From meg.holzer@yale.edu Thu Jan 29 21:25:29 1998 Subject: Story From: Meg Holzer Date: Thu, 29 Jan 1998 21:25:29 -0500 Hi. I've only posted once before, but I wanted to, um, share my story. Read at your own risk (I'm new at this!) and please feel free to comment. It's in two parts; the next will follow. Thanks. FURTHER ON By Meg Holzer E-mail: meg.holzer@yale.edu Classification: SRA Spoilers: Emily, etc. Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and I didn't even write the damn song. The characters belong to Chris "Closure? What's closure?" Carter and the song belongs to Grey Eye Glances. (I know, Nis, it's NOT an Athena reference). It's from their CD "Further On" and it's incredibly beautiful, so go out and listen to it, on me. As for the story - my roommate thinks it's depressing, but you can make up your own mind. There is a sort of...shall we say dearth? of snappy banter, but what can you do. If you're anything like me (and we know already we have =some= basic things in common), bring a tissue or ten. Another Disclaimer: I'm real new at this (note the grammar, Curly et gang!) so keep that in mind as you (gently, forgivingly) read on. Yet Another Disclaimer (Last one, I swear): This story is written in alternating POVs. First Mulder, then Scully, then Mulder, then...you get the idea. I hope their inner monologues aren't too confusing; the basic rule is that only the one narrating will "think" in carats. Like that. Okay? So when the going gets puzzling (it confused the hell out of me while I was editing), remember that only the narrator can ever "think." At least in my universe. Oh, and the switches in POV are marked by the long row of dots. Feedback: Anyone within three dorm rooms knows I live for e-mail, if only because it means a break from my psych reading. ("Quick tour of the brain" my foot. Whoever said that college psychology was really biology was hitting a little too close to the truth.) Spooky. Send in the comments, but be warned: criticism shall be internalized and may result in years of expensive psychotherapy. Summary: Mulder and Scully. Angst. San Diego to DC. Angst. Catharsis. Closure. Did I mention angst? Archiving, etc.: Put this wherever you want, whenever you want, and if you need some suggestions, I've got `em. Just leave my name attached and don't tell my English professor. Dedication: For Diana, my roommate, future geologist, and fellow phile, `ficer, and Procrastinator Extraordinaire. Late nights, late mornings, and a really great parody - we were in this together from the start. I love you, Curly! This one's for you. Now, let the reader beware... FURTHER ON 1/2 By Meg Holzer **Morning will come and you'll find a way to go. Now just stop thinking; your face has grown weary so. Capture the time and gather the pieces up; Simply believe in it; I will not leave you now...** Her eyes flew open. He stood above her, the morning sun streaming through the window flecking his eyes with gold. "Where're you going?" she murmured, not quite awake, looking at the familiar face, etched with the tender creases of concern and affection. "Didn't you hear me last night?" he chided gently. She lifted an eyebrow in sleepy, half- hearted curiosity. "I'm not going anywhere," he replied, his voice thick. "I won't leave you now." **The Day Before** ............................................. For the umpteenth time he glanced, in what he thought was a surreptitious manner, at the woman next to him. She was dozing lightly, her cheek just grazing the rough fabric of the airplane seat's back. Silently he observed the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Even in sleep, she looked far from relaxed. The muscles in her neck were tense, tight cords leading to her protectively hunched shoulders. She looked, he thought ruefully, small and miserable. What a way to describe it. Briefly he studied her face, the way her lashes lay on her cheeks, the way the air moved in and out of her slightly parted lips - "Sir?" He was startled out of his reverie. A young brunette stewardess was standing over him, a concerned look creasing her pretty features. "Can I get you a beverage, Sir?" She looked hassled. Her smooth dark hair was drawn back tightly from her face. She probably had a boyfriend waiting for her on land, Mulder mused. Maybe he'd even meet her at Dulles, sweep her into his arms. At night he would stroke the long hair, loose from its barrettes, and remind her how beautiful she was - despite the aching feet and the rude passengers and the pompous pilots. One night he would finally present her with that ring, down on one knee on the hardwood floor. Tears would pool in her dark eyes, and they would have beautiful doe- eyed children with the same slim, capable hands that she was now resting on his shoulder... "Sir, are you all right?" He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "I'm fine," he said huskily. Automatically he glanced at the woman next to him, whose blue eyes, closed now in thankful sleep, would never shine in a second generation. Fine. He looked again at the attractive stewardess, met her worried dark- eyed gaze. "Coffee," he said, clearing