Title : Never Let You Go
Author : Shawne
E-mail : shawne@shawnex.freeservers.com
Category : Angst ( alert, alert! ), Noromo&Shipper-safe
Keywords : angst, eventual character death
Rating : Debatable PG-13.
Spoilers : Zilch.
Summary : Mulder realises that, sometimes, letting go isn't the same thing
as giving up.
Archive : Definitely, just please tell me what you're doing with it and
where.
Disclaimers : Theirs, theirs, theirs and theirs. Not mine. Or anyone else's.

Author's Notes : I wrote this one pretty quickly, over the course of two or
three days. It's angsty and probably depressing, but I look upon it as one of
my favourite pieces. That could most likely be due to my present state of mind
(exam results due out soon!) so I am freaking out in my own odd little way.

This story was never meant to be broken up into two parts, so the artificial
rendering of two sections here was initially done because the inane Geocities
server can't seem to accept anything bigger. It got really whiny after a while,
so I gave up. I decided to keep with the two parts because that's how I've
posted this story all over the Internet.

Alright, enough babbling. On with the angst!

========================================================

Part I

October 13

9.00 p.m.

He walked down the long silent hallway, a limp bouquet of roses held in one
hand, his heart clutched in the other.

This was a path he knew well. He had been following it for what seemed like
forever, every day since that day. It was hard to believe, hard to remember
that all this had only started two weeks ago.

Every day, his footsteps grew heavier, the echoes off the walls increasingly
hollow. He had become familiar with all the people on duty for every single
one of the twenty four hours in a day. Their empty smiles and the bland
words of encouragement they offered still had no effect on him. In fact, he
had come to detest their attempts to communicate with him, to bring him out
of his living stupor.

Sometimes, he just needed to be alone. Now he needed to be dead.

But he wasn't going to kill himself yet. He couldn't let go, no matter how
desirable the prospect of Death became. Not yet.

All the same, his was only a superficial form of living. He wasn't really
alive any longer. He breathed, he spoke when he was spoken to... most of the
time, he moved. But that was on automated pilot. In the real tangible sense,
he felt nothing.

Oh, there had been pain. A hell of a lot of pain. The kind that made his
stomach twist inside out and upside down. The kind that made him think he
was going insane. It had eaten at his insides, gnawed relentlessly at his
brain...

And then it had gone away. Not all at once. Slowly. It had been displaced by
fear. Then sorrow. Then denial. Then the gaping emptiness... something
infinitely worse than the pain.

There was still one emotion he kept hidden in the back of his head, buried
at the bottom of his heart. It was his one chance to win against the
emptiness, but he couldn't let himself believe in it.

He couldn't let himself hope.

But the vague suggestions still floated coyly through his mind at times,
hinting and playing with him, telling him just what he wanted to hear. Just
what he hoped would happen. They were impossible to suppress, these worms of
hope. He didn't quite know whether he really wanted to suppress them anyway.

He definitely hated them though. They were misleading. They could all be
lies. They were evil.

The flowers in his right hand almost broke at the stems as his hand
tightened around them. A stray thorn cut through the thin plastic wrapping
and dug itself into his palm.

There was no more pain.

Lifting his hand dully to his eyes, he stared at the deep gash, unseeing.
The blood that pulsed upwards and through the cut was still teeming with
life. Strange that it should have come from his heart.

Absently, he wiped his hand off on a handkerchief he had pulled from his
jacket pocket. He caught a whiff of something bad, and realised that it must
be from his jacket. He'd forgotten to change out of it all week.

Slipping the bloodstained rag into his trouser pocket, he turned towards his
destination again. But this time, his feet refused to cooperate. They
remained rooted to the spot, oblivious to the passing of time. His brain
didn't bother to give the necessary command either, stalling in its own
world of nothingness.

Sometimes, nothing was man's best friend.

Then something - a door? - rocketed open at the other end of the hallway,
sounding like a gunshot in the cavernous silence surrounding him. He spun on
his heel, his heart leaping to his throat, the blood thundering into his
eyes.

It was happening again. The gun, the shot, the wound, the screams, the pain,
the fear, the sorrow, the denial, the emptiness, the vestiges of hope. They
were all hopelessly connected, jumbled in his mind, and he felt himself
sinking helplessly - again - to the ground.

The familiar word formed itself on his lips, the word he had become used to
screaming as he awoke from the nightmares. He wanted to scream, but perhaps
his subconscious remembered that screaming wasn't appreciated in this place.

