Cardboard Box
Euphrosyne

Posted January/2000

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Archivists: Please ask.

Rating: In today's world, this is as PG as you get.

Summary & Spoilers: Post-Orison short.

Disclaimer: I know they're not mine and I didn't ask, but I'll put them all back nicely when I'm done, and no one has to know if you don't tell … the characters and situations depicted herein belong to 10-13, CC, and Fox. No infringement is intended, no profit is being made, gratitude is expressed.

Feedback Supplication: Please send! Positive, negative, short, long, or any variation thereof--I am ever grateful and not at all picky.

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They'd arrived early, and packed steadily all day. By late afternoon, a continuous apartment-to-van transfer was efficiently underway. Now all but her bedroom closet, medicine cabinet and refrigerator had been reduced to neat cardboard boxes. She told them she'd do those herself. She only wanted them to move the big things, the heavy things, the things that didn't matter.

She didn't know them. She didn't want them rooting through her life.

The movers were almost through, and Mulder would come and help with the rest later. She hadn't even had to twist his arm. She'd asked and he'd just nodded, his expression more inscrutable than usual. He'd said, "I think that's a good idea", and asked her what time.

He hadn't told her to think about it, hadn't questioned, hadn't asked her to wait a day or two. His tone had been … flat. Although--she could've inferred condescension if she'd really wanted.

Moving had been the first thing she'd really mentioned, afterwards. She'd sat there, that night, on his couch, in his shirt, because she'd foolishly forgotten to pack either socks or nightwear. She'd been shivering slightly--and, she prayed, unnoticeably--and told him she'd been thinking of moving.

His couch. He'd offered the bed.

"This is the last one, ma'am. You'll meet us over at the other building?" There was a man in front of her-blond, burly, covered in sweat. His dust-sweat hands would have touched her bookshelves, her dresser, her bed. Another man, wearing a stained white t-shirt and carrying the last box, joined him.

He had offered the bed.

He hadn't offered to share it.

She nodded assent at the man before her; ignored the look the men shared. She supposed they thought her rude, or a snob--or worse.

Did she offend him, now?

She should. Mulder may have come close, but he had never killed, not like that. Not for her, or his father, or his sister. Least of all for himself.

She wished he had said something. Anything.

She got up, got into her car, started driving.

So silent, that ride out to his apartment, that night. Broken only when he'd suggested her mother's.

She hadn't answered.

Maybe, thinking back, she should have. But how could she have explained?

She hadn't been back to her apartment. Mulder usually ran in on his way home, picked up whatever she needed, then fought D.C. traffic for an extra half hour so she'd have something to wear. She wished, as she had many times before, that he lived closer.

She pulled up in front of the gleaming condo building. The new place. Heart of Georgetown, 24-hour security, convenient to work, encoded pass cards, all the best facilities money could buy. No character, but secure. Secure, secure, secure. The agent had assured her, as a woman living alone, she need have no fear of intruders.

She hadn't laughed.

Moving wasn't a big deal. She'd been thinking of moving for a while. Quite seriously, in fact. For all kinds of reasons.

She'd been thinking of asking Mulder to join her, before. She hadn't dared to suggest it, after.

Had it really only been two weeks?

The discipline hearing had been on Monday. Mulder had testified first: straightforwardly, confidently, convincingly. Like the FBI goldenboy he'd once been. No one guessed he'd been lying.

In his professional opinion, the transcript had read, he had no doubt Pfaster intended to kill her. She'd been in shock. Pfaster had been about to lunge at her. She'd had no choice.

Her testimony, they'd dismissed. Mulder had said she'd been hysterical. Mulder had said she'd been shooting at random-first the light, and then, in the dark Pfaster. She hadn't known what she was doing. She'd been in shock, and who could blame her? Mulder had said.

The largely male tribunal, half of whom thought Mulder was sleeping with her anyway--even if true, it was gallingly irrelevant--agreed with him. Especially when Skinner subsequently concurred that she'd been white, still and traumatized, when he'd appeared a scant half hour later.

Oh, she'd let him have it after that. Accused him of being everything she knew he wasn't, and who cared about his motives?

Or, at least, she'd tried. He hadn't responded. He'd looked a little sad, maybe, but he didn't react. He just gave her a blanket and told her he was going to bed.

Remotely, she realized the men were asking her where to put some of the boxes. In there, she said, in there, in there. She didn't have much, really, and so many things had been broken. She'd have to buy new. Insurance would help. And these surroundings were so bland--beige walls, beige carpet, beige neighbours--what did it matter?

It was getting dark, she realized. Mulder said he'd be at her apartment at 7. Maybe she should call. Tell him not to bother. She was supposed to be through here.

Belatedly, she realized she was. The men were gone. They'd given her a slip. She supposed it was time to go home.

Home.

She wanted to cry.

But she merely put the slip into her purse, along with the shiny new pass card, got into the elevator, into her car, and managed to be only twenty minutes late.

Mulder was waiting, outside, in his car. He got out when he saw her pull into the lot. She didn't apologize. He didn't mention it. She wished he would.

"Moving go okay? The rest shouldn't take too long--wanna go to that Chinese place 'round the corner when we're done? For old times' sake."

She didn't look at him, just started walking, but her answer was loud and clear and dead. "No."

