Title: What if it Wasn't? Author: M. K. Marshall Rating: PG Archiving: Sure, go ahead. Spoilers: Orison Summary: Mulder brings Scully home. Classification: MSA, Mulderguilt. Disclaimer: Don't own them. Don't have any money. Don't sue. Feedback: Please. mmarshal@rochester.rr.com What if it Wasn't? Mulder's Apartment 4:02 AM The bitter confession still hung in the air, hid within the dark and early hours, the memory of his words tangling with the faint echo of her last whisper. Sleep had finally taken her, held her the way he longed to--quietly, endlessly, and deep within the warmth of his bed. She lay there tucked tightly beneath the blankets, curled up on one side and clinging to the softness of his pillow. Did she always sleep that way he wondered, or was it because of the bruises, a position where she felt the least amount of pain? He watched over her, a silent sentinel incapable of keeping her safe, even from the dreams that were sure to come. The blue light of the moon spilled over her, his sharp black shadow cutting a hard silhouette over her heart. Black and blue. Her body was covered in the trademark colors of pain and survival. He had seen the deep purple stains on her skin, watched the phantom fingerprints around her neck grow darker, still wanting, still taking. He had pulled tiny shards of glass from the scratches on her back, a secret she had managed to keep from the paramedics with those two words, "I'm fine". He might never have known himself if he hadn't felt the need to touch her. 12:43 AM He brought her home and slid her coat gently from her shoulders. His hand drifted naturally to the small of her back, to that spot that he always claimed as his own, that tiny part of her that she had allowed him since their first case. But with the slightest touch of his fingers, she shuddered involuntarily, helplessly. He pulled his hand away thinking it a sudden fear of being touched, the contact a reminder of every hurtful blow. It was then that he finally noticed. He hadn't question why she didn't change from her pajama top, slipping only into a pair of jeans and shoes to make a hasty escape from the remains of her apartment. Now he knew. She was in too much pain to try. "Scully?" Her name was all he said, all he needed to say. It brought her eyes to his. There were no words, no questions, no explanations. He stepped behind her and slowly pulled the shirt from beneath the waist of her jeans. She lowered her head in silent submission as he lifted it to her shoulders. A slow aching breath slipped from his lips at the sight. The bruises had already formed, their roots deep, dark, everywhere. Shallow scratches stretched the length of her back, swollen and red with slivers of glass caught in their ragged edges. "Come here, Scully." With the gentle tug of his voice and the pull of his hand he lead her into the bathroom. The light flickered on, bright and overbearing. He sat her down and searched the medicine cabinet for a pair of tweezers and a something to clean the wounds. Once found, he moved toward her, noticing that she had already removed her flannel top but held it tightly against her chest. She shivered a little, and tiny bumps rippled over her skin with the cold. The touch of his hand--familiar, known and warm--stilled her. It was why she had refused the care of the paramedics earlier, she couldn't bare the touch or the hands of another stranger. He knelt down beside her. "Are you ready?" She nodded, giving him permission. He let his eyes and fingertips begin their search, the small winces that she made his guide. One by broken one he pulled the pieces from her, cleaning each tender spot with a sting of disinfectant. The thought of a life without her made him tremble, made him almost afraid to touch her. But he needed to touch her, needed to feel the beat of her heart beneath his hand. She bore the removal of each sliver without a sound, without a pained whisper. It frightened him to see her swallow the ache so easily, penitently, already so hardened in her conviction of herself. She was sinking into a wordless despair, weighed down by broken faith, by forsaken trust. He found the last bit of glass and ran the tips of his fingers lightly, carefully, over her skin in a final searching caress. His hand came to rest on the small familiar scar at the base of her neck--his own mark. His thumb slowly traced its dark outline once, twice, a delicate third time before his palm claimed it, tried to hide it. "I think that's all of it, Scully," he managed softly, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Her hand slid up and covered his, speaking with a simple touch, reaching out to stop from drowning in that soundless sea. "Why don't you take a hot shower--it might take some of the soreness away." The suggestion was practical, necessary. He knew she needed just a little time alone, wanted it. Her thumb absently brushed over his fingers in