His knees shivering, soft as jelly, he whispered once, twice, thrice. "No.
No. No." Then one final word fell out, inaudible, lost in a tangle of garish
memory. "Scully."

The roses lay broken on the ground, and his eyes blurred. They were a deep
red, like blood. The colour of fresh warm blood. He knew that feeling. The
feeling of sticky blood. He still felt it, the stains like iron gloves,
tightening around his hands everyday.

"Mr. Mulder?" A concerned face, lined with worry. He searched his restless
mind, forgetting the blood for a moment. Lucy? Amelia? No... no, this was
Jenny. Jenny on the nine o'clock shift. "Are you alright?"

Hatefully, he tore his eyes away from hers. Not only were they filled with
sympathy, they were blue. He remembered a different set of blue eyes. The
most beautiful ones he had ever seen. Or ever would see. He shivered, then
forced himself slowly to his feet.

"No, Jenny." He had to make an uncommon effort to speak, forcing out each
word. "I'm fine. Just... lost my balance for a second there."

Picking up the flowers (they were only flowers, he was glad to see), he
dusted himself off and continued on the lonely journey.

Finally, his hand connected with the doorknob, and he braced himself against
the wooden panel. He had encountered this sight every day, almost every
minute, for fourteen days. Still, it jarred him. Unnerved him. Made him want
to lose his fragile grip on his sanity.

The door slid soundlessly into the quiet room beyond, and stepping around
it, he eased himself into the semi-darkness. His eyes quickly grew
accustomed to the dim light.

He had tried to prepare himself for what he would see. But he knew he could
never prepare himself enough.

@@@

September 30

6.40 p.m.

He ran down the hallway, a gun held in one hand, his cell phone clutched in
the other.


This was an unfamiliar path, but it felt almost as if he had been following
it since forever. His feet knew just where to go, how to turn. The
adrenaline pumping through his veins was gratifying.

Most of the time, he didn't like to admit it. But a big part of the job was
the rush he still got from putting himself in danger. He enjoyed the thrill
of the chase. It helped, doing something physical, tackling something
tangible. In a profession of uncertainty and paranormal occurrences, the
occasional action always helped to get his blood moving again.

Feet pounding regularly against the granite, he shoved his phone back into
his jacket pocket, and rubbed his sweaty palm against his trousers. He
checked, even while running, to make sure that the gun was cocked. Straining
his ears, he could even hear Scully behind him, refusing to let him out of
her sight.

He rounded a corner, then stopped. They were chasing a suspect in a case
they were trying to solve. Right then, his mind was jogging along at such a
furious pace that he could bearly recall the details of the case. He only
felt the blood thumping through him, the air cutting in and out of his
lungs.

"Mulder, what..." She ran full tilt into him, and he knew she was going to
ask one of her questions. He waved his free hand dismissively, then picked
up the pace again. They couldn't afford to lose the trail. That was the most
important thing in the hunt.

The darkness ahead didn't daunt him, but it unnerved his partner. "Mulder, I
don't think we should go any further," she called after him. Always the
voice of reason. He tried to suppress the irritation that welled up, but he
couldn't. He decided to simply ignore her, instead.

Then he heard the scream, disjointed, flying into his ears and assaulting
his brain. He screeched to a halt, confused, dazed, the energy he was moving
on still at an undampable high.

His eyes adjusted to the blackness, and he saw the dim outline of a man
ahead of him, arms outstretched. Gun! The word tore into his mind. He's got
a gun! Instantly, his own arms flew out in front of him. Instinct kicking
in, he jumped forward to shield her from the line of the shot.

He felt, even as he settled into position, something tear past his face,
felt the wind. Startled, he then heard the delayed echo of a gunshot, and
his heart leapt into his throat.

Stunned, he turned around, slowly, interminably, and watched her crumple to
the ground. "No." He spoke in a hoarse whisper, his eyes tightening like
manacles, his hands still firmly clutching at his gun.

He couldn't see the wound, even as he slipped helplessly to the ground,
hearing but not understanding the whimpers flowing from him. There was
blood, so much of it... scarlet and thick, pooling around her flaming hair,
her pale face.

Without thought, he lunged forward and gathered her into his arms. Fumbling
for his handphone, he mechanically dialled the emergency number, robotically
gave an address, dazedly cradled her against him. He rocked back and forth
on his haunches, the tears forming, spilling, endless.

He still couldn't understand what was happening. He was functioning on base
instinct now, and there was only one thing he knew. He had to keep holding
on to her. He could never let go.

