Summary: Scully is faced with a difficult decision that willaffect both her future and Mulder's. Very depressing. Very, very depressing. I wanted to write something light- I really did- but it's been raining for a week, so I wrote this instead. Fits in between Demons and Gethsemane, but there are no Demons spoilers. All characters are the property of Chris Carter and his entourage. No copyright infringement intended. Please do not archive or distribute without my permission. This is for all the inhabitants of defer, especially Waldorf. (Okay, it's done, you can stop heckling me about it. You're giving me a headache. Could someone bring me some aspirin, please?) ZERO HOUR LilXPhile@aol.com 6/97 ------------------------------------------- . . . Every minute in that room felt like an hour. I remember footsteps, on the carpet in the hallway. Too many times they drew close, and I waited for the door to open, for someone to enter with that awful look on their face that says more than you need to hear. Too many times the footsteps passed by without stopping, and my heart would beat a little bit faster, and the room would be a little bit smaller. When the door did open, I was asleep. The doctor had to wake me to give me the news. - - - - - - - - - Mulder was watching her. Scully was sure of it. Every time she looked up, he was staring across the table at her, concern clouding his eyes. His gaze unnerved her. It was easier to avoid his usual questions than it was to avoid this stare, and she knew that if he continued to silently pressure her, she would give way and say more than she was ready to say. "Do you have to stare at me like that?" She hadn't intended to sound so harsh, but at least she had managed to break his gaze for a moment; long enough for her to regain her composure. He sighed. "You're not eating." "I'm not hungry." "You look pale. Do you feel all right?" "I'm fine." Her head hurt, but she wouldn't tell him that. He'd want her to go home, and right now she couldn't be so isolated. She had come to the restaurant to be around other people; when surrounded by life, death seemed further away. "Are you sure?" "Yes," she snapped. The word had barely left her lips when she felt something on her face, a thin crimson trickle, and she knew she had exposed her own lie. He was beside her in seconds. "Don't move," he said, picking up her napkin and sitting so that no one would have to see what had happened but him. "I'll do it," she said, but he shook his head, placing one hand on her shoulder. Gently, he began to wipe the blood away, and she made no protest, letting him finish. "That's most of it." He moved out of the way. "You might want to go clean up a bit, though." When she returned from the restroom, he had paid the bill and was waiting with her coat. The drive home was short. Many silent questions were asked, but none were answered. She changed out of her bloodstained blouse as soon as she entered the confines of her bedroom, throwing it in the trash and not in the laundry basket. The small stain on the left sleeve could have been easily removed, but the blouse itself reeked of death, a scent that would remain long after the stain was gone. Emerging from the bedroom, she was surprised to see Mulder on her couch. His eyes were on her instantly- he had been watching the door. "I thought you had left." He shook his head, standing. "I wanted to make sure you were okay." "I'm fine." She nodded, and tried to smile, but the control she had been fighting for all day slipped away, and she cried instead. She let him lead her to the couch, let him put an arm around her, because she knew he needed to feel like he was making a difference. The tears ended, and her heart began to pound. He would have to know now that something was very wrong, and he would want answers. "Scully? You okay?" "I thought that I could do this alone..." She drew a ragged breath, coughing a little. "But it's hard, Mulder." He pulled her closer. "I know." For a brief moment, she was safe with him. Too safe. Abruptly, she pushed him away. It couldn't go any further than that... she wouldn't let him further in, not now. Not yet. "Scully, what's wrong?" She had no choice but to answer. The words, poised on the tip of her tongue, would not leave her mouth. They wouldn't feel real, as long as no one knew but her. As soon as she spoke them, she would have to believe them, and she didn't want to believe. No one would have to know. No one would have to feel sorry for her. A foolish, selfish reason to keep silent, but it kept the truth within her. She swallowed. "Nothing," she mumbled. "Nothing's wrong... nothing that wasn't wrong before." He sighed, defeatedly. "You want me to help you... how? How can I help you, when you won't let me?" Every word burned a hole in her, in the thin excuse that hid her secret. "If you'd just tell me the truth when I ask for it, I could help you, but you make me drag it out of you every time... God, Scully, why torture yourself like that?" She remained sullenly silent. He was right, but she could not admit that. Not now, when foolish pride dictated what she said and did. "Look, maybe I'm not the one to be saying this. I mean, I never make it easy for you either. But Scully..." he lowered his voice. "... if something is wrong, I need to know." His frustration could mask the worry in his voice, but not in his eyes. To speak now would mean watching his face fall, watching him crumple under the weight of her words, and she wasn't sure if she could handle that. It was too soon- she herself had known for less than a day. She wanted to be in control when she told him, and that would be impossible now. More time, she needed more time, time to think, to understand. It was a decision made with her mind, and her heart protested every word. "It's nothing." The lie stung her throat, her face, her heart, and she turned away. To see him now would be unbearable. "Okay?" A long pause. "Yeah." She had expected him to be angry, had prepared herself for it, but the fire never came. His voice was empty, void of emotion. There was no irritation, no anger, no worry. Just empty, empty space, and with it the realization that she was the one to blame. The single word echoed in the darkened room, long after he had left her alone. And as it faded, it was replaced by a new word, one that asked a question she could not answer. Why? - - - - - - - - - . . . This disease has wreaked havoc on my mind, body, and soul, and I hate what I've become because of it. I hate the way it has changed my life and myself, dangling a thread of hope when I'm most desperate and then suddenly pulling it away. I hate the fact that it has control over me, and I cannot take back that control. I hate living with a gun to my head. I hate being restricted by myself. Most of all, I hate the feeling that sweeps over me in situations like the one I was in today with Mulder. I can accept condolences from almost anyone with dignity, without feeling anything, and walk away. The words no longer have meaning from anyone but him. When he speaks, there is guilt attached, and nothing I do or say can destroy that guilt. "Don't blame yourself", like any other repeated phrase, loses meaning quickly. "It's okay" is an out-and-out lie. "Don't worry" is asking for the impossible. I stood at a crossroads today, and chose the easy road. By doing so, I have set myself up to return to that same crossroads very soon, and the choice will be no less difficult. If I don't tell him then, he'll never have to say 'I'm sorry.' But I will. end Comments can be sent to lilxphile@aol.com...