his throat. "Please." "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We're heading for a bit of turbulence, so I'd like you to fasten your seat belts and remain seated." His seat belt had been fastened since takeoff, but he remembered Scully shedding hers in an attempt to get comfortable. He moved a hand toward her shoulder to wake her, then thought better of it. The creases in her forehead had smoothed during her nap, and he hated to think he might be stealing the small bit of comfort sleep offered. Carefully he sought the loose ends of her seat belt. The side nearest him rested against her thigh, and he removed it gently, then stretched an arm across her waist looking for the other half. He had just gathered it into his hand when the body of the plane gave a mighty heave. "Oh!" She was awake, looking startled to see Mulder stretched across her lap. "S'okay," he mumbled sheepishly, clicking the seat belt shut firmly across her hips. "Go back to sleep." .............................................. She wasn't sleeping, not in the technical sense of the word. She was aware of her surroundings: the thick, manufactured airplane air, the subdued hum of the engines, the lighthearted chatter of the women behind her, the scratchy fabric of the seat against her cheek. Her seat belt, left carelessly unbuckled since they'd hit 30,000 feet, lay across her lap. She enjoyed the weight of the metal buckles resting against her thighs, heavy, warming them. Like a child. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the visions to disappear, to leave her there with her weary mind and her empty womb and her tensely huddled shoulders. But they didn't go. They never did. Her lap remembered the warm weight of Baby Matthew as he lay cuddled against her that first night. She had cradled his tiny form to her breast all too briefly, drunk in his milk- and-baby-powder scent. It seemed only a heartbeat later that his tiny mouth puckered and he began to fuss. When Tara lifted him out of her arms her lap had sorely missed his damp heat, the cozy flannel of his bunting. Her arms, as if of their own accord, had collapsed in on themselves, no longer needing to curve around a sleeping infant. Tara had soothed her child with her own milk, stroked his downy head until he slept, while she watched. Alone. Her lap empty save for her tightly clenched hands, their fingers knotted in tight agony. She drew a ragged breath, brushing her cheek against the orange fabric, hovering in that place just before sleep. In the same instant, the warm weight of the seat belt disappeared from her lap and the plane jerked with the shudder of turbulence. Her eyes flew open, only to find Mulder leaning awkwardly across her, clutching the two ends of her seatbelt. "S'okay," he muttered, fastening the clip tightly across her hips. "Go back to sleep." "I'm awake." "Oh." Was that disappointment in his voice? She struggled to sit up. The plane was a crowded post-Christmas flight, and the man to the right of her sat busily typing on his laptop, alternately gazing out the window and tapping his expensive-looking pen. His jacketed elbow crept over the armrest. She inched away from it. The plane jerked again and the offending elbow landed in her ribs. "Sorry." He met her eye for a moment and she saw a very human pair of grayish eyes, tired and distracted. Probably anxious to get home, she thought. His wife would be waiting for him at the airport...no, he wouldn't want her out alone at night. She was waiting for him back at their sweet suburban tract house, a low- cholesterol dinner warm in the oven, kids bathed and powdered and sleepy, anxious for their bedtime kisses and stories. Kids... "Scully?" Mulder's eyes were on her and she shifted in his gaze. She'd become good at that in the last few days. Never a good liar, she'd compromised by avoiding the intensity of his stares, refusing to let him look inside her as he seemed so able to do. It was too soon. It was too raw. "How much longer?" she asked him, silently willing her voice not to break. It didn't. Neither did she. "About an hour. You were out for a while." "Yeah," she responded. "Probably good for you. You can sleep more if you want." "I know. I'm not tired anymore." "Scully, I -" "I ordered you a coffee," he continued. "Thank you," she answered smoothly. She reached into the pocket of the seat in front of her, and removed the first thing her hand touched - the glossy airline safety packet. She flipped through it idly. The brightly colored illustrations hurt her eyes. She remembered the in-flight safety video, before they'd even taken off. Remembered the stewardess' chirpy voice: "If you are traveling with a child, secure your own oxygen mask, then help the child with hers." On the monitor, a solemn-looking woman - shouldn't she be, considering her circumstances? - proceeded to cover her face with a yellow oxygen mask. She turned to the child next to her, a small blond girl with bright eyes and denim overalls. Scully had squeezed her eyes shut as the mother fastened the life-giving device to her daughter's tiny face, her hand brushing the soft fair hair. Behind