Word Count: 1 500+
When: Post-series, pre-IWTB.
Spoilers:  Um, it's more speculation really.
Disclaimer: Disclaimed!
Summary:  Scully doesn’t have any illusions about what this could or could not mean.  She’s had the same headache for a week.

AN:  Ugh.  I swore I'd never write movie-speculation!fic, but here we go.  To be fair, it's more like pre-movie-speculation!fic.  But still.



for the weary

The first time it happens Mulder isn’t home.  It’s the middle of the summer, hot and still, grass browning alongside the house.  Scully sits at the kitchen table and waits for the blood to stop.  The cheap plastic chair cuts into her thighs.  Somewhere a clock ticks.

Scully doesn’t have any illusions about what this could or could not mean.  She’s had the same headache for a week.

After it’s over, she buries the bloody tissues in the backyard beside the daffodils. 

She hides it from Mulder for two weeks.

It’s difficult - it seems like there's more blood this time around.  It blooms out of her.  The used tissues look like crumpled carnations, vibrant.  Scully can’t tell if her memories are faded or if, now, she really does bleed brighter.

(Because she should, she thinks.  After all that’s happened her blood should fucking glow.)

She surfaces from sleep one night to find Mulder, panicked, shaking her awake.  She’s confused.  The pillow is very wet.

“I’m taking you to a hospital,” Mulder says, and that’s when she remembers.

“No, Mulder,” she soothes. “No.  There’s no need for that.  It could just be nothing.”

Mulder’s doesn’t look like he believes her, but he strips the sheets anyways.  They do not go to the hospital.

It happens again three nights later. 

Mulder follows her into the bathroom.  Scully washes her face with cool water and watches him watch her in the mirror.  There is a smear of blood along his collarbone.  It looks like war paint.

“We can’t go to a hospital,” she begins.  In the mirror Mulder is shaking his head.  “We can't.  You would be arrested immediately.”  She feels far away, like she’s looking at him through binoculars turned the wrong way round.  Her thoughts have gone cottony around the edges with panic.

She tries another tactic.  “Mulder,” she says, like it’s a case, like it’s a theory, “we don’t have any more miracle chips.  We have to accept that there is the possibility— and if you were in jail when it happened, or I was in the hospital and you were here—”  She stops.  In the mirror Mulder is still shaking his head.  Scully turns around and real-Mulder is shaking his head too.  She steadies herself with a hand on either side of his temples. 

“Mulder,” she begins, but finds nothing following it.  All of her carefully formulated arguments have suddenly gone sharp-edged with tears; they catch in her throat.  She does not want to die anywhere she can't hold his hand. 

Two days pass. 

There is a plan, he tells her.  There are three a.m. phones calls to unlisted numbers, emails and faxes and There Is A Plan.

“It’s going to be alright, Scully,” he says, and she wants to claw the serene expression off his face and feed him his empty words.

She tries crying, tries screaming, tries reasoning with him, tries every shameless bit of manipulation she knows.  She hits him, begs him, fucks him, tells him that it’s all his fault.  Mulder sits her down at the kitchen table like a child and gives her a glass of milk. 

He explains every detail of the plan to her – except for when it is going to be put into action.  Maybe he thinks she would run away if she knew (she wouldn’t).

She knows anyways.  He gives himself away the night before.  He kisses her long and slow slow slow, slower than anyone has kissed her since— since that first night, when they’d stood in the entryway of her apartment and Mulder had pressed her against the door, fingers hooked through her belt loops, until she was laughing and dragging him through to the bedroom.    

Scully considers pushing him away.  But her throat is raw from all the yelling and the crying and she is just too tired.

She doesn’t let herself think this could be the last time.

Scully wakes up in the morning and Doggett is already there.  Mulder hands her coffee when she comes downstairs.  It’s just like it is any other day, only this time she’s carrying the bag he has packed for her.   

She kisses Mulder goodbye in the kitchen while Doggett politely watches the toaster.  On the radio the announcer crows about highs of 80 degrees.  Mulder tastes like coffee and toothpaste.  No one cries.

Doggett carries her things down the driveway to the car.  Scully can hear the cicadas whirring.  It is a beautiful day.

This time, the tumour is operable.  “Your prognosis is as good as can be expected,” a doctor, not Scully’s, tells her.  “An operation followed up by chemotherapy.” 

Doggett had taken her immediately to the hospital and dropped her off with her bag.  “Things are a bit tricky right now legally, Agent Scully,” he’d said and Scully had been too tired to split hairs over now-defunct titles.   

He'd realized his mistake anyway.  “Dana,” he’d said, blushing, and rolled up the car window.  If he’d had a hat he would have tipped it.

When Scully comes out of the examination room, she finds Skinner and a legion of agents waiting for her in the lobby.  They are all wearing vests.

“Sir?” Scully asks.

Skinner looks uncomfortable.  “You are a wanted felon, Doctor Scully.”  He grimaces.  “And although I explained that this amount of manpower was hardly appropriate, others felt it… necessary.”

A faceless agent in a blue vest pats Scully down.  As he bends to do her legs she can see the way his crew cut is slightly crooked against the back of his neck.

“Sir?” she asks again.

“You have to sign this statement,” Skinner tells her.  “It guarantees you immunity in exchange for your cooperation.”

Scully signs. 

The agents sent to interview her seem very young.  They have the long, skinny necks of teenagers.  One of them calls her ma’am.

The first time they question her is after her operation.  Scully sits up in her hospital bed and tries very hard to focus through a painkiller haze.  It doesn’t matter anyways; they’re only asking follow up questions, more background information for the report.  Scully gave Skinner all the important answers in the lobby, answers like the location of the house and the make of Mulder’s car. 

But those answers didn’t really matter either.  Doggett doubled back three times on the way to D.C. 

A week after her operation, Scully is released from the hospital. 

Her mother takes her home.  She insists that Scully stay with her until after the chemotherapy sessions are through. 

That night, on her mother’s newly made-up guest bed, Scully opens the bag Mulder packed for her.  There is the usual – underwear and pyjamas and jeans – but at the bottom he has tucked away one of her old suits.  There is a note pinned to the lapel of the jacket: in case. 

It is the only note he left.  Scully checks; goes through the entire bag and dumps its contents out on the floor.  She even looks inside the pockets of the suit.  All she finds are a handful of sunflower seeds and a rental car receipt.

She cries then.

The agents interview Scully twice more; once in her mother’s living room with the paisley throw rugs, and once at their office in the FBI building.  The second time, Scully wears the suit. 

They ask her silly, useless questions about the nature of her relationship with Agent Mulder.  Questions to fuel the rumour mill.  They do not ask her about the work, and Scully is not surprised.

She knows her mother’s phone is tapped and, when she moves into her new fifth-floor apartment with its wide windows, she knows that phone is tapped too.  She has been told not to try and leave town and she doesn’t.  She does not know where she would go. 

She gets a job at a hospital.  She buys other suits.

She stays where he can find her.

Scully dreams. 

She dreams that Mulder doesn’t find out.  She hides the blood away, tucks it into corners and sweeps it under rugs.  Eventually she just lies on their bed, hidden between mountains of pillows, and licks herself clean like a cat.  The blood slides salty down the back of her throat. 

Then Mulder is there and carrying her in a tangle of blankets out to their backyard.  The grass feels good after the heat of all that blood.  Mulder feeds her handfuls of cool earth to soothe her throat, and traces constellations in the sky even though it’s daytime.  He holds her hand.