One hand supported her limp neck, and it grew sticky with warm blood. He
hardly noticed. He only rocked back and forth, back and forth, the dull
rhythm keeping him alive. She didn't move, so he would have to keep moving.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

@@@

September 30

11.14 p.m.

The pain was starting. It was beginning to penetrate the cocoon of confusion
which had shrouded him up to this point.

He sat next to her, watching her dull unmoving blue eyes. Her hand was
clasped hopefully in his, but it was hopelessly cold to him. There was a
thick white bandage wrapped almost completely around her head, soaked with
the blood that refused to stay inside her body.

"Stop it, goddammit," he snarled under his breath. "Stop it. Stay inside.
Quit trying to come out." He felt an irrational desire to press his hands to
her temples, to push the redness back into her skull, to turn the bandage
white again.

But he didn't dare touch her. She was too fragile.

Her eyes were empty. They stared straight ahead at the wall across from her
bed. There was no emotion, no flicker of life, no whisper of hope contained
within. No light. They seemed dead.

They couldn't be, though. He had to reassure himself of the fact. It was
just tonight. The light was taking a rest. Scully had been through a lot,
after all. The shot in the head, the jarring ambulance ride, the hours-long
operation. Tommorow, she would be fine.

Tomorrow, the light would be back.

It had to be back.

@@@


October 13

9.05 p.m.

She lay silently on the bed, thin and wasted, still unmoving. Each and every
day, he would walk laboriously over to her side, lean over and check her
eyes for the return of the light. Every day for two weeks, he had been
disappointed.

A fervent prayer started itself in his heart, one he couldn't quell. One he
wanted to, yet didn't want to, get rid of. The wordless prayer whispered
itself, buoying him over to the bed. He bent and looked down into the white
face, and winced.

Not yet. Still not yet.

With a stubborn scraping sound, he dragged his usual chair to his usual
spot, then settled into it. Reverently, he placed the half-mangled flowers
on her bedside table and cleared his throat.

"Hi, Scully." He forced a cheerful note into his voice. He didn't feel happy
at all. But this was for her, he reminded himself. This was to pretend
everything was normal. The doctor had mentioned that doing it would be a lot
more helpful to Scully than sobbing uncontrollably every time he saw her.

"You look much better today." Great. The guilt and the fear and the pain and
the emptiness wasn't enough. He was turning into a goddamn liar as well.
"OK, maybe not 'much' better. A 'little'. But that's good, isn't it, Scully?
That's really really good... isn't it..." His voice trailed off, the babble
dying in his throat.

This pretense was too hard. Even in this state, he couldn't bear to lie to
her. Or to himself. But there wasn't a nerve inside him that hadn't already
been stretched to bursting point, burnt raw and sensitive, aching.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he muttered, his head dropping heavily into his hands.
"So sorry. You don't. I know that, and I bet you know that too."

He could feel her in front of him, even though he couldn't see her. And he
knew what she was doing. Lying still, staring straight ahead. Stuck in the
position she had been stuck in since that night. He felt almost as trapped
inside his own body as he knew she was in hers. This wasn't what he wanted.

The tears began to threaten again, and praying that they would not come, he
kept his head pressed against his hands. Hoping to shut out everything, even
his own thoughts. He didn't need to think, didn't want to think. It would
only invite the pain in again, allow it to eat him alive.

He had to keep strong, as strong as possible, for Scully.

The heart-beat monitor emitted a regular beeping, and he found that
comforting. She was hooked up to so many machines he hadn't dared to count
them all. Looking up at last, he watched the little green dot bounce
reassuringly across the screen.

Almost unconsciously, he could feel his own heart slipping into the same
rhythm, as it had done several times during the course of their partnership.
It comforted him in an odd, intangible way that their hearts were still
beating like one. He had almost allowed himself to fall into an easy trance
when he sensed the door opening behind him.

In the past two weeks, he had become extraordinarily sensitive to everything
around him. It was almost as if he were feeling and sensing at double the
ordinary rate. As if he was living both for himself and for her.

Turning, he found himself staring into the weary face of another regular
visitor. Pulling himself to his feet, he reached out an understanding hand.

"Hello, Mrs. Scully," he said tonelessly, and mustered the ghost of a smile
when she squeezed his hand encouragingly. "So glad you could come."

@@@

October 1

1.27 a.m.

"You can't do this to me, Scully," he whispered, his voice tense and tight.
"You know I can't take this. It's the only pain I can't take."

