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maidenjediJust about the only MSR I think I wrote during the "desert years."
Takes places after season 5's "Kitsunegari" (which wasn't as good as "Pusher," but is still one of my personal most-rewatchable episodes).
I wrote this in 2007, during an ice storm.
A Hundred Battles
Sooner or later the enemy catches up.
He would have nightmares about the blood.
Having it on his hands, watching it pool around her lifeless body.
Once he'd had those dreams with no point of reference. He'd seen the gun, and dreamt of the bullet flying towards her instead of at Modell. He'd seen the blood splash the wall and pool on the floor, and some of it would end up on him, on his hands.
Linda Bowman had made him see more. She made it happen.
"Mulder, it's me. It's Scully!"
Said in a voice he was never entirely sure was really hers.
Scully was dead on the floor of that warehouse.
Even when she was standing right in front of him.
---
Didn't die, Mulder. Still here, Mulder.
She tried to get that message through to him like she had so many times before. Her first day back after her cancer had gone into remission, he'd looked up almost fearfully when she walked in.
Not your fault, Mulder.
Except it was. She'd told him so. He never let her take things back. He never let things go so easily.
They gave me this cancer....
But it was gone, and she was alive, and would that fearful, haunted look ever leave his eyes?
She wondered what he'd seen in the warehouse, because he wouldn't tell her. Just that she'd been dead. Dead and it was his fault.
Damn it, Mulder!
She gave their report to Skinner and felt the weight of what went unspoken.
---
Blood on his hands.
He tried wiping them on his pants without her seeing. He focused on her face, tried to decipher what it was she was saying.
"Mulder, there's been a report of unexplained deaths in the town of...."
Town of where?
"The local police think it may have been ritual suicide, but there's an aspect that warrants investigation...."
Suicide. Like a gun pointed to her head.
"Now, it could just be the pattern of the cuts is coincedence, but it could also have a cult significance...."
He should have been elated, hearing Scully say "cult" and take it seriously. He
couldn't follow what she was saying, though, he was only getting pieces of it. She
was trying to interest him in a case, that much he figured.
"I don't think there's an x-file here."
He said it to buy time, to get away (from her) for the weekend. He needed to clear his head.
He needed to not see (her) blood anytime soon.
She looked taken aback. "Mulder, the symbols left on the bodies? The blood? The..."
Blood.
He cut her off. "Scully, I think the p.d. can handle it. This isn't up our alley."
He walked out of the office and left her staring at nothing.
---
Scully stayed in the office and put the file away. He was right, it was no x-file, in fact it was probably just a ritual group suicide that the V.C. could handle. But she needed to get to him, needed to see if she could get him to talk.
Short of that, she wanted him working on something new.
There wasn't much chance of that now.
She sighed and sat down at the desk, defeated. The weekend was looming; she could probably spend it working on another monograph, maybe head down to Quantico and get some research done. She toyed with the idea of skipping work altogether and seeing her mother, something she hadn't done much of since Christmas, what with the renewed workload and her own reluctance to deal with pitying glances and overbearing care.
She could just do what other single women did, go to a bar and pick up a guy, have a few drinks. That last thought brought a twisted, wry grin to her face.
She would probably spend the weekend worrying over Mulder and not sleeping.
He was blaming himself for something. Skinner had told her, Mulder had acted guilty, as though Linda Bowman's actions were his fault. It was nothing new, really; he'd done this after so many cases, and after Modell in particular.
Was it what he'd seen?
Scully picked a pencil up off the desk. Played with it. Put it back down.
What had he seen, anyway?
---
He had to stop doing this. She was going to think he was crazy.
Maybe he was.
He let himself into her apartment. It was after dark, but she wasn't home yet. She'd probably gone to Quantico. He knew she sometimes did that on Friday nights when they weren't on a case.
He didn't turn on the lights; he knew the way to her bedroom.
He had to stifle a loud "ouch!" She must have moved the table since he'd been here last.
He sat down in the armchair in the corner and laid his head back. He could probably sleep here for awhile. It had been awhile since he'd done this, come here to sleep or to wait for her to come home. It had been since her cancer, at least.
Scott Ostelhoff and blood all over his apartment floor.
