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Title: Defining the Darkness
Summary: Mulder can no longer hide from the trauma of his abduction, testing the strength of his ability trust.
Note: This is nothing but MulderAngst-junkie mind candy... This is a sequel to another Post-Existence story I wrote (a long time ago) entitled Defining Happily Ever After which exists in a Post-Existence, season 9-less "bubble." BUT WAIT! Don't run away at the sight of the word "sequel"! Reading the other one isn't *absolutely* necessary to understanding this one. The basic idea of it is rehashed, so to speak, in the beginning. But I would recommend it in order to get the flavor of this one. I feel so alone I haven't been here long enough to know --Staind, "Just Go" He watched her sleep. He watched her peace. With a content infant clutched carefully to his chest, the night crawling silently in the darkness, he stood, watching her. There was a perfection to her silence in which he always found peace. There was a vulnerability to her as well, one that he felt strangely proud of, as if it was an expression of trust, even in sleep. He sighed, searching for the smile he felt as if he should be allowed, but its presence was painfully lost to him. Everything seemed to be lost to him. He was supposed to be happy. He wanted to be. With his child in his arms, his love under his watch, he felt as if the world should be his. But it wasn't. He sighed again, his chest lifting the near sleeping infant with the depth of his breath, his eyes never parting from her exhausted form curled beneath the sheets. Normally, he would not have this opportunity. Usually, he was the unwakable one. But tonight, and for the previous few nights, he had no choice in the dreamless insomnia that had reclaimed his sleep. He didn't understand. He thought that he had fought all the demons that had left him sleepless. He thought the talk he had forced upon them both had cleared away that which was poisoning him. He had confessed his fears, for himself and for them both. He had given her the words he needed her to hear. He had told her of the anxiety he had been hiding, his fear of failing her and failing the child he held. He had told her of the fear he held for his place among it all, the role he did not even trust himself to have. But she did. She trusted him implicitly with the life he now held so close to his own, his hand draped upon the softness of his back. And that trust, the depth of that fact, stole his very breath. He was the one she trusted to be there. Feedings, mornings, evenings, guidance, protection, warmth, trust. She trusted him to be a part of all of that. And eventually, he began to trust the faith she had placed in him. Eventually, he began to trust himself. Though it had been immeasurably hard to give her those words, that fear, he had not regretted it. It was something he needed to do; something *they* needed to do. that night, he had told her also of a fear he held for them both, of the raw communication that was devoid between them. With all the changes that had occurred in their lives, in their life together, over the past few months since William's birth, he feared what could become of their inability to expose the truths they so willingly hid. He feared the reality behind her words when she claimed to be perfectly "fine." He feared the silence he had created before when he had been dying a silent death, telling a silent lie. Then, he had not given her a single word. And now, with the strange feeling of unrest hovering between his thoughts, with the feeling that his world was somehow severing in a way he did not understand, he was just as silent. He could not give her a single word now as he could not then. Because it was hard. It was so hard to be honest with her about the thoughts he possessed, that possessed him. He did not see the point of giving her an explanation for something he did not understand. At least that was his excuse. When he knew more, when he could pinpoint the source of that which was controlling him, he would give her whatever truth there was to give. But until then, he would spare her the worry. He would not afflict upon her more than he already had. William. The confusion of her pending career. The stresses that came with all the changes in her life. She knew enough worry. He refused to give her more simply because of a bad mood. That was all it was. A bad mood. A lack of sleep. That's all, he told himself. Nothing more. He yawned softly, vaguely aware that he had been standing in the midst of their bedroom long past the point when William had returned to sleep. Lazily, he pressed his lips to the top of his son's head as he walked to the small crib, settling him there softly, then returning to his own bed. Carefully, he curled in beside her, gently pulling her toward him beneath the sheets, hoping vainly to share in her peace. "Mulder." The word shook, soft, in a way her voice rarely allowed. Her touch shook. "Mulder..." Again. In the darkness of his sleep, he recognized his name, shaking with the intensity of some obscure fear, some trembling depth. "Wake up..." Control had taken over her tone, steadying it, but at its depth, it shook nonetheless, forcing him to latch onto a reluctant consciousness. Her hand was on his chest, just below his neck. He could feel the gentle weight of her nails, the ball of her palm pressed into him. He opened his eyes. She was lying next to him, balancing on her left arm as she looked over him. He recognized the reluctance in her eyes instantly, the hate she felt toward herself for doing what she was doing; for letting herself turn to him, vulnerable and weak. "Scully...?" The dread he felt forced itself through his groggy voice. He lifted the hand not next to her up to the side of her face, caressing the hair away from her eyes, filled with tears to which she refused to commit. "What is it?" His tone grew more awake with each word, tinted with a panic he was trying to fight. He could see her fight her own self, desperate to contain the feelings that were undoubtedly overwhelming her. "What's wrong?" She remained silent, almost as if she hadn't planned on what to do once she succeeded in waking him. He knew that task alone had been hard enough. He continued his touch, his careful, soothing caress, knowing nothing else to do. She stared into his face, unsure, but deeply in need of that which she was trying to deny herself. "Talk to me..." he pleaded gently, as he watched a condemned tear escape down her face. He immediately swept it away with his touch. "Please..." The word undid her. Slowly, she let the mask upon her face fall, revealing the raw emotions as they flooded to the surface. He only had a moment to take it all in before she was slowly letting herself fall towards him, his hand lost in the hair at the back of her head. "God, Mulder..." she nearly sobbed. "Hey, shhh..," he whispered, his hand tangling in the depths of her hair. "It's okay..." He wanted to believe that. God knew he wanted to, but something in her willingness to submit to him told him it was not. Something in the way her entire body lay against his, led him to believe the opposite of his own words. His hand continued to caress the mussed strands of her hair. He could feel her arms come closer, clasping at what she could of him. A nightmare, he thought. She had a nightmare. It was the only explanation he could understand. He knew she had them, the frightening remembrances of a time neither wished to relive, and of which neither dared speak. But she would usually not reach this point. She would hide the evidence from him the best she could, though he could always tell. But this was the first time she'd ever let him see her like this because of one. He hoped, prayed it was not because they were getting worse. He could see her eyes shut tightly against him, as she vainly attempted to keep herself in check. Despite herself, he knew she was crying. He could feel her tears against his shoulder. Her forced silence, though, told him she was still holding back. He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her tighter to him. "The things they did..," she whispered after a long moment, her voice choking out each word. "The things they did to you..." His body froze at her words. Images whispered through the cracks of his mind as he continued to hold her. "God..." she choked out again, holding back the sob he knew she felt. "what they did..." "Scully, it's okay," he interrupted, insisting less than tenderly. He couldn't hear it. He couldn't take it. "It's over. It's over..." His words were desperate to alleviate her, to calm her. For himself as much as for her. "It's not, Mulder," she argued through her tears. "It's not okay." She took a shaky breath, as he remained silent, shutting his eyes tight against her words. He could see it. He could feel it. "It's not okay what they did to you. It's not just a dream... how they hurt you--" "Scully, don't." His words were far from gentle, far from kind. She fell instantly quiet, her crying turning eerily silent as she held her breath against him. He fell silent, as well, with the realization that he just snapped at her. There she was, finally allowing herself turn to him for comfort when she needed him, and all he could do was snap at her. But the feelings were already coming back to him, assaulting him with memories he prayed were false. ...Steel and restraints; helplessness and pain; the feeling of being watched; the drowning sanctuary of insanity... 'What they did to you...' Her words rang throughout the images. 