The tears had dried about an hour ago, but his face still felt unnatural and
stiff. It felt like a mask, one that was hiding the Hell that now lived
inside his head. His hand was still wrapped possessively around hers, a
physical manifestation of his desire to personally bring her back into this
world.

"Scully, don't leave me." His voice cracked on the words, and he was
surprised to hear how much it sounded as if he were only reprimanding her.
"Don't you dare leave me." The desperation he was beginning to acknowledge
infused his every sentence, his every gesture. He no longer cared about what
was happening, or what others might say or think about him.

He only knew one thing, and that was that he needed her back. She couldn't
go. If she ever let go of him, of them, he knew he would snap.

There had been a time when he had lived without Scully, he remembered dully.
It had been a thirty-year-long purgatory, give or take a few years. If he
hadn't known what she would bring into his life, he probably would have been
able to muddle through the rest of it somehow. If only he hadn't had the
chance to experience it.

"I know this is selfish of me, Scully," he continued, in a conversational
monotone. "But you just can't let go. Not yet. It's too soon."

If only she could hear him. A blink of her eyes, a reassuring squeeze with
her hand... anything, he would take anything if it meant she could hear him.

But she only continued to lie there, stationary, locked inside herself. He
couldn't tell, couldn't know what was going on with her anymore. Didn't know
if she was asleep or awake, if she was being sympathetic or sarcastic.

She only stared straight ahead, unmoving and seemingly uncaring. Deaf to his
pleas and his sobs and his apologies.

"Let's make a deal, OK, Scully?" He tried to smile, but his face crumpled
into a frown instead. "I won't leave you, I won't step out of this hospital,
if you don't leave me. OK?"

Hopefully, he pushed aside the gaping pain and waited, prayed for a
response.

Nothing. Still nothing. He had expected it.

@@@


October 1

8.08 a.m.

The door was being pushed open, he realised, and jumping to his feet, he
positioned himself protectively before the bed. He had been waiting for her
response, and days had passed. Or had it just been hours? He didn't know. He
had lost all track of time.

"Dana?" The voice that came from behind the door was carefully concealing a
sob. "Dana, honey?"

He recognised the voice, realised it wasn't a doctor, and moved noiselessly
over to the door. He pulled it towards him to reveal Scully's mother,
dressed rather clumsily, a handkerchief pressed to her streaming eyes.

"Fox." Her eyes lit up for a moment, but fell back into darkness when he
shook his head sombrely. "Is Dana... is she going to be alright?"

For what seemed like forever, he found himself with nothing to say. His mind
had inexplicably gone blank, completely white. He couldn't answer that
question. He knew he couldn't.

"I... uh... did you just hear?" His larynx was still working on automatic
pilot though, and he cursed its callousness.

"The hospital called. They said she was in critical condition." He noticed
with horror that her eyes were still fogged in tears, and he yanked his gaze
away. He didn't need to see anything else that would add to his own pain,
his own guilt, his own fears.

"I'm... I'm sorry I didn't call you myself," he managed lamely. Gripping the
hem of his jacket with two hands, he began twisting the material into
unrecognisable shapes. "I.. I was preoccupied."

"It's OK, Fox," she replied, dabbing at her face with the damp handkerchief.
"I understand."

The silence that followed was torturous, and he tried to inch away from her,
to get as far over to the other side of the room as he could. He didn't want
her to find out what he had done to her daughter, didn't want her to
discover his guilt.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, then stepped towards the bed. Lifting
his eyes momentarily, he saw her square her shoulders bravely -- the same
way her daughter always squared hers when she knew there was danger ahead.
He almost smiled then, but the memories surged back before his eyes and he
stopped himself.

This was too painful. Watching the mother's agonised fingers stroking the
daughter's face, watching the mother cry helplessly over the daughter - it
made the bile rise involuntarily in his throat. He couldn't watch this.

Apologising in his heart for leaving her, he forced himself to turn his back
on Scully and ran blindly from the room.

*****

Part II

October 13

9.11 p.m.

He shifted restlessly from foot to foot, wondering when she would go so that
he could be alone with Scully again. Then he flushed, angry and disgusted
with himself. He had no right to be so possessive, so rude. This was
Scully's mother, for crying out loud.

So he stuffed his clenched fists into his pockets and rocked aimlessly back
and forth on the balls of his feet. The emptiness had taught him one thing,
and that was how to ignore overwhelming emotions such as guilt. Now,
watching as she tenderly pushed the hair off Scully's forehead, he shoved
away the pangs of guilt needling at him and halfway succeeded.