The rest of the packing was done in near perfect silence. It echoed in her ears; it deafened her.

She wondered why he stayed. Why he should. She wondered, then, why she'd asked for his help at all. She was independent. An FBI agent. She was strong. She was neither in shock, nor hysterical, and she could damn well have rescued herself, had Mulder not shown up. She was grateful, of course, that he'd come. She was always grateful. But she'd been in control of the situation. She wasn't the same green agent she'd been years ago.

She was better.

She didn't need him.

Why the hell was she moving?

Suddenly, all the change, everything, enraged her. Again, tears pricked her eyes, blinded her vision. Again, she refused to let them fall.

She kept packing. Jewelry, alarm clock, she supposed she should set aside a few sets of clothes. She took a deep breath, and heard Mulder's voice, from the kitchen.

"Hey, Scully, fridge's contents disposed of or packed, you want me to start on the bathroom, or should I wreak havoc on your bedroom closet, first? I'm not sure what you want to put in your overnighter …" Mulder's voice got stronger as he trailed into the bedroom. Scully turned her back.

"Scully?"

"Whatever, Mulder." Her voice was surely even, if a little deep.

"Scully?" This time his voice was concerned, and much closer. She could feel the heat of his body, smell his aftershave when she breathed. Damn him, he was talking into her ear! Warm, intimate, low.

"Talk to me, Scully."

Years ago, he would've touched her, turned her around, used pressure, gentle but inexorable, to force her to look at him. Years ago, he had.

Now he didn't. He wouldn't. He wanted her to come to him.

And dammit, she wouldn't, she wouldn't, dammit …

Somehow, her tears were soaking into the soft grey cotton of his t-shirt, and his arms were around her, and his voice was rumbling in her ears, in her mind, promising her safety, warmth, love, and that everything would be okay … lies, lies she knew them to be … but he wasn't leaving her, he'd lied for her, he believed in her, and while everything else was changing, he was her constant.

Even if she could not be his. Did that make it okay? She stopped crying.

Stepped back.

He kept hold of her hand, loosely.

"Mulder, you were there. You saw what happened. What do you honestly believe?"

"Scully …"

"Mulder, I need to know."

He looked at her. His voice was steady. "I don't believe God was working in you, Scully, if that's what you want to hear. I don't believe He was. I think that's why Pfaster is dead."

Her mind whirled. She wanted to be ill. Thought she would be.

Mulder was still speaking. " … and Scully? I think that you can't hold people to a God-like standard. Not anyone. Not me. Not even yourself. That's what I believe."

"But Mulder, he wasn't armed."

"Did he need a weapon to knock you into a wall, or tie you up, or …" Mulder's grip on her hand was bruising; she looked down, and he released her.

She rubbed her hand. He spoke again. "I think we're all human. I think we can't expect more of ourselves than that." He sighed, and looked tired. "Had it been anyone but you, Scully, in that situation, had it been me, what would your report have said?"

But it wasn't you, Mulder, she wanted to say. It wasn't you.

His eyes bore into her, with exhaustion and, perhaps, a touch of fear? Mulder would never … would he?

She'd shot him, once.

She was shaking. She couldn't stop. If that's all …

No abyss between good and evil, no God, nothing but a gossamer strip, chaos …

He surrounded her, he was rubbing her arms, her back, and the cold was receding, slowly. After some time, he said, "We choose to be who we are, Scully. Every day. But that doesn't mean we are able to choose, to control every situation. It doesn't mean we should stop trying."

"So you think that I …"

He interrupted. "I think it's late, and I'm hungry, and there's a new Thai place I want to try near the condo. So let's blow this joint and take you home. Okay?"

"Okay?" He repeated the question. Looked down, waiting.

She looked up. His eyes were dark, and soft, and scared.

*Let me.*

What if God spoke, and no one was listening? No one listened. No one heard. She looked at Mulder again. His eyes were wide, filled with fear. And … love.

Love.

*Let me take you home.*

She reached up, and touched his cheek; faint stubble scratched her hand. He didn't move. His hair, past his cheek, was soft; soft as petals dying, soft as tears.

She nodded.

"Yes."

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Gratitude: Once again, thanks to the beta-ing talents and the beige neighbours of the amazing BeckyD. I pestered her to death and quite likely beyond (strangely, and I've said this before, she is always ill by the time I post. I don't think this means anything, though), and this story would simply not have been without her help and encouragement. I am eternally grateful. Thanks also to the editing skill and patience of Sabine, who was kind enough to make several insightful suggestions and comments, and did not flinch at my numerous questions. All flaws, as always, are mine, both originally and compounded when I ignored their sound advice.

Thanks of a slightly more bitter kind for the false inducements of MaybeA, who wouldn't show me what she wrote until I wrote her something. I didn't get a chance to watch Orison (great ep!) until this past weekend, and so it was kinda on the brain; this is the result. In any event, this was only supposed to be a couple of paragraphs to fulfill my end of the bargain. And I better get my story, soon!!!

Thanks also to the Foundation, from whom I blatantly stole several of the ideas herein.

To everyone who got this far: thanks for reading!

Begging for Feedback Redux: Any comments would be greatly appreciated and will be happily received at euphrosy@netcom.ca.

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