The Parting Glass
SUMMARY: It's too hard to stand here and see him stripped down like this. She turns and walks away.
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Fight The Future
DISCLAIMER: Breaking seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. Proceed at your own risk. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. For recreational purposes only. Driver does not carry cash. And, as always, thank you for choosing Aloysia Airlines for your direct flight from 1013 to fanfic.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story was written for enj412 who won my help_haiti auction and requested an NC-17 continuation of the deleted kiss from FTF. The dust jacket was commissioned by paigehunt as her winning item in scarletbaldy's help_haiti auction. Scarlet also did an amazing job betaing this story for me, as per usual. You are all lovely, generous people and I thank you.
The title is from an old Irish song of the same name.
***
Dana Scully rejects tasseography, astrology, tarot cards, chiromancy, augury, crystallography, spirit boards, runecasting, scrying, and all other methods of prognosticative divination. She is not a Calvinist. She does not subscribe to the idea of predestination beyond the usual faint notion that God has plans for each of us.
In short, she does not believe in fate.
And so it was her own sense of fairness that led her to the clanky old elevator at Hegal Place, her desire to be gracious that made her walk down his hallway with her tired eyes cast to the worn floorboards. Her ears are still ringing faintly from the reassignment; Skinner's voice tolling in her head like Donne's bell. And in that spirit of shared human experience, she feels she owes Mulder the sight of her rumpled clothing, the resigned cadence of her parting words.
Standing in his doorway, watching him sit among the arcane jigsaw puzzle pieces he's assembled into this half-life he's living, it's not as difficult to tell him as she thought it would be. She is still comfortably numb and he isn't holding out a better offer.
"I need you on this, Scully," he says, almost begging, and what kills her is that he thinks he means it.
Scully tells him he's wrong, which is what she always does. "I gotta go," she mumbles, as though there is anywhere she has to be other than the unemployment office. She prefers to think of Mulder as a lone knight on an inviolate quest. He is not supposed to need anyone, and certainly not her. It's too hard to stand here and see him stripped down like this. She turns and walks away.
He follows her to the hallway, which makes her nervous. Scully is not an airer of dirty laundry. There's no real fight left in her, but it's still unseemly to continue this in a communal space full of peepholes. They argue in corners, in basements, in quiet apartments and anonymous cars on endless highways. He's from good New England stock and should be genetically predisposed towards circumspection.
Mulder tells her that she's wrong, invading her personal space as he does it. Their usual exchange is now complete.
And though she also rejects psychic ability, she saw all of this coming. His hurt, her irritation with his hurt, their retreat to familiar roles. It's not a bad note to leave on, Scully thinks.
But she decides to see this final disagreement through to the end. And so she casts his own words up in his face - his accusations and paranoia. She reminds him of her treachery, hoping to litter the ground between them with enough mines that one at least will blow up and provide her with the smoke and chaos needed for an easy escape. She realizes with sudden clarity that she had no choice in coming here after all. She had to see him bleed for her.
But Fox Mulder, consummate whipping boy, ruins her best laid plans and tells her that she's saved him.
Fuck you, she thinks, when she realizes that she's crying. She wants to hate him. She wants to scream at him about her sister and her daughter and the chip in her goddamned neck but the words won't come. Her throat feels as though it's still choked with thick Texas dust, filled with crawling bees. She has two choices to ensure that he can't look at her, and she picks the coward's way out.
His shirt is soft against her cheek, his arm firm at her back, and she lets herself pretend it's all okay. None of it really matters, does it? She can get another job - a better job - and they can still have pizza after work. She'll meet a nice guy, let Mulder run a background check on him for her. They can…they can hang out some time, right? People do that, don't they?
Right.
People do. Not them. And she can't stay in this city as a civilian; she'd feel disgraced, a second-class citizen. Maybe she'll end up in Utah after all. Anywhere but here is all she knows for certain. Her Navy brat upbringing taught her how to be a brave little soldier in the face of painful goodbyes. Mulder is holding on to her as though he never means to let her go and she can't stand this awful, aching limbo another second.