No bile, this time. He could finally stand to stay in the same room as
Scully and her mother. Was he actually beginning to get used to it? To get
accustomed to the idea of Scully living on only in her body, only in this
room?

He swallowed nervously and told himself to shut up. Keeping his mind
carefully blank, he watched as Scully's mother fussed around the bed. For
some reason, she seemed to be doing everything with a grim finality, as if
she knew something he didn't.

Studying her, he decided that his initial instincts were right. She was
gentler than ever, brushing the limp hair off her daughter's forehead,
smoothing and tucking the immaculate sheets around her daughter's thinning
body. But there was something else in those simple gestures, something more
than the usual sorrow and pain.

It was a new kind of determination; it seemed almost as if she was making
herself do something that was very hard for her to do. When she picked up
Scully's emaciated hand, he watched, worried, as she stroked it, then kissed
it softly. He could almost see the tears she was bottling up in the way her
shoulders were held, stiff and stretched taut.


Then she bent down, and whispered something into Scully's ear. He
instinctively stepped forward, straining his neck to check for a reaction on
the latter's part. Still nothing.

Finally, she touched her palm against Scully's forehead, then dropped her
hand to caress her daughter's drawn face.

He stood at attention at once, ready to send her off so he could return to
the quiet and undisrupted world he now had to endure without Scully. It was
a silent place, where only he spoke, and even that was at irregular
intervals. He was still waiting for her soul to find him and start talking
to him again.

But she didn't leave. She stood at Scully's bedside for a moment, as if
reluctant to tear her eyes away. Then she turned to him, and he saw that,
surprisingly, her eyes were dry. The sadness that had moved into them a
fortnight ago was still there, but it was mellowed now. He wondered if this
had anything to do with what was happening here, because he definitely
didn't understand any of it.

"Fox." The word fell into the room, into his unwelcoming ears. He didn't
want to hear from anyone who wasn't Scully, didn't want to listen to any
voice but Scully's. But he still had to be polite.

"Mrs. Scully?" He left it as a question, prompting her to continue.

"I know you're not going to want to hear this, Fox, but you have to." This
couldn't be good. Uneasily, he took a step away from her and towards the
bed. He darted a quick look at the prone figure and wished heartily that
they could be alone.

"Listen to me, Fox," she spoke firmly now, with barely a trace of the
weariness he knew they both shared. She sounded strong, convinced of
something he had not yet learned about. "I was speaking to Dr. Bates about
Dana."

He blanched. His heart constricted and his feet started itching, wanting to
bring him away from this. Not the doctor. He had been doing his best to
avoid the doctor. Even when forced into a chance encounter, he kept the
exchanges deliberately light, escaping before anything negative could be
passed on.

"I don't need to hear about this," he half-snarled, his tone hostile and
guttural. "I don't want to hear anything bad. Scully doesn't need to hear
anything bad." Lifting his chin defiantly, he stared straight into her clear
brown eyes.

"Fox, please. You can't avoid it forever," she spoke assertively,
stubbornly, and reached out a hand to touch his trembling arm. "Dana
shouldn't have to suffer like this anymore."

"She's not suffering!" he yelled defensively, the tears spilling fresh down
his face. "She'll get better! She has to! This is the... it's the..." He
searched for a phrase, his mind whirling, the tears confusing him all the
more. "It's the transition period."

She didn't say anything in response. She only turned her head, looked at
Scully, then allowed her gaze to rest on him again.

"You're her mother!" he sobbed, shaking and no longer thinking at all. "How
can you give up so soon?"

"I'm not giving up, Fox," she spoke softly, a fierce angry light burning in
her eyes. "I'm letting her go."

The lump in his throat was too big to swallow past now, and the tears were
blinding him. There was no way he could make a coherent reply, even if he
could think of one. So he spun on his heel and fled. He didn't know where he
could go any longer.

But he just had to get out. Out of the room, out of his head.

@@@

October 4

2.47 p.m.

The room would be, should be silent... without them, he thought resentfully.
Seated in the plastic chair he had designated as his, Mulder's hands gripped
Scully's limp unresponsive one. He was waiting, but he couldn't quite
remember for what.

For them to leave? He nodded decisively to himself. That could be it. He
threw a venomous glance over his shoulder at the doctor and Scully's mother,
who were standing apart from him, conferring in low private tones.

