Secrets 3 
Ally112038@aol.com 

Georgetown Memorial Hospital. 11:20a.m.

Somewhere in between making a thousand promises to myself and the breaking of dawn, I must have fallen asleep again, because, as I lay here I can see the brightness of the sun behind my closed lids.

I have no idea what the time is, only that it is day where before it was night. But time doesn't really matter to me at the moment because, without even opening my eyes I know he is here beside me.

Call it my Mulder radar.

To anyone who knows him as well as I do there are subtle but telling clues. A hint of that spicy cologne he wears tickles my nostrils, able to permeate my senses even through the sharp, antiseptic scent of the hospital sheets, sheets which incidentally provide another clue. Mulder has this *thing* about sheets and blankets, at least where I'm concerned. He is convinced that they should be pulled up almost to my chin and I can't count the number of times I have fallen asleep on his battered couch, only to awaken hours later almost suffocating from the heat.

On the one hand I find it intensely annoying that he feels the need to mother me in this way, but, another part of me secretly enjoys his concern. I take comfort from the fact that he cares enough about me to tuck blankets around me when I'm sleeping.

But Hospital rooms are temperature regulated and right now I am feeling uncomfortably hot. The sun streaming through the window isn't helping much either.

I can also hear him breathing and the sound and cadence tells me whether he is awake or not.

I suppose we all have different breathing patterns, but, in all honesty I had never really thought about it much in my pre Mulder existence. Certainly I had never given any credence to the notion that a person could be recognizable by that alone.

But then, I have never really taken the time to find out with anyone else and not for the first time I wonder just *when* I got to know this man so well.

When did I allow myself to accept him in to my life so completely?

I can no longer imagine a time when Mulder wasn't working beside me and yet it has only been seven years. When did seven years turn in to a lifetime?

Hearing a creak as he shifts position slightly in the chair beside me, I strain to keep my eyes closed for just a little while longer. The longer I can keep them closed, the longer I can stall the inevitable confrontation that is surely going to come.

I'm not ready to face him. I'm not ready to see the hurt in his face that I am responsible for creating.

But, a need to affirm that he *is* really here beside me outweighs any self imposed guilt and slowly I shrug off the last lingering vestiges of sleep and raise my eyes to meet his.

He looks tired. Wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, rumpled, dishevelled as though he's slept in them. If he's slept at all that is. His strong jaw is darkened by stubble and it's presence lends him a dangerous air.

I like Mulder with stubble. I always have done, although it would take a thousand armies to drag *that* particular snippet of information out of me. And, finally I reach the part of him I most need to see. The only piece of him that will tell me what I need to know and as china blue meets hazel I finally find the answer to the question that has been gnawing at me.

*He knows*.

I don't need words to tell me. Just his expression is enough to affirm my greatest fears and I know he is shattered inside.

Disappointment. Rejection. Confusion. *Hurt*.

They radiate off him in waves and suddenly my throat feels so tight I am unable to breathe. I have no idea what to say to him. How do I even start? Because a simple apology isn't going to undo this kind of damage.

Just by looking at him I realize how stupid I have been. I thought I was protecting him by not telling him. Allowing him the time he needed to process his Mother's death, the revelations about his Sister. Persuading myself that he deserved this chance at peace however brief it might have been. But now I understand that I wasn't doing it to protect only him. I was also trying to protect myself. Protect myself from a man who I know would willingly lay down his life for me.

I've known for the longest time that he loves me.

What I didn't realize until now is that he is *In* love with me.

This beautiful, complex, irritating, brilliant, vulnerable man is actually in love with me.

And that realization scares me more than I can even comprehend, because it will make all this so much harder to deal with. I don't even *want* to deal with it right now. I'm hurting, I'm tired and all I really want him to do is to put his arms around me and whisper soothing words in my ear.

But he doesn't of course. He just sits there making no attempt to move towards me as he keeps his eyes on mine. Unblinking, unwavering as the silence stretches between us, widening the gap that separates us in to a ravine. It's so quiet I can actually hear my own heartbeat inside my chest and for a second I marvel at the fact that a human heart can bear so much pain and still carry on.

I want to speak to him, to beg for his forgiveness. Needing so desperately to make him understand why I did what I did, but I just can't open my mouth. If I speak now, the words will be lost in a stream of self pitying tears. Tears which are hovering dangerously close to the surface and which I refuse to subject him to. I've done quite enough damage to him already.

In fact, it is Mulder who chooses to speak first. Maybe he sees the pleading in my expression. I don't know. But I silently send up a prayer of thanks as he opts to stick to *safe* territory.

"Hey Scully. How're you feeling?"

I shrug non-commitally. In truth I feel like I've been tossed off a very high building and run down a few times by an over enthusiastic truck driver. But to admit that would be weakness, and Dana Scully doesn't show weakness. No Siree.

