Tell Me I'm Not Your Her: Ending 4

Content Warning: Character Death

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

"Lisa?"

It hit her, the sound of it, like a sledgehammer in her gut; she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but nod mutely at him.

His face altered then, that look of dawning realization she'd envisioned, mutating to... anger?

"You little bitch," he hissed.

"What?" she said, taken aback.

The legs of his chair scraped against the floor as he pushed it back, stood up. "You little bitch," he seethed at her, and she saw in him a cold fury that she recognized too well, although she didn't understand it at all. "What is this, your idea of a joke?"

"Mulder, I, I don't..."

He advanced toward her, and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her. "You set me up from the start, didn't you? You found out it was me, and you've been stringing me along this whole time... I should have known better. I should have known." His clenched fist struck a file cabinet instead, sending the file folders piled atop it scattering across the floor. "I can't believe you'd fuck with my head this way. You little bitch... how could you do this to me, Scully?" and on the last words his voice cracked, perilously close to breaking.

"Mulder..."

"SHUT UP!" and his fist swung again -- the impact caught her unaware, because she'd never believed he would actually hit her; it sent her sprawling to the ground, stunning her with more than the force of the blow.

She lay there for a moment, shock coursing through her, feeling the waves of pain radiate through her; his fist had connected with her shoulder, she'd landed on the opposite one, and the ache was spreading through her body with dizzying speed...

"I didn't mean to do that," she heard him say, more subdued now, his voice a mixture of surprise and shame.

Slowly, she levered herself into a sitting position, reached painfully to rub the point of impact. "I'm sorry," Mulder said, extending a hand to help her up.

"Don't touch me." It took some effort to get to her feet, but she managed it on her own.

"Why, Scully?" and now his voice was forlorn, filled with the hurt that had lurked behind the anger. "Why'd you do it?"

She thought about explaining; thought about telling him that he was wrong, disabusing him of the notion that this had been some sort of set-up on her part. Before the blow, she had been anxious to do so. Now...

"Fuck off, Mulder," she said tiredly; and he was silent as she gathered up her purse and coat and left the basement office.

Driving hurt. Thinking hurt. Feeling hurt. Everything hurt. All that existed was hurt; and she yearned to be home, in her bed, pillow soft against her head, so that she might sink into slumber...

Her cellphone rang; she ignored it.

How could he believe that of her? Sure, his was a deeply traumatized soul, conditioned to expect betrayal and pain - - but after all they'd been through, all they'd endured, how could he believe that of her?

The pain of that was greater than the ache in her arms and chest.

Her cellphone kept ringing, and ringing; and finally she opened the car window and tossed the offending instrument out onto the highway. That was stupid, she thought dully, an instant later; but she didn't really care.

In front of her, the road blurred; she reached automatically for the windshield wipers, then realized that the liquid obscuring her vision was that of her own tears.

She'd thought that the discovery that Mark was her 'him' would be a joyous one, a discovery that would bring happiness to them both. How wrong she'd been; how agonizingly, tragically wrong. Because even now, even after all the years they'd spent together, Mulder still didn't trust her -- not in the ways that counted. He didn't trust her with his heart... and how could anything ever grow between them, without that?

It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt.

It hurt so much that she didn't see the car cutting into her lane, not until it was too late; only felt the impact of metal slamming into metal, spinning her out of control, sending her car hurtling headlong into the guardrail, and the WHOMP! of jarring force as the car behind her collided with her own -- seatbelt snapping tight, holding her in place, not that it mattered because the world was tumbling upside down, over and over and over again, and then another WHOMP! of impact, and then the pain: pain and pain and more pain, cascading through her body.

As the darkness swept up to claim her, there was one moment of terrible clarity: his last memory of their partnership would be of striking her, of her cursing him. His anger and fear would subside, if it hadn't already, and he would come to know that it had been no joke, nothing but the crying-out of one lonely soul to another -- that she had loved him, deeply and truly, as he had loved her -- but it would be too late for him to make amends, too late for him to call back the rage and the pain and make it all right. It would be too late.

She tasted her blood in her mouth, looked down at the mangled, twisted thing that had once been her body, and knew that it was too late.

"Mark, I'm sorry," she whispered, with her last breath.

And the darkness was complete.

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