It's inevitable, this question. He's been waiting for it since she came here and realized just how much had changed: that they'd been together, and that they weren't now. The sheer impossibility of that has clearly eaten at her.
And yet, he hasn't come up with a way to say it. What happened is everything and nothing, too earthshaking to be contained. More importantly, he hasn't wanted to think about it, and so he hasn't. She'll hear it, and she'll understand herself, and maybe that'll get her home - and he'll be alone again.
The best he can do, after a pause, is, "I drove you off."
It's not much of an answer, and maybe it's what she expected. Which is to say she's incredibly suspicious of it; she can't imagine she was that easy to get rid of. (Or maybe she doesn't want to imagine it. It's hard not to blame herself in her own absence.)
She puts her palm on his chest, hoping the contact is some encouragement.
Any touch is an encouragement for Mulder; she might even know it already. This is a story he doesn't want to have to tell, but he knows he has to - she's owed that much, at least.
Mulder lets her go, waiting for her to lift her head and gesturing with his eyes toward the rest of the bed. He doesn't expect a complaint if he crawls under the covers, stretching out with a notion of pulling her into a clinging embrace. He'll tell her there, lying down with her head resting against his shoulder.
It's not a story she particularly wants to hear, either; but she needs to, somehow.
She catches his drift pretty quickly and follows his lead; the blankets' warmth is welcome, and she could care less about getting the sheets damp. She fits herself against him, head on his shoulder, arm across his chest; perfectly placed to be clung to.
It feels, more than anything, right. She needs to understand how she could possibly give this up.
This is the best way to tell it, pulling blankets around them, stroking her hair as he finds the words to explain the unexplainable. How things could fall apart, how much of it is his fault.
Mulder stares up at the ceiling, letting himself luxuriate in her nearness for what might be the last time. "When we settled down - got the house, got your hospital job - I didn't...start working again. It was fine at first...but that changed."
The only way he can find to tell this story is by stating the facts. There's a weariness, bone-deep, that keeps him from trying to explain himself. What could he say? I've been doing things, you just didn't understand. She did, though, and that was half the problem.
"Our lives were too small." That's the only way he can think of it. After all their travels, they contracted into such a small space - and maybe it was too small. You needed more than I could give you, and I couldn't change fast enough to keep you."
This is a strange situation, eyewitness testimony of her own as-yet unimagined behavior. The thing is, she trusts Mulder so inherently; she wants to believe him. And in that way it's easy to make herself the villain-- you're the one who left. But there are missing pieces-- only the smallest of which is that she knows herself, or would like to think she knows herself. There's the lost children-- a great many relationships don't survive that. But it doesn't feel like an explanation.
"You're saying I left because you weren't working?" she hazards, the disbelief evident in her voice. It doesn't sound like her.
"Endogenous depression," he says quietly. Even the words sound sad - limp and self-important. "Long-term major depressive disorder without a clear external factor."
Which is to say, it's just your brain, Mulder. Whirring along like things are fine until there's no crisis to handle, no world to save. He's a wind-up toy walking into a wall, unable to stop until the crank runs out.
"You couldn't take it anymore - and I can't say I couldn't blame you, because I did. But I know it..." He's trying so hard to be fair. "It hasn't been easy for you."
That makes a little more sense. She thinks of his house-- the clutter, the half-forgotten piles of laundry. At the time her working theory had been that he'd fallen into a slump-- understandably-- after being abandoned, but maybe it's not so simple. Chicken and egg.
She'd like to think she wouldn't just walk out on him, but the hopes of that have thinned. She's still defensively angry-- at herself, at a self she isn't yet. May not ever get to be.
"Treatment resistant?" she guesses, because it feels like she has to say something; it's reflexive and diagnostic, her mind falling back on the science of it because she has no idea where else to go.
"Always has been," he says dryly. "Think about the symptoms, Scully: Sleep disturbances, mood swings, inconsistent severity, neurotic thinking. It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you, but that doesn't mean it's not something."