"I'm fine. A little sore that's all."

Mulder smirks at my response. I'm sure that after seven years in my company he expects nothing more from me because, after all, it's the only response he ever gets.

Gunshot wound? *I'm fine*. Death of a loved one? *I'm fine*. Terminal Cancer? *Fine*. Emotional breakdown? *Fine*.

Doesn't make a difference as to what I'm really feeling when he asks, because the wall around me dictates that I'm always fucking *Fine*. I hate this part of myself, but I just don't know how to change it.

"Good." he ventures uncertainly, reaching forwards to pour water in to the plastic tumbler beside my bed. I haven't asked him for water, hadn't even been aware that my throat feels scratchy and uncomfortable before now. But as he gently places a hand to the back of my neck, drawing me forwards enough to put my lips against the plastic, my thirst is suddenly raging. He is careful as always though. Tipping his other hand just enough to allow me small sips of the deliciously cool liquid. Mulder knows all too well the effects of taking too much water after a general anesthetic. We both do.

"I spoke to your Doctor. He seems to think you'll be out of here in a few days. You might need some help when you get out though. Might be a good idea to stay with your Mom for a while."

I know he means well, but to be honest, as much as I love my Mother, the thought of being around her twenty four hours a day fills me with horror. I don't need mothering right now. I need is space to come to terms with everything in my own way.

I drop my eyes from Mulder's and busy my hands by plucking at the rough hospital issue blanket.

"I think I'd just rather go home. I'll be fine."

He doesn't answer me. I don't expect him to I suppose. Because we both know that if there's anything in this world I'm *not* going to be, *fine* ranks pretty high on the list.

My fingers tease harder and I am rewarded when a thread comes loose. Finally I have something to focus on other than Mulder's presence beside me. I watch numbly as I wrap the thin piece of white cotton around my index finger, releasing it to scrutinize the fine, white lines that have appeared in it's wake disappear as blood once again flows to the area. Within a couple of seconds it is impossible to even determine where the welts were.

If only life was that simple.

Mulder shifts position again. He has to be uncomfortable. I have no idea how long he has sat there but hospital chairs tend not to be kind to a person's posture, and especially to someone with legs the length of his.

The silence is killing me. I want him to say something. *Anything*. Because avoiding the issue isn't going to make it go away. I want him to rant and rave at me if that's what he needs to do. And if he hates me now I need to hear it. I know he is holding back for fear of hurting me. That even now he is trying to protect me and I really have no reason to question his motives because, after all, haven't I been doing the exact same thing to him?

*Talk to him!* A voice inside me screams. *Make him understand.* But I can't. I can't bring myself to even look at him now.

I'm not surprised when I hear him rise from the chair. Him being here is making both of us uncomfortable and he has the good sense to know it's time for him to leave.

"You're tired. I'll come back later." He ventures and I close my eyes, knowing that for now there is nothing more for us to say to each other.

I've blown it. Again.

He leans down towards me and for a second, I am sure he is going to kiss me. I don't think I could bear that right now and almost against my will, I turn my head slightly away from him. Giving him a clearer message than I intended with that simple act of denial.

*Don't*.

He understands my silent plea and so instead, settles for hooking one long finger around an errant strand of my hair which he smoothes gently away from my face. It's a gesture he has performed a hundred times before, but one which now threatens to make me shatter in to tiny pieces in front of him.

Feeling his touch reminds me yet again of just how lucky am to have him. He would never intentionally seek to hurt me and despite the things I have done, today is no exception. I don't deserve him. I don't believe I ever have.

And then he is gone, leaving only the memory of his touch against my skin which tingles slightly as if charged with low voltage electricity.

He heads for the door without looking back, and I am surprised when, at the doorway, he turns slowly, showing me an unguarded view of his desperation.

"How long have you known?"

I'm tempted to lie to him. Lying would be so easy at this point. Because although I am fully aware that he could, if he wanted, gain access to my personal medical records, I know he would never abuse my trust in that way. But I *could* lie. Or at least absolve some of the blame from myself by stretching the truth a little. But he deserves so much more than that and it is with this knowledge that I swallow heavily and give him the answer he so desperately needs from me.

"A little over six weeks."

I swear I see him physically react to my words. He seems to recoil slightly as the full meaning of my admission sinks in.

Six weeks of sharing time and space with him. Six weeks of laughing and joking and crying. Six weeks of lying.

*Six weeks*.

It might as well be a lifetime.

I wait for him to speak, to cross back over to the bed. To ask me *why*. But he does none of those things. Instead he just nods curtly.

"Thank you."

And then he is gone. Leaving me once again alone.

And I know I deserve it.

I am hurting inside, scared of what the return of this disease will mean for him. But he is hurting too and I would do anything to take that hurt away from him.

Bad enough that I need to suffer. I never intended for him to suffer too.

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