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."
It's just-- she can't put this into words for him, because maybe it would feel like false hope. But when she looks around this sleek, modern, comfortable place, she thinks-- I can't be happy, here, can I? And what good is it if neither of them are?
"I know I have to go back, if we can find a way. But I don't like the idea of leaving again."
Maybe she is. He has to believe that's the case, truthfully - if she left to this empty, expensive condo and hates it, then all this pain was for nothing. She's not coming back, so at least she has to be content.
"You'll come back," he points out, starting to stroke her hair again. "Back to your life. Back to the hospital. I won't see as much of you, but you'll be here. And...knowing you're out there helps, some days."
Someone will be here, she thinks-- a woman she doesn't seem to know at all. And maybe that's natural-- maybe if she'd been the one to travel backward, her life in the years before meeting Mulder would seem as alien as this. But Mulder-- this Mulder, who she's had the luxury of loving openly for this brief time-- will be alone.
And if she stays, the same thing will be true. She won't survive here, she knows. Would it be easier on him to see her off, sending her back to the uncertainty of a changed timeline-- or to see her buried. Neither sounds good-- neither sounds safe, to leave behind.
She tucks her face against him, like she can avoid the question.
Nothing about their life together has been fair, going back to all those early times one or both of them nearly died. This is less fair than usual, though - the fact that Scully has to see this lonely vision of her future, that she has to live with her losses before she even has the things she loses.
Mulder loves her, loves having her here beside him. He loves the familiar scent of her hair and her slender arm resting on his chest. He despises utterly the fact that she's suffering.
"We'll get you home," he murmurs, hoping to soothe her, "and you'll still have me. I'll be there with you - and I'll love you, Scully. As much then as I do now."
She's seen any number of losses... but there are things she's gained, too. She's not sure what it could be like-- going home to a world where she has to wait for it; whether knowing will change things, either for better or worse. Whether she's doomed herself to never having the son she's going to lose.
Or maybe-- maybe with foreknowledge, maybe they'll make better choices. Maybe Mulder will have her reassigned out of jealousy of his future self. There's no way to know.
"God, Mulder--" she says, and she can't quite choke out the rest-- that she loves him, too, that she always has-- around the lump in her throat.
"I know." He's too old for uncertainty, he thinks, for wondering whether Scully really means it. This one does, even if she can't say it; he can think back on a hundred different moments and know without question that she loves him. He holds her, all her bones too sharply drawn beneath her skin, and wonders how the hell he's going to save her this time.
You're not, a voice inside him says, and he can't decide if it's pessimism or not. She will.
There has to be a way, and if one of them is likely to figure it out, it's Scully. She found her way to him, and she'll find her way back. And for now - he can indulge in a few more minutes with her.
"You know it all now," he eventually murmurs. "Guess that wasn't the key to getting you home."
What did she expect, really-- that he'd explain and a door would open up before them, ready to walk through? That she'd end up about to cross the street again-- hopefully not dripping and naked, at least. It's impossible to know what to expect.
"I guess not," she sighs, and she's not sure if she even thinks that's a bad thing. It's not that she wants to die-- she very much doesn't-- but it's hard to want to leave him behind. Not knowing that he'll be alone.
She can't see any way to avoid that, to fix it for him. She can't change her own mind.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
But he doesn't move.
Eventually, he murmurs, "You deserved so much more than I could give you, Scully. Don't blame yourself."
no subject
"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?"
no subject
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..."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
no subject
"You can't tell me you wouldn't have wanted a say."
no subject
no subject
She doesn't know any of the context-- but she feels certain of that much.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"I know I have to go back, if we can find a way. But I don't like the idea of leaving again."
no subject
"You'll come back," he points out, starting to stroke her hair again. "Back to your life. Back to the hospital. I won't see as much of you, but you'll be here. And...knowing you're out there helps, some days."
no subject
And if she stays, the same thing will be true. She won't survive here, she knows. Would it be easier on him to see her off, sending her back to the uncertainty of a changed timeline-- or to see her buried. Neither sounds good-- neither sounds safe, to leave behind.
She tucks her face against him, like she can avoid the question.
no subject
Mulder loves her, loves having her here beside him. He loves the familiar scent of her hair and her slender arm resting on his chest. He despises utterly the fact that she's suffering.
"We'll get you home," he murmurs, hoping to soothe her, "and you'll still have me. I'll be there with you - and I'll love you, Scully. As much then as I do now."
no subject
Or maybe-- maybe with foreknowledge, maybe they'll make better choices. Maybe Mulder will have her reassigned out of jealousy of his future self. There's no way to know.
"God, Mulder--" she says, and she can't quite choke out the rest-- that she loves him, too, that she always has-- around the lump in her throat.
no subject
You're not, a voice inside him says, and he can't decide if it's pessimism or not. She will.
There has to be a way, and if one of them is likely to figure it out, it's Scully. She found her way to him, and she'll find her way back. And for now - he can indulge in a few more minutes with her.
"You know it all now," he eventually murmurs. "Guess that wasn't the key to getting you home."
no subject
"I guess not," she sighs, and she's not sure if she even thinks that's a bad thing. It's not that she wants to die-- she very much doesn't-- but it's hard to want to leave him behind. Not knowing that he'll be alone.
She can't see any way to avoid that, to fix it for him. She can't change her own mind.
"But I'm all right, being right here."