Which is to say, he believes something's wrong with him - finally, after much argument and cajoling on a different, older Scully's part - but it's always felt like a manageable problem. A little vice, almost, the thing pushing him to work endlessly and stay awake at all hours. Depression as indulgence, his work the only refuge from the void.
"I take medication," he adds, after a moment or two, since it seems likely what treatments, how, when are the next questions. "I used to see someone. It just wasn't enough to save us."
Okay, she makes some attempt to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Mulder might not really blame her-- not her, but her later self-- but Dana Scully is young, and her temper can cover them both.
Mulder hesitates, torn between the desire to hear Scully on his side for once and the desire to protect her own good name. The silence probably answers her implied question for her, his hand moving endlessly through her damp hair, but still he has to make himself speak.
"You tried, Scully." She deserves the credit she's not getting; he knows he's become a beast to live with, that if she could have stayed, she would have. It just feels inevitable, in retrospect, that he'd chase her off. Nothing and no one stays for Fox Mulder. The best-case scenario is that he'll lose what he loves due to others' machinations, or worse, to fate; the worst-case scenario is this one, in which there's some fatal flaw in him that ruins everything. "You tried for years."
Even so, it seems impossible to her. In this moment-- maybe that's the problem, though; all of this is too new. An unimaginable future full of promise must look different from the other side, weighted with grief and all too aware of the entropy of depression.
Still, she thinks, stubborn and-- as always-- harder on herself than anyone else, I shouldn't have left him like this.
She doesn't know what to say, so she curls in tighter against him-- as if holding him close now might make up the difference.
He'll take it, even as he's painfully aware he doesn't deserve the comfort. Scully here, holding him like he's blameless, like there's still reason to love him, even knowing what it'll cost her - he buries his face in her hair and tells himself he needs to get her home before his selfishness kills her.
But he doesn't move.
Eventually, he murmurs, "You deserved so much more than I could give you, Scully. Don't blame yourself."
As far as she's concerned, he deserves everything she can give him-- what little that is, for what little time they might have. Either way, he's going to lose her-- to the past or to the future.
"I'll blame myself if I want," she murmurs, quiet but defiant. "She can handle it."
She kisses his shoulder aimlessly.
"Do you think there's anything that could have made a difference?"
"Probably." What, he's not sure. He could have done dozens of things differently, he knows - but if they'd change anything, he couldn't say.
He can come up with something, though, the decision that haunts him more than any other. "After...William was born...I left the two of you alone. We thought it was for the best - that the government would leave you alone, too. Too busy chasing after me, while you raised the baby and went on with your life. Once it was safe, I'd come home."
He has to take a breath or two before he can continue. "By that point, you'd already given him up for adoption. If I had stayed - or I'd brought you two with me..."
That, she thinks, makes it her fault again-- if she's the one who sent their son away, if that's what broke them, a slow-motion collapse that led to his empty house and this soulless condo.
And she knows, if she really did-- she must have had a good reason. It sounds impossible; the idea is like a fist around her heart, squeezing every time she thinks of it. Maybe she deserves more blame than Mulder can stand to let her carry.
"I can't imagine what that was like-- for either of us." At least she would have had some sense of it; some understanding of why. For him--
"Horrible." It comes out a whisper, the weight of William's absence pushing the word out from his lungs. And his fault, ultimately. He'd wanted to spare her, wanted her to have comfort and family and the time necessary to love their son the way he deserved - and he'd abandoned her to the wolves. "Worse for you than for me. You were brave, Scully - it took courage to give him a chance to grow up somewhere safe. But I don't think you've ever forgiven yourself."
And why should she? He's never found a way to forgive his own actions, the mistaken beliefs that - in retrospect - feel like cowardice. Was he really leading the Cigarette-Smoking Man's people on a merry chase? Or was he running from the true weight of fatherhood, trying to have his cake and eat it, too? You're mine, but I can't give up the fight to protect you. I can't stop picking at the truth for you.