Scully pulls back and presses her lips to his bowed forehead, his untidy flop of hair brushing against her own. She wants desperately to say something wise, something kind and tender to negate her jumping ship, but there's nothing to be said. They're both so good and so bad at being alone. They'll be all right.
But suddenly her face is in his hands and that burning thing in him is staring out at her through his eyes. He looks much as he must have at twelve, internalizing his loss, eroding from the inside. Her own eyes dart about, unable to meet his unyielding gaze, and she can feel a nervous laugh welling up. He leans in then, his thumb at the tender place beneath her ear, and Scully realizes she has miscalculated.
This is my panic face, she thinks.
But something else pipes up, something that reminds her she doesn't have a professional image to maintain anymore, that Mulder isn't her partner now. There will be no slideshow tomorrow, no red-eye flight to chase down shadows and nightmares. She doesn't have to see him as anything other than beautiful long hands and six feet of well-toned muscle.
Scully tips her face upwards to meet his, waiting for something terrible to bring her back to her senses, to remind her that she is not allowed such indulgences. But there is no crack of lightning, only the welcoming heat of his lips against hers. He lifts her up when she slips her arms about his neck, and she clenches his waist between her thighs.
They stumble against the wall, where the chair rail hurts her tailbone, but she couldn't care less. The curve of his jaw is sculpted to fit her palm, and his fingers are wound tightly in her hair. Her mouth feels deliciously bruised and swollen, her inner thighs already slick. She'd never own up to it, but there's something feminine about being held this way, feeling light and slender as she's pinned in place like a butterfly by his larger body. His shirt is starting to cling a little, and she picks up the musky scent of clean sweat on his skin. It tantalizes her animal brain, and Scully wriggles free only to expedite a return to his apartment. Mulder takes her hand and pulls her after him through his still-open door. He kicks it shut the second her feet clear the threshold.
She glances at the couch, then questioningly up at him.
He jerks his head towards the hall and she follows him to the bedroom.
Mulder's fingers are deft at the buttons of her blouse, which he pushes off her shoulders along with her jacket. She stands there, faintly stupefied as he touches her through her clothing. His hands go to her waistband, opening the two buttons there before undoing her zipper. Her trousers slip to the floor, and the soft noise breaks the spell she's under. The lull in their momentum has built up potential energy for conversion to kinetic and Scully, as a student of physics, acquiesces to the demands of science.
She leans up to kiss him again, fumbling at the stiff fabric of his jeans while she untucks his shirt. He tugs his jeans off, his erection tenting the worn fabric of his boxers against her abdomen. Stepping out of her shoes makes the height difference a significant inconvenience, so she pushes him to the bed to level the playing field. He sits on the edge of the mattress, working his t-shirt and boxers off while Scully watches. The sunlight marks paths along the oatmeal-colored carpet between them.
She studies him for a moment in the golden evening, appraising his body with her anatomist's eye. It's not the first time she's seen him naked, and his physique is not a surprise to her. But she had always been his doctor then, been the one in control, and there's no way she can convince herself she's in control of anything at the moment. She steps between his long runner's legs, which radiate heat against her own.
Mulder reaches up to unhook her bra, which he slides off her arms and tosses to the floor. His fingers run under the elastic of her underwear, easing them down her legs. He takes the cursory glance that men always take, then gives her a wry smirk. Which she returns.
"You can't blame a guy for wondering," he says.
"Do I seem upset?" she asks, drunk on the way he's looking at her.
Mulder pulls her roughly against him, hard enough to send her mind racing. He stares up at her, eyes dark and dangerous. There's a sensory echo of the tattoo needle at her back, the sting and scrape of it letting out the restless thing in her that likes to play.
He's a profiler. He has to know.
"No," he replies. "No, I'd say you're pretty pleased with me at the moment." He takes her nipple between his teeth.
"Jesus," she hisses, jerking back out of reflex rather than intent. In response, he grips her body so hard that she knows full well there will be ten little purple bruises blooming soon. It's the finest balance between pain and pleasure, a razor blade dipped in warm honey. She sinks her nails into his scalp, her head falling back as he makes her twitch.
