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She knew this was a bad idea from the start, from when Mulder knelt down before her, his gun and her heart in her hands, and tried to make her laugh. That was the real sign of trouble, Scully thinks. He’s always used humor to cope, but usually his attempts are satire, not sincere. “Smile, Scully,” was a confession, an I’m-not-sure-if-I’m-coming-back. “Smile, Scully,” was a goodbye.
Don’t go , she wanted to beg, but they weren’t alone, and even if they had been, he would never have let her be so selfish.
She’s certainly begging now.
In hindsight, she’s not sure why she didn’t just tackle Modell the minute she got in the room. It’s as though he is Medusa, or the sight of Mulder, dead-eyed and soaked in sweat and holding a little silver Sig, is, and she is stone-frozen in place. She wants to scream, but the sound catches in her throat until Mulder raises the gun to his head without so much as a pause, and the “NO!” that tears out of her burns her chest.
And then—
God, and then—
And then she is staring down the barrel of the gun at eyes, pistol-grey with terror, begging her to run, but it is not her own brain that she imagines painting the walls.
“Shoot the little spy!” Modell goads, and Mulder’s labored breathing is in her ears, and as she catches sight of what could be their salvation in the mirror, she sends up a prayer to whoever may be listening. No time for frills; it’s a simple one, a single word. Please .
When it’s all over, they treat Modell for a gunshot wound to the lung and Mulder for shock. He pulls the ratty brown blanket tighter around his shoulders and shivers.
There will be an OPR hearing about this, Scully thinks, although technically Mulder didn’t use lethal force, as Modell is still wasting away in his hospital bed. She’ll provide whatever testimony she needs to (he was crazy, he’d already killed three federal agents and we were next), though God knows how she’s going to explain to them the scientific nature of the whammy.
For a moment, she allows her mind to flit to the erratic beeping signifying Modell’s continued, hollow life. No matter who you are, what you've done, a brain tumor is a horrible way to die.
She retreats to bed as soon as she gets home, expecting to be out like a light the minute her cheek hits the pillow. Instead, every time she closes her eyes, she watches Mulder raise the muzzle to his own head.
A floorboard in the bathroom creaks, just like old apartments should. Would you say your hair is normal or dry?
Get out of my head , she thinks fiercely, and for the first time she can remember, Pfaster raises his hands and slinks out of her subconscious. Today is not about you .
The clock has hit eleven by the time she admits defeat and crawls out of bed, dragging the comforter along with her. The overhead in the living room gives her a headache almost immediately, so she switches to a lamp and riffles through her VHS drawer in the amber glow. The Princess Bride was a guilty favorite of hers from late-night med school studying. More importantly, it doesn’t have any guns.
The telephone glares at her across the room, and her fingers itch to grab the receiver and dial those seven numbers, just to make sure he’s okay. Just to hear his voice, each raspy syllable proof that his brilliant brain is still inside his head.
Instead, she pops the tape in the machine and settles into the couch.
Payback time. Shoot the little spy. Payback time. Shoot the little spy. Damn you, you bastard, Mulder, hand me the—
Click. Click.
Bang.
Scully jerks awake, the comforter knotted around her legs. The marching red lines on the endtable clock read 11:23; she must have just been dozing. On the TV, Fezzik cracks a joke about peanuts.
Bangbangbang.
She doesn’t bother to check the peephole, because there’s only one person it would ever be. Sure enough, when the door swings open, Mulder is there, with plaid pajama pants and a wild look in his eyes.
He doesn’t say anything, and neither does she, but she grabs his hand and tugs him into the living room.
Vizzini warns Buttercup that the ocean is full of shrieking eels, but she stays in the water anyway, floundering in the great dark unknown. Mulder slots behind Scully on the couch, his arm hovering over her side until she tangles their fingers together and brings their hands to her chest.
She should have called. She should have known that he needed her just as much as she needed him. He always has.
He’s always been braver than her too.
They breathe together, in and out, for so long that her eyes start to flicker closed of their own accord. She thinks he must be asleep too, until he says, voice creaky with disuse, “Can you forgive me?”
She’s suddenly wide awake. “Forgive you? Mulder, what—”
“I could’ve killed you,” he whispers, and the last word wobbles, nearly cracks. “I almost did.”
“Mulder.” Scully drops his hand and rolls over to look at him. He’s trembling, she realizes, eyes focusing on anything but her, and she tilts his gaze towards her with two fingers to his chin. You almost killed yourself, she wants to say, to smack his chest and wail. How could you? “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I—” She watches him swallow. “I don’t know what I’d do. If I… if you were gone.”
Her eyes burn with unshed tears, and she blinks them away. She wants to tell him that he’ll never have to find out, that she’ll never, ever leave, but they both know that in this line of business, with dead sisters and fathers haunting their every step, that could easily be a lie.
Instead, amazed at her own daring, she kisses his temple before turning back towards the TV and drawing his arms around her. Westley tells Buttercup that death cannot stop true love. Mulder buries his face in her shoulder.
The last thought that crosses her hazy mind, as she finally succumbs to sleep, is that her apartment must be very dry. The back of her throat tastes like blood.