Cancer.
Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about running into the bathroom to wash off more blood.
---
She hated when he did that.
"Jesus, Mulder!"
He was sitting in the dark in her bedroom. Again.
"I thought we talked about this. You need to see me, you call me, and we meet up, or you come over. But you warn me first!"
He didn't say anything. He just nodded.
He didn't look at her.
"Mulder, is everything okay?"
He shrugged. "When has it ever been?"
Scully sighed. She would have to be blunt, and she knew he'd probably take it wrong and leave in a huff. "Mulder, it's late, it's Friday night, and we've been working yet another terrible case. Stop being cryptic and just tell me what's going on."
He didn't move. Didn't so much as blink.
Something was seriously off.
"Scully, I just...I need to wash my hands."
He got up and went into the bathroom. Locked the door.
"Mulder?" She went to the door.
"Just a minute." The sound of running water, of splashing.
It was more than a minute. After five, she knocked.
"Mulder, I think..."
"Just a minute, Scully."
After another seven minutes, she raised her hand to knock and possibly bust down the door, but he opened it.
His hands were raw. So raw that a trace of blood marred his left palm.
"Mulder, what's going on?" She reached for his hand and he pulled back, backed away three steps into the bathroom. She braced her arm against the door as he tried to shut it.
"Scully, I can't."
"Mulder, you have to." She reached for his hand again and this time he let her. He drew in a breath as she looked at the abrasion.
"Nothing serious. But let me disinfect it at least."
She opened the cabinet above the sink and got out some Bactine. She sprayed his hand and he drew in another sharp breath.
"What's happening, Mulder? You were fine. You said you were fine."
"You were dead, Scully." His voice was so flat, so much more monotonous than usual.
She looked up into his eyes. "But I'm not dead, Mulder. I'm here, I'm alive." She
took his other hand and they stood there, holding hands and looking at each other.
He broke the silence first.
"Are you, Scully? How do I know? I held you on that floor and I felt...your blood on my hands."
His voice faded and cracked, his eyes welled up with tears.
"My blood is not on your hands, Mulder. Look at them." She moved her hands in his, facing his palms upwards.
He pushed past her, back into the bedroom. He paced, not looking at her again.
"My fault, Scully. Don't you get it? Always. Linda Bowman, your cancer, Modell. So many other times in so many other places. I'm going to get you killed for real one day. The gods aren't going to smile on us forever."
His voice was disturbingly calm.
"A hundred battles, Scully. Sooner or later the enemy catches up."
She watched him sit down on the bed, place his head in his hands.
She went to him, stood in front of him. "Not yet."
---
He didn't look up at her, just stared at her shoes.
She was right about that, he supposed. They hadn't won yet, whoever it was "they" were, whoever it was that continually conspired to separate them, to kill one of them off and leave the other standing, mourning, and blaming himself.
He never did think about the times she'd thought him dead. That wasn't the same.
"I pointed that gun at you, Scully. This time and last time."
He was shocked when she laughed.
"I've pointed a gun at you, Mulder. I actually shot you, too."
He shook his head. "Not the same."
She knelt down and looked up at him. "No, it wasn't."
"I saw you dead, Scully, I saw you shot and bleeding."
"I figured that much. What else?"
How could he tell her he'd held her, felt the life leave her body?
"Okay, Mulder. Okay."
She reached up for his hands again. He pulled her up off the ground, and looked up at her this time.
"I held you, Scully. You were dead."
She touched his face.
He felt braver.
"A hundred battles, Mulder. They haven't won."
She kissed him.
---
It amazed her that it was so easy.
It amazed her more that she'd never thought to do it before.
"I'm here, Mulder. I'm alive," she whispered as she broke the kiss.
He didn't say anything, but put his arms around her and laid his head on her chest. She stroked his hair. His grip tightened.
"Scully, she'd done it. She did what everyone else failed to do. She took you from me and she let me think it was my fault."
"Shhh."
She pulled away and sat down on the bed next to him, taking his hand.
"Mulder, you can't think like that. You didn't do it."
"They gave you cancer, Scully, to make me believe. You were right about that. When you were in that hospital, I kept thinking, what could I have done differently, how could I have saved you? The answer was nothing. Because it was my fault you were sick. And I listened to Modell once. I let him in. I let Linda Bowman in. Your blood...." The tears that had threatened spilled over.
