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Mulder kept his hands in his pockets as he watched Linda Bowman's body vanish into the back of the ambulance and disappear into the night. The first of the police cars was already swerving up onto the drive, tires and sirens screeching. In a few minutes the entire property would be a swarm of FBI and local PD stringing yellow CAUTION tape like spiders building a tangled, tacky web over every surface. He kept out of their way, leaning on a girder propped against the outside of the front door, shuffling his feet in the dust and staring at the imprints they made. A paramedic approached him, but he shook his head and the woman went away.
He was vaguely surprised that Skinner hadn't shown up to grab him by his lapels and growl in his face about insubordination. Scully must be running interference for him, he thought, and clenched his hands into fists in his pockets, digging his nails into his palm until he thought they must draw blood.
It didn't work. He could still feel the cold weight of the gun that had nearly shot his partner. The sensation of holding it stuck to his palms like the ghost of a dead thing, and no matter how he scratched them or compulsively wiped them on the inside of his pockets, he couldn't get his hands to feel clean.
He heard the click of Scully's heels on the warehouse floor, but didn't turn until she stopped at his side and rested a hand on his elbow. "The Falls Church PD have everything under control. Come on, let's get out of here."
He motioned with his head back into the interior of the building, where Skinner and the police chief stood over the smear of Linda Bowman's blood on the floor. "What did you tell them?"
"The truth," Scully said simply. "Linda Bowman brought me here in an attempt to get to you. During the standoff, I had a clear shot on her, and I took it."
"Uh-huh." Modell's voice was in his head. Pull the trigger, Mulder. One pull. Only this time it hadn't been Modell's hate that had almost ended everything. This time it was all him.
Before tonight he had been sure that he would have known Scully anywhere, would have known her blind, by her voice, her step, her shadow -- and she had been hidden from him so easily.
The knowledge sat like a ball of lead in his stomach. How many more pushers were there in the world, waiting to turn him against his partner? What was Scully safe from, who could she trust with her life, if not him?
He looked up, past the glare of the police lights, avoiding Scully's eyes. "Is she gonna make it?"
"I don't know, I didn't get a chance to talk to the paramedics before they left. She's lost a lot of blood." Scully kept her voice light and careful. "Mulder, are you all right?"
"Yeah, yeah. Fine." He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the heavy ache that had settled into his back and neck. It felt the way it had in that hospital room in 1996, and in his nightmares for weeks afterward; the slow creep of an alien will, moving through his shoulder, forearm, hand, and finger, each muscle turning traitor as he fought them and lost. Those same muscles played tricks on him now, tingling like scar tissue pulled too tight. He wanted to ask Scully to tell him their names.
"Let's go," she said, and started off across the asphalt before he could figure out how to ask the question in a way that wouldn't sound like he'd gone off the deep end.
He followed her without thinking, but he hadn't made it ten yards before fear closed like a fist around his heart. Was this really Scully? Was someone manipulating him, making him think that she was here, when she was really in danger somewhere else, dying, crying out for him to make it stop?
How could he be sure?
Again his hand moved without his will, this time reaching forward to touch that retreating shadow in the dark. He brushed his fingertips against the shoulder of her jacket, lighter than a breath, but she turned at once, as though she'd been expecting it. "What is it, Mulder?"
He could feel the pulse pounding in his head, roaring in his ears. His throat felt like sandpaper. He licked his lips, trying to wet them, but it didn't keep his voice from failing. "Scully, I --"
She already had him by the sleeve and was towing him towards her car. With one hand she yanked the passenger door open and folded him into the seat with a single firm push on his chest. With her other hand she reached past him, fumbling in the glove box until she found the emergency flashlight she kept there. "Look at me, Mulder," she said firmly, and he did, losing himself in the reddish glow of the ambulance lights reflected in her hair, until his vision was blotted out by white light as she flicked the flashlight into his eyes. "Pupils are normal," he heard her say, and then while he was blinking the spots from his vision he felt her hand on his cheek, sliding down to press two fingers gently but firmly to the pulse point under his jaw. "Heart rate's a little high, but that's to be expected. Are you dizzy at all? Any vision problems?"
"Besides having a madwoman blind me with a flashlight?" He tried to smile, but was pretty sure he failed miserably. "My brain's not busted, Scully."
"We can't know that. You've had your consciousness overridden three times now -- two more times than anyone else. If this 'pushing' has aftereffects, they may be cumulative. Are you experiencing --"
"No nausea, no balance problems, no unexplained weakness or difficulty breathing," he recited. She raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. "Come on, Scully, I know how this goes. My head's screwed on as straight as it always is. For what that's worth." He tried a cheeky grin, and was rewarded by the faint upward quirk at the corner of her mouth that meant her exasperation had gone all at once to fondness.
"Then what's wrong?" Her voice was soft, but she held his eyes with a steadiness that meant she would accept no jokes or evasions.
You were dead. He'd watched her waste away in a hospital bed, eaten down to her bones by disease, and he had never in his wildest dreams imagined he'd want to go back to that. But at least the fight against her cancer had been a fight, a long struggle with the possibility of hope. To watch for the length of one breath as she lifted that gun to her temple, the single shot that shattered all time and hope forever --
He had taken too long to answer. Scully lifted his chin with one hand, studying his face. "Mulder, you're pale. What did she make you see?"
His voice was hoarse, rough and creaky as though he hadn't used it in years. "You shot yourself. In the head." He tried to swallow in a dry throat. "You begged me to make her stop."
Scully let go of his chin and gripped his shoulder, digging her nails into his jacket, while her other hand cupped his face. She ran her thumb along the contour of his cheekbone, her touch leaving a trail of warmth that made him realize he was freezing. "I'm all right, Mulder."
"I watched you bleed out." He closed his eyes, seeing it again, her dull red hair spilling into the pool of blood so dark it was almost black. Spreading and spreading, eating up the concrete. "I couldn't stop it."
"Oh, Mulder," Scully sighed, and her voice was too much to bear. Mulder reached out blindly and felt Scully move closer, slipping her arms around his neck and cradling the back of his head in one hand. He buried his face in her shoulder and clung to her for dear life, breathing in the faint lilac scent of her shampoo and the stronger stink of blood and gunpowder that stuck to her hair and clothes. For the hundredth time, he was struck by how small she was; how small and strong, as clear and sharp as diamond, filled with a courage that burned brighter than a thousand unexplained lights in the sky. He practically dwarfed her with his arms around her like this, but still he felt like she was the one shielding him, standing between him and all the dangers of the world.
And God, do I need it.
It wasn't often that she let him hold her like this. It made him feel immensely privileged, and it meant he probably looked even more pathetic than he felt.
"I'm okay," he announced, without opening his eyes. "Really. I'll be fine."
"Damn right you will," she said firmly. Then, softer and more serious, "Listen to me, Mulder. It's over. Modell's gone, and Linda Bowman won't hurt anyone again. Everything's going to be okay."
"You pushin' me, Scully?" he mumbled into the crook of her neck.
"Never." He felt her lips graze his forehead, so feather-light that he couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it. "But you will get an MRI tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And until you get that MRI and the neurologist clears you, you're not driving. Come on, I'll take you home."
It ached to let go of her, but it was a familiar ache. Missing her touch when she was six inches away was comforting; it meant that she was still around to miss.
He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling as Scully slid into the driver's seat and headed for home. Slowly, slowly, he let himself relax, let his hands lie in his lap, folded quietly, no longer clenched and guarded against unseen forces. Scully still trusted him, which meant it was probably safe to trust himself. And Scully had said everything was going to be okay.
If she said it, he could believe it. She was probably right. She usually was.