her eyes the scenario had played out further. The capable-looking mother had helped the child lean into the crash position. At the last minute, though, she had shielded the small body with her own, absorbing the momentum and the pain as the aircraft skidded into flames. She closed the packet and closed her eyes again. Keeping them open was a struggle; closing them brought no respite. Sleep was a long way off. Carefully she began to regulate her breathing the way she had as a child, when nightmares had threatened her and sleep was a terrifying prospect. Just as she had so long ago, as she knew her own mother had, she began the toneless recitation in time to her breathing. And she wondered if it ever would. And she doubted. .............................................. With a surge of anger at his growing helplessness, he turned his head once again to watch his sleeping partner. Her lips were moving ever so slightly, her head lolling to the side. Ruefully he noted that her forehead was still creased. Was he praying? She had been next to silent all that day, avoiding his eyes, his words. He, of course, hadn't known what to say. He closed his own eyes briefly, knowing sleep would not come. Restlessly he stirred his coffee, making circles in the dark liquid. He felt small in the presence of her grief, small but intrusive. He knew she was strung tightly enough to crack, and he was unwilling to make the first chip. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the thoughts he didn't want. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Albright again. We are coming in for our landing. There's a splendid view on the left side of the aircraft..." Mulder obediently threw away the dregs of his coffee and, when she made no move to do so herself, Scully's. "Flight attendants, prepare for landing." He felt the sharp drop in altitude and could sense that she did too. "You okay?" he asked. She nodded wearily. "You sure?" His voice was soft. She didn't answer. Her head was down; she was securing something in her purse. The plane dropped a few hundred feet before he spoke again. "Um, you have to put your tray up now..." another voice whispered angrily through his subconscious. He drew in a deep breath. I'm losing my mind, he thought in wonder. The pounding of the wheels on the runway startled him back to consciousness. "Please remain in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete stop." He felt the pressure pulling him forward in his seat, studied the hands of the woman next to him, their white-knuckled grip on the armrests. He remembered their first case, her mild panic and a similar death grip during a bout of turbulence. Were these the same hands? Five years had taken away a bit of their leftover baby pudginess, he noted, looking at the tendons which stood out in stark relief. It was the first time he remembered seeing her nails anything but subtly manicured - but here they were, slightly ragged, slightly uneven. The aircraft pulled to a stop, and the clicking of seatbelts and flurry of activity filled his ears. Carefully he stood up, brushing some salt from the peanuts he'd eaten over Missouri off his dress pants. He pulled his bag, then Scully's from the overhead compartment. "C'mon." He touched her shoulder lightly. "Let's go." ............................................ She'd always thought it was the heels of her dress shoes that made her calves ache after a long plane ride, but even in casual flats she felt stiff and achy. Numbly she stood when Mulder brushed her shoulder, gathered her belongings, and joined in the crowd of impatient, jostling passengers cranky from the long flight. "No, `zat one's mine, I t'ink...what's `zat, Mommy? Here." The sweet, small child's voice seemed to carry through the airplane. Automatically Scully looked up to find its source. She caught the eye of the child in question. The wide, sparkly green eye. She was rewarded with an impish grin and the wave of chubby fingers. She was a redhead. She closed her eyes for a moment, sure that the image would vanish when she opened them again. She was a figment. A pixie. But when she focused her gaze again, the child was looking intently at her. She must have been sleeping throughout the flight, Scully thought, and that was why she hadn't noticed her. "Hi!" The little girl cried happily. The tall brunette holding her shifted the child more securely to her shoulder. She pressed her head against her mother's neck, slipped two chubby fingers into her mouth, and regarded Scully with sleep-droopy eyes. Scully looked at the soft red-gold curls, the milk-white skin, the collar of the baby's little knit shirt. She felt the lunch she'd choked down on her own mother's urging begin to rise within her. "Mulder..." He was distracted, trying to help the woman across the way with her suitcase. "Mulder," she tried again. She actually felt the sweat breaking out on her forehead in beads. She tried unsuccessfully to lift her hand. Tried again. It shook and blurred before her eyes. She used it to grab Mulder's jacket sleeve, her fingers curling in panic. "Mulder, I'm going to be sick," she