Chronology: S7
Spoilers through “The Gift”/”Per Manum”
What looms untold.
* * * * * * *
feels like reckless driving when we’re talking
fun while it lasts and it’s faster than walking
but no one’s gonna sympathize when we crash
they’ll say, you hit what you head for,
you get what you ask
and we’ll say, we didn’t even know, we didn’t even try –
one minute there was road beneath us, the next, just sky.
-ani difranco
* * * * * * *
When I was growing up, few people would ever guess men to be my glaring weakness.
High school and college were characterized by typical relationships and a focus on academics. Dana Scully was going to make something of herself; she would not waste time on boys. But I also knew how to have some fun. So I dated smart boys who respected my study habits but weren’t too busy to go out to dinner and movies on a regular basis.
And then I went to med school and met Daniel Waterston.
It’s almost embarrassing, how easily he won me over, how easily I was flattered into believing in forever, despite his being married and twenty years older. He told me that I was brilliant; he promised me a successful career. He’d make sure, he always said, that I was noticed.
We never slept together. I was hesitant to take that step while he was still married; he promised a quick divorce, but by the time it was in the works, the rumor mill had warned me away.
I was still an intern, six months out of the cardiology rotation in which I’d first met Daniel. In the hospital cafeteria grabbing a late-night snack, one of the cardiology residents approached me. Mike Warner – a redhead. He was a good guy, not a cutthroat like so many of the other students.
“Dana,” he’d said. “Can we chat for a second?”
“Sure,” I’d assented easily, tiredly.
We sat down, both of us scrubbed and overtired, too young to be working so hard.
“It’s about you and Daniel,” he began, and I was instantly alarmed. He continued, obviously uncomfortable. “Look, I don’t know what the deal is between you two – but there’s rumblings. Some of the doctors are talking, saying how improper it is, how it might hurt you both professionally.”
I was shocked, speaking slowly, coldly. “Daniel and I have done nothing outside the realm of propriety.”
Mike eyed me, searching, unwilling to shatter my naivete. “Maybe you haven’t, Dana, but…” A long pause. “What you want, and what Daniel wants, well, they may be different things.”
I looked down into my sickly-looking salad, poking uneasily at croutons with my fork.
“Look, Dana, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Still I didn’t look up. Mike touched my hand for the briefest second, then left.
I was in my last rotation. When the FBI came knocking only two weeks later, I accepted. I didn’t look back, didn’t give a second thought to breaking things off. Daniel had manipulated my innocence and nearly brought me professional ruin. Unforgivable to my youthful idealism. I vowed to never make the same mistake again.
Enter Jack Willis.
Jack was Daniel with a gun instead of an MD, an intense man who flattered my intellect to get me into bed. When he was my instructor I had something of a crush, and I knew it was reciprocated; I had the good sense not to push things, but once I graduated and could be called his colleague, I let things flare.
Still young to office politics, I thought our relative professional equality made it OK. I was surprised to stumble across my reputation as someone trying to sleep her way to the top. Again, I ended things; I met Ethan and told myself that finally, finally I was in a relationship that wouldn’t hurt me professionally.
And then I was assigned to work with Mulder.
Ethan faded into the background – how could he compete with UFOs and conspiracies and my attractive, intense partner? I came home one day to find all of Ethan’s stuff gone and a brief note: “Dana, it was me or the job. And you made your choice.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic.
From the beginning, I was more attracted to Mulder than I’d ever been to Daniel or Jack. And after that first case, I cared more for him. I was invested in Mulder in a way I’d never been invested in another person before. I trusted him, completely. And that’s why I knew from the first that I could never sleep with him.
If I slept with Mulder, it would be professional suicide. One kamikaze romp would end it all in a way I’ve spent the last fifteen years attempting to avoid. And it would be worth it, for Mulder. I would not be able to end things with him. I would never be able to step away, to move on like I had with Daniel or Jack. I would never be able to salvage the career I’ve spent a lifetime building.
And so I will trust Mulder, I will let him know everything about me, I will ask him to be the father of my child – but I cannot let myself become his lover.
I cannot.
This is what I think about as I pull into the morgue where Teena Mulder’s body awaits.
* * * * * * *
I don’t know what to think.
Samantha has so long been the cornerstone of my quest, of my life, and now I am questioning what really happened.
My mother was never exactly a cornerstone in my life, but then, mothers aren’t expected to do what mine did.
Scully’s eyes are large and sympathetic, and I see her two, six, twelve months from now, making that same sad expression over my own body, reciting similar words – “He had an incurable disease.” “He knew it.”
“He didn’t want to live.”
No.