'How they hurt you...' Her touch shook, this time with a different fear. Her fingers were resting cautiously against his face. His own hold had slipped, his hands falling away from the comfort they once gave. At the same time, his eyes were closed, his mind falling further away. He was slowly turning inward, away from her words, from her nightmare, from the pain she felt. He could only feel his own. "Mulder, I'm sorry..." Her voice shook. There was no anger. Only hurt, only fear. His eyes reopened, looking back into hers. His face softened with intense regret. He had made her sorry. He had hurt her. Oh God. She just apologized because of him. "Scully, no..." he pleaded, "don't be sorry. *I* should be. I shouldn't have..." He grasped for words, desperate to find the ones that would make the hurt in her eyes go away. But he couldn't. "I just... Scully, I just... can't. Right now, I just can't." He couldn't help her. He couldn't take away her pain from a nightmare because he couldn't take away his own. She stared into his eyes for a few moments longer, her tears silent, her expression desperate to comfort him despite her own need. But the hurt was still there. The confusion was still there. And he could not at least give her the words she needed to make it go away. He couldn't even do that. Finally, she nodded, her eyes dropping from his as she forced herself to settle back to the bed. But not against him, not close to him. She lay on her back at first, her face turned away from his, before she turned her body on her side, entirely away from him. God knows she could have gone farther, he thought. God knows he deserved more. He closed his eyes away from her. All the while, in the silence, he could still see it. He could still hear it. ...Vibrations and unseen figures; lights and unseen pain... He could still feel it. But he would not dream. He would not sleep. He stared at the spoon, tainted some make-believe silver. Stainless steel, he recalled vaguely. The light mirrored back from its round surface, reflecting shades of white and gray and a million other tiny distortions. Mulder twisted the spoon between his fingers. If he looked hard enough, he knew he could see himself, every line and dark circle and flaw reflected back. But he did not look. The sight would only disgust him, and one look at the dissolving bowl of cereal in front of him was enough to define his appetite as it already was. Frustrated, he pushed back the chair as he got up, hearing the legs scrape harshly against the hardwood floor of her kitchen. Not caring, he crossed the floor to the sink, dumping the entirety of his breakfast down the drain, leaving the untouched spoon to clatter noisily in the unclean bowl. He would rather break it. He could imagine the satisfying shatter of cheap ceramics against the wall, pieces flying in perfect chaos to the floor of the kitchen. And then he could imagine the screams of a confused infant, awoken from his peaceful dreams by the fury of his father. He could imagine her eyes, filled with confusion and pain as she looked upon him with an immeasurable worry. God, her eyes. He could still see them as they were the night before: frightful, confused, hurt. He had not slept the rest of the night. After the unwanted memories had abated, he was left with the sight of her, of her eyes as she stared back into his. He had hurt her. She had been in pain because of the memories of his abduction, and he only succeeded in hurting her more. "Mulder?" He didn't turn around. His feet were planted in front of the sink, his hands gripping the front of it until his knuckles were as white as the tile. He was silent, having no words to give her. "Are you alright?" He heard the caution in her voice, questioning his willful silence. He took a breath, willing the tension that overwhelmed him to ease enough to allow him a response that wouldn't further the distance between them. But he only knew one response. "Yeah," he lied, turning around but not looking at her. "I'm fine." He did not have to look to know her expression of incredulity. "I'm just, uh..." he continued as he made his way out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom. "I'm just gonna go for a jog." Something in him forced his eyes to look at hers as he paused just outside the kitchen. The hurt was still there. "Okay?" he asked, desperate to sound natural. His eyes fell quickly away as he left her behind, not even waiting for a response. Moments later, he had his running shoes on, along with the shirt and sweat pants he'd had on before, and was heading past the kitchen where she sat, her head down and silent. He was almost at the door when she stopped him. "Mulder, don't run away from me." He cringed. The anger that had been lacking had finally surfaced in her voice. "Don't hide from me like this." His feet were motionless as he turned to look at her where she sat. Her entire body was tense, the anger at his reaction obvious. Sensing his gaze, she looked up to meet it. "You were the one who said we couldn't do this..." "Do what?" he asked, feigning confusion as he flinched under her glare. "Pretend that everything's fine, when it's not." He swallowed, his eyes unable to leave hers. "Just talk to me..." she pleaded, the anger dissolving back to hurt. "Please..." He jerked, his mind replaying his words to her the night before. He wanted nothing more than to move, to run, to escape from the confides she held him in so tightly. He was trapped by her eyes even so far away, their intensity making it impossible for him to move from where he stood. Words scrambled in his mind, as he looked desperately for an escape. He needed to escape. At the same time, he didn't want to hurt her anymore in the process. He could not bear to see anymore in her eyes. Without warning, the shriek of a child struck into the tense silence that was between them. She didn't even blink. Her eyes stayed focused, penetrating his with a severity, a hope, a desperation that tore at his heart. "Scully... I..." he struggled, his voice echoing that of his son's cries. "We'll talk when I get back. I promise." He tried to sound sincere. But there was no hiding the frustration and anger, more at himself than at her, from discoloring his voice. His words only seemed to make her sadder. "I... I just gotta go." With an overcoming desperation, he broke from her gaze, his stride nearly storming out of her apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. I just need this to be alright. I can't take this Can't see through this Too much pressure. --Staind, "Pressure" Please, William, not now. Not now. Her hands were sheltering her face, her body tense as she sat motionless, thinking that voiceless plea. She couldn't handle him right now. She couldn't deal with the cries that rang in her ears almost as if he were screaming in place of her. She wanted to scream as he screamed. She wanted to cry as he cried. She couldn't explain it. But as she replayed the night before in her head, the morning after, all she could think of was how wrong it all was, how terribly wrong. The way he had reacted to her, the way he had hid from her, sheltering himself within his depths, the way he had lied that morning, running away from her as if she was the last person he could talk to. It was all wrong. Something in her baby's cries finally broke through to her, making the solitude in the kitchen echo hauntingly. Suddenly, she did not want to be alone. And at that moment, all she had was her son. Wrapping her arms around her middle as she got up from the kitchen table, she managed to walk back to the bedroom, following the echoing cries. Her stoic form leaned into his small crib, picking him up with a mother's gentleness, but saying nothing. Whispering nothing. As if he could sense a need for silence, William's cries fell to frustrated whimpers as he was clutched tightly to his mother's tense shoulder. She walked with him across the room, falling into the rocking chair her mother had given her. There she held him, her hands bringing him close to her body. There, she finally allowed herself to breathe. Closing her eyes, she let the air fill her lungs, trying to relax. It's going to be okay, she told herself. They would get though this. But she did not know how to solve what she did not understand. She could not put back together whatever it was that was breaking if he would not let her. All she knew was that which he had no choice but to show her: his reactions to her. 'Scully, don't.' His words sparked in her mind, the tone he rarely took with her echoing painfully. She didn't understand. She remembered the nightmare. She remembered watching over him as he slept, when only moments before, she had been convinced by her dreams that he should not even be there. He had never returned. She could see it so clearly: his festering form, trapped heedlessly by steel constraints at his ankles and temples and wrists. The things they were doing... they things they had done to hurt him, replaying over in her mind. She hadn't screamed when she'd woken. She rarely ever did. She usually just awoke with a start, gasping for the air her nightmares seemed to deprive. It was only voluntarily that she had woken him last night. She needed him. She always needed him after each nightmare reminded her of all the pain she fought to deny. But only last night had she found it in her to let herself seek him. 'Scully, don't.' He had stopped her, silenced her with those words. He had hurt her, she wouldn't deny it. But she had hurt for him, as well. She had seen the pain in his eyes, the struggle he could not hide from her. He was in pain. Then and now, but refused her even a word. She remembered back to the time he had last refused her the words she needed from him. When he was dying. She thought back to those months, trying to imagine every moment in a new perspective, trying to imagine when she should have known. There was a pain to him, then, as well, she realized. She could remember instances of silence, or words spoken from his lips that were discolored with meanings she had not understood then. But she did now. He had been in pain then, because of the helplessness of all he was facing alone. One thing she understood about Fox Mulder was his need to be able to do something. Anything. Helplessness was what pained him. She saw it in him when confronted with her own struggles. Her cancer, her infertility. He had been, at most times, powerless to help her. And in his own struggles, in his search for his sister, his quest for an elusive truth, he had been faced with the ability to do nothing far too often. And she could see it now. His abduction, his inability to make the memories and the pain of that experience to go away, not only for himself, but for them both. He could not save her from the nightmares, when he could not save himself. He was helpless. And in the silence he was creating between them, she was helpless as well. He shut the door softly behind him, though he knew that there was no point in hiding his return. She would be waiting. She would be there to hear every crack of the door as it opened and closed with his reentry. For the past hour, he had been fearing this moment. The moment when he would have to come back to face the promise he had made to her, but had no intention of keeping. He had lied. He knew it even then. He knew he would not be able to face her. He had ran as far as he could, for as long as he could until he could run no more. And when he did not run, he walked. Always in the direction that was opposite of home. He was escaping, trying to outrun whatever