She wants very badly to let go of herself, to forget this is Mulder lighting her synapses on fire, setting off a dopamine cascade in her overheated brain. But she doesn't know how to turn that caution off with him. Letting him see her body is one thing - she is not ashamed of it - but to let go entirely, to go limp and gasping in his arms is quite another.
"I can't do this," she says, already breathless.
He slips two fingers inside of her, making her knees buckle. "Tell me to stop," he says in a low voice, his thumb at her clitoris. "Say it and I will."
Say it. Now, Dana. Say it and get yourself decent and then get the holy hell out of his bedroom because this is fucked up even for you.
Who is she kidding? She knew what she was doing when she kissed him in the hall, and this is not the time for second thoughts; not when he's turning out to be some kind of sexual savant with a copy of her owner's manual. The lateral orbitofrontal cortex - the seat of reason and control - shuts down during orgasm. Mulder found the device to cure her cancer. He can certainly find that off switch.
"Hmmm?" he asks, his mouth at her breast again, his thumb drawing infinite tiny, tortuous circles.
She pulls away from him, her nipple painfully cold outside of his mouth, her thighs achy. Mulder is not used to failing to anticipate the unforeseen and looks surprised. Scully puts her hands on his shoulders and steadies herself against them as she straddles his lap. He is hard against her leg, but she doesn't look down.
Mulder uses his arms to propel them both back against the headboard. "Scully-"
She covers his mouth, shaking her head slowly.
He looks intrigued, settling his hands at her waist, sliding her forward so that she's -
Oh.
There's a thump when his skull meets the headboard, and liquid shivers sluice down her spine at the solid heat of him inside her. Mulder holds her tight against him, thrusting up into her with fast, steady strokes that are well on their way to shutting down the more distracting parts of her brain.
She presses her hands to the hard plane of his stomach as she rocks against him. Their panting breaths are harsh in the quiet room, and the ragged sound of it - the feel of him, the bread-dough smell of sex - all have her on sensory overload.
Warm hands slide up her back and she leans against them, her hips tilting just so, just so, and she's -
Suddenly underneath him
Mulder's looking decidedly smug above her and she laughs a little, reaching up to touch his face. He turns to kiss her palm, then pins her wrist above her head with one hand, holding himself up with the other.
Scully's draws a sharp breath of surprise and she wonders if he's always suspected this about her.
He cocks his head, chameleon eyes unreadable as he moves into her again with agonizing slowness. Scully raises her left arm above her head, resting it next to the other. The resulting expression on Mulder's face is one of lust uninhibited , and she's quite certain that it's mirrored on her own. She draws her hands together and he grips them both with the span of his fingers. The pain in her wrists is disconcertingly erotic.
His rhythm is still unhurried and Scully squirms beneath him in an attempt to return them to the spine-jarring pace of moments ago. He tightens his hold on her and shakes his head. She arches her back in utter frustration, a low noise tumbling from the back of her throat. Mulder slows down further, observing her with interest.
She'd always believed he'd drive her insane one day, but she hadn't foreseen it going quite like this.
Scully tosses her head against the pillow in something approaching fury, scrabbling at his hands, grinding her hips up against his. She can't believe he's holding back on her even now, when she's given him everything, everything and he -
Drops of sweat have beaded up on his forehead, running down his face and slaloming over the lean tendons of his neck.
She stills, watching him in fascination.
Mulder bends his head to kiss her, his lips salty and firm against her own. She nips at them and feels him speed up, feels his fingers tighten around her wrists as she slips her tongue into his mouth. He lets go of her to brace himself against the headboard, which bumps steadily against the wall. She rakes her manicured nails down his back deep enough to draw blood.
Their slick bodies are nearly frictionless and Scully's swallowing great draughts of air as they move, hair half-soaked and tangling across her face. She draws her knees up, heels digging into the base of his spine, and her pelvic bones are aching and sore. If it were possible to take him any deeper she would, but settles instead for her calves against his back. She sucks at his throat, making him groan, and her thighs tingle at the animal sound of it. She can feel how close he is, feel his veins throbbing along her tongue, and she slides her knees up higher. He groans again and raises his head to gaze down at her.