"Still here, Mulder. Shhhh."
He shook his head. "For how long?"
She touched his chin, made him look at her. "For as long as you need me."
He kissed her this time. Soft. Apologetic. Like maybe it wasn't okay and he was expecting repercussions.
She just kissed him back.
---
Kissing Scully.
Kissing his partner.
He'd gone from thinking he'd never sleep to wondering why he would want to.
Miss this? Are you kidding?
So glad he'd come here tonight.
Still not sure about all of it. She wanted him to believe.
He concentrated on her body, on her live, breathing, warm body. He didn't think about anything but that.
Mulder was good at that. Concentrating.
She breathed his name and he took it as encouragement. She had so many ways of saying his name, as an admonishment, to express her disbelief or disappointment, sometimes her relief, her trust.
He kissed her lips again, and left his hands on her body, let them act of their own accord, follow a path seemingly designed for him, for tonight.
When he did sleep, it was with her in his arms, and he did not think he would have nightmares.
How could he, with her there to ward them off, a kind of Scully-shaped talisman?
---
In the dream, she was on the floor in a pool of blood and all he could do was stare and yell for help.
Not a dream. It had happened.
He woke up to her whispering that it was just a dream, and she was alive and here and it would be okay, Mulder, it would be okay.
Would it?
Kitsunegari. Fox hunt. He felt trapped and left for dead.
He let her try and soothe him, he tested his newfound freedom to kiss her, she cooed and settled back into his embrace. She talked to him, and he let her believe he was sleeping peacefully.
And come Monday morning, they would find routine and they wouldn't talk about it, any of it, but if he got scared he would touch her hand or the small of her back, and she would notice and let him walk her places. She would call him when she got home.
A hundred battles. More.
Until someone won. Until there was blood.
Again.
--
A/N: I once sold my soul for a cerulean blue crayon.
Kitsunegari is one of my favorite words.
This is what happens on weekends when the whole world is frozen over and you run out of things to read or watch. You go back to what's familiar.
Takes places after season 5's "Kitsunegari" (which wasn't as good as "Pusher," but is still one of my personal most-rewatchable episodes).
I wrote this in 2007, during an ice storm.
A Hundred Battles
Sooner or later the enemy catches up.
He would have nightmares about the blood.
Having it on his hands, watching it pool around her lifeless body.
Once he'd had those dreams with no point of reference. He'd seen the gun, and dreamt of the bullet flying towards her instead of at Modell. He'd seen the blood splash the wall and pool on the floor, and some of it would end up on him, on his hands.
Linda Bowman had made him see more. She made it happen.
"Mulder, it's me. It's Scully!"
Said in a voice he was never entirely sure was really hers.
Scully was dead on the floor of that warehouse.
Even when she was standing right in front of him.
---
Didn't die, Mulder. Still here, Mulder.
She tried to get that message through to him like she had so many times before. Her first day back after her cancer had gone into remission, he'd looked up almost fearfully when she walked in.
Not your fault, Mulder.
Except it was. She'd told him so. He never let her take things back. He never let things go so easily.
They gave me this cancer....
But it was gone, and she was alive, and would that fearful, haunted look ever leave his eyes?
She wondered what he'd seen in the warehouse, because he wouldn't tell her. Just that she'd been dead. Dead and it was his fault.
Damn it, Mulder!
She gave their report to Skinner and felt the weight of what went unspoken.
---
Blood on his hands.
He tried wiping them on his pants without her seeing. He focused on her face, tried to decipher what it was she was saying.
"Mulder, there's been a report of unexplained deaths in the town of...."
Town of where?
"The local police think it may have been ritual suicide, but there's an aspect that warrants investigation...."
Suicide. Like a gun pointed to her head.
"Now, it could just be the pattern of the cuts is coincedence, but it could also have a cult significance...."
He should have been elated, hearing Scully say "cult" and take it seriously. He
couldn't follow what she was saying, though, he was only getting pieces of it. She
was trying to interest him in a case, that much he figured.
"I don't think there's an x-file here."
