LAST CHANCE By The One With Red Hair

*Spoiler Alert!* Redux 2, I guess, and everything with DIE-ana FOUL-ly in.
Disclaimer:  Yes, I know, zzzzz, but it has to be done if I want to save
my skin, my money, my website and my stories!  I don't own Mulder,
Scully or anything related to The X-Files (I wish I did), they are the
precious property of Chris I Am God Carter, 1013, Twentieth Century
Fox and probably a bunch of other people.  I'm making no money from
this, it's here just to enlighten people of the goings-on in my strange
little brain.  Don't sue me, I'm too busy with exams!  And anyway, all
you'd get is a few coppers and a suicide note.
Rating:PG-13
Classification: Sing it with me: MSR, MSR, MSR.... MSR, MSR, MSR!
Summary:  Scully decides her life is no longer worth living.
Noromos and Naxis - get out or regret it forever.  Don't bother to
flame me - you shouldn't *be* here!


Last Chance By Red
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  I can't do this any more.
  I'm sorry, but I can't do this.
  I've spent every night like this for as long as I can remember.  Sitting
in my motel room, out on the road, in the middle of the night.  You're
in the next room, and I can't go on any more.
  I've told myself a hundred times that no matter how much I love you,
I'll always be able to handle those feelings, but I know it's not true.
  If it were, would I be sitting here now with tears streaming down my
face, my hands shaking so I can't hold my gun straight?
  No.
  It would be so easy to barge in and tell you.
  "Mulder, I love you."
  Such simple words.
  But you'd look at me with that flirtatious little grin of yours, and
ask, "Hey Scully, you coming onto me?"
  And that would be that.
  You don't love me.  You want a fun-loving tart.
  You want someone who believes in your theories.
  You want...
  Oh, god.
  Diana Fowley.
  I spit the words out.
  How I hate that woman.  I thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd be
able to win you over for good, and then *she* arrived.  And I saw
that look in your eyes, that look I haven't seen since when I had
cancer, that look I'd told myself would still be there tomorrow...
  You love her.
  The tears are hot and angry on my cheeks.  They blister my throat
and scar my face.  I wipe them crudely away with the back of my
hand and swallow a sob.  Again I lift my weapon, but it is
trembling violently from side to side and I'll miss if I fire now.
I try to click off the safety catch, but it doesn't move...
I'm too weak to load my own gun.
  I throw it to the ground and fall onto the bed, burying my face in
the hard, cool pillows so that you won't hear my cries.  They are
raw, and with every sound that escapes my lips I feel a shoot of
pain through my tired body.  I'm hot and shaking, a film of sweat
over my body.  This is *her* fault.  I hate her with a passion I had
only ever felt in the past towards you - only that was, and still is,
of an entirely different nature.
  The passion I have for you is the deepest love I've ever encountered.
You are in my dreams, my fantasies, my nightmares... every waking
hour is graced with your presence.
  I think that I hear your voice then, saying my name quietly and
uncertainly, and it jolts through me like a lightning bolt.
  This is it.  No more.  I've had enough of this life.
  I snatch up my gun from the floor with my shuddering fingers and
this time the catch is less stubborn.  With a loud 'click' the weapon
is loaded.
  Goodbye, life.
  I draw myself to a standing position in the heat and darkness, and
put the barrel to my head.  It is cold metallic against my feverish
skin, and I start a little at the touch.  I squeeze my eyes tighter shut
as my finger closes on the trigger...

  "Scully?"
  I stop still.
  "Scully?"
  At first you seem to be a little uncertain of my intentions.  For
God's sake, Mulder.  I'm crying my soul out and have a loaded
gun to my head... even you should be able to work out what I'm
doing.
  Evidently you do.
  "Scully!"
  You sound more panicked now, less controlled.  Good.  This is
really good.  With any luck you'll talk me out of it in a moment...
the idea amuses me, and I snigger through my despair.

  And the next thing I know, I'm in your arms.  The gun slides out
of my clammy palm to the ground, forgotten.  With a clatter it hits
the wooden surface.  You hug my close to you and I find myself
sobbing on your shoulder as you hold my convulsing body in your
embrace -
  This is impossible.  You have stopped me from shooting myself... again.
Every night, you manage to call me at the right moment.
  How do you do it?
  I stop wondering for the time being, and let my tears flow.  Your
hands make little circles up and down my back, comforting, and
I bury my face against your neck.  I'm quivering violently, and my
legs buckle.
  You catch me.  You take me in your arms and carry me to your
motel room without a word, and lay me down on your bed.  You
sit down next to me as I curl up in a ball, embarrassed, mortified.
My hair is sticking to my burning flesh, and with a cool hand you
smooth it away from my face.  My tears are slowing now, but they're
still there, and I'm sobbing, little hiccuping sounds that steal away
my breath.
  I try to speak, but my throat is thick and I don't know what to say.
My mouth opens and closes stupidly.  The lack of control frustrates
me more, and I feel my hands begin to shake again as I repeatedly
attempt to say something to you, but you stop me.  A hand slides
up to my lips and covers them, a 'Don't speak' signal.  I sigh, and
without warning I find myself kissing your skin.
  You don't respond.  Oh God, what have I done?  I find my voice,
and manage to choke out, "I'm sorry."
  You stop stroking my back, and I clamp my eyelids shut.  I've
ruined our friendship now, and there's not a thing I can do to fix it
as I lay helplessly on your bed...
  Your hands suddenly slide around my waist, and gently you haul
me into your lap.  My arms fall limply around your shoulders.  You
hug me close to your warm body, and I can feel you nuzzling my
hair...  I breathe in your scent and sigh again.
  Finally my weeping has subsided, and I feel a little calmer.  My
head, which had been buzzing, clears, and I finally realise that I'm
sat on your thighs, my legs wound loosely around your hips.  I try
to move, but you hold me still.
  I look up at you finally, and see tear-stained cheeks.  Your hazel
eyes are clouded with worry.  I shake my head.
  "I'm sorry."  My voice is wobbly and uneven, and I try to cough
out the lump in my throat.  You hand is moving gently up my neck,
to cup my chin and tip it up.  Our eyes lock, and I see...
  That look. The look I thought I'd never be given again.  My own
eyes must widen, and a flicker of a smile tugs at the corner of your
mouth.  You lean close to me.
  "I'm sorry, Scully."
  You're sorry?
  I'm so confused that I barely register your lips brushing my
forehead, the tip of my nose.  You look me in the eyes again,
and whisper.
  "I love you."
  Tears threaten once again, but this time they are welcome.  Not
hot, but cool.  Cleansing me of all my wrongdoing, driving away
all the uncertainty.  I can barely get the words out.
  "I love you, too..."
  Our lips meet, and you're kissing me carefully, gently.  I relax
as your arms hold me more tightly, and the nightmares that had
once assaulted my motel nights are long forgotten.
  You love me.
  That's enough.
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Copyrighted Red 1999, so there.

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