No, Scully, that’s not me, that’s not true, stop saying that, STOP looking at me like that, you don’t even know –
It is not until her arms encircle me that I realize I’m violent, shaking the table with the force of what I’m feeling, with the weight of what looms untold between us. I’m shaking and she’s soothing me, and I want to sob that Scully, I’m dying, I’m dying and I just need to know what happened to my sister before I go, I need to know that I haven’t wasted my life on a lie.
But I cannot tell that to Scully. I cannot bear for her to care about me in the end of my life. She will need to walk away from it all, and I know that hearing of a long-term fatal illness that I kept from her will anger her. It will allow her to walk away. I’m an asshole, Scully, but I have noble intentions.
“She was trying to tell me something.”
She couldn’t have just killed herself to get away from the pain, to forego the goodbyes, don’t even think about it, don’t even tempt yourself –
“Mulder, she was trying to tell you to stop. To stop looking for
your sister. She was just trying to take away your pain.”
Oh, Scully, if only you knew.
I turn and cry against her warm neck, I feel her lips close against my skin, and I think, Scully, it is for the best that you could never have my child, it is for the best that you will never be my grieving widow-in-spirit, please believe me. Please trust that I wanted desperately to live, that I fought against the pronouncement of “terminal brain disease.”
Please trust that I’m just trying to take away your pain.
* * * * * * *
I wish I could tell Scully that I am not angry at her.
I wish I could tell her that I cannot look at her because I am so hopeful about what this disk might contain – what it might offer me.
I imagine that CGB Spender was surprised at Scully’s hesitance. I imagine he believed that I’d told her I was dying, that she would do anything to find a cure for me. The little boy was just a bonus.
“There’s nothing on this,” Frohike declares.
Scully rises, indignant, insistent. My heart breaks for what she doesn’t know. Now more than ever I cannot tell her – I cannot have her believe that a cure is at hand, if only she would pursue the devil.
Scully looks to me, and, reassured that I am still a man dying, I meet her eyes.
She wants to go to his offices. En route I cannot help but think of the cure I was offered in Pennsylvania; the cure I rejected, claiming altruism. I killed the soul-eater rather than allow him to help me, taking away his pain instead of salving my own.
And here I am doing the same, preventing Scully from walking a path into madness and murder, trading the fact of my life for the reality of hers.
As we walk through the offices, Scully refuses to give in to the evidence, to believe that Spender was manipulating her as he’s so fond of doing.
I could explain to her exactly why he needed that science so desperately, but then we’d be on the road, seeking him and his cure out with guns and desperation.
I want to live the end of my life with dignity, in the peaceful state I’ve felt since knowing that my sister is amongst the stars.
And so I keep quiet.
* * * * * * *
I cannot sleep with Mulder.
I cannot sleep with Mulder, I repeat to myself as I pick up my jacket and take in his nude, shadowed form, hidden beneath unruly bedding, his arm sprawled on the pillow next to the slight dent in which my head fit so comfortably.
Shit.
I stalk out the door, down the hall, towards the elevator, towards freedom and escape and air that doesn’t smell like making love to Mulder, because why did I do that, why did I let myself get so caught up in… visions? Since when have I even believed in visions?
My forehead comes to rest against the wall as I catch my breath, struggling to comprehend what has just happened.
I have given in. That’s it. All of my planning, all of my reserve – it wasn’t enough.
“Scully?” His voice is low and rough and I blink against it, then stand tall and turn. He is in his doorway at the end of the hallway, wearing boxers and a confused expression that I struggle to meet, and it occurs to me that I have stood here for five minutes and not pressed the elevator button.
“Scully… are you OK?” He is full of concern, and suddenly I realize that I have nothing to be afraid of, that this is worth everything, that I am on the verge of throwing away the one thing I truly want because of petty insecurities.
I’m an idiot sometimes, but it’s been so long since I’ve had a morning-after freakout that I can’t help but smile.
“I’m fine.” I don’t know that I’ve ever spoken those words with such conviction. There will be no child, but there will be this morning – and the next and the next and the next, and a lifetime of mornings waking up next to Mulder.
He notes the change in my expression and seems puzzled by it, then inquires hesitantly, slowly: “Umm… are you leaving?”
I don’t have to look away. “No.”
We share a long stare. Finally Mulder breaks into a small grin. “Oh. OK.”
He turns to move back into his apartment, holding the door open, and I stride quickly down the hallway and follow him inside.
We can be late for work today.
* * * * * * *
END
* * * * * * *
Author’s Notes: This story originated out of a single random thought: If Mulder knew he was dying, how would he feel about his mother’s suicide? And then the juxtaposition of Scully’s hope for the future with Mulder’s impending but untold death somehow arose. I hate the brain disease plot device with a true passion, and I don’t know that I’ve “explained” it to any satisfaction, but I hope I at least entertained with it.
Extra-special thanks to DebB, Tabula Rasa, and Lilydale, without whom this
story would never have been finished. Thanks for the encouragement.