was wrong, as if the more he ran, the closer he was to fixing whatever had broken. The movement felt good to him. He needed to feel something, do something. Anything but that which confined him in the small space of her apartment. There he felt trapped. With her, he felt trapped. The urge to run away from her and from the words he had falsely promised was enough to drive himself to that point. But something forced him to stop. He had paused at a bench in a park, beyond himself with exhaustion, both mental and physical. And there he had forced himself to think. He couldn't do this to her. Whatever it was that was controlling him, forcing him to separate his very self from her, needed to stop. As nearly impossible as it was to admit, he knew he was scared, terrified by the way he was acting. He wasn't himself. He felt almost desperately numb, protecting himself from an onslaught of feelings that shouldn't be real. What remained of his rational side knew at least that truth. He was hiding from everything, from her, from himself, because it was simply easier than having to feel all that was suddenly there to feel. All that was suddenly surfacing. That's where his rational mind stopped. That's where everything clouded over, becoming too hard to think of. He couldn't. He couldn't define words for all that lay beyond. He stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, swallowing down hard as he saw her. She was nursing, her face cast downward as she stared at the face of their son, innocent in wake of all that surrounded him. There was a sadness to her face behind the curtain of her auburn hair, one that he was certain he was the creator of. The sight made him ache, reminding him of the first time he had seen her sit in that rocking chair, holding William in her arms. He had felt out of place then, as if he did not belong. He felt the same now. But in the memory of before, he had been happy. Now, he found no happiness, only the feeling of disgust directed towards his own presence. She did not look up as he entered, though he knew she was not oblivious to his presence. He felt the change in tension as he crossed the threshold of the bedroom, passing onto the bathroom without even bothering to give her a single word. Through it all, she remained perfectly silent. She already knew the baseless reality of his promise. What he had not seen were her eyes, red and swollen with a hurt she knew he did not want to recognize. She took a deep breath after the door to the bathroom closed, hearing the water of the shower begin. As much as the realization pained her, she was thankful for the reprieve from his presence. As he had entered the bedroom, she had felt the immediate tension build between them, the uneasiness he emanated upon finding her there. She had not looked up, not wanting him to see that she had been crying, but at the same time, too afraid to look into his eyes, to see that which she felt reflected there. It was all wrong, her earlier thoughts reverberated in her mind. All of it. She sighed again, taking a desperate breath as she separated a near sleeping William from herself. Laying him gently against her shoulder, she began the mindless ritual of walking him around the room, her hand soothing up and down his back. The motion comforted her as well as him as she did it, slowly luring them both to sleep. God, she was tired. She had not slept well after the nightmare that had awoken her. It was not until just after dawn, after feeding William, had she been able to find any sleep. But it was still hard. Her mind had been too preoccupied, too high strung with the thoughts and the confusion of all that had happened. 'Scully, don't.' The tone had been so harsh, so hurtful. 'I just... can't.' So in pain. His words echoed in her mind as she held her son. She closed her eyes, willing the words away. In their silence, she could hear the sounds of the shower, his presence filling the space around her with the sound. Mulder stripped off the last piece of his clothing, throwing his boxers carelessly to the floor as he stepped under the stream of scalding water. The hard droplets stung him as he got in. He didn't even flinch. He let the water stream against his face, drowning in the sensation of the heat. Drowning in the sensation of feeling. He sighed, desperate to rid himself of the exhaustion and tension that simultaneously flowed through every vein in his body. He turned around, letting the hard water beat against his back and shoulders, submitting himself to what he imagined somberly to be a liquid lashing. He only wished it could be more. Water hot enough to burn. Force hard enough to bruise. He closed his eyes, letting himself drown happily in the numbness that surrounded him. For a moment, his mind let go, allowing him to imagine falsely that he was entirely alone. He believed it. He believed that there was no one, that there was nothing. No Scully. No William. No apartment. No street. No building. No abduction. No memories. There was nothing but the feeling of scalding water, lashing out against his body. He opened his eyes, the feeling of hollowness remaining intact. Bottles of shampoo, bars of soap. They meant nothing. The reflection of a silver-tinted shower fixture, a bar going from one side of the small, stand-up shower to the other, caught his eye. He knew that if he looked hard enough, he could see himself reflected back in the mix of a million other silver-tinted distortions. Like the spoon, he thought, the words surfacing from the back of his mind. Like steel. ...Hard. Cold. Painful. It held him perfectly. He could not move. He jerked his wrists, feeling the pain reverberate through his body. His eyes were shut. He could not open them. He didn't want to. He didn't want to see what would be next in a string of torment. He could feel them there, watching him. He was no longer alone, but in his heart he felt nothing else. He was alone, perfectly, helplessly alone. No Scully. There was no Scully. She couldn't help him. She couldn't save him. But he could feel her. So near. So close. Yet, so painfully far. She could not reach him. No one could reach him where he was... A dull ache of hunger was all that had eventually awoken her. Her eyes opened, staring blankly into the face of a pillow. She remembered falling asleep. Sometime after putting William down she had given in to her own exhaustion, thankful for the respite from all that was consuming her mind. She stretched slightly as she sat up, yawning with the depth of the sleep she'd managed to obtain despite the early afternoon hour. Her gaze wandered instinctively to where William slept, seeing that he was perfectly as he should be. Everything was perfectly as it should be. At least that was the illusion of all that surrounded her. Everything appeared exactly in place. But something told her that something she could not see, was not. She was sitting on the bed, her legs hanging over the side as she studied the setting that encompassed her. There was something in the silence that was bothering her. And then she realized that it wasn't silence at all. Water, the sounds of a shower. Mulder. She turned her gaze to the clock by her bedside, trying to remember just how long she'd been asleep. Well over an hour had passed, she realized. Nearly two. She stood up, listening more intently as she made her way to the bathroom door, the sounds of the water growing more defined with each step. She stopped, laying the side of her head against the door, letting her ear listen inward. She could hear the sounds of the running shower, its rhythmic pulse echoing against the bathroom walls. But she heard nothing else. She held her breath, silently searching for some sign of movement from within. She heard nothing but the repeating pattern of water, its mantra uninterrupted as it mocked her. "Mulder?" she questioned carefully, her tone remnant of the tension that still remained between them. She tapped her knuckles against the door, the sound accompanying the drumming of the water. "Mulder, are you okay?" Silence. Even a lie neglected to embrace her ears. She would give anything for a lie. "Mulder, answer me." Her tone was no longer careful, but desperate. Still, the silence of the rhythmic water was all that greeted her starving ears. Enough, she thought, her determination putting aside any awkwardness between them. Something was wrong. Finding the door locked from within, she returned to her dresser, finding a penny. Sliding it into the small slit of the doorknob, she turned, releasing the simple lock. Opening the door, she was thrown into a blur of steam, a white shadow that momentarily clouded her view as she entered the bathroom. She could feel the dampening heat of the shower condensing around her as she became used to her surroundings. Behind the frosted glass door of the shower, she could see the shadow of his form, huddled at the bottom. "Mulder?" she questioned, fear and confusion overcoming her as she saw him. He did not answer. She almost did not want to know why. But the fear that had overcome her gave her no choice. The feeling of dread the only thing driving her as she took hold of the handle to the shower door. He was exactly as his shadow depicted, huddled at the bottom of the small, stand-up shower. His knees were brought up to his nude form, the hot water spraying him as he sat, eyes closed, hands wrapped around his legs. He was perfectly still, responsive to neither her nor the opening of the door. "Mulder?" This time her tone was tainted with the panic she felt. She looked down at him as he huddled awkwardly in the small space. Hurriedly, she grabbed the silver knobs of the shower, shutting off the water before kneeling down besides him. "Talk to me... please..," she whispered desperately. There was no hiding the fear in her voice, in her eyes as she solicited a response from him. With a careful need, she brought a hand up to the side of his face. He jumped, his eyes flying open with the touch. The first thing she saw in them as he stared at her was confusion. "Mulder, it's me," she assured him softly, her eyes pleading with his for recognition. He was silent as he looked around him, taking in his surroundings. His hands went to his face where hers had fallen away, folding in front of his nose and mouth in an act of self-comfort. Water dripped from his eyelashes. Never leaving his side, she reached around the bathroom wall, her hand feeling the soft terry of a towel. She offered it to him, his eyes coming back to her to stare at the cloth in her hand. In his eyes, she saw something of himself