Scully entertains the idea that this won't be the first time he's come while looking at her face, that he's rasped her name in his shadowed apartment as he thought of her and twitched like this and…oh, oh…the sudden hard jerk of his hips against hers is urgent and primal as she clutches his back. Mulder's body shudders beneath her grasping hands, his muscles straining with his pounding heart. He buries his face in her neck, his teeth grazing her fevered skin as he gasps against her ear. Scully has the sudden awful feeling that she is going to cry.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, her nails at his shoulder blades, and she is grateful for their pact of silence because she is terrified of what she might say otherwise. The orgasm is building low in her back, and she focuses on that instead because she needs this to be over. It's too much, too intense to be so needful beneath him in the straw-colored light. She's a pathologist. She deals best with aftermath.
Mulder props himself up on one elbow and peppers her face with kisses, rubbing her clitoris with every thrust until she's at the verge of calling his name after all but she can't; she can't say it like this even when he's got her hot and wet as the Mid-Atlantic summer outside. A low, frustrated moan draws itself from deep in her chest and she peers at him though half-lidded eyes. Mulder glances up to regard her - reading the raw, hungry look on her face. He takes her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and there's that bite of pain again, dark and bittersweet as fine chocolate. Her nerve endings are so keyed up that it's a glorious relief when she comes, head arching back into the pillow. Her back rises off the bed, crushing her breasts up against his chest, and she takes his flushed face in her hands. The air is full of stars, which are coming down like rain.
"Hi," he says in a stage whisper, smoothing her hair from her face.
She laughs breathlessly and drops a hand to her fast-rising chest. "Hi," she replies.
Scully waits to feel awkward, to hear herself babbling excuses about how they've been under so much stress and she's sorry for showing up at his door in the first place. But there's nothing other than this easy silence and his safe, warm weight. Mulder nibbles at her clavicle and she'd give anything for this moment to be the rest of her life. She coughs a little, her throat dry and ticklish.
"Water?" he asks.
She nods, appreciative.
He rolls to the side and she sees streaks of blood along his back when he leans over to grab his boxers. It is perversely arousing. The sweat is drying on her body, and she can only imagine what a wreck she must be at the moment; raccoon-eyed with smudged mascara, her hair a snarled mess.
Mulder pulls his shorts on and, bless him, regards her as though she's a Renaissance masterpiece. He tugs the rumpled covers back. "Get some sleep," he says, though the sun hasn't even set yet.
"I really should-"
He makes a sound that could be construed as amusement. "Come on, Scully. You haven't slept for days." He goes to the bathroom for a moment and returns with a glass of tepid water, holding it out to her.
She sits up to accept it, taking a few sips before resting it on the bedside table. Spending the night was not part of what she'd bargained for. But what the hell? She can hardly play the shy ingénue at this point, and she's too exhausted to drive. "Okay," she agrees, crawling under the light blanket, sheets cool against her skin. "Thank you."
He grabs the pillow beside her head and tucks it under his arm.
"Mulder…?"
"Crashing on the couch," he says. "I don't want you drooling on me in your sleep."
He would break her heart if she'd let him. "Mulder, get in bed this instant. You haven't slept for days either." Scully can see his relief, imperceptible to any eye but her own.
She slides over to make space for him, and his long body feels wonderful next to hers. She'd forgotten the simple comfort of sleeping with someone in the non-euphemistic sense.
She smoothes her hand over his belly, and leaves a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Good night," she says, curling onto her side.
"Good night," he replies, kissing her shoulder once and then turning over onto his back.
She drifts off listening to the somnolent thrum of his breathing, absorbing his familiar scent from the soft folds of his bed.
***
Scully wakes when something tickles the top of her shoulder blade. She swishes her hair, but the sensation continues. Mulder's sleeping form is sprawled beside her, and she sits up carefully so as not to wake him - mindful of how rare a good night's sleep is in this apartment. She reaches around to scratch the itchy place when the itch moves up and settles at the tiny scar on her neck.
Gently, gently she extends her fingers and feels a fuzzy bump beneath them. She pinches the little body between her fingers and brings the wriggling thing to her face.
A bee. And she knows with certainty that it's one of those bees.