"We don't need all this crap, right, Scully?" he muttered to her, knowing
she could hear him. Impatiently, he half-stood and dragged his chair with a
loud scraping noise closer to the bed. Why weren't they taking his hints?
Why weren't they taking their useless words and discussions and noise out of
here?

Scully needed to rest. There had to be silence.

His fingers tightened in anger, and he could feel his toes curling tightly
inside his shoes. If they didn't go soon, he would have to take some real
action. They had to get out, or Scully would never get better.

Tiredly, he leaned over and peered into her face, squinting because of the
afternoon sunlight that slanted through the curtained windows. He checked
her eyes once again for signs of life, and tried to keep from crying when he
was disappointed for the ninety-fifth time that day.

"It's OK, Scully," he murmured comfortingly. He kept his voice intentionally
low. This conversation was just between his partner and him. There might be
intruders in the room, trying to disrupt Scully's recuperation, but he knew
that she had the strength to ignore everything that was bad. "Don't worry."

He was droning to himself now, repeating a mantra which he had taken to
spouting repeatedly in the past twenty-four hours. "The light's not back
yet, but it's still early. You're still weak. It's OK, Scully. Don't worry."

This, he figured, was the next phase. He had already gone through a period
of quiet desperation, where he had been fighting for her life for his own
sake. Now, with the passing of a few days, he felt stronger within himself.
Maybe. He wanted her to come back for herself now, to pick her life up where
she had left off.

"You can make it. You've always made it. You're just so strong, you know,
Scully?" His eyes were glazed, and he whispered fervently, dreamily. "You
always came through. I know you're not going to let yourself, not going to
let me down. You'll go on. You have to."

There was still no sign from the figure lying on the bed.

"Mr. Mulder?"

The voice came suddenly from behind him, booming loud in his ears.
Deafening, grating, annoying.

"What?" he snapped, turning around to face the tall young man.

Patrick Bates, M.D., remained undeterred. He knew how much pain this man
must be going through. It was written on his face, sewn into his clothing,
etched into his words. But he also knew that the truth had to be told, even
if it wasn't very encouraging. Lies always caused more pain than they might
have helped to remove.

"I've been trying to speak to you for the past two days."

"What's your point?" Mulder was hostile, his eyes flashing with a curiously
animalistic light. "If you don't have one, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave
right away."

"I know how upsetting this is for you, Mr. Mulder. And I'm sorry that your
girlfriend met with such a tragic accident." Ah... now this seemed to have
some effect. Patrick watched as the other man sat stunned for a full minute,
unable to speak.

"She's not my girlfriend," he finally let out in a distant, faraway voice.
"She's not my girlfriend."

"Oh." Startled, Patrick glanced down at his clipboard in confusion, then
over at Margaret Scully for confirmation. The way Fox Mulder behaved, the
way he looked at the patient... it had seemed so natural to assume that...
"I'm sorry for the misunderstanding. But.. but whatever your relationship
with Dana, I think I should let you know what her chances are."

A hollow laugh poured out of the other man's mouth. "Chances? I don't care
about your stupid statistics, Dr. Bates." He spoke the last word with so
much hatred and disgust that Patrick drew back involuntarily. "Nothing's
going to be left to chance because Scully. Is. Going. To. Get. Better."

"I'm... I'm not discounting that possibility, Mr. Mulder," Patrick tried to
continue. "It's just that her chances really aren't all that good." Before
Mulder could fire off another retort, he hurried on. "She was shot in the
head, close enough to the brain to cause extremely severe head trauma. The
swelling caused by internal haemorrhaging makes it almost impossible to
determine the extent of the damage done."

Now the crazy man was humming loudly to himself, pretending that he couldn't
hear a word Patrick was saying! This was infuriating. "Even if she comes out
of the coma, which is beginning to look improbable to say the least, the
chances of her being paralysed are almost a hundred percent, and she would
most likely be brain dead as well."

Mulder had turned his back a long time ago, was now clinging to Dana
Scully's limp hand like a life preserver. He seemed to be singing a song to
her, lost in his own world, lost in his own delusions.

Patrick sighed, and turned to face Margaret Scully again. "I'm sorry, Mrs.
Scully. I tried my best. He wouldn't listen."

"I know." She choked back a sob, still wanting to believe in Mulder's
convictions but beginning also to become wary of them. "I thought he would
take it better from you. I guess I was wrong."

Their conversation continued, the two of them exchanging empty words,
talking about useless and meaningless and obviously fake statistics... The
voices began to blend seamlessly into each other, wrapping themselves
lazily, stifingly, over his head.