come back. He was silent as he took her offering, drying his face before making a vain effort to stand, simultaneously wrapping the towel around his waist. She helped him as best she could, thankful that he would at all let her. He leaned on her as he stepped out onto the bathroom floor. For the first time, she noticed his slight shivering. She kept waiting, anticipating the moment when he would shut her out, push her away despite all that had just happened. But that moment never came. Though he barely bothered to look at her, he did not push her away as she led him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He did not physically shut her out when she led his unsteady form to the bed. He accepted, not even bothering to change beyond the towel scarcely wrapped around him. She lifted the comforter, watching him intently as he crawled thankfully beneath. For a moment, she stared at him worriedly, seeing the exhaustion overcoming him as he brought the comforter over his body and up to his shoulders, burying himself. He did not seem to notice her as she stood watch. She was still frightened, still confused with a lack of an explanation. But she dared not speak. She walked silently to the other side of the bed, the side he did not face. Something in her was defenseless, powerless to a need she was too overwhelmed to fight. Thus, she allowed herself something she could only hope he would allow. Cautiously, she lay herself down atop the covers beside him, her body on her side so that she faced his back. When he did not move, she crawled closer, one arm curling around his body. She felt him tense, but she did not relent. He remained silent as she pulled herself closer, pressing her body and face against the shivering warmth of his back. "It's okay..," she whispered softly against him, not sure if her words were meant for herself or for him. "It's okay," she repeated, this time softer. She felt something in him soften, as if he was allowing her words to hold some false truth; her touch, some false comfort. Finally, she felt the tension in his body yield, his breathing grow deep as he gave way to the overpowering exhaustion of his mind. She pulled herself closer, clutching his body close to hers, holding him as he fell into a sleep she prayed would be dreamless. I lived through this. --Staind, "Take It"** He awoke to the sound of screaming, ripping through the dark with a violence that shook his core. He shot up, confusion rushing to the surface as he fought an unrecognizable darkness. Somewhere, the screaming continued, and somewhere within his scattered mind, the sound slowly registered. William. He was breathing heavily, each sense slowly coming back to him as his surroundings reemerged from the darkness. The early dusk was falling beyond the shades of the windows, creating an eerie night within the lightless bedroom. He was naked to the waist, covered only by the comforter of their bed, though he could feel the towel twisted between his limbs and the bed covers. His chest was heaving slightly as he came back to himself, his arms holding up his upper body from the bed. "Mulder..." His name was said with such gentleness, he allowed himself to relax, if only for a moment. "It's okay..." Her figure appeared before him, developing out of the shadows of the dusk-filled room. She was holding their child, who was still consistent in his crying, but with his mother to hold him, the sound was less harsh than that which had woken him. Mulder looked at them, silent, wondering why he had not noticed her come in. Even in the darkness, he could see her eyes, the worry that lay deep within them. She was frowning sadly, her hands soothing the infant in her care. She sacrificed a hand for him, reaching across the space between them to feel his forehead, soothing him while feeling for a fever. He was both grateful and uneasy with her touch. "Did you have a nightmare, Mulder?" she questioned, her tone desperate to remain careful. She dropped her hand, not letting it linger. Nightmare. The word slowly registered in his mind. He wondered then if one ever stopped having a nightmare. He wondered if the end of sleep was really the defining end of the darkness. "No, no," he assured her, carefully sliding his legs, comforter included, so that he sat on the edge of the bed. "He just startled me. That's all." William stirred in her arms, frustration overcoming him at being ignored. His tiny fist made an effort toward his mouth as he continued to fuss. She continued to hold him, her mind too focused on his father to do much else. She watched him worriedly, feeling the awkward tension he emanated grow once again between them. It was almost as if she could feel the very moment he shut her out. "How long have I been asleep?" he asked, his hands rubbing at his face as he tried to awaken. The tension in his voice only added to the awkwardness that seemed to flow between them. "About seven hours," she answered softly. Only the facts escaped her mouth. So many questions, so many desperations were running through her mind, but she held her tongue with each. Except for one. "Are you okay?" she inquired in the same soft tone. She didn't know why she bothered asking him. It was compulsory, as was the answer she already knew. She was sick of the answer. Somewhere within her, though, she was hoping to hear something else. "Yeah," he responded gruffly. "I'm okay." She watched as he turned to click on the bedside lamp, filling the darkened space with a harsh light. With its intrusion, she stepped back, giving him space to get dressed, if only to escape the tension she felt when she was close to him. She took her whimpering son to the table in the corner of the room, pretending to focus on the task of changing him. But her mind was elsewhere. Her mind was across the room where Mulder was searching the dresser for a pair of boxers, towel strategically wrapped around him. Every muscle in his back was tense. She could feel it in his movements. She could feel it in his silence. And it was beginning to make her angry. His ability to silence her without a word, his ability to shut her out, and her ability to let herself be. She loved him. She would willingly give him the space he needed. But this was beyond her. She refused to sit back and watch him wallow in a pain he pretended wasn't there. Something was wrong. Dangerously wrong. And she was sick of pretending it wasn't there, either. She lay her newly changed and quiet child where she'd found him, on his back in his small crib. She turned her eyes toward Mulder where he stood across the room. He was buttoning the top of a pair of jeans. The tension in his presence made her stomach knot. He wasn't going to like this, she knew. But she refused to back down. "Are you going to talk to me now?" He looked up at her tone, which had risen beyond the cautious gentleness he would've expected. He caught her eyes for a brief moment, staring her down but showing no emotion. He sat down on the edge of the bed, turning his attention to a pair of socks. "Talk about what?" he responded dryly, his eyes never leaving his task of putting on one sock, then the other. "About what's wrong." "Nothing's wrong." He still didn't look up at her. "What happened last night, Mulder?" she asked flatly, pressing him for something other than a lie. "What happened to you in the shower?" "Look, Scully... it's nothing," he reverberated as he stood up, looking at her intently. "I'm just tired. That's all. Lack of sleep. End of story." She was silent in response as he turned his attention back to the dresser, searching the top drawer for a t-shirt. That's all. His words echoed in her mind. Her own body was now filled with a tension, derived from the anger that was growing with every lie he fed her. "Bullshit." His search froze as he turned to look at her. The surprise in his eyes was hidden but unmistakable. She knew he could probably count on one hand the number of times he'd heard her cuss. She knew the power she wielded with that limitation. She was angry, and with the changing look in his eyes just before he turned them away, she could tell that he was beginning to be, too. "*Something* is wrong, Mulder," she continued into his silence, her tone less angry, but no less desperate. "Why is it so damn hard for you trust me with whatever it is?" "Scully, *don't* make this into more than it is," he said between clenched teeth as his eyes shot back to hers. He had a gray t-shirt in his hand, his other one shutting the drawer hard, nearly slamming it. A frame on top trembled, the force nearly knocking it over. "You mean, more than you pretend it to be," she shot back, her anger rising. He ignored her, putting on the t-shirt in his hands over his bare chest. "It's not *nothing*, Mulder," she continued. "You wouldn't be shutting me out like this if it was just *nothing.*." "Dammit, Scully..." He turned to look at her, the frustration building in his face. His hands were at his sides, his fists clenching as he desperately tried to restrain the temper she was tempting out of him. "Just, *don't*. Please. Just *drop it.