Moving carefully, trying to ignore the fact that she is walking stark naked through Mulder's apartment, Scully goes to the kitchen and flicks on the small light over the stove. Holding the bee by its wings, she watches the furious lashing of the hair-thin legs. She opens a few cabinets until she sees a meager stack of scuffed and ancient Tupperware containers. She removes one of the smallest ones, puts the bee inside, and secures the lid. A few slashes to the plastic from a cheap steak knife from the wooden block on the counter, and her apiary is ready.
Scully hurries back to the bedroom, her mind racing. Mulder hasn't moved from the tangle of sheets. Nothing has to change because of this, does it? Nothing has to change because she's not his partner now. She can wake him and they'll be in this together still. Spirit the bee off to a lab somewhere, have analysis done, and return with proof.
Or run the risk of Mulder haring off with the damned thing and trying to use it as leverage to get her back, riling up God knows who in the process.
She sighs and gathers her scattered clothing from the floor. Her jacket is crumpled in the corner, and she picks it up, wincing as the keys tumble from the pocket and land on Mulder's discarded t-shirt. But he doesn't even twitch at the sound. She stoops to pick them up, a disc of metal glinting dully in the moonlight.
Don't look at the keychain, Dana. Don't look at the -
Happy birthday, Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully
Not any more.
Scully resists the impulse to leave the keychain on his pillow, the urge to run her fingers down his spine and kiss the slope of his neck. Instead she dresses, then treads noiselessly through his room, stopping to pick up her shoes, taking the bee from the kitchen. She opens the door by inches, slipping out sideways, and pulls it closed with only the faintest click before stepping into her shoes and heading outside. The sky is the dusky purple of mission figs, the wet summer air heavy with honeysuckle and exhaust fumes. Her car shines with dew. Scully gets in then drives herself home.
***
Once in her apartment, Scully sets the bee on the coffee table. She walks to her bedroom, unfastening her clothes as she goes. The suit and blouse go into the dry cleaning bin, the lingerie into the delicates bag, the stockings into the bathroom sink. She avoids her own reflection and steps into the shower. Tendrils of steam curl around her as she rubs exfoliating scrub all over herself, removing the traces of makeup that didn't get left on Mulder's pillow. She works shampoo into her tumbled hair, massaging it into her scalp and trying desperately not to think about what she may have unleashed a few hours ago.
With appropriate precautions taken, casual sex does not violate her worldview. She's seen Mulder's bloodwork and harbors no concern in that regard. But this wasn't the least bit casual, was it? It was more like finally setting off a carefully hoarded Roman candle. He has to understand it was an act of desperation for both of them though; the way people have sex after funerals. He can't think it means anything more than that. She can't let him think it, however much a repeat performance seems like the best idea she's had in a long time. However much more it means to her.
But of course he will, you idiot, she tells herself. You had fantastic sex with your closest acquaintance directly after giving him some highly distressing news. And then! Then you snuck out with stolen Tupperware. Stolen evidence. You've pretty much given him carte blanche for any wild conjecture that strikes his fancy. He can arrest you for obstructing justice, if you want to get technical about it. And now he knows for sure you'd like the handcuffs.
Scully finds herself not terribly enamored of her goddamned strict rationalism at the moment.
She turns off the water and gets out, pulling her robe from the hook and slipping it on before acknowledging the mirror. She is not yet ready to see herself as Mulder so recently did, to see the places he's marked on her body. When she looks up, she is dismayed to note how tired and run down she is. Unsurprising, considering both the emotional duress of the last few days combined with the ongoing lack of sleep. She's not quite as hollow-eyed as her cancer days, but definitely looking peaked. Well, she's certainly got the free time for a vacation now.
She towel dries her hair and ponders what to do with the bee. Her FBI channels are out and the Gunmen are risky because of Mulder. She knows the Entomological Society is headquartered somewhere on Constitution, and it seems a likely place to start. She still has her badge if necessary, and they don't need to know she's got a letter of resignation pending.
Thinking about the bee sitting unattended at the coffee table makes her nervous and she wonders if Mulder's paranoia could be a sexually transmitted thing. Maybe he caught it from Phoebe.
