Tell Me I'm Not Your Her: Ending 3

And then she heard the word that transformed her universe -- irrevocably, eternally.

"What?!"

With the one word, with his incomprehension, a cold bleak mass of hopelessness lodged itself in the pit of her belly. It's not you....

"Scully?"

"Never mind," she managed to choke out.

It's not you.

She didn't know what she was doing until suddenly she was doing it: snatching up her purse, her coat -- she heard Mulder speaking to her, but it was as if he were a million miles away, and she couldn't make sense of the words, nor did she try.

The cold air slapped against her face, bringing her roughly back to the here-and-now as she ran down the avenue, knowing that driving and parking would never bring her there in time. It's not you. Which meant that there was a Mark out there, waiting for his Lisa -- and suddenly the need to see him, to know him, burned within her like the sole spark illuminating an endless void.

How hurtful it was, to have her hopes so cruelly dashed -- and at the same time, liberating: freeing her to hope anew.

She was breathless by the time she reached the restaurant, looked around frantically -- no one was waiting outside; she thought about checking inside, but no, he said he'd be here, and if she went inside she might miss him, if she hadn't missed him already... and caught up in the sudden churning miasma of worry, she almost didn't hear the small, hesitant voice that spoke up from behind her. "Lisa?"

Slowly, Scully turned.

He wasn't tall.

He wasn't dark-haired.

In fact, he was heartbreakingly familiar in every respect.

"Frohike," she whispered.

His eyes widened as he stared at her. "Scully?" he said, in disbelief.

She took one slow step toward him, meaning to disembowel him where he stood; but before she could take a second, he stammered a quick reply: "It wasn't me! He sent me..."

"Who sent you?" she said, in a voice that promised murder.

Frohike took a deep breath. "Mulder," he said.

Mutely, disbelieving, she stared at him.

"He said he was supposed to meet this woman he knew from a personals ad," the little man blurted out rapidly, as if he'd sensed that a speedy explanation was the only thing that might save him from a painful death. "Said I should find Lisa, and tell her that Mark had to work late, that he'd write and explain later, and that he was sorry..."

It's him.

Thoughts tumbled through her mind, incoherent, like puppies playing on a rug, rolling over each other and yapping sharp little noises: it's him, he didn't respond, I called him Mark and he didn't acknowledge it, all this time it's been him, and now Frohike knows, Frohike knows...

"You didn't meet her," she said.

"What?"

"Lisa never showed up," Scully said, very slowly, very clearly. "You never saw her. Is that clear?"

"Ummm..."

"Let me make it clearer," she added, reaching very deliberately toward her gun.

Frohike paled. "I never saw you, I never saw anyone. Gotcha."

"Good," she said, turning away.

"Hey, y'know, since this thing didn't work out, maybe you and me could... never mind," he said hastily, as she shot him a look.

"Go home, Frohike," Scully said, tiredly, and trudged off.

It's him. It is him, the thought turned over and over in her mind as she walked back to the office. And what am I supposed to do now?

"Thought you were going to bring back dinner," was his response when she re-entered the basement office, delivered in a cautious tone. "Where'd you go, anyway?"

Scully finished taking off her coat, drew a deep breath, and lied. "I had to make a phone call," she said.

She forced herself to look at him, because to do anything else would have been unnatural: and in his eyes, she saw hope flicker to life...

"Sorry about that," she said, "let's get back to work," a flat denial of all possibilities unspoken; and she watched as the brief flare of hope in his eyes died.

"Yeah," he said, "fine," his voice as lifeless as it had been on that distant day when she'd broken their Sunday routine for the first and last time.

Silently, they went back to work.

After a half hour of staring at the phone, debating and considering and weighing her options, she dialed a number and waited while it rang. "Yeah," came the response, finally, as dead and toneless as his voice had sounded for days.

"Mulder," she said, without preamble, "where are my bagels?"

There was a long pause. "I was under the impression that you had better things to do with your Sundays..."

"Not all the time," she told him.

Another pause. "There's a college basketball game that I want to watch..."

"I have cable," Scully said. "You can watch it here." And suddenly, she could bear it no longer: the hiding, the waiting, the knowing and keeping it to herself... Maybe there were things better off unknown, and unsaid; but all at once she couldn't stand the silence.

"I miss you, Mark," she said.

A loud thud sounded in her ear, as Mulder dropped the phone; she waited, heart in her mouth, while he retrieved it. "Scully?" his voice echoed through the line.

"Yes," she said.

There was a long, long pause. "Lisa?" he whispered.

She could hear her heart pounding in double-time. "Yes."

And for long moments, all she could hear were small noises: the sound of his respiration, the sound of him swallowing, struggling for words that wouldn't come. "I'll.. I'll come over," he said at last, in a voice that seemed torn between laughter and tears, "I'll bring... I'll bring bagels... as many as you want..."

Scully smiled. "Cinnamon raisin," she said. "And strawberry cream cheese."

"Whatever you want," Mulder said, "Lisa," lingering over the name, disbelieving, awestruck, amazed.

She knew the feeling: the return of a hope too long denied, the sensation of standing poised on the verge of that great adventure, of looking into a crimson-gold sunset and seeing one's future written there.

She'd almost managed to convince herself that calling him was a bad idea. She was glad she hadn't. Oh, so damn glad...

"See you soon," she said, "Mark," and hung up the phone quickly. There was so much she wanted to say to him; but she wanted to say it to him in person.

I was wrong, was one of those things. I can't move past these feelings, and I don't want to try; and I'm sick of the uncertainty, and of dreams that die. I want to be with you, and make the dream real. And if these are the mysterious ways in which God works, who the hell am I to argue?

She would tell him those things, and more; she would tell him, in the warm haven of his embrace.

Scully settled herself down on the couch, and waited for Mulder to arrive.

| imajiru | fiction | astrology | email |