*" He wasn't yelling, but each word bled with a force he was desperately trying to harness. "No." The word was simple, but its effect on him was potent. He shut his eyes, willing his emotions to stay in check. "I'm not going to drop it, Mulder. I'm not going to sit by and pretend that everything's so goddam honky dory like you do. I'm not going to lie to myself." "I'm. Not. Lying." His teeth were clenched, his breath expelling with his restrained temper as he stressed each word. His eyes reopened to her. She almost recoiled at the anger in them, but she held her ground. She was far from finished. "And I haven't known you for eight years," she countered angrily with a bitter sarcasm. She paused, matching his stare fiercely. "I'm worried about you, Mulder. Can't you understand that it hurts me to see you do this to yourself?" Her words were meant to soften the anger in his eyes, but he didn't seem to register them at all. "And it hurts me more when you shut me out like this." She paused again, taking an instinctive step closer to his taut silence. His eyes were turned down as he stood tensely, his arms crossed over his chest. He was eerily still, his heavy breathing the only thing that depicted any movement. "It's coming back to you, isn't it?" she continued softly, probing desperately for some truth. "You tried to shut it out, too... but it doesn't work like that, does it?" "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled in response, suddenly in motion again. He brushed past her roughly, moving to the other end of the room in search of what she knew to be his boots. He wasn't just getting dressed anymore, she realized, he was preparing to leave, to run away as he had before. But she wasn't letting him go anywhere. "Like hell you don't," she replied angrily, her exasperation following him. "Last night, when I had that nightmare, it struck something in you. And in the shower, something happened--" "*Nothing* happened, Scully," he interrupted, his eyes suddenly piercing hers. "You don't know *anything*." "No," she replied. "I don't. But only because you won't tell me." To that he had no response, instead picking up the boots he had found discarded in the corner. He quickly sat down in her rocking chair, hurriedly loosening the laces to put them on. "You said you wouldn't shut me out, Mulder. But that is exactly what you're doing. YOU were the one who was afraid of creating this silence. THIS is the pattern you were afraid of repeating." "Would you just shut up, Scully..." he grumbled back. He was standing now, his shoes on as he avoided her gaze almost defiantly. He began his search for his leather jacket at the other end of the room, near the door. Her anger followed him, her steps bringing her closer as she tailed his own. "I'm NOT going to shut up, Mulder," she yelled in defiance. "I'm not going to let you bury this in silence. To neglect this just because it's easier." He was half turned away from her, picking up his leather jacket and swinging it on, pretending to ignore her fury. "Just like when you were dying, when you lied to me with silence. Just like the silence with your mother, that you let survive because it was easier to shut her out, just like you're doing to me..." She knew a moment too late that she'd gone too far, her anger crossing an uncrossable line. She just hadn't realized how far she'd pushed him with her words, with her desperation for truth. In that exact moment of realization, she felt the reality of her mistake. She felt the emotion for which she'd been desperate, in the form of a physicality she never believed could exist. But she was wrong. The moment he turned to face her, the moment he hit her, she knew she'd been wrong. In that instant, his eyes held a fury she never believed could be intended for her. In that moment, his hand held a rage she never believed she would feel. But she was wrong. Never in her life had she been so wrong. Immediately after, she was perfectly still, perfectly silent. She wasn't sure what to do. Reacting in the midst of the realization of what had just occurred was beyond her. She did not breathe. She did not bother to hold back the tears that fell blindly down her reddened skin. She did not look up to see the horror in his eyes, the regret that bled from his face. Nor did she look up as the door shut behind him, softly erasing his presence from hers. The drive was a blur. Every movement, every decision was made without thinking. On the outside, he was numb, acting on instinct alone, but on the inside, he was dying. He was beyond himself, helpless against all that cursed his memory. ...Skin reddened to the shade of her hair. Tears floating upon her cheek's surface, wet like blood... ...Sounds of screaming, echoing in his ears... ...The screaming of a child. His child... ...The screaming of a torture. His torture... Lost within himself, he drove, his mind happily drowning in conflict. The darkness of the fallen night accompanied him and the thoughts that were slowly becoming him. Somewhere hidden within the images and the sounds and the pain, was the subconscious impulse that defined his destination. It was the only place he could've gone to escape her, and to try escape himself. To extricate the demons that seemed to forever inhabit the darkness of his mind. The key was still on his keychain. The furniture was still in its place. The permanent darkness and the permanent feeling of desolation remained unchanged, a monument to a lifetime of pornography and frozen pizza. He'd never really moved out. For the past month and a half, he'd return now and then, to pick up a few things, do some odds and ends. He hadn't been brave enough to fully sever himself from it. And yet, he couldn't see it as home, anymore. The only time his apartment had ever really felt like home was when she had been there. She made it seem as if it wasn't just a place to sleep. She gave a light to the darkness that bled from every shadow within its walls. But he couldn't see it as that now. He could only see into the past of his apartment, the place it was before her, never after. It was him alone. And alone, with the comfort of that desolate solitude, he would try to numb himself. He didn't want to feel anymore. The good, the bad. He didn't want any of it. Somewhere, the stark reality of that desperate wish was hidden. But as of yet, he had not allowed himself to think the darkest thoughts associated with the death of feeling, with the death of it all. God. His thoughts were going too far, too deep. His mind was growing too cold in the darkness. But as he shut the door to his apartment behind him, he had no intention of turning on the lights. He wandered thankfully in the dominance of the night, as if it was a long kept friend, always there to shelter him from himself. God. The silent cry came once again, the name of a deity he wasn't sure he believed in, surfacing as if it were some magic word that would make sense of it all. Nothing made sense to him. Why he was thinking the things he was. Why he was doing the things he was doing. Why he had hit her. God. He'd hit her. That magical syllable once again entered his thoughts, a silent plea that did nothing to alleviate the throbbing pain of his soul; that did nothing to shed any light. Numbly, he sat, finding no comfort in the familiarly worn, dark leather. There was no comfort, only the desperate need to feel nothing. Despite that desperation, he could not escape all that he felt. He felt nauseous, sickened with the confusion and the thoughts and the overwhelming presence of himself. He shut his eyes into his hands, trying to block out as much of reality as he could. But he couldn't. With his eyes shut into darkness, the light of her eyes, bright with pain confronted him. He could feel her words, questioning him, demanding feeling from him. '... Like the silence with your mother...' Her anger screamed in his silence. '...it was easier to shut her out... like you're doing with me...' Easier. She thought that the silence was easy. She was wrong. Words can be left unsaid, creating lies with silence. But in that silence, there is guilt. Knowing, powerful guilt, building with each forgotten lie. Each desperate need for neglect. How could it be easy, to know of a pain that can not be mended. How could it be easy, to be dying in silence, and at the same time, be mortally afraid of the voices that spell an unwanted truth. He wanted words between him and Scully, just as he had wanted words between him and his mother. But never, was he allowed to find them. Never did he have the strength to bear the very burden he feared with their reality. He did not want to feel that burden. He did not want to feel reality. He no longer wanted to feel. An unseen draft swept over her as she sat, washing her skin in a cold that made her tremble involuntarily. As much as she might try to escape any ability to feel, goosebumps rose on her skin as she clutched herself, making the rocking chair sway ever so slightly. She turned with uncaring eyes to the window next to her in the bedroom. It was shut, and yet, she could still feel the coldness seep into her, as if the night was seeking a home within her bones. As if the dark was seeking a home within her soul. Her eyes clamped shut, but there were no tears left to fall the length of her face. Traces of others long past could still be felt, a dampness upon her skin reminding her of their presence. But there existed no feeling, no aching presence to remind her of what had caused them. The redness had long disappeared. There would be no bruises, no lacerations to be looked upon as evidence of what he'd done. But she would not need them. She did not need to look into a mirror or sit and feel for some truth of what happened. She need only breathe to feel it. She need only close her eyes to see it. Mulder hit her. But he had not. He would never. He could not. Thus, her blurred rationality told her, it was not him. But a side of him that existed only in his, and her, furthest nightmares. It was the part of him that she had seen go a step too far. The part of him that went beyond impassioned and into a realm of restrained anger he could not sort through. She knew she had been right. She knew that the memories he had happily swallowed down and away had not stayed put as he'd wished. He was helpless in their wake, knowing only how to deny the existence of each, just as he only knew how to deny the existence of himself, and of who she was to him; who he was to her. The man she knew, the man she had loved and trusted for nearly a decade of her life, was not the man who had turned on her. That person was somewhere, lost within the shell of his own pain, incapable of stopping any of it. He could only continue to let it happen. He could only sit numbly as he caved in on himself. And with those thoughts, she became overwrought, shaken inward as a new cold penetrated her. She knew what he was capable of. She knew that what he had done inadvertently would only feed the fire that was killing him. If it had not ended him already. God, it was quiet. A deathly silence loomed around him like an awkward moment that never wanted to end. He lay on his dark couch, in his dark apartment, trying to remember how to breathe. In the constricting hush that surrounded him, he slowly forgot. He forgot the necessity of breath. His own pitiful lungs seeking his own pitiful air. She was his air. She was his breath. If only to stay alive, he told himself that the act of breathing was an unnecessary one. For if he believed in its necessity, he would have no choice but to give up. He would have no choice but to accept his life lost without the air that sustained it. He opened his eyes, allowing them to stare at the ceiling he had memorized long ago. He could barely see it, now. The lack of light shed only shadows on its surface. He looked into it deeper, desperate to define something real. But he couldn't find it. ...Here, there was no ceiling. There were no walls. There were no boundaries that separated him from voiceless voices, the faceless faces. They