It's all he knew how to do, and all he knows now, and no sane person could blame Scully for wanting something different.
"He was your son, Scully." Explaining it is bleak, a kind of misery here never expected. Having to admit to Scully all the ways in which he'll fail, having to convince her that they really were failures, is cracking his heart open to a loss that's only grown deeper since he last looked at it head-on. He feels like he's staring into a lake, looking for a bottom that isn't there. "You carried him and raised him - and you had to make that call, knowing what it would cost you. I... wasn't as involved."
"He's our son." Never doubt her stubbornness; she's enchanted with the idea even as it terrifies her, knowing all the grief it carries. The two of them having a baby.
"You can't tell me you wouldn't have wanted a say."
"I gave up my right to have a say when I abandoned you." The words are bitter in his mouth. "I was there long enough for you to tell me his name - and then I left you both. What I wanted doesn't matter."
"I don't think I believe that. I don't think I would have believed that. Mulder-- if you left, it must have been the same as when I..." She stops, takes a sharp, wavering breath. "When I sent him away. You wouldn't have done it if you thought you had a choice."
She doesn't know any of the context-- but she feels certain of that much.
"I thought so, at the time." He'd been so sure it was the right choice. That it meant he wasn't taking Scully away from the life she deserved: a normal one, filled with family and friends and the joy of their son.
And what was the alternative? Squatting in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, out of reach of help if William got sick? Trapped, if they ended up surrounded, Ruby Ridge style? Whatever their family was worth, he was sure his presence would only choke it off before it had time to grow - but it ended up being his absence that did that.
He feels that familiar weight in his chest, a rock taking up the space he's supposed to be using to breathe. "I never should have left you. How could I blame you later, leaving me?"
He kisses her head again, there in the bed that will belong to her alone someday, and gives her a little squeeze.
"You don't have to like it. I don't, either." Understatement of the year. At times, it feels like he's on the verge of his own death when he thinks of it. "But when we get you home...maybe it'll be different for you."
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And yet, he hasn't come up with a way to say it. What happened is everything and nothing, too earthshaking to be contained. More importantly, he hasn't wanted to think about it, and so he hasn't. She'll hear it, and she'll understand herself, and maybe that'll get her home - and he'll be alone again.
The best he can do, after a pause, is, "I drove you off."
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She puts her palm on his chest, hoping the contact is some encouragement.
"How?"
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Mulder lets her go, waiting for her to lift her head and gesturing with his eyes toward the rest of the bed. He doesn't expect a complaint if he crawls under the covers, stretching out with a notion of pulling her into a clinging embrace. He'll tell her there, lying down with her head resting against his shoulder.
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She catches his drift pretty quickly and follows his lead; the blankets' warmth is welcome, and she could care less about getting the sheets damp. She fits herself against him, head on his shoulder, arm across his chest; perfectly placed to be clung to.
It feels, more than anything, right. She needs to understand how she could possibly give this up.
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Mulder stares up at the ceiling, letting himself luxuriate in her nearness for what might be the last time. "When we settled down - got the house, got your hospital job - I didn't...start working again. It was fine at first...but that changed."
The only way he can find to tell this story is by stating the facts. There's a weariness, bone-deep, that keeps him from trying to explain himself. What could he say? I've been doing things, you just didn't understand. She did, though, and that was half the problem.
"Our lives were too small." That's the only way he can think of it. After all their travels, they contracted into such a small space - and maybe it was too small. You needed more than I could give you, and I couldn't change fast enough to keep you."
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"You're saying I left because you weren't working?" she hazards, the disbelief evident in her voice. It doesn't sound like her.
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Which is to say, it's just your brain, Mulder. Whirring along like things are fine until there's no crisis to handle, no world to save. He's a wind-up toy walking into a wall, unable to stop until the crank runs out.
"You couldn't take it anymore - and I can't say I couldn't blame you, because I did. But I know it..." He's trying so hard to be fair. "It hasn't been easy for you."