acceptance. He stepped away and let her go. He pulled the door quietly behind him, but left it opened just a crack, afraid to be completely separated from her, afraid to have another barrier between them. He stood there and listened for the squeak of the faucet and the hiss of the shower head, waited for those safe sounds to take her into their possession . He knew that she would cry, hide her tears in the rushing water, smother her sighs with the steam and the spray. Doubt would soak into her, knead itself deeper, twist and torture. The cold uncertainties whispering in her mind would grow louder and shiver threw her, make her tremble, shake. The scalding heat of the shower would be the only witness to her weakness, touching her briefly before slipping away. He longed to burst back through that door and wrap his arms around her just as he had five years ago and give her that answer. But he couldn't. He was too afraid to give her the truth. Too ashamed. Instead his feet took him from the shadow of the bathroom door and into his living room. He found the overnight bag that Scully had wearily dropped to the floor. He shouldered it and was heading back into the bedroom when something caught in the corner of his eye. The red light of his answering machine was blinking in the darkness. Reluctantly, he moved toward it, pressed the rewind and sent the tape into a backward squeal. That sound haunted him every time he heard it. Forever threw him back to that moment years ago when her frantic cries screamed out from that machine, pleaded for him to save her from Duane Barry. He had sat there, a helpless listener to the prelude of her abduction, her disappearance. He had been too late and was left with nothing but the silence and her absence. For a long time he had saved that tape, convinced himself that it was evidence. He had listened to it endlessly, searching for some clue that would bring her back to him. But in the end it had only been a horrible keepsake, a testament to his failure. The tape ceased its turning and played the message. "Agent Mulder this is Marshal Daddo-I just talked to a call girl who identified Donnie Pfaster as her attacker-claimed Pfaster got real upset when she was wearing a red wig, said she wasn't a redhead. This mean anything to you?" It meant everything. It meant that he had let her down one more time. It meant that Scully had lost a little more of herself, lost a little more of who she was because of him. His eyes closed painfully, spinning him into darkness, into the truth that was always waiting for him. The guilt poured out from the deep corners of his heart, it's bitter-sick chill spilling into what remained of his soul. Blame washed over him just as it did her. He could almost see her trembling form shut away in the other room, hear the words slip from her broken lips over and over The answer burned through him desperate and dizzying. He wanted nothing more than to collapse down into the blackness of his couch and cry into the cold leather, wrap himself in its unforgiving embrace. He hadn't slept in a bed for years, hadn't really slept since Samantha had disappeared. Sleep had become nothing more than a haunting reminder and a distraction from the search. A bed was a comfort he didn't need, didn't deserve. It was something he had only recently been reacquainted with, learning to bury himself beneath the blankets and hide, to let it all go for just a little while. It was a lesson he had learned from Scully. They had been out of town on a case in some bureau-budgeted motel room, not long after she had come home from the hospital in New York--another time when he had failed to keep her safe. She had performed three autopsies that day-three grizzly dissections of what remained to the victims of a very strange, but not unexplainable accident. It was no X-File and Kersh was rubbing their noses in it. After picking at a couple slices of cold pizza and listening to him drone on about another bogus assignment, her head dropped onto one of the thin pillows. Her eyes drifted shut despite how she fought to keep them open, to keep listening. His voice had slowed and his tone softened, fascinated to watch as she faded off to sleep, almost amazed at how she could do it. He'd seen her fall asleep so many times before-on stake outs, long car rides, and late night layovers. It always fascinated him. After all she'd seen, after everything that she'd suffered, she could still sleep. It was her escape from the pain, from the memories, from him. More than anything he had longed to curl up beside her on that dingy bedspread and follow her into that strange, sweet world. But he couldn't. She had a strength that he didn't, a faith he didn't know how to believe in. Maybe someday he would try. He did have that bed now, though where it had come from was an X-File all it's own. He had crawled into that bed just hours ago, hoping to forgo his penance