were there. They always were. Never a moment passed when he could not feel their presence. It was a sensation that shook him, causing his exposed body to tremble within his hellish restraints. Trapped within the Devil, he held no other choice but numbness. He would attempt to feel nothing. But he was a fool. He could feel it all. Every prick, every scrutiny, every drop. He could hear it all. Every scream from his own raw throat, crying for the air he needed to breathe. Crying for the life he needed to live. Crying for her. He could not escape the feelings, nor the sounds. He knew every moment, and forever would within the shadows of his memory. He would forever remember the moment he knew how it felt to die... A persistent ring, like a hissing scream, filtered into his conscious. Worn leather replaced cold steel. Darkness replaced harsh brightness. His eyes were already opened. He was already looking up, staring at the ceiling, every crack exactly where he remembered it to be. Suddenly, the ringing stopped. If he cared, he would be thankful, but only half of him actually registered it all. His phone. He could hear his own voice echoing into the harsh quiet that had returned with the stop of the ring. There was an intrusive beep. And then nothing. An absolute silence filled the space around him, as if his very apartment was holding its breath. "Mulder..." Oh, God. The magical monosyllabic cry had returned in his mind. His eyes shut tight. His stomach knotted. Her voice was so shattered. So broken. Suddenly, he was holding his breath, trying to convince himself of yet another lie. He didn't need air, he told himself. He didn't need breath. "Mulder, please pick up..." Her voice was soft, but was like a shattering echo in the purity of the silence that surrounded him. "If you're there, pick up." Panic. He could hear a tint of it in her voice. He swallowed it away. For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of her breathing echoing over the machine. He could recognize the sound. He recognized the fear. "Mulder, please." Please. The word rang sadly in his trained ears. He could hear the tears in her eyes that she probably gave up denying by that point. "Mulder, just don't... do anything." Don't. That was what he had said to her. That is what he had snapped at her in the middle of the night as she cried against his shoulder. Now, she was telling him the same. Don't do anything, she'd said. She hadn't specified. She didn't need to. Don't, Mulder, he could hear her say. Don't do anything stupid. ...Don't run away from me like this. Don't walk out on me like this. Don't walk out on your child. Don't, Mulder. Don't hit me... Oh, God. He shut his eyes tighter. ...Don't hit me. Don't die on me. Don't disappear. Don't get abducted. Dammit, Mulder. Just don't. Don't pretend I mean nothing. Don't pretend this child means nothing. Don't shut me out. Don't lie to me. Don't lie to your mother. Don't lie to yourself. Don't... "Don't do this, Mulder." She was still talking, he realized, her reality mixing with his delirium. "Please... I just need to know you won't do anything..." She was afraid, he concluded. She was afraid of what he would do to himself. She was afraid of who he was, and of who he no longer could be. "Dammit, Mulder. Pick up," she yelled suddenly. She was crying. He could hear the desperation in her words. He remained absolutely still, his body fighting with his mind for the air he didn't believe in. The air he didn't deserve. And then she was gone, the machine crudely cutting off the sound of her fear, leaving him with nothing, leaving him breathless. Once again, he was left alone, surrounded by the silence that forever defined his life. I try to breathe. I only know that I can change. --Staind, "Fade" She put down the phone carefully, barely acknowledging the way her hand shook as she did so. As if to steady it, she covered her mouth lightly. Letting her eyes fall slowly shut, she remained silent, simply breathing into it. God, she whispered into her frightened mind. Just please let him be okay, she told herself. Anything but that which her imagination, and simultaneously her memory, allowed her to define. Left to himself, so much could happen. She knew that. She feared that. No matter what he had done, or what he might do, she needed to get to him, to save him from the demons that never seemed to leave the echoes of his mind. There was always something. His sister, his mother, himself. There was always something that took away the peace. But not this peace, she told herself. She would not let this destroy him. She would not let it destroy them. A hurried knock at the door to her apartment interrupted her thoughts. Quickly, she swept her hands across her face, smoothing them over her mussed hair, hiding the evidence. But she knew it was useless. She knew her mother would be able to see it all within her eyes. Checking William briefly as he slept soundly, she left the bedroom. "Dana?" she heard through the door. She could hear her mother's desperation for an explanation, and as she opened the door to let her in, she could see it in her face, as well. "Mom..." was all she could get out, her reluctant greeting cut short. "Dana, what's wrong?" Scully sighed, letting her eyes fall from her mother's pressing expression as they stood near the doorway. She'd known that calling her would require an explanation, but she couldn't tell her. There wasn't enough time to get her involved. But she couldn't lie to her either. "It's complicated, Mom. I just need you to watch William for a while..." "I don't understand," her mother responded, her worry unaltered. "Where's Fox?" Scully looked up, her eyes caught by her mother's. "What aren't you telling me?" Scully swallowed away her emotions, pushing them down so that she could answer her. "I'm not trying to keep things from you, Mom. I just can't get into this right now. I need you to trust me." "I do, honey," she responded softly, assuringly. "You're just scaring me with this. To need me to babysit this suddenly, and this late..." "I know, Mom. I appreciate this, and I'm sorry for scaring you, but..." She was beginning to falter, her fears escalating with her words. "... I just need to get to him right now." Her mother was silent, staring at her daughter's face as it fell with her words. In that moment, she understood nothing and everything at the same time, knowing only that her daughter was telling the truth. Scully looked up, seeing the recognition in her mother's face. As if sensing an unspoken need, her mother stepped forward, taking her daughter into her arms, holding her as if to heal the pain she could see in her eyes. "Thank you, Mom," Scully whispered, letting herself be held a moment longer, before breaking gently away, before finally leaving her behind. In the dark, it was easier to get lost, to deny reality as it appeared before him. Perhaps that is why he had always found a strange comfort in its company. Perhaps that is why he had never bothered buying a light bulb with a wattage higher than twenty. He liked the dark. Figuratively, and literally, he lived in it. But in the darkness, he knew of other realities. He knew of pasts. And he knew of empty truths that the darkness happily filled in. These were the ways and thoughts that filled his nights, when sleep would be denied in place of nightmares. When light would be denied in place of shadows. Nightmares, and shadows, were all he knew. As he lay silently in the space of his apartment, these were the only constants he could define with any certainty. These were the only sensations he could perceive with any reality. He could not feel the cold of his heatless apartment. He could only feel the cold of his nightmares. He could not feel the thick leather of his couch against his skin. He could only feel the exposure of the metal in his mind. He could not hear the crack of the door as it opened and closed with a fearful necessity. But, her, he could hear. Surrounded by silence, with eyes shut, he could feel her. She was always so close. Always so far. "You shouldn't have come..." His voice was thick, echoing strangely in his own ears as the words left his mouth. He could hear her stop, hearing the small catch in her breath, whether from fear or otherwise, he could not tell. An awkward silence hung in the surrounding dark. "Mulder..." He tensed at his name, something in the way she said it straining him. He felt his teeth clench, his entire being unstable in her presence. "Just go..." he demanded in a low voice. He listened to her silence, knowing his plea would go unanswered. "*Go*," he repeated, his tone a touch stronger. "Why?" she demanded softly, her voice unstable, yet stubborn. "So, you won't hit me again?" His eyes shot open, unprepared for her words. He stared at her, shocked with the sight of her reality standing before him, hidden in the shadows. "I'm not afraid of you, Mulder." He let his eyes shut once more, forcing upon himself a shaky breath. "You should be." He could feel her look away, pretending to ignore his words. "I'm only afraid for you," she said softly. He, in turn, ignored her, his body continuing to tense in her presence. He would not look at her. He could only continue to shut her out. "Mulder..." she said, his name like a plea he couldn't answer. "Leave, Scully." His voice shook with the desperation of his need to be alone, to deny her. "Please." "I can't do that," she responded softly, defiantly. "I can't let you do this alone." Despite himself, he opened his eyes to her. In the dark, her being bled back to him: her pale complexion, her eyes drowning in strength and affliction, her stance tall and unbreakable. This was the woman he knew. This was the woman he loved. This was the woman he'd hurt. Neither his, nor her willingness to deny that fact would make it go away. He had gone too far. He had hurt her for the last time. There was no going back. She took a step toward him. "Don't," he snapped. His feet swung suddenly to the floor, his body suddenly sitting up on the furthest end of the couch. "Scully, please. Just go. Get out of here." His words stung her, his actions fueling the hurt he had caused. "And then what?" she asked him through surfacing emotions. He looked up at her, looking into the eyes that bled with the very pain he caused. "And then this consumes you? And then you let this destroy you? Dammit, Mulder. How many times must I lose you to this?" He continued to stare, watching emotionlessly as her eyes filled to the brink with pain. He turned away, unable to look at her any longer. Instead, he pretended