said. .............................................. He knew something was wrong the second he felt the pressure of her damp hand on his arm, the fingers curling around his sleeve. Not that something wasn't "wrong" already. But her clutching fingers, her anxious voice - he turned to her just in time to catch a glimpse of her pale perspiring face. "Mulder, I'm going to be sick," she said softly, simply. He put a steadying hand on her arm. The crowd was close around them, and they were at least a dozen people short of exiting the plane. He looked around anxiously, her panic spreading from her fingertips, seemingly, into his bloodstream, coursing through his veins. He felt his pulse speed up, tightened his grip on her arm. It happened, he realized in hindsight, simultaneously. Or all at once. Or both. He wasn't sure what happened first, whether he caught sight of the red-haired baby or the crowd thinned, but whichever it was, he saw his opening. Slinging the final bag over his shoulder, he pulled Scully with him through the door and off the airplane, hustling her ahead of him down the long industrial-carpet hall towards the terminal. The stewardess' voice carried through the artificial hallway. "Thanks for flying with us! Have a nice day!" He ushered her to the first set of seats he saw and let her sink into one, pressing her fingers to her temples. He crouched in front of her, hands resting on the arm of the cheap leather waiting chair, fingers digging into the metal underside. "You okay?" he murmured finally. As if in answer she stood, then, with one horrified look, she bolted. "Scully!" he called, attracting a few stares. Ignoring them, he grabbed her bag and followed her, chasing her along past the gates and newsstands. "Wait!" She was a fingertips' grab away - running was near to impossible with the two suitcases - when she thrust open the door to the ladies' room and disappeared. He leaned against the wall next to the door, breathing heavily from the exertion, waiting. .............................................. When she had relieved her body of its lunch - and, she thought ruefully, breakfast, and the coffee she'd gulped on the plane - she leaned, exhausted, against the wall of the stall. Fumbling in her purse, she grabbed a breath mint, and sucked it vigorously to rid her mouth of the foul taste of bile. Breathing heavily, she used the cheap one-ply to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Smoothing her hair, she turned her cheek to the cold metal of the stall wall. "Don't touch that, Casey! You don't know where it's been. It's dirty." "No, Mommy, I can do it myself. No! I can =do= it." "Casey, stop wiggling, sweetie...Casey!" The voices wafted through the wall. Her insides felt raw, bruised. She welcomed the physical pain. It was distracting. With one last ragged breath she left the stall, washed her hands, splashed a few drops of water on her colorless face and went out to meet Mulder. He didn't even ask this time. Just peered quickly into her face, then ushered her in front of him with his hand on her back. "I can take that, Mulder," she said softly, motioning toward her suitcase with a shift of her head. "I've got it," he responded tersely. His steps were quick and she was rapidly falling behind his longer-legged pace. She quickened her pace, curious as to why he hadn't...asked. Her cheeks burned as she remembered the night before, their awkward meeting in front of Bill's linen closet. He and Tara and Maggie Scully - well, it had mostly been Maggie - had insisted he stay the night with them. He had been rooting through the closet for a blanket, she assumed. No one had warned him of the sudden nighttime drop in temperature. She'd crept miserably from her room, trying to hide from the memories that washed over her in sleep and in wakefulness, only to bump straight into Mulder, his arms full of rough navy blue wool. "Scully," he'd exclaimed softly. "What are you doing up so late?" She'd seen the stupidity of his question in his eyes that night, seen that he realized it. "I couldn't sleep," she had murmured. "Do you...do you want to talk?" His words had been almost incomprehensible, whispered as they were in his throaty near-sleep voice. She had stared for a moment into his eyes, the pain of all those years evident in their hazel depths. But something had twisted and hardened in her chest. "No..." she had answered, then was immediately sorry at the hurt on his face. Wanting to say something more, but not knowing what, she had simply turned and padded back down the hall, to that room. With its cheerful animal-printed wallpaper, it would be the nursery. She'd lain in that bed, blinking damply against the darkness, trying to forget. A more spiteful part of her finished the thought. END 1/1 From meg.holzer@yale.edu Thu Jan 29 21:27:29 1998 Subject: Story, part II From: Meg Holzer Date: Thu, 29 Jan 1998 21:27:29 -0500 Thanks for reading, if you've made it this far. I'll be over in the corner, doing my homework...watching "Jerry Maguire"...procrastinating...waiting to hear what you think. PS - Sorry about the margins. I thought I was doing a good thing. Oops. FURTHER ON 2/2 ............................................... He knew he was walking too quickly for her, and he knew that she'd been sick in the ladies' room while he leaned against the dirty airport wall and thought the worst. But the need to escape was greater even than his concern. He could feel the air closing in on him, and all he wanted was the smooth seat of the car and feel of the wheel beneath his hands...the necessary close warmth of the car. With the heater humming, and Scully a captive audience, perhaps he could... He sighed. They didn't speak again until they had found his car - hers was parked safely at her building, he remembered. He had been the one to drive her to the airport for the trip. "Mom has enough to do without picking me up," she'd explained, and he had insisted on driving both of them. When he dropped them off Scully had been flushed and nervous. "I haven't seen my sister-in-law in...well, a while." Now Mrs. Scully was staying a few more days to care for little Matthew and help Bill and Tara. He gritted his teeth as he filled the trunk and, settling in, turned the key in the ignition. He hadn't missed the look on Scully's face when she had held the infant...the way she'd stroked the downy cheek and the way her eyes had filled - but not overflowed - when his tiny fist closed around her finger and tugged it toward the impossibly small puckered lips. She had looked =good=, he thought with a pang. Natural. The baby had settled gently into her arms, snuggling against the curves of her body, seeking warmth. But then he had fussed, and his mother had lifted him away, cuddling him, feeding him, nourishing him with her own body. Despite his hopes, the ride to her apartment was silent. For her part, she stared out the window, her face impassive and alarmingly colorless. Thoughtlessly she toyed with the strap of her purse, her brow furrowed. She hadn't commented when he parked the car and lifted her suitcase out of the trunk. It wasn't the first time he'd driven her home from the airport and stopped for a brief cup of coffee inside her apartment. Not even close. Wordlessly she let him inside, then locked the door and took the suitcase from him, disappearing for a moment. He waited while she brought the luggage to her bedroom. "Scully?" no answer. "Scully, I'm just...I'm going to put up some tea." He wasn't sure what instinct had told him to say "tea" instead of their usual coffee. She emerged from the bedroom looking battle- weary. "Mulder, I think...I think I'd rather be alone." Those familiar words. "Are you sure? Because I remember you had that killer chamomile after that case, remember, when we were rerouted and then held over in Austin for two hours..." He realized he was babbling and trailed off. "Mulder, please." He looked into her eyes. They were shimmering. He made a move toward her, rather awkward, and watched sadly as she took a step back and lowered her head. "I need to be alone now." <=How= can you need to be alone, Scully? Now, when we need each other so much...don't we?> "Scully, talk to me." She raised sad eyes to meet his. "I'm exhausted, Mulder. I need...I need to rest, to get back to things, to...figure things out." "Okay, I...I understand, but why don't I just put the water-" "You don't understand, do you, Mulder." Her voice was flat, tired. "I don't want your tea, and God help me, I don't even know if I want your sympathy right now." He'd never before used the expression "like a ton of bricks" or even considered that such a cliche could ever be correct. But her words hit his chest with a blow that all but made him double over. He could feel the blood draining from his face. But she'd seen the look on his face and she took a step toward him. "Mulder, I...I didn't mean that." "Yes, you did," he managed to gasp out. "Not the way it...sounded. Mulder, I need to be alone now. I need to be by myself so I can walk through this..." her fingers stabbed in the air. "through my apartment and think about how I'll never need a bigger place. Do you know I even =looked=, Mulder? God damn it, I actually thought for a minute there that I would have her, that she...that they would let me have her. I thought I would bring her home, Mulder, and now I need to sit down by myself and try to figure out the rest of this journey." Her voice was on the verge of breaking. He heard the tears, unshed, behind her breath. "Scully..." "And I know...I know that she was in pain. I know that, Mulder, because I saw it and I saw her and I saw that she knew that I couldn't do anything about it. That small thing. I couldn't bring her the tiniest measure of...relief..." "You =did=, Scully," he countered softly. "You gave her =you=. You said so yourself...=she= found =you=." "So I could save her," she repeated woodenly. "But I didn't, did I?" She shook her head as if in reply. "She's not in pain anymore, Scully..." "Damn it, Mulder, I call myself a scientist and I couldn't figure out the damn drugs to...to help her. I call myself a doctor and I couldn't even ease her pain. I call myself..." her voice broke in earnest, and she drew in a ragged breath before continuing. "I call myself a mother, Mulder and I didn't even know my own baby existed until a week ago." "It's okay," he said softly, silently cursing himself for the words, which sounded so empty in the tension-filled air. "You... "It's =not= okay, Mulder," she responded. "It's most emphatically not okay. I know you want to make it so, but it's not. And it never will be." "Scully..." "No, Mulder. Don't tell me that the answers are out there, that we'll find who did this. Because we won't, and even if we did, is there any price suitable to a child's life? Is there a way to make them pay for stealing this most...most sacred thing from me, creating a life and then just barely allowing me to watch my baby girl die? "She's gone, Mulder," she continued. They were still standing about five feet apart, and she appeared to be studying the leather of her boot. Silently, frustration nearly at a boiling point, he watched the fall of hair as her head crept lower. "I had one chance, Mulder. One. And it was taken from me." He let her words wash over him, leaving in their wake the terrible sense of guilt and dread that he had felt since he pocketed that vial what seemed like an eon ago. She lifted her head and finally met his gaze, her fingers fiddling with the buttons of her sweater. "Mulder, I don't know how to say this, but..." her voice trailed off, and she drew in breath. He watched as she tried visibly to relax her body, but to no avail. He could see the tension that rippled in her muscles, her neck and shoulders drawn up like a cat ready to pounce. He knew she hadn't slept the night before, was no stranger himself to those long sleepless hours of tossing and turning and the never-ending waterfall of painful memory. "How could you?" ............................................... **So take in my eyes and say what you think you see** Her words hung in the air for a moment. In that moment she regretted the harshness of her tone, and then, before she could stop herself, gain control over the crashing waves of anger, she snapped. "How the hell could you keep this from me? How? Mulder, you saw what they did to me. You knew, you =knew= that they had stripped this from me, that I no hope of...of immortality, of anything. Mulder, I trusted you, for God's sake. I =told= you when I found out, Mulder, and it hurt then. It hurt then, but it hurts more now...you didn't tell me, and you knew...oh, God, Mulder, it hurts so much..." She bent over almost double, the pain in her chest constricting her throat, feeling the tears build, searing, behind her eyes. She watched him move toward her. He put a hand on her back, big and warm and steady. That did it. She flew into a standing position again, throwing off his hand. "Get away from me! You can't take the hint, can you? I don't want you. Not now, not after this. You =knew= they had taken them from me, Mulder, you =knew= there was a possibility of something like this, and I can't...I just can't look at you right now," she admitted finally. She looked at him, his face blurry before her. He reached out for her again, and blind rage fueled her actions. "Get =away=!" she cried, swatting his hand away. "Leave me!" And she swung at him, crying her rage, her fist connecting solidly with his face. Through her tears she saw his look of shock, heard his gasp of pain. "Scully, stop it!" She was still swinging at him, and now he reached out again, trying to grab her arms. "Just leave!" she cried again, and her hand connected with flesh again, his chest this time. Solid and strong. Her fist felt the silkiness of his tie. "Get out of here!" and she struck him again. He grabbed her arms, stilling her. Her strength diminished in her grief and rage, she fought him weakly, struggling in his grasp. "Let me go!" Still crying angrily, she tried desperately to yank her arms free. "Stop it, Scully. It's over. You said it. Just stop now," his voice was maddeningly moderate. "Shut up!" she cried, her words flowing out of their own accord. "God damn you, Mulder, I t- trusted you, and you betrayed me...you're no better than them!" "Get out of here!" "No," he answered, his voice calm as she fought his arms. "Please...please leave me be," she whispered, the rage suddenly dissipated. Exhausted, she stopped struggling. "Leave me." She went limp against him, and he loosened his grip cautiously, supporting her. "There," he murmured, holding her tightly. "You said it. I know it was killing you. It's out." "Leave me," she murmured again, her voice muffled in his shirt. "I won't," he said tenderly, one hand moving into her hair. "I won't leave you now." ............................................ **Follow your instincts and never stray far from them** No better than them. No better than them. Even as she slumped against him, exhausted by her emotion and her outburst, the words echoed in his head. Swallowing the internal dialogue, he lowered his head to look at the woman in his arms. Her breath was coming in gasps, her small body shuddering beneath his hands as she tried to control her sobs. They were silent, wracking, and painful to hear. "Scully, it's..." his voice trailed off. It wasn't okay. Not really.