of lumpy cushions and morning aches. But while he settled under the safety of his covers, Scully was being beaten and bound by that son of a bitch. Had he taken his usual post on the couch he would've found the message, he would've been there in time to. The faded hush of the shower had stopped and the sudden silence drew him back to the bedroom. He opened her bag and removed what she would need, laid it out on the bed for her, The muffled sounds of her movements assured him that she was all right, just out of reach and safe from his consolation. "Scully, I've put your things out here," his voice was small and soft. "Why don't you go and get into bed and I'll umm.I'll go make you some tea." Her words came from just behind the door, tired and pained. "Thank you, Mulder." The last thing he deserved from her was thanks. He left the room again, the tendrils of her voice following him into the kitchen. He searched for and filled the tea kettle, making just enough noise to drowned out his thoughts and to let her know she was not alone. He could remember when he started keeping her favorite tea in the cupboard, the little thrill he felt spotting it in the store for the first time. He could remember everything, especially the look of her face the first time she walked into his office. So na=EFve, so innocent, and confident-undaunted and amused by his 'Spooky' performance. How different she looked now. Serious, severe, and sad. Her eyes had darkened from seeing too much. The color had been drained from her clothes, reduced to a solitary shade of black. The soft, round waves of her hair had sharpened, shortened. Her face had lost the simple trust of youth and had seasoned with suspicion and doubt. The kettle whistled and he poured the steaming water into a mug. He knew she would barely take more than a sip, but maybe the comfort of it would settle her, calm her, let her sleep. But would she ever be able to close her eyes again without seeing the devil's face before her? Would the guilt chase her night after night, until the need for sleep becomes unwanted, unreal. She did not deserve his fate. By the time he returned to the bedroom, she was dressed in a fresh pair of pajamas, sitting on the edge of the mattress, almost afraid to sink any deeper. "Here you go, Scully," he whispered and offered her the cup. She took it without lifting her eyes from the floor. She wrapped her hands around it, taking in its warmth. He lowered himself on his knees, desperate to look into her face. "Go ahead, Scully, it's safe," he teased gently. ".even I can't manage to screw up making tea." She smiled a little and took a sip, then smiled with her eyes when she recognized the flavor. "Thank you." She took another taste before handing the mug back to him. "Why don't I take the couch," she insisted, noticing the already rumpled blankets on the bed. "No. The couch is mine." His voice was definite, solid. He placed the tea on the nightstand and neatly folded the covers back for her, fluffed the dented pillows. With the plead of his hand he beckoned her closer. Reluctantly, she followed his pull and slid slowly beneath the sheets. Terror and shock had numbed to fatigue and weariness as she lowered herself into his bed. He tucked the blankets around her and switched off the light. Before he reached the door, her voice called to him from the darkness. "Mulder.don't leave." He was beside her instantly. "Never." It was a promise he longed to keep though knew he couldn't. His hand strayed lightly over her forehead, brushing at few wayward strands of hair. "Go to sleep, Scully." Even in the dimness he could see her eyes betray her fear. "Try," he urged. She settled under the covers and his touch. Her eyes closed, obeying his tender command. Slowly, she drifted into the late night silence and that half-waking world. "What if it wasn't." she murmured, caught in the descent of dreams by the fragile tethers of truth. "..if it was me." The quiet swallowed her faded words and she finally fell into sleep's heavy arms. He let her go and took watch just beside her, standing a touch away. "No, Scully," he whispered. "It wasn't you." It wasn't the devil that made you pull the trigger. And it wasn't God. It was being forced into the role of victim again. It was the terror of playing that part over and over. Never free, never safe. It was the rage to fight back, and the need for never again. It was those sad little shadows that you carry in your eyes for every soul in pain, and for that part of yours that has been sacrificed. It was everything that you can't remember, and everything that you can. The ache of seeing too much, and being allowed to feel too little. It was Melissa. It was Emily. It was everything that you've lost in the past seven years, and the nothing you've gained. It was what you believe, and what you can't. It was the lies. It was the truth. But it wasn't you, Scully. "It was me." End