own ability to adjust to swiftly changing
circumstances. There's some truth to that, but really the 'friend'
most responsible for my recovery, my Scully, is my true saving grace.

I was grateful to have her as my partner before I was shot, I am
even more so now. She meant everything to me before this happened
and at long last I can confess that to her openly, tell her my
heart's desires, tell her I love her without fearing rejection.

Losing her constant companionship for two weeks, for two days, is
killing me. She returned to work yesterday, determined to catch up
with four weeks of paperwork. Skinner had told her to take more time
off, but she wouldn't. I didn't need her all day anymore (well, I
*wanted* her all day, but I guess that's a whole different ball game)
and I think she wanted a break from twenty-four hour a day exposure
to Mulder central.

My disorganized apartment is nothing like her orderly, spotless home
and I suspect that she wanted to get back to some of her daily
routines before I returned to the office. They have mandated at
least two more weeks after that until they'd even consider letting me
out in the field. For once, I was O.K. with that. This wound really
hurts and I am actually taking the pain killers, not flushing them
down the john.

Anyway, her absence has allowed me to sprint through my journal,
catching up on events of the last year. I still won't share it with
Scully and she seems to understand that. I still need a private
place for reflection and she knows I don't feel comfortable revealing
*everything* I've thought and wished about her the last seven years.

It's been enlightening, particularly a few cases that put Scully's
life on the line. She's told me about being shot in January, she's
told me how I'd taken care of her for weeks, just as she's been
nursing me back to health the past few weeks. What she doesn't know
is how close I came to cold-blooded murder... Peyton Ritter wouldn't
have lived twenty-four hours if she hadn't made it. And the next
bullet in the clip would have been mine.

I should have blamed Kersh, but it was clear from my rantings that I
was ready to lash out at the closest available scapegoat. Ritter fit
the bill to a T. He was reckless and stupid, placing his temporary
partner in harm's way, shooting first, asking questions later.

I'll never know the complete truth of the matter, but my copious
notes about Fellig, his strange ability to survive for a century and
a half and his apparent sacrifice for Scully entranced me. She'd
told me exactly what happened, but she didn't believe in it. She
couldn't conceive that she'd been saved from death by Fellig. He was
a desperate man, chasing after the ultimate snapshot, one featuring
the grim reaper squarely in its exposure.

Another case from later that spring disturbed me much more. Scully
had been attacked by what can only be described as an apparition in
my apartment. The psychic surgeon had been dead several years and
the weasel of a writer living next door to me conjured him up as a
character in his novel. I know he was a little weasel because I
described as such, clearly venting my jealousy during and after the
case was resolved.

I was so pissed that Scully had fallen for his sensitive, attentive
writer's act. I was angry at the time the events played out and the
details still unsettle me, even now. Had I ignored her needs so
heartlessly? Had I forgotten to show her how much she meant to me?
Was this her way of getting back at me for a multitude of sins, for
her sister's death, her abduction, Emily?

I'd even had to question her judgment, whether she'd slept with the
guy or not. My stomach was tied up in knots for hours after reading
about that. I hadn't trusted her. I'd actually believed that she
might succumb to her stalker's charms. After all, it was all there
in the novel. Other events had come to pass after he'd committed
them to paper. Why not sex with Agent Scully also?

I felt guilty for ever doubting her, for imagining the worst of her.
But I was furious, and still am furious... that she'd entered his
apartment alone, that she'd put herself in a such a vulnerable
position. Yeah, sure she was armed, she could probably kick the
guy's ass. But he seemed to have some mysterious pull on her
emotionally, an ability to see her innermost desires. Who knows what
could have happened?

I'd made a note of what he'd said in the jailhouse, 'Agent Scully is
already in love.' He'd been pretty perceptive about that. He'd seen
something between us that not even Scully wanted to believe. I'd
already accepted that she cared deeply about me at the time. I was
waiting for proof, not scientific proof, but emotional, illogical,
head over heels in love proof. I guess I got it, just not the way I
would have liked to.

It seemed to be a turning point in our lives. After that case, I
noticed a change in the journal, an urgency to spell it out to her,
let her know how I felt. God knows I'd tried for years to let her
know. And I was sick of seeing her pulled by the mystique of yet
another strange and charismatic man. I wanted to take care of her, I
wanted her to let me take care of her. I was determined to draw her
true feelings out into the open.

So I took Arthur Dales' advice and I listened to the mystery of the
heart. I lured Scully down to the baseball diamond and it must have
had a positive effect on both of us. She'd not only let me teach her
how to play ball, she'd allowed me to take her out for ice cream
afterward. Not a real date. Not really. But she'd let me hold her
hand later, sitting up on the hood of the car, watching the rest of
the world fly by.

She'd told me in the last few weeks that things had changed after
that, that we'd become closer, more in tune with one another. But
she didn't go into detail, not like I had in my journal.

I'd been courting her, slowly persuading her, telling her through
lips and hands and eyes that loving one another didn't foreshadow the
end of our partnership. I wanted to make her a believer, a convert
to my faith and love in her.

Somehow I had, somehow we were farther along than I'd ever imagined
we'd be. And then I got hurt and lost those wonderful summer
memories. Until I read them, secondhand, in my unique writing style,
in my personal asylum from the world. She's only hinted at the
events of last summer, enigmatically agreeing that she'd been ready
to become involved, that I'd all but persuaded her of my sincerity,
my constancy, the week before the shooting.

The doctors doubt whether I'll ever retrieve my lost memories. I
don't give a damn about that. I'm only worried about the present
now, about making things right for Scully. I'll do anything to make
her comfortable with this... this romance we're building.

I just hope that her temporary retreat to her sanctuary, her own
apartment, doesn't portend the worst. I've tried easing back, giving
her space, telling her I'll be there for her no matter what happens
between us. Yet... I can't resist her pull; I'm so much in love with
her, I miss her so damn much. I'm going over there tonight,
propriety be damned.

She doesn't expect me... no, she probably knows I'll be sneaking
over there first chance I get. She's probably listening for my
footsteps while she eats her dinner, takes her bath, watches tv
tonight. And it's nine p.m. on a Monday night and I'm on the way to
Scully's place, foolishly, recklessly following my heart to her door.

fin

Please send feedback to: [email protected]