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She'd like to think she wouldn't just walk out on him, but the hopes of that have thinned. She's still defensively angry-- at herself, at a self she isn't yet. May not ever get to be.
"Treatment resistant?" she guesses, because it feels like she has to say something; it's reflexive and diagnostic, her mind falling back on the science of it because she has no idea where else to go.
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Which is to say, he believes something's wrong with him - finally, after much argument and cajoling on a different, older Scully's part - but it's always felt like a manageable problem. A little vice, almost, the thing pushing him to work endlessly and stay awake at all hours. Depression as indulgence, his work the only refuge from the void.
"I take medication," he adds, after a moment or two, since it seems likely what treatments, how, when are the next questions. "I used to see someone. It just wasn't enough to save us."
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"And I just. Left."
Okay, she makes some attempt to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Mulder might not really blame her-- not her, but her later self-- but Dana Scully is young, and her temper can cover them both.
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"You tried, Scully." She deserves the credit she's not getting; he knows he's become a beast to live with, that if she could have stayed, she would have. It just feels inevitable, in retrospect, that he'd chase her off. Nothing and no one stays for Fox Mulder. The best-case scenario is that he'll lose what he loves due to others' machinations, or worse, to fate; the worst-case scenario is this one, in which there's some fatal flaw in him that ruins everything. "You tried for years."
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Still, she thinks, stubborn and-- as always-- harder on herself than anyone else, I shouldn't have left him like this.
She doesn't know what to say, so she curls in tighter against him-- as if holding him close now might make up the difference.
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But he doesn't move.
Eventually, he murmurs, "You deserved so much more than I could give you, Scully. Don't blame yourself."
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"I'll blame myself if I want," she murmurs, quiet but defiant. "She can handle it."
She kisses his shoulder aimlessly.
"Do you think there's anything that could have made a difference?"
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He can come up with something, though, the decision that haunts him more than any other. "After...William was born...I left the two of you alone. We thought it was for the best - that the government would leave you alone, too. Too busy chasing after me, while you raised the baby and went on with your life. Once it was safe, I'd come home."
He has to take a breath or two before he can continue. "By that point, you'd already given him up for adoption. If I had stayed - or I'd brought you two with me..."
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And she knows, if she really did-- she must have had a good reason. It sounds impossible; the idea is like a fist around her heart, squeezing every time she thinks of it. Maybe she deserves more blame than Mulder can stand to let her carry.
"I can't imagine what that was like-- for either of us." At least she would have had some sense of it; some understanding of why. For him--
She cant understand why he ever forgave her.
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And why should she? He's never found a way to forgive his own actions, the mistaken beliefs that - in retrospect - feel like cowardice. Was he really leading the Cigarette-Smoking Man's people on a merry chase? Or was he running from the true weight of fatherhood, trying to have his cake and eat it, too? You're mine, but I can't give up the fight to protect you. I can't stop picking at the truth for you.
It's all he knew how to do, and all he knows now, and no sane person could blame Scully for wanting something different.
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If there is one thing Scully can do, it's bear the burden of her worst choices. Not with pride or joy or comfort, but with the conviction of duty.
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"You can't tell me you wouldn't have wanted a say."
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She doesn't know any of the context-- but she feels certain of that much.
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And what was the alternative? Squatting in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, out of reach of help if William got sick? Trapped, if they ended up surrounded, Ruby Ridge style? Whatever their family was worth, he was sure his presence would only choke it off before it had time to grow - but it ended up being his absence that did that.
He feels that familiar weight in his chest, a rock taking up the space he's supposed to be using to breathe. "I never should have left you. How could I blame you later, leaving me?"
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She bites her lip, lets the wave of grief pass through her, a tight ache.
"I don't want to believe I would have left if I felt like I had any other choice. But I still hate the fact that I did. That I will."
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"You don't have to like it. I don't, either." Understatement of the year. At times, it feels like he's on the verge of his own death when he thinks of it. "But when we get you home...maybe it'll be different for you."
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