Jesus. It would be so very easy to pretend it never happened. Pack a bag, go away to somewhere sandy and tropical, and arrange job interviews from an oceanfront hotel room. Maybe she'll move back to San Diego, watch Matthew grow up. Leave some flowers on Emily's grave every Christmas. It's awfully tempting.
But for now, her little arthropodic friend awaits. Scully steps into her slippers and pads back out to the living room.
Where Mulder is sitting on her couch, holding the Tupperware container, and regarding her with a deceptively benign expression. "Fancy meeting you here," he remarks. "New pet?"
Shit. "Mulder," she says. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd make some pancakes, but I was all out of sugar and didn't want to wake the neighbors at this hour. Can I get some sugar, Scully?"
She suspects he's being lewd, but lets the comment slide.
"Though actually," he continues, "perhaps I should ask what you're doing here."
"I live here," she says archly, watching him twirl the container slowly in his fingers, fighting the urge to snatch it.
He looks disappointed in her. "Come on, Scully. What happened last night… if you're regretting it we can talk. But sneaking out? And what's up with the bee? Why didn't you tell me you had a bee?"
She walks around to sit next to him on the couch. What had she expected, really? "I don't regret it, Mulder. But that doesn't mean it was a good idea, either. As for the bee, can you blame me? You don't always exercise restraint in these situations. Which is how we ended up with the thing in the first place." She holds out her hand for the Tupperware, which he gives her. "Besides, you were asleep," she finishes lamely. And if I'd had to face you, I never could have left, she doesn't say.
"Still," he says. "You could have told me. And I believe you owe me a few late-night wakeups."
"I had a lot on my mind this morning." She meets his eyes when she says it.
"Fair enough," he concedes.
Scully lifts the bee to eye level, squinting to watch it buzz angrily against the slick walls. And though the light is dim, it almost looks as though -
"Mulder, we need to get another look at this thing." She says it evenly, but little butterflies of tension are hatching in her stomach.
He yawns and rubs his hands over his face. "What's up?"
She squints harder. "It almost looks as though there's something on the bee. Maybe a chip of some kind."
"Shit. You think someone's tracking it?" He gets up and locks the door, which they both know is largely pointless, but Scully appreciates the gesture.
"I have no idea. Ordinarily I'd say it's impossible, that they don't even make RFID tags that small, but…" Her fingers wander absently over the back of her neck and then she stares up at him, open mouthed. "I woke up this morning because the bee had settled at the back of my neck, right on the scar. Mulder, what if it's -"
Mulder's already taking the lid off the container, ready to fish out his quarry.
"Don't," she says. "We need to be careful with it."
He re-secures the lid. "Will taking the chip off kill it?"
She twines her fingers together a little, anxiety tightening in the small muscles of her hands. "I don't know," she says. "Probably. But they'll have to kill it at some point to study it, and it's likely going to die soon from being outside the hive for so long."
"They?"
"They. Them. Whomever. I was going to take it to the Entomological Society. Anyway. Hang on while I get some tweezers."
Scully hustles to the bathroom, fumbling around in her medicine cabinet for the fine-point tweezers she keeps for splinters. When she comes back, the room is bright and Mulder's staring at her light fixture, looking extremely pissed.
She sighs. "You had to open it, didn't you?"
"Call me Pandora. But fear not. My theory is that it will be drawn to the bulb where it will have the hell zapped out of it and we can de-tag its scorched carcass. You ever autopsy a bee, Scully?"
She smiles. "I haven't had the pleasure. Not even a Mothman."
He snatches at the air and swears. "Well, today may be your lucky day."
Yesterday was her lucky day. "Mulder," she says, watching him, "it wasn't a mistake. Ill-advised, I think, but not a mistake."
He regards her thoughtfully. "Would you care to split that semantic hair a bit further?"
"No," she says, disliking even this level of discourse on the matter, recalling her intense emotional reaction when he…well. She doesn't want to talk about it.
Mulder returns his attention to the bulb, around which the bee is making a drunken orbit. "So what now?" he asks.
Scully sighs, walking over next to him. "It's not the beginning of anything," she tells him with marked regret. "I'm sorry, but it can't be. I'm…I'm not planning to stay in DC."