to focus elsewhere, his eyes latching onto the darkness emanating from the night outside his window. In the silence, he could hear the first tear fall from her eyes. "You're better off without me," he said softly, not daring to look upon her. "You always have been." "I'm *not*," she whispered desperately. She paused, her silence contemplating the next words from her mouth. "I need you." He swallowed. Her words came so soft, the silence nearly buried them, his mind nearly making them up. "You don't need me, Scully." His eyes stared at the blackness outside his window, his soul clasping onto it. "You never did. You never will." He stood up, his eyes following the window until he stood next to it, his arms crossed nonchalantly in front of him. "Do you need *me*, Mulder?" she asked, catching his emotions despite the cold armor that sheltered them. He was silent, his eyes swimming in the darkness outside the window as her question echoed in his mind. He did not need her, he told himself. He needed only the air that she was, the breath that she gave that sustained his very life. No, he concluded. He did not need her. But he could not lie to her as he lied to himself. He could not tell her the truth, either. "It doesn't matter anymore," he finally told her, his tone pretending that he did not care. "I don't believe that." Her tears had stopped, replaced by a desperation that shone with the strength of her words. "I don't believe that you would willingly give everything up because of this..." "Why would I, Scully?" he asked suddenly, his arms uncrossing, his gaze breaking from the window to stare at her intently. "Have you asked yourself that? Have you asked yourself why I would do the things I've done?" His body was turned towards her now, anger and frustration echoing in his eyes. "Because you're not yourself..." "No, Scully. I'm still Fox Fucking Mulder the last time I checked. Which means I'm still the same goddamned person who hit you for no reason. I'm still the same goddamned person who abandoned you for six months. Who let you become the target of some sorry mother fuckers who thought it would be *cute* to give you cancer and steal from your womb. I'm still that goddamned person, Scully." He paused a moment, watching the impact of his words overwhelm her. "I'm still very much myself." He turned away from her, frustration overdriving his body so much that he shook with it. It channeled through him like a force he was helpless to contain. His eyes locked onto the sight of nothing outside his window, as if the darkness outside was another world to which he could escape. "Mulder, no..." was all she could say in protest, the strength lost from her voice. "I don't believe any of it. I've never believed any of it..." Her words did not register in his mind. Her voice did not filter into his conscious, as he stood watch over his darkened kingdom. "...you're wrong," she continued softly. "You're not that person. You're not the person you think--" "Then who was it?!" he yelled, the fury in his eyes meeting hers once again. "Tell me, Scully. Who the hell was it that thought it fit to hit you?" Her eyes fell shut, unable to look into the uncharacteristic anger focusing on her, unable to hear the words that echoed from his mouth with a deliberate hurt. "Mulder..." His name in protest was all that she could manage, her fear leaving her helpless. "God, Scully... you just don't get it, do you?" he shouted. "I *hit* you. *I* did. No one else. Because I let you get too close to this..." "You think I don't know that?!" she yelled in return, her overwhelmed state finding a home in her voice, and in her eyes as they reopened to him. "You think I'm blind to what happened?" He was suddenly silent, his voice falling to hers. "I'm *not*... I'm not," she continued, her words softer as her throat closed around them. "I saw what you did. I felt what you did." She took a step closer, her eyes desperate to give him her meaning. He remained silent, his gaze trapped, his body fighting for breath. "But Mulder... I didn't see *you*. I didn't feel *you*." He didn't move. He stood still, his mind devoid of words as his body was devoid of movement. He could only stare, held by the passionate need in the eyes and voice of the woman before him. "I only saw all that you've been keeping from me," she continued. "I only felt all the pain that you pretend doesn't exist. But it does, Mulder. It's there. I can see all that you don't want me to. And I'm not prepared to let it win," she continued passionately, her eyes never breaking from his. "Not again..." She took a step closer. "Please, Mulder. Don't ask this of me. Don't ask me to lose you again..." With his eyes locked with hers, his anger lay broken. His body stood limply, his breathing lost without meaning as he watched each step, as he absorbed each word. Her words had broken him. It was as if she had shattered a pane of glass that had stood between them, distorting his vision, his perception of her. It was as if she had awoken him from a nightmare where he could not see her as who she was. She was his meaning of trust. His meaning of belief. She was that which he would forever define as his constant. And yet, he had let himself forget the meanings he had defined for her. He had let himself forget who she was. His eyes had fallen shut with his thoughts, his focus turning within himself. She stood before him, desperate to believe that her words had struck something in him, something that would bring a piece of him back to her. She waited in silence, needful for anything, any part of him that she could recognize. But she could only recognize the silence. Then he opened his eyes to her. She looked into them, seeing beyond what he had shown her before, seeing the depth of what stood between them. She could see it all. She could see all that he had kept hidden. The darkened pain. The feeling of uselessness, entrapping him like a web. The confusion leaving him lost in an unremitting nightmare. She took a careful step toward him, and in her returned gaze, he found a sense of recognition, of understanding. He remained motionless, uncertain in every aspect of his being. He wasn't sure whether or not to breathe, whether or not to move, whether or not to speak. He wasn't certain whether or not he could allow himself all that he needed. He needed to breathe. He needed to move, to bring her to him so that he could feel her hair against his face. He needed to speak, to tell her every word he should have given her from the beginning. To tell her he was sorry. God, he was sorry. But he didn't know if that would ever be enough. In his silence, she allowed herself to narrow the space between them. Cautiously, softly, she brought her hand to his face, letting the back of her fingers brush the skin beneath his left eye, erasing the tears he hadn't realized existed. He did not move when she did so, his uncertainty holding him back. Nor did he allow himself to move in response to her decision to move closer, as she tentatively lay her head against his shoulder, her arms slowly snaking around his back. He stood frozen, uncertain. She felt like a feather against him: there, but not. Real, yet too faint to be believed. Passively, she waited, uncertain in her own right. She didn't know what else to do. She stood cautiously against him, praying mindlessly that she had not been wrong, that the piece of him that she'd seen had not been a mirage. Slowly, she felt the unmistakable presence of his arms fold around her, gentle and fearful, but real. "I'm so sorry, Scully..." she barely heard, his rough whisper lost in her hair. "I know..," she whispered back, molding herself closer. "I know you are." "I'm sorry you had to feel any of this." She could nearly feel him swallow down hard, swallowing away the pain rather than feel it. She could nearly feel his eyes shut softly as his grip grew desperate. "All I wanted was to keep this away from you. All I wanted was for you not to know... what this was like." "That's not what I want, Mulder," she responded gently. "I don't want you to shelter me." She paused a beat, letting her arms move around his back. "I don't want you to think you have to bear this by yourself for my sake. I want to feel what you feel. I want you to let me take that pain away from you..." She felt his arms tighten, crushing her. She welcomed it. She welcomed his need of her. "No one should be asked to feel this alone, Mulder." Carefully, she broke away from him, his arms dutifully falling to his sides to let her go. Her need was to look into his eyes, but they fell short of hers, lost in the nothingness of his floor. She brought her hand to the back of his neck, her thumb coaxing his eyes to hers. "You're not alone, Mulder," she explained softly. "Not in this. Not in anything." He stared back at her sadly, appearing as if her words were breaking him further apart. Gently, he took her hand from where it rested on his neck, letting them fall between them. He continued to stare, his eyes searching her as if she were an anomaly he didn't understand. "Why do you do this...?" he asked softly, desperately. "Do what?" "Stand here. In front of me. Telling me things I don't deserve to hear. Sacrificing so much of yourself that I'm at a loss as to what I'm indebted," he explained fervently with eyes lost in hers. "I don't understand... I don't understand why you're here at all... after what I've done." "Yes... you do, Mulder," she responded sadly. "You just won't let yourself believe it." "Believe what?" "... that someone could love you enough to forgive you... and hope that you could somehow forgive yourself." He broke his eyes from hers, letting them fall, hiding the fear that proved her words. She was silent for a few moments, her fingers curling around one of his wrists. "I love you, Mulder," she clarified softly, the simplicity of her words stunning him into looking back at her. "That's why I'm standing here. Telling you things you need to hear." He stared back at her, his eyes telling her the same in silence. God, he loved her, more then those bare words could ever reflect. And though he might dodge the truth, he knew that he would always need her, whether he believed he deserved her or not. He swept his hands up her arms before encircling her back, bringing her small form back into an embrace. "You're a fool..," he whispered softly. "You're a fool for forgiving me. A fool for loving me." She heard him sigh sorrowfully, breathing in the air that surrounded him. "And I don't deserve you." "One day," she said softly, "I'm going to convince you to believe