Title:  Averages (1/1)
Author: E. Vader
Email: evader@flash.net
Rating: PG
Category: MSR
Spoilers: Through season 6 - timeframe is after "Field Trip," before
"Biogenesis."
Keywords: Mulder/Scully angst/friendship
Summary: After their magic carpet ride courtesy of the giant mushroom,
there are still a few things M&S need to work out.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been.  I mean no infringement.
Author's Notes:  I'm a fanfic virgin.  Any constructive feedback
would be much appreciated.  Thanks!


Averages
E. Vader




She stood at the doorway of his room, listening to the steady
rhythm of his breathing.  Her unconscious mind made a thousand
medical assessments without troubling her conscious thoughts of him.
She was satisfied he was ok and gently pushed her IV stand around to start
back to her room.  At the squeaking wheels, she winced and turned quickly t
o
see
if he heard.
His eyes flew open.  After an instant of confusion, he smiled, he rubbed hi
s
eyes and motioned her further into the room.  She smiled briefly
and slowly moved closer to the bed, hesitating to sit on the edge,
 even as he moved to give her room.  He took her hand.
"I was just dreaming about you," he said with a smile.
 She arched a brow and removed her hand slowly.  "Really?  Do I want to
know?"
He chuckled a little.  "Actually, I think I was dreaming about
hallucinating.
Is that possible, *Doctor*?"
 "Anything is possible in dreams.  Or in man-eating fungus related
hallucinations,
I suppose," she said wryly. "How do you feel?"
"Like I spent a month touring with the Grateful Dead. You?"
"About the same."
"When do we get out of this place?"
"Well, it looks like I might make it out before you.  Less time exposed,
less drug ingested, less dehydration, etc.  I think they are going to keep
you one more night."
He groaned.
"I'll leave you some interesting reading material, how's that?"
"Whatcha got?" he asked hopefully.
"Nothing featuring 'The Women of the Ivy League' I assure you, " she said
with mock severity.
"Tease," he grumbled, with a sparkle in his eyes.
"It's my report on what happened up there.  I'm almost finished.
I included everything I could remember, everything about the
hallucinations."
"Anything good?" he asked with a leer.
She snorted.  "Nothing like that, but it should pique your interest.
Lots of conspiracy, lots of goo..." she finished with a smile.
"I need to finish my narrative, too," he said.
"Well, maybe you should wait to read my version.  You know the events are
pretty hazy; I don't want to influence your version."
"No, I'm almost finished.  I just need to type the damn thing up."
"I'm going to go see about my release."  She started walking for the door
and paused.
 Without looking back, she asked lightly, "So, what does this do to your
average?"
"Average?" he asked.
"Yeah.  Your *98.9%* average."  She finally turned around to meet his
confused gaze.  "No aliens," she singsonged quietly.
Then, it dawned on him what she was talking about.
"No cult killers, either," he said, a flash of heat in his voice.
"And if you think the *number* was what I was talking about -" he stopped
abruptly.
As his voice rose, her eyes closed and she held up the hand not holding ont
o
her IV stand.
It was palm out - warding him off.  Holding his words at bay.
In the silence she opened her eyes slowly.
He had never seen eyes that tired.  Not even during the cancer.
It was not sadness, not fear, not anger - it was weariness.  Marrow-deep
weariness.
He immediately regretted the harshness of his voice.
Her voice trembled as she said, "Enough.  Enough.  I'm too tired for this
right now.
I am too tired for *you* right now."
The words chilled him.  He tried not to let the fear show in his eyes as sh
e
turned back towards the door.  "Wait," he said softly, "I'm sorry..."
"You don't even know what your sorry for," she said without turning. "And I
don't know why, but I'm sorry, too."  Her shoulders slumped and she
continued her shuffle to the door - an eighty-year-old woman suddenly insid
e
her young body.
"We need to talk about this," he called after her.
"Later," she muttered. "*Much* later."

She never did drop off the report.
By the time he had charmed the duty nurse into allowing him out of bed,
his shaky trip down the hall revealed an empty room.  She had been released
.
It took some work, but after harassing the doctor on-call with repeated
threats of "impeding justice," he received his walking papers.
Waiting for them to be processed, he hurriedly called his paranoid friends,
who did not seem surprised to find him in the hospital - again.  They agree
d
to give him a ride home.
Well, a ride.
He didn't intend on going home.
They arrived with his overnight bag and an internet article about LBJ's
radioactive gallbladder they wanted to discuss.  He told them to discuss
among themselves and dashed to the shower.
He didn't bother to shave or dry his hair.  He needed to get to her before
she left.
Told the destination, his friends didn't need directions and he went silent
as they continued the discussion of LBJ's gallbladder surgery as a cover fo
r
a Soviet plant.
He worried his lower lip with his teeth, desperately wishing for some seeds
.
The ritual calmed him and he needed clam right now.  He had to hurry, but h
e
couldn't panic.
He had to stop her.
He was sure she was leaving.
Against his closed lids he could almost see the colors of the shirts she wa
s
packing.
He pressed his friends to drive faster.
They pulled up to her apartment and he leapt out with a wave of thanks.
He made it to her door and stopped for a moment to compose himself
before knocking.  When he did, there was no answer.  He knocked again,
harder.
One last time, he pounded the door, calling her name.  Nothing.
He slumped against the door frame.
Gone.
His fingers reached into his pocket, finding the familiar shape of her key.
He opened the door, hoping to find a clue to her destination.
But she was there.
She lay on her couch, curled in a ball under a quilt.  She had headphones o
n
and the music was loud.  Very loud.  He could hear the sweet strains of a
concerto from the door.  Her brow was furrowed, her eyes closed and her
cheeks wet.
And she knew he was there the moment he walked in.

"When I said *Much later,* I meant MUCH LATER," she said, talking loudly
over the music in her ears.
She didn't open her eyes; didn't remove the headphones.
"I thought you left," he practically shouted, turning to shut and lock the
door.
"I DID leave."
"No, I meant.." she opened her eyes as his words stumbled into silence.
"You thought I *left* left."
He nodded.
She pulled her feet up, pushing herself further up the arm of the couch.
She took the headphones off, turning off the stereo with a remote that had
fallen beneath the cushions.  During this, he stood just a few feet from th
e
door, shifting his
weight from one foot to the other, chewing his bottom lip.
He looked all of eight years old.
"Do you want something to drink?" she asked as she got up.  He shook his
head no.
She went into the kitchen and started the tea kettle.
After placing a mug and tea bