From kjohns@SpiritOne.com Sun May 18 03:43:46 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: "Take This Cup..." 1/1 by Kristel S. Oxley-Johns From: kjohns@SpiritOne.com (KSJ) -------- TAKE THIS CUP... Kristel S. Oxley-Johns This story is post-Demons and pre-Gethsemane. It contains Demons spoilers and a hint of Gethsemane speculation. It is not MSR, it is just a partnership vignette. Mulder, Scully, The X-Files, Skinner etc., do not belong to be, but to Chris Carter, 10-13 Productions, Fox Broadcasting, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, et al. I mean no infringement by using them in this piece of fiction. Please feel free to archive and distribute as you will. Please, please, please, direct any feedback to Kristel S. Oxley-Johns at kjohns@SpiritOne.com * * * * * "Although cleared of any wrong-doing in the deaths of Amy and David Cassandra, Agent Mulder still has no recollection of the events that led to their deaths. His seizures have subsided, with no evidence of permanent cerebral damage, but I am concerned that this experience will have a lasting effect. "Agent Mulder undertook this treatment hoping to lay claim to his past, that by retrieving memories lost to him, he might finally understand the path he is on. But if that knowledge remains elusive, and if it's only by knowing where he's been that he can hope to understand where he is going, then I fear Agent Mulder may lose his course, and the truths he is seeking from his childhood will continue to evade him, driving him more dangerously forward in impossible pursuit." The words, as she wrote then, felt like a betrayal. This report would go to Skinner, whom she trusted for the most part, and possibly beyond. But what of the others who might see it, those who watched Mulder like a specimen in a microscope, analyzing every move, waiting to find the best way to exterminate him? And what if they decided Mulder was too big a threat? They might finally cease passively waiting for Mulder to destroy himself and undertake the task on their own. And yet, she felt she had to let someone know. Had to inform Skinner, at least, of the threat Mulder's impossible dream posed to Mulder's own safety. She needed an ally, in her struggle to save her partner from himself. Scully blinked back the tears forming in her eyes and braced her elbows on the desk in front of the keyboard, her aching head in her hands. God, she was tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of watching a soul as ultimately good and noble as Mulder's tear itself apart, piece by tormented piece. She felt wet warmth trickle down her wrist and looked down to see blood in her palm where her face had rested--her blood. She cursed and reached for the box of tissues on the desk. The tumor. The miserable, goddamned tumor. How she hated it; hated its intrusion into her body, into her thoughts, into her feelings. She remembered the words she had written to Mulder in her journal, a journal which now sat next to her bed at home, because she could not bring herself to throw it out. "Time like a heartbeat," she had said, waxing poetic. No longer. A heartbeat was the comforting drum in your mother's womb, soothing you, letting you know that there is always life, always hope. It was the steady pounding of your lover's heart against your ear as you lay your head on his chest, his arms securely around you as the heat of passion fades and is replaced by contentment and a sense of well being. Of life, and a promise of the future. But this ticking she heard in her head, it wasn't a heartbeat. It didn't signify life, or hope, or well-being. It was a time-bomb, each second trickling inexorably away until there was no more time left, no more life left. No more hope left. Damn Mulder! Why couldn't he see that he *was* her hope and sole comfort in the very real knowledge of her own mortality? It was a knowledge which had eluded her even as unknown strangers had performed the procedures likely responsible for her cancer, or when a bullet missed her skull by a mere hair's breadth in as she leaned over the desk near Mulder's living room window to gain some idea of where he might have gone. With the real possibility of her death looming over them both she had to be sure that Mulder would carry on once she was gone and would find the answers for which she, like so many others, had been sacrificed. But he couldn't see it. Couldn't see how crucial it was that she know he was safe, he was well, that he was capable of finding those answers on his own. Instead, he risked himself, put himself on the line in foolhardy determination. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. In a rare, short-lived display of temper that she immediately regretted, Scully swept the papers off her desk with sudden, violent swing of her arm. This time, she cursed herself: throwing tantrums was not going to help when there was so much to do. She couldn't wallow in self-pity. She had to be strong, while she still had strength left. She had held him, comforted him in his weakness and disorientation, until the police burst in and the paramedics had claimed him. Mulder had been too drained, too deep in shock to even break down. He just hunched weakly on the floor until they pulled him onto a stretcher and strapped him down. Then she held his hand and accompanied him to the hospital in the ambulance, watching his pale, clammy face, dilated pupils, and tremors. How she wanted to protect this tortured, haunted man. Not just because she needed him to search if the day should come when she no longer could, but because she could not bear to see him in pain after suffering more than one life's quota of anguish. He brought out in her all the tender, aching feelings she had always tried to bury beneath a clinical facade. She'd always been a sucker for the underdog, and this man, with the not-so-inaccurate appellation "Spooky", and his refusal to bow to convention or take a simple solution when it was presented to him, this partner of hers who never saw how he made himself look in the eyes of those who *did* bow to convention, qualified perfectly. He'd always had the cards stacked against him. Many times, he stacked the cards against himself, and he needed her with him . . . and she needed to be needed. She was a middle child--not the first girl even, not unique in any way. She'd never suffered neglect, but then, she'd never felt truly distinguished either, never felt that she was crucial to any equation. Until Mulder. Mulder needed her for talents that were hers and hers alone, needed her logic, her rationality, her refusal to be cowed by his often intimidating and overwhelming manner. She gave something to Mulder than only she could give, and only he could appreciate, always assuming he took the time. Seeing him do what he had done, seeing him put himself foolishly, and heedlessly at risk, was like a slap in the face. She had spent four years of protecting this man, supporting him, *believing* in him, only to discover he would throw it all away in an effort to take the short path to the truth. It wasn't fair! He would abandon her, give himself over to death, when for once she needed him back needed something only he could give. But he didn't see that need, didn't see that this tumor, as it ticked away inside her, was changing The Way Things Were. He didn't seem to understand that she wasn't always going to be there to pull him from the fire, and that he should start caring how he squandered his chances of cheating death, even if they seemed numerous enough to put a cat's nine lives to shame. She had to *tell* him. Had to make him see that he couldn't go running off pell-mell into danger. If there was risk required, she would risk herself, for it probably wouldn't matter one way or the other in the end. For once, he would have to keep the home fires burning. Scully finished washing her face, grabbed her purse, and strode out the door. * * * * * She couldn't see any light coming from beneath Mulder's door as she approached. Perhaps he was already asleep. It *was* after 10 o'clock and he had only been home from the hospital since yesterday. They had kept him for two days observation even after they stopped treating his seizures. Perhaps she should let him rest. But she couldn't. She had to see him now. The door opened before her eyes, revealing him rumpled, a wrinkled t-shirt hanging loosely over baggy sweat-pants. He hadn't shaved in days, and his skin was still pale, around swollen eyes and his face was covered in a sheet of perspiration. Automatically, what she had come to say disappeared to the back of her mind as her eyes widened in concern. "Mulder, what's wrong...are you all right?" He nodded, wetting his dry lips with his tongue. "Yeah. Still having nightmares. I had just woken up when I heard footsteps...I looked and saw you...figured I'd save you the trouble of knocking." He offered her a wan, lopsided grin, and Scully's heartrate stopped racing in her concern for his health. "Come on in," he stepped aside, allowing her to enter the dark apartment, and switched on the light behind her. "Forgive the mess," he said. "The maid hasn't been doing her job. Hard to find good help these days." How could he crack jokes? Scully wondered in disbelief. He'd come so close to getting himself killed and suddenly he was a stand-up comedian again? Maybe once she had found it charming, but God... "I needed to talk to you," she said softly, following him through the foyer into the messy living room. He sank wearily onto the couch, gesturing for her to make herself at home in the chair across from him. Scully sat down and watched as he braced his elbows on his knees and cradled his head with his hands, almost an exact replica of her earlier before the computer. Finally, he looked up at her with his red, swollen, weary eyes. "Come to ream me for what I did?" "If necessary," she said steadily, resisting the appeal of his bewildered-little-boy expression. "Mulder, what is it with you? Do you honestly have a death wish?" "Of course not, Scully. I might be 'out there', but I'm not suicidal," he said with a slight sneer, as though her question was the most ridiculous insult he'd ever heard. "Aren't you?" she demanded implacably. "You might not be actively seeking a way to die, but damn it, Mulder, you're giving death plenty of opportunity to find you. I am your partner, and it is my duty, and my privilege, to be in the position of watching your back." Scully forced herself to stop and breathe. "My God, Mulder...how on earth can I do my job when you seem to be hell-bent on a course of willful self-destruction?" "Your job? Is that what this is about?" The look in Mulder's eyes told her he was intentionally trying to divert the subject, trying to deflect the barrage he felt coming. She could have screamed with frustration at his refusal to understand. "Of course not," she snapped. "This hasn't been about my job for a very long time. I don't like the fact that you conveniently forget I have every bit as much a personal stake here as you do. You are not the only one to have lost here, Mulder. I seek the answers for the same reason you do...to try to find out why I was taken, to try to find out why my sister was killed in my place, why I have this tumor in my head...how can you *dare* to imply that this is only about my job?" "Then what are you trying to say, Scully?" Mulder demanded. "Do you want me to quit searching? Because how the hell are we going to find those answers if I do that? And that's the only thing I can think of that's going to keep me out of the line of fire." "No, Mulder...I *don't* want you to stop searching. Taking a risk when it's required is one thing. But you...you actively seek them out and jump into them with both feet and no idea what you are letting yourself in for. And one of these days, I'm not going to be able to pull you back in time. "You need to come to terms with a few very real truths, Mulder. While it's true that this cancer is not to the point where it is debilitating, there is the chance that just such a circumstance is right around the corner. I'm going to die--time is the question. And what are you going to do when I do? What are you going to do if I can't save you from yourself, first Mulder? Are you going to let yourself be killed? Because if you are, then I have one thing to say to you, Mulder. YOU OWE ME MORE THAN THAT!" "Scully..." Mulder looked at her pleadingly, but she turned away from him, hating herself for the tears shining in her eyes. She had to be strong right now, strong enough to tell him the facts he needed to hear. She couldn't let him see her weakness, see that her heart was breaking at the idea of not her own death, but that his might follow in short order. "Just shut up and let me finish, Mulder," she said, her voice husky, tight. "You owe me for the times I have believed in you, for the times I have stood up for you, for the times I have protected you at risk to myself and everything I hold dear. You owe me something, and I will not accept your death. You owe it to me to live, to carry on if it should happen that I can't. I always swore that I would never consider the things I have done for you and for our search for the answers as a debt which you might one day have to repay, but if I have to, I will. I don't want your guilt. I don't want your pity. I want your promise that you are going to take care of yourself, that you are going to protect yourself, and not take needless risk when I can't protect you in the future. "I can't be strong for you anymore, Mulder," she concluded sadly, looking at her hands. "Soon, very soon, too soon, all my strength is going to be taken up fighting this thing inside me, trying to hold onto life while I can. I can't protect you anymore. I need you to promise me that what I've done, what I've sacrificed because I wanted you to have a fighting chance at finding the truth, and bringing down these people who kill and destroy and injure with impunity, won't be in vain. Can you promise me that, Mulder?" "I don't know, Scully," he murmured, leaning weakly into the couch, his eyes wearily closed. "I don't know if I can stop what's happening to me. Sometimes, I don't even know why I'm driven to do what I do. I only know I have no choice but to do it, and damn the consequences. Sometimes I don't even know who I am anymore, only that I have to continue, have to make the leaps without looking first." "Everyone has a choice," Scully said softly. "I chose to stay with you, and the X-Files when I could have easily requested a transfer four years ago. I chose to help you. And now I need you to help me. Please." Her eyes caught his. "I have never asked anything of you, but I am asking this. If you feel like you have no control of what you do, then you are just another cog in their machine. You are doing their work for them. Take control of what you do, Mulder. Take responsibility for protecting your own life. I'll do what I have to, in order to keep you from destroying yourself through heedlessness, but I can't do it alone." Mulder looked at his feet, studying his shoes. "I'll try, Scully. That's all I can promise. I'll try." He wouldn't even meet her eyes when he said it, she observed. Maybe she had chosen the wrong moment to come to him. Maybe he was still too weak and disoriented to understand what she was trying to say. Shaking her head with a sad sigh, Scully finally let herself feel the pity she had ruthlessly crushed down in her need to lay reality out before him as baldly and coldly as she could. Quietly, she stood and approached her friend, hunkering down before him. "You're tired," she said with resignation. "Get some rest. We'll talk more when you're feeling better." He nodded, licking his dry lips again. "Okay." With infinite gentleness and care, she helped him lie back on the sofa/bed, and covered him with a blanket. Had it been a waste, coming here to talk to him? She didn't know. All she knew was she had had to try. Running a tender hand over his moist brow, Scully turned and silently left Mulder's apartment. * * * * * The clock on the mantle chimed four a.m. when Scully looked her second report of the evening. This one was much more evasive on the state of Mulder's mental condition, without the implication that he might be a danger to himself or others. This was the one she would turn in to Skinner and those above him. The other one she had written, she saved on her hard drive. A shiver rippled across her skin, raising goose-flesh on her arms. Mulder had to carry on, had to be safe to continue the work they had started when she no longer could. He had to find the answers, even if she didn't live to know what they were. And she would do anything, anything at all if she must, to make sure he did. Even if it meant becoming his enemy to save him from himself. The End Join the X-Files Relationshippers Mailing List! Send e-mail to majordomo@chaos.taylored.com with the following contents: subscribe xf-romantics Hope to see you there! * * * * * "I have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat." Rebecca West, 1913 "Feminism encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians." Rev. Pat Robertson, 1992 GOP Convention