otherwise. I'll prove you wrong." If he possessed the strength, he would have smiled at the thought her words gave him. But he could only wrap himself tighter around her, letting himself breathe in the air that she was. She was the one to break them apart once again, taking his head into her hands, tilting him toward her so that she could press her lips to his forehead. "Come home, Mulder..," she whispered, resting her forehead against his. He stiffened at the thought, tensing enough to step slightly away. Her fingers rested around his wrists, keeping him from slipping away entirely. "I don't think I should..." She searched his eyes, seeing his fear. "I don't think you should be alone..." she countered. "Scully, I *can't,*" he pushed back. "I can't just go home as if nothing happened. As if nothing *will* happen." "Mulder--" "No matter how much you trust me; no matter how much you *want* to trust me, you said it yourself, Scully: I'm not myself." He paused, letting that fact echo before continuing, his tone falling to solemn. "I'm not sure how far I'll go. And the *last* place I want to be when I find out is around you... or him." "You can't ask this of me, Mulder..." she stated stubbornly. "You can't ask me to just leave you like this..." "That's exactly what I'm asking of you..." "Mulder, *something* is wrong..." she argued defiantly. "I know that." "...and whatever it is, it's not finished with you..." "Which is why I'm asking you to leave," he asserted, his tone growing frustrated with her inability to see what he feared so desperately. "Scully, I can't have you here," he pleaded. "And I can't go back... not if I know I can repeat what should have never happened." Her struggle froze with the echo of those words. Her eyes searched the familiar passion of his own, easily recognizing the emotions of fear and guilt and need he was trying to make her understand. With the same desperation, however, she was trying to make him understand her own. Her own fear and her own need to protect him from whatever he was fighting against. "You can't just isolate yourself with this, Mulder," she returned, the fear finding its way into her voice. She let her gaze fall to her arms crossed in front of her, her voice falling softer as she continued. "...you can't just push me away every time you're afraid I'll get too close." His stance softened, seeing her fear weigh on her. "I'm not... I'm not pushing you away," he promised gently. "I just need some time... to trust myself again." She remained silent, her stance heavy as she continued to stare downward. "How long...?" she finally questioned. "As long as it takes..." he responded softly. She lifted her eyes back to his, the reluctance still deep. "If you need me..." she started. "I'll call," he completed gently. "No matter when, or for what..." she pleaded. "Promise me you won't separate yourself with this." A beat passed before he finally nodded. "I promise," he told her, the words wrapped in the deep whisper of his voice. After a few moments with her eyes caught in his, seeing the depth of his need, she accepted his promise. Despite every fear buried deep within her, she found it in herself to respect his need for his family to be shielded from the pain he knew, even if he could not shield himself. Learning to trust one's self all over again was not like riding a bike. It was not like falling off a horse. You couldn't just get back on. You couldn't just pretend the bruises didn't hurt and try again. Not after what he'd done. The bruises from his fall would not go away, not within himself. Not around him. The pain he felt was there with everything he did, with everything that surrounded him. He wasn't sure he really wanted it go away. He wasn't sure it was supposed to. Four days ago, he'd fallen. He'd hurt the one person he'd every really trusted, who'd ever really trusted him. And in doing so, he'd lost all certainty that he could trust himself. Six months ago, he'd been given a reason to fall. He'd been taken into the possession of a nightmare that wasn't for him to understand, or accept, or control. Only feel. In wake of the realization of that possession, he'd denied it. He'd blackened it out, forced upon it a face of nothing in hopes that it would find a hidden corner within himself where he would not have to believe it. Where he would not have to look into the eyes of the darkened obscurity that haunted him. Where he could escape it. But he soon found that it could not be escaped. He'd fallen. And for three days in his apartment, darkened even in the day, he'd continued to fall. His only comfort had been knowing that he would not take those he loved with him as he fell. She would not have to feel his hand again, nor would his son have to be present for such an unforgivable act. As he lay in the dark, as he remembered indefinable pains, this was his only comfort. Through it all, however, he'd lied once again. Even in her absence, even in a wordless solitude, he'd lied. Through it all, in his need to be alone, he'd needed her. But he could not keep his promise. He could not bring himself to call her. He could not bring himself to break out of the very isolation she'd feared, and that realization, echoed with her words, broke him once again. He'd not only fallen, he realized, but he'd fallen away from her. Again. There was a touch with his presence, one only she could feel. Inches, feet, rooms away, in sleep or floating on its surface, she could feel that touch. Wrapped in a restless sleep, it was not hard to awaken to that sense. But in that moment, it was a sense that frightened her. Rolling from one side to the other in the empty bed, she awoke to the sight of him, standing silently next to the opened door of the bedroom. Watching her. Inches, feet, rooms away, she could feel the dark in his eyes as he did so. Folding the sheets away, she stepped out of the bed, hit by the chill of the air as she made her way to him. He watched her, unmoving, his eyes following hers. As she came closer, the knotted fear grew at the sight of him. His eyes were haunted, lost as if he hadn't slept since the very day that had tore him away from her. What scared her was that she knew that thought wasn't an assumption but a truth. "Mulder...?" she began softly, one hand finding a stiff wrist, his hands hidden in the pockets of his leather jacket. He looked back at her, his haunted eyes held by the fear in hers. "I shouldn't have come." "No, Mulder," she assured, gently urging him to follow her back to the bed. He didn't argue, too tired to resist her. "You're exactly where you should be." "No, I should... I should go." He pulled back weakly, stopping her. "You can barely stand, let alone drive. I'm not letting you leave like this." She took his rigid hand into hers once again, leading him to the bed a few feet away. "Please, Mulder. Rest. We'll talk about this in the morning..." "I can't... I can't sleep, Scully," he told her, even as he gave in, stiffly letting himself unto the bed so that he sat against the head board. "Try," she urged gently, taking her place next to him, using her presence to ease him. "Just close your eyes." "No, you don't understand. I don't want to," he explained. "I don't want to see anymore." She paused to stare at him with those words, seeing the emotional weary that was built upon the physical. "Mulder..," she whispered softly. "It's not over, Scully. That's why I shouldn't be here." "But you came..." "I shouldn't have..." he repeated, his voice gaining a tint of panic. His body was restless next to hers, as if he was fighting the need to run away from her yet again. "I can't stay." "Mulder, please," she pleaded, her hands gently wrapping around the leather jacket on his arm. "You're not thinking straight. You need to rest..." He didn't agree, saying nothing as his eyelids fell closed. She relaxed with his deep breaths, thankful as his jittery nature seemed to ease. "It's not over," he echoed, his tone more serious than before. His eyes reopened, a new strength boring into hers. She remained silent for a beat, reading into his gaze. "No, it's not," she confirmed sadly. "And I don't think it ever will be, Mulder." He watched her in silence, waiting for her voice to continue. "Just like your sister's death, or your mother's, or my sister's... it's never over. Something this deep never really goes away." "Like your own..," he whispered, half in question, half in truth. "Like the time you don't remember..." She looked away, staring down at the mention of what he understood inbetween her words. "Yes..." she uttered softly. "But I can't live my life in that shadow." She paused, lifting her eyes back to his. "And neither can you." He looked upon her a moment longer before turning away, letting his head hit the wall behind him, his eyes falling shut. "I just want this to go..," he muttered, his words dark and scratched. "I don't want anymore answers to the question of what happened to me," he continued, shaking his head against the wall. "Not like this." She had no words to give him in return, only her continued wish that she could take what she could not away from him. She drew herself closer, wrapping her arms tighter around the arm she held. "Try and sleep, Mulder..." she pleaded in a whisper. "Please." He opened his eyes, looking down upon her gentle form against his side. She looked up to meet him, finding once again the layered exhaustion of body and mind and soul that plagued him. Please, her eyes echoed. The edge in his eyes yielded as he looked into her wordless plea. He let his lids shut once again, the fatigue of all he felt too deep to be fought. He had no choice. He was forced to let her trust become his. Awkwardly, he let his back find the level surface of the bed, taking her with him until her back was against him, his arms, still in his leather jacket, wrapped around her tiny form. He felt greedy, taking the comfort he needed from her, despite all his fears, despite all he felt he was imposing upon her. Because it wasn't over. The bruises were still there. The memories he didn't know how to fix would still haunt him. And yet, wrapped in the calm of a rare solace, he imagined he could overcome them. He imagined he could trust himself as she trusted him. He imagined that maybe, just maybe, he could live without the darkness overshadowing the happily every after they'd struggled so hard in which to believe. All the while, he watched her sleep. He watched her peace, praying that in her he would find his own. The End (But stay tuned for an epilogue...)
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