He said it to buy time, to get away (from her) for the weekend. He needed to clear his head.
He needed to not see (her) blood anytime soon.
She looked taken aback. "Mulder, the symbols left on the bodies? The blood? The..."
Blood.
He cut her off. "Scully, I think the p.d. can handle it. This isn't up our alley."
He walked out of the office and left her staring at nothing.
---
Scully stayed in the office and put the file away. He was right, it was no x-file, in fact it was probably just a ritual group suicide that the V.C. could handle. But she needed to get to him, needed to see if she could get him to talk.
Short of that, she wanted him working on something new.
There wasn't much chance of that now.
She sighed and sat down at the desk, defeated. The weekend was looming; she could probably spend it working on another monograph, maybe head down to Quantico and get some research done. She toyed with the idea of skipping work altogether and seeing her mother, something she hadn't done much of since Christmas, what with the renewed workload and her own reluctance to deal with pitying glances and overbearing care.
She could just do what other single women did, go to a bar and pick up a guy, have a few drinks. That last thought brought a twisted, wry grin to her face.
She would probably spend the weekend worrying over Mulder and not sleeping.
He was blaming himself for something. Skinner had told her, Mulder had acted guilty, as though Linda Bowman's actions were his fault. It was nothing new, really; he'd done this after so many cases, and after Modell in particular.
Was it what he'd seen?
Scully picked a pencil up off the desk. Played with it. Put it back down.
What had he seen, anyway?
---
He had to stop doing this. She was going to think he was crazy.
Maybe he was.
He let himself into her apartment. It was after dark, but she wasn't home yet. She'd probably gone to Quantico. He knew she sometimes did that on Friday nights when they weren't on a case.
He didn't turn on the lights; he knew the way to her bedroom.
He had to stifle a loud "ouch!" She must have moved the table since he'd been here last.
He sat down in the armchair in the corner and laid his head back. He could probably sleep here for awhile. It had been awhile since he'd done this, come here to sleep or to wait for her to come home. It had been since her cancer, at least.
Scott Ostelhoff and blood all over his apartment floor.
Cancer.
Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about running into the bathroom to wash off more blood.
---
She hated when he did that.
"Jesus, Mulder!"
He was sitting in the dark in her bedroom. Again.
"I thought we talked about this. You need to see me, you call me, and we meet up, or you come over. But you warn me first!"
He didn't say anything. He just nodded.
He didn't look at her.
"Mulder, is everything okay?"
He shrugged. "When has it ever been?"
Scully sighed. She would have to be blunt, and she knew he'd probably take it wrong and leave in a huff. "Mulder, it's late, it's Friday night, and we've been working yet another terrible case. Stop being cryptic and just tell me what's going on."
He didn't move. Didn't so much as blink.
Something was seriously off.
"Scully, I just...I need to wash my hands."
He got up and went into the bathroom. Locked the door.
"Mulder?" She went to the door.
"Just a minute." The sound of running water, of splashing.
It was more than a minute. After five, she knocked.
"Mulder, I think..."
"Just a minute, Scully."
After another seven minutes, she raised her hand to knock and possibly bust down the door, but he opened it.
His hands were raw. So raw that a trace of blood marred his left palm.
"Mulder, what's going on?" She reached for his hand and he pulled back, backed away three steps into the bathroom. She braced her arm against the door as he tried to shut it.
"Scully, I can't."
"Mulder, you have to." She reached for his hand again and this time he let her. He drew in a breath as she looked at the abrasion.
"Nothing serious. But let me disinfect it at least."
She opened the cabinet above the sink and got out some Bactine. She sprayed his hand and he drew in another sharp breath.
"What's happening, Mulder? You were fine. You said you were fine."
"You were dead, Scully." His voice was so flat, so much more monotonous than usual.
She looked up into his eyes. "But I'm not dead, Mulder. I'm here, I'm alive." She
took his other hand and they stood there, holding hands and looking at each other.
He broke the silence first.
"Are you, Scully? How do I know? I held you on that floor and I felt...your blood on my hands."
His voice faded and cracked, his eyes welled up with tears.
"My blood is not on your hands, Mulder. Look at them." She moved her hands in his, facing his palms upwards.