He stares at her. "I thought the whole point was that you didn't want the Bureau kicking you out of DC. And you can still rethink your resignation. Skinner doesn't want to lose you. We'll have the bee - we'll have proof, Scully. They're not going to ship you to Utah once we can bring them this."
Exactly what she had been afraid of. "You have to appreciate what it would be like for me to continue living here, Mulder. How that would feel, being stripped of all my authority."
He rolls his eyes. "All your authority? Even if you go through with your resignation, you have a medical degree. It's not like you're going from Fed to burger-flipper."
She shakes her head. "My mind is made up. I'm sorry. I really am." She wonders if last night will make things harder or easier when it's really time to say goodbye.
Mulder closes his eyes "You're acting rashly."
Scully drops her head, afraid it might be true. "No, I'm not. 'Acting rashly' is what I've been doing the past few years. I'm thirty four years old, Mulder, and I'd like my life to be more than staying one step ahead of OPR. Yesterday was a wake-up call to me. I joined the FBI against my family's wishes because it felt right. It felt like a place where I could do some real good for people. But I haven't been behaving honorably. I may not like the rules we have to play by, but how can I claim to be a voice for law and order if I can't follow them?" She glances upwards, afraid of what she might see in his face.
He nods slowly. "I understand. But what choice have we been given? What has playing by the rules ever gotten us in our line of work? Ignoring the rules got that building evacuated, Scully. It saved lives."
Her shoulders slump. "I know that, Mulder. On an empirical level, I completely agree with you. But we're not vigilantes. We don't get to breach protocol when the fancy strikes just because it might turn out well. The FBI doesn't operate on a code of consequentialism."
He's smiling a little, even though his eyes are sad. "You keep me honest," he says again. "I told you so. You'll be leaving the Flukemen and mutants of this fair land to my vigilante mercies if you go."
She chuckles despite herself. "You're impossible."
"Nothing's impossible in a universe if infinite possibilities, Scully. I'm just highly improbable."
She takes his hand. "I'm glad I stayed the night," she murmurs.
He runs his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm glad you did too."
"And I'm sorry it's all shaking out this way. But we can keep in touch."
"Sure." He squeezes her hand. "Sure, we can do that."
There's a prickling feeling in her sinuses. Her throat aches. "Mulder I'm -"
"Don't. Move."
"Mulder?"
"The bee," he says softly. "It's on your collar."
Her stomach clenches with the surreal creepiness of it. What in the hell did she let them put in her body? "Get it," she hisses, revolted by thought of the thing touching her.
"Let me get the container," he murmurs, reaching to get it from the table.
A touch lighter than a feather as it moves onto her neck, making her skin crawl. Mulder holds the open box, then cups one hand around the insect and - "Ow!"
"What is it?"
"It stung me," she says. "Get the tweezers and pull the stinger out. Try to keep the venom sac intact for when we…oh." She staggers to the couch, suddenly woozy. "Mulder, something's wrong."
He sits next to her, putting the bee back into the container. "What?
The pain is spreading down her neck and through her thoracic cavity, sharp and stabbing as though her robe is lined with needles. "I'm having lancinating pain in…" Her vision's blurred, but she can see the hard panic in his face.
"What?"
"...my chest," she manages, gasping.
"Scully…"
Her limbs are like jelly, her skull made of concrete and the air she drags into her lungs feels thin, oxygen poor. "My motor functions are being affected," she mumbles, falling back, her head hitting Mulder's thigh. Fear sloshes through her in a sickening lurch.
"Scully." He gently moves her so that she's fully across the couch and gets to his feet. Everything's slowed down, rippled, happening underwater.
Focus, focus. Tell him what's happening. What are the patient's symptoms, Dana? Get as full a picture as possible. "My pulse is thready...a funny taste in the back of my throat."
"I think you're going into anaphylactic shock," Mulder says, the words sounding thick and far away.
"No...I have no allergy."
Her vision's black now, her brain quietly disengaging from her body. As she fades out, Scully hears Mulder talking to someone…the phone? "This is Special Agent Fox Mulder, I have an emergency! I have an agent down!"
Liar, she thinks fondly, and lets herself fall into the welcoming arms of the dark.
***
The End