TITLE: Time After Time AUTHOR: Brynna EMAIL ADDRESS: ingos_grrl@hotmail.com DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: anywhere you deem it worthy. If you've got a second, I wouldn't mind a note tho; I like to visit my 'kids.' FEEDBACK: if you want more, PLEASE SPOILERS: Alpha RATING: I think this one's remarkable safe, other than the angst quotient. CLASSIFICATION: A/quasi-MSR SUMMARY: It's been a few weeks since they said goodbye . . . now what? Disclaimer: I don't think so. Author's notes: Okay, I know, you've been waiting for weeks for the sequel - well, guess what? This became a series. The 'Time' series. So, I'm posting the remaining 6 parts. Enjoy!! Thanks: Trixie, Brandon, Eve - you three kept me writing, thanks!! I don't have a right to be jealous. I let him say goodbye, let him leave me, and now . . . I lost the right to react. Not that it stops me or anything. I can still hear him, in that living room. 'You know I love you, don't you?' And I have to admit, I really, honestly did =not= know. Not until he had that reaction - telling me that I didn't. Damn him, he's always right. Always. Even when he's wrong, somehow, he's right. And that should be endearing. It even used to be. But once I knew that we were ending what we were . . . it stopped being so. What =were= you? A voice asks, loudly, insistently. And I just don't have an answer to that question. Mulder and I have become an undefinable gray area. ~~~~ The phone is ringing. It's 3am and the phone is ringing. At this hour, it's only one person. And he hasn't called me, at all, unless it was work-related since . . . "Scully," I whisper into the phone. "It's me." His voice is choked, panicked, almost. I know instantly this is a nightmare call. "I . . ." he sucks in a sharp, deep breath. "I'm sorry to be calling." Oh god. I didn't realize it was possible to feel more guilty about hurting him. For years, I've been the only person who could calm his fears and soothe his pain. And now he feels that he has to apologize for seeking what I've always given freely? My eyes shut, as I curl myself around a pillow. "It's okay Mulder," I assure him gently. "Do you want to talk about it?" I can almost hear his head shake. "Not over the phone," he answers, still sounding shaky. Before he can continue, I untangle myself from the pillow. "I'll be right over," I mumble, grabbing a sweatshirt from my closet. My hand lingers, for all of half a second, on the shirt he'd left at my place 'for emergencies' almost four years ago. Many more items had accumulated, but he'd taken almost all of it home right after the whole Karin debacle. I'd been out, visiting my mother one afternoon, and he'd come over, probably knowing I wasn't home, taking his clothes, his CD's, almost everything that had made it's way into my place over the years. But he'd left that shirt. Did he know, somehow, that on those nights I couldn't bring myself to go to him, but that I needed comforting, that I'd wrap up in it and it would make me feel safe. Almost like he was there, holding me. I don't even hear him rationalizing, telling me not to come. Even if I could, this is one thing that I would =not= walk away from. He doesn't have anyone else who can do this. I know he's tried to find someone else who can get inside his head enough to help him deal with these things, but I think, honestly, he's scared to let another person in. Can't say that I blame him, look what I did to him. "Fifteen minutes Mulder," I tell him, silencing his protests. I hang up the phone, and pull the shirt over my head, picking up my keys, and stepping into my shoes. ~~~~ The road is dark. Empty. This allows me time to think. After Mulder's statements in the living room of 'our' house, the goodbye sex that ended a chapter in our life together . . . I hear my sigh echoing in my ears. It's deep, and pained. This new chapter that we've started - I don't like it one bit. Not that it isn't a relative hell of my own making, just that I don't like it. In fact, to put it succinctly, it sucks. I'm miserable, Mulder's miserable, our partnership is practically non-existent, once we leave the office for the night . . . god, even the Gunmen are being affected by the . . . whatever this is between us. I got a call from Frohike last night. He told me that Mulder was practically non-functional on an emotional level as of late. Not that this was exactly new, he'd been like this for years. Years =before= I'd entered his life. And not to sound selfish, like he didn't care, but did I know what that means to the state of working order for the Gunmen, 'Agent Scully?' That hurt. The way he said my name - gone was the endearing little troll with the hopeless crush. In his place was a cold, harsh man who could not forgive. Because of me. I managed to do that. By hurting Mulder. I hear a small voice in my ear, the one that sounds remarkably like Missy. She tells me that I'm being too hard on myself. A tiny, nearly insignificant part of me agrees with her instantly. I'm only human, after all, and allowed to make mistakes. No, another part of me argues. I stopped being 'only human' when I was partnered with Mulder. I became more, once we became a team. I was no longer simply Dana Scully, but I was half of a whole that held the fibers of two lives tightly tonight. And without the other half, we're unraveling. And becoming simply 'only human' once again. My car, which