He pushed past her, back into the bedroom. He paced, not looking at her again.
"My fault, Scully. Don't you get it? Always. Linda Bowman, your cancer, Modell. So many other times in so many other places. I'm going to get you killed for real one day. The gods aren't going to smile on us forever."
His voice was disturbingly calm.
"A hundred battles, Scully. Sooner or later the enemy catches up."
She watched him sit down on the bed, place his head in his hands.
She went to him, stood in front of him. "Not yet."
---
He didn't look up at her, just stared at her shoes.
She was right about that, he supposed. They hadn't won yet, whoever it was "they" were, whoever it was that continually conspired to separate them, to kill one of them off and leave the other standing, mourning, and blaming himself.
He never did think about the times she'd thought him dead. That wasn't the same.
"I pointed that gun at you, Scully. This time and last time."
He was shocked when she laughed.
"I've pointed a gun at you, Mulder. I actually shot you, too."
He shook his head. "Not the same."
She knelt down and looked up at him. "No, it wasn't."
"I saw you dead, Scully, I saw you shot and bleeding."
"I figured that much. What else?"
How could he tell her he'd held her, felt the life leave her body?
"Okay, Mulder. Okay."
She reached up for his hands again. He pulled her up off the ground, and looked up at her this time.
"I held you, Scully. You were dead."
She touched his face.
He felt braver.
"A hundred battles, Mulder. They haven't won."
She kissed him.
---
It amazed her that it was so easy.
It amazed her more that she'd never thought to do it before.
"I'm here, Mulder. I'm alive," she whispered as she broke the kiss.
He didn't say anything, but put his arms around her and laid his head on her chest. She stroked his hair. His grip tightened.
"Scully, she'd done it. She did what everyone else failed to do. She took you from me and she let me think it was my fault."
"Shhh."
She pulled away and sat down on the bed next to him, taking his hand.
"Mulder, you can't think like that. You didn't do it."
"They gave you cancer, Scully, to make me believe. You were right about that. When you were in that hospital, I kept thinking, what could I have done differently, how could I have saved you? The answer was nothing. Because it was my fault you were sick. And I listened to Modell once. I let him in. I let Linda Bowman in. Your blood...." The tears that had threatened spilled over.
"Still here, Mulder. Shhhh."
He shook his head. "For how long?"
She touched his chin, made him look at her. "For as long as you need me."
He kissed her this time. Soft. Apologetic. Like maybe it wasn't okay and he was expecting repercussions.
She just kissed him back.
---
Kissing Scully.
Kissing his partner.
He'd gone from thinking he'd never sleep to wondering why he would want to.
Miss this? Are you kidding?
So glad he'd come here tonight.
Still not sure about all of it. She wanted him to believe.
He concentrated on her body, on her live, breathing, warm body. He didn't think about anything but that.
Mulder was good at that. Concentrating.
She breathed his name and he took it as encouragement. She had so many ways of saying his name, as an admonishment, to express her disbelief or disappointment, sometimes her relief, her trust.
He kissed her lips again, and left his hands on her body, let them act of their own accord, follow a path seemingly designed for him, for tonight.
When he did sleep, it was with her in his arms, and he did not think he would have nightmares.
How could he, with her there to ward them off, a kind of Scully-shaped talisman?
---
In the dream, she was on the floor in a pool of blood and all he could do was stare and yell for help.
Not a dream. It had happened.
He woke up to her whispering that it was just a dream, and she was alive and here and it would be okay, Mulder, it would be okay.
Would it?
Kitsunegari. Fox hunt. He felt trapped and left for dead.
He let her try and soothe him, he tested his newfound freedom to kiss her, she cooed and settled back into his embrace. She talked to him, and he let her believe he was sleeping peacefully.
And come Monday morning, they would find routine and they wouldn't talk about it, any of it, but if he got scared he would touch her hand or the small of her back, and she would notice and let him walk her places. She would call him when she got home.
A hundred battles. More.
Until someone won. Until there was blood.
Again.
--
A/N: I once sold my soul for a cerulean blue crayon.
Kitsunegari is one of my favorite words.
This is what happens on weekends when the whole world is frozen over and you run out of things to read or watch. You go back to what's familiar.
