Fi's Place: http://www.nurseowens.clara.net/index.htm



It’s like being on a rollercoaster that will never reach it’s destination.
I do not know how to comfort her. 
The only thing I can do is take her in my arms and tell her that I’m sorry. 
Piss-poor words from a son of a bitch who has taken her to hell 
and cannot bring her back.

She is wearing a simple beige suit that used to fit in all the right places.
Not any more.
The jacket hangs on her tiny frame, and the skirt moves around on her bony hips, 
the zipper off-centre at the small of her back. She is constantly twisting it 
around to it’s proper position, tucking her blouse into the sagging waistband 
with her small slender hands.

With no active X-File we have been pushing paper all week,
sifting through long-overdue expense reports, field notes and various 
other crappy jobs that have been sitting on my desk gathering dust.

Without fieldwork to distract her, Scully has become unbearably tense.
Her mounting impatience with me has been brewing for weeks, and being 
stuck in this basement together has only aggravated the situation. 
We cannot speak now without exchanging sullen glances, every question 
has become an accusation.
She snaps at me without apparent reason over the smallest of issues 
and ignores me when I try to answer, refusing to meet my gaze or acknowledge 
my existence. I know she is thinking of her illness. I know she is angry, 
and that emotion alone is tearing her apart.

Sooner or later one of us will fall apart.
I thought it was going to happen yesterday.
We had just finished our lunch - yet another fast food meal - and 
she had just come back from the restroom when she caught her heel in 
the tie that I had carelessly thrown onto the floor a few hours earlier.
It was still knotted, and had tangled around her ankle like a snake, propelling 
her forward into my arms.
Catching her awkwardly, I had expected her to curse me for being a slob, 
berate my slovenly bachelor existence and damn me to hell.
Instead, her body became limp against my chest as though she were 
a rag doll, closing her eyes for a moment as she gathered what remained 
of her strength. I heard her murmur my name but her voice was feint and 
without conviction.

Her weakness terrified me.

Holding her for a moment seemed to be the right thing to do.
Hell, it was the *only* thing I could offer her - I had no other approach 
and could not even begin to describe the complexity of the emotions I 
was experiencing. Presumably she was having the same problem.

I wanted to ask her if she was okay, but under the circumstances it 
would have been an utterly stupid question. The words ‘take your time Scully’ 
were equally redundant. I was embracing a woman who had very little time left to take. 

So I held my tongue and simply squeezed her a little closer, pressed 
my lips against her temple and waited for her to pull away as she 
always did. It seems that she cannot bear to be in my arms for any longer 
than is politely necessary.
For just one moment I want her to admit that she needs me. 
To walk into my open arms and take my warmth. Take as much as she needs.
Just as I have taken from her.

This morning, as I was searching for something in the filing cabinet 
I heard her sigh, her hands scrabbling across the desk. 
And as I turned the sight of her filled me with grief and frustration.
She was leaning forwards, her eyes closed and wet from tears. 
A growing mountain of man-sized tissues scattered before her - all of 
them heavily stained with blood.
Nosebleeds of this magnitude are becoming a regular occurrence and 
their intensity scare me beyond all rational thought.
I had rushed across the office, almost falling over a stack of files 
on the floor in my effort to reach her although I wasn’t certain what 
I was going to do when I got there.

But without even looking up she waved me away, turning her head from my 
outstretched hand. I had almost expected the usual ‘I’m fine’ to spark 
from her lips. 
To be honest, if I hear that damn lie one more time I’m going to 
lose my temper.I don’t understand why she can’t open up to me. 
Especially now when she is at her lowest ebb,.. when she needs me 
most. That damn self-control of hers is going to kill her faster 
than the cancer.

I may never see her open her arms to me and ask for comfort.
Over the past few weeks I have tried to encourage her to talk to me.
Really talk, not banter with the usual innuendo we are so good at, 
but talk seriously as close friends who have shared four years of 
living and creating colourful memories together.
But any attempt at meaningful conversation is declared verboten by 
a single flash of her blue eyes.

So I try and convey my caring with simple non-invasive touches and 
the occasional embrace. It isn’t enough.

I need her.

I need her like I need my next breath.
Scully has had a tremendous stabilising effect on my life,..my anchor 
to the real world. Without her I think I would have been a complete 
loony tune by now, lost in a hopeless downward spiral of my own creation.
I want her to live because of my own needs, - (which I guess makes 
me a completely selfish bastard) - although I would do anything to 
make her happy right now.
I’m just afraid that happiness for Scully may exclude me.
So here I am, watching her swivel that beige skirt around to it’s 
proper position once more, the irritation clear on her pale face.
She is almost skeletal.

I want to hold her.

But most of all I need her to want me.
Why can’t she accept my meagre offerings?
She has given me so much and now I am desperate to return it with 
interest. 

With each rare embrace I am both afraid and hopeful that she may 
finally fall apart and let me in, crumbling that damn wall of 
independence she hides behind.
I notice with growing panic that today,....today even the intense 
colour of her blue eyes is fading, leaving a washed-out water-colour hue.
Her lips have already paled upon a mouth that long since lost 
the ability to smile.

And yet there is beauty there.

Unable to watch her any longer, I turn back to the paperwork in 
front of me, alarmed to see the print blurring as my eyes fill 
with tears.
Stumbling out of my chair I find sanctuary by the filing cabinet 
and busy myself searching in the nearest drawer, my fingers 
trembling across the folders inside.

This has got to be the most difficult day of my life.
The creaking of her chair behind me and a quick glance at my watch 
confirm that it is time to go home.
Listening to her movements I wonder if I should offer to drive her 
to her apartment, even though I know she is perfectly capable of 
doing so herself.
Anyway, such an offer would be vehemently refused.
She makes me feel so helpless.

I wait for the tell-tale swish of her overcoat and the closing beep 
of her computer, followed by her weak voice made strong only by the 
power of her determination; announcing that she’ll see me 
tomorrow morning.

[Will you Scully?
Will you see tomorrow?]

I hear nothing. 
But feel two sharp tugs on the back of my jacket.
“Mulder?”
Turning slowly I see her standing barely three feet away.
Weighing 90lbs or less, her clothes hanging in disarray on her 
diseased frame she slowly lifts her atrophied arms towards me.
“Mulder, I...”
Holding her head high, she struggles with speech for a moment, 
eyes glassy with tears. Her arms reach further, open a little wider 
and I am suddenly aware of the incredible strength that radiates from 
her tired body despite her frailty.

She steps closer.

A familiar smile tugs at her mouth.
Followed by a whispered request.

“Mulder? ..I need a hug.”


END.


(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands 
e e cummings