seems to know it's way to Mulder's all on it's own, stops in front of his building. I must sit in my car and just stare up for almost five minutes, before I'm shaken back to the reality of why I'm outside of my apartment, in pajama pants and a sweatshirt, at this hour. Mulder needs me. That thought jars me enough to get me up and out of the car. Mulder. Needs me. Hasn't needed me in weeks; or at least hasn't said he did. A slight ache in my chest returns at the thought. I had trained myself to be an extra-light sleeper, just in case Mulder called, or came over. I had done it even before the night. =The= night. The night that changed things. The night that his pain, and my reactions to it, led me willingly into his arms, and his bed. Standing in his hallway, I simply stare at Mulder's door. I slowly raise my hand to knock, only to trace the numbers instead. My hand lifts to knock, and the door simply opens, as if waiting for the pressure of my fingers to lift. Mulder stands on the other side of the threshold, hair disheveled, eyes haunted, cheeks tear-stained. Instictivly, I start to reach for him, before I remember that's not allowed anymore. His eyes shut as my arms fall back to my sides, which just makes the desire to pull him into an embrace that much stronger. Watching him, I know that he needs something, as a reassurance. Years of being as close as we've been, you learn to read someone. So I very gently lay my hand on the center of his chest. "Do you want to talk?" I whisper, stepping inside once he moves enough to let me. His mouth moves a few times, as if trying to remember how. Very slowly, his eyes flutter open, and he nods once, silently, shutting the door behind me. "What happened?" I ask, still whispering, not wanting to raise my voice to even a normal tone until he's calm. "Very bad dream," he mumbles, staring down at my hand, as I let it slowly slide from his chest to my side once again. His eyes cloud for a moment, before he walks, stoically, almost like a man being lead to his execution, to the couch, perching on the edge of a cushion. His posture is dejected, defeated, and quite simply, painful to look at. I move toward him, and sit next to him. "Tell me about it." "Samantha. As usual," he begins, shutting his eyes again for a moment, before they fly open. "I watched her float out of the room, paralyzed. I couldn't do anything, I couldn't even scream. Nothing, I just watched. And then I was wherever they had taken her, watching again." His body stiffens, and I gently touch his shoulder, reminding him that I'm there. "She . . . god, Scully, she was crying, and screaming, and begging them to stop. She was screaming my name, pleading for me to save her." Tears fall down his cheeks; he doesn't notice them. I swallow at the sight, but don't say anything, knowing he needs to talk it out. "She always trusted me, that I would protect her. I was her big brother, it was my =job= to take care of her. She couldn't have been more wrong, in who she chose to put her faith in." I watch him lean forward, placing his head in his hands, shoulders shaking from sobs. "It was my fault Scully," he whispers, broken-hearted, yet accepting. "No," I hear myself telling him, fiercely. I don't even think, just lean over, and wrap my arms around his shoulders, gently tugging him to me, holding him. He doesn't even fight me, simply follows and curls himself around me, sobbing harder now. "Shh," I murmur against his hair, holding him just a little tighter. "It's okay Mulder. And it's not your fault, I promise. You were a wonderful big brother, and what happened to Samantha wasn't something you could control." We remain in that position until his sobs quiet. His head lifts slightly, and he stares at me, his expression almost fearful. "I don't seem to have any reason to take the blame for anything that goes wrong with any of the women in my life, do I Scully?" he asks softly, pulling back from me, returning to his position almost a foot away from me. "Not Sam, or Mom, or you." He turns a little, looking at me again. "'Specially not you, huh?" he mumbles. Nope. I manage to fuck up all on my own Mulder. Myself, and my life, and I don't want your guilt complex growing because I'm stupid. Or scared. "Nothing's been your fault, completely," I answer him, not allowing the thoughts in my head to come out. I can't handle that right now. He gives me a look, one that clearly says I don't believe you, and reaches over with his hand to cup my cheek in an attempt to make me meet his steady, sharp gaze. I slowly allow my eyes to shut instead, and I stand, not allowing for any emotional reaction, knowing that I will stay otherwise. "I'm sorry," I murmur, unable to remain by his side. I hate myself for this, and I don't allow myself what every dying woman deserves - one last look at her lifeline, and executioner. I have to go now Mulder. I wish I could do something to make all of this better, but I can't. I am only one woman Mulder, and as much as I wish I had the power to banish all of your demons, I'm not the right person for the job. My eyes don't even open as I turn and walk toward his door. My hand barely turns the knob before I hear his choked whisper. "You're the only one who can." And without so much as a backward glance, I leave, as tears fall steadily down my face. God, how I wish that were true. But Mulder, I'm no good for either one of us anymore.