Now, singing to her, holding her fingers close enough to his mouth so he
could kiss them, he discovered that he knew just what he had been waiting
for.

He had been waiting for the warmth to return to this room. It had grown so
cold since that night. He had never been warm since. And now he was waiting,
waiting for her warmth to bring him home again.

@@@


October 13

9.36 p.m.

He knew she would catch up to him. If not in the hallway, then somewhere
else. He couldn't be sure whether he wanted her to succeed or not. But now
he was just too weak to argue, too exhausted to run any longer.

Slumped painfully on a wooden bench outside Scully's room, his head in his
hands, he waited for her to speak. He knew she would, sooner or later. He'd
have to listen to this no matter how he tried to escape, to avoid it.

"Fox..." She walked slowly over to the bench, and sat down beside him. Her
arm found its way around his quivering shoulders, and she held him quietly
for quite some time. "Fox, letting go isn't the same thing as giving up."

A broken, strangled cry echoed inside him. He had trapped it in his throat,
trying to regain his composure.

"You know that, Fox. You know that as well as I do."

Desperately, he shook his head. But he knew that his heart was nodding
vehemently.

"Fox, if there was even an iota of hope left... you know that I'd be the one
defending Dana's life with my own." He could tell from her calm words and
steady tone that she had somehow managed to come to terms with this, to
achieve some kind of peace inside herself.

"How?" He looked up at her, eyes bloodshot, face streaked with runny tears.
"How can there just be no hope left? This wasn't supposed to happen!"

"It's the most difficult thing I've ever had to admit to in my life, Fox."
Her hand took his and held it firmly. "I've already lost one daughter. I
would have died to save Dana if I had to."

As she valiantly cleared her throat, he realised that tears and sorrrow were
always threats, no matter how strong someone tried to be. "It's not easy,
Fox, being a mother and having to let go. Sometimes I wish I didn't have
to."

"You don't have to," he muttered despairingly. "If we wait long enough,
she'll wake up. She has to."

"She's been in a coma for two weeks, Fox. Even if she comes to now, which is
virtually impossible, her mind would be gone. She would not be the Dana we
know, the Dana we love. Not anymore."

"But she'd be alive," he protested weakly, sensing that he was losing the
fight but not wanting to surrender.

"She'd be a ghost, Fox. A vegetable, a dependent. That's the one thing she
could never live with." The tears in her eyes had found their way down her
cheeks, but she brushed them away resolutely. "We can't want her to come
back to a life she would despise."

"Isn't there even a chance? Just a small one?" A dull pain from the vicinity
of his hands made him look down, and he realised that he had been twisting
his fingers so violently together that they had turned bone-white. "You know
how strong Scully is. She can pull through it. She can pull through
anything."

"I know how strong my daughter is, Fox. But this is one thing she can't
control. She can't make her body heal itself."

This was going nowhere. He was making completely incoherent points, while
she was fielding every single one and not fumbling at all. She was making
sense. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let himself believe that...

"If it's so difficult for her, why hasn't she already gone?" A last defiant
light illuminated his eyes, and he forced himself to complete the sentence.
"Why hasn't she died yet?"

"Fox, Dana has died. Her physical self is gone. Her body is nothing more
than a wasteland now. But she's still not letting go of it. She's still
clinging to her prison."

"Why?" His eyes lost their confident sparkle, and he felt fear creeping in
to take its place. "Why?"

"She's not letting go because you haven't let her go, Fox. She's holding on
to you."

"But if she's in so much pain..." He swallowed a sob. "She should go. I
mean... if she wants to."

"By not letting go, she's trying her best not to let you down." Pulling
herself to her feet, she took his hand and led him slowly into the room
again, brought him next to Scully's bedside. She pointed down at her
daughter. "She's still in there somewhere, Fox. You can't see her, I can't
see her... but I can sense her."

"I can too." And it was true. He knew that that body still held Scully in
there somehow. She couldn't get out, couldn't express herself because she
was trapped. But she was in there. Waiting, like he had been waiting for two
whole weeks.

"She must have heard everything you've said to her, Fox."

Then he felt it, a sickening sense of guilt and revulsion, so powerful his
knees buckled. Had he kept her here? Made her feel guilty for having to
leave him? He remembered random snatches of the one-sided conversations he
had held with her. Recalled his pleas to her not to go, his frantic begging
and praying and crying.

Instead of being strong and allowing Scully to make her own choice, he had
forced her hand by being a snivelling weak selfish bastard.

He wanted to vomit. His stomach heaved unpleasantly, and leaning against the
bed, he sobbed quietly, miserably.

"I'm sorry, Scully. So sorry so sorry so sorry." He babbled mindlessly now,
the conflicting emotions of pain and desire and fear and denial overwhelming
the emptiness inside him completely.

A warm motherly hand gripped his shoulder strongly, and he could feel some
of her strength seeping into him. The shivers that raced through his body
were still beyond his ability to control, but at least he felt as if he
could deal with them now. She took his hand, and pulled him back onto
unsteady feet.

"Thank you, Mrs. Scully," he managed, and squeezed her hand lightly. He even
forced the tiniest of smiles when she touched his face softly, then kissed
him on the cheek.

He watched, the pain knifing through him, as she pressed a final kiss onto
her daughter's porcelain-white forehead. He listened as she bent down and
told her daughter, "Goodbye, Dana. You always were a beautiful baby." He
held his breath as she took one final heartbroken look at her daughter, then
turned and left the room.

She was, without doubt, the other strongest woman he had ever known.

@@@


October 13

10.11 p.m.

"Well, Scully... I guess this is it." His eyes were dry now, his face and
voice more serene and controlled. He couldn't ignore the undercurrent of
pain inside him that was yearning to pull him under, but he was trying his
best. That would have to do for now.

If he could do only one last thing for her, he wanted to make sure she left
this place happy. And that called for every last ounce of strength and
courage he had left in his body.

"I don't know what there is to say," he said truthfully. "I can't just
summarise all the years we've been together, as partners, as friends, as
family, in one sentence. That's like trying to douse your fire. It's utterly
impossible."

The fire that was Dana Scully, he knew, would burn forever if she wanted it
to. Even when it had flickered, ready to die, she had found a way to make it
flare up in an attempt to keep him warm. She had managed to touch him even
when she could no longer feel.

"You remember that deal I made with you, Scully? A couple of weeks ago?" He
settled himself into his usual seat, and picked up her hands as per normal.
"I said that as long as you didn't leave me, I wouldn't leave this
hospital."

He took a deep breath, looked straight at the motionless face he knew so
well, and continued, "Well, I don't know about you... but I think it's time
I got out of here."

Was he imagining things? Or was some kind of warmth returning to her limp
hand? Shaking his head, he forced his mind to concentrate. His mouth, his
brain, his heart, wanted to scream to her to stay, to keep trying. For his
sake. He had to constantly remind himself that she wasn't leaving because
she wanted to. She wasn't letting him go by choice.

"I'm not leaving you, Scully. I never will. I'm not giving up on you either.
But I am going to let you go." He spoke easily, almost cheerfully, but he
was sure she could tell that he was dying inside.

"You're not allowed to feel guilty. You never did anything wrong. If you let
go now, it's only because I want you to." The glassy impersonal blue eyes
still looked out of her perfect face, frozen forever in time. He knew that
what he was doing had to be right. Even though it felt so totally wrong.

"I know how hard you tried. You didn't let me down. You could never let me
down." Finally, overcome with tears, he pressed a hot kiss against her soft
hand. "You're my Scully. Always. And that's how you'll stay, no matter where
you have to go now."

Taking a deep cutting breath, he dropped his eyes and spoke the rest of the
words he knew he had to. "You never did anything wrong, Scully," he
repeated. "There's nothing for me to forgive. But I've done so many
things... caused you so much pain..."

He choked. Waited for the tears to stop their torrent. He hadn't given
Scully much of a life when she had been working with him. And he hadn't even
managed to save that life two weeks ago. He only wished he could make up for
it all now.

"If it makes you feel better, makes it easier for you to let go, I forgive
you. Right now. For everything. For anything." He dropped his head quickly
then, almost shamefully. "Can you forgive me, Scully?"

He waited, even though he knew it was in vain. Shoulders slumped in defeat,
he rose to his full height, prepared to take his final leave of her.

Then suddenly, magically, amazingly, he felt the lightest of pressures
around his hand. Stunned, he looked down, scouring the beautiful face for
signs of life. Touched, thrilled, exhilarated, he watched as one single tear
squeezed itself from the corner of her eye and trailed slowly down her
cheek.

She had given him the greatest farewell gift possible. She had forgiven him.
For everything. For anything.

"Goodbye, Scully." He smiled, a beautiful real smile, full of life and hope,
as her eyes closed at last, for the very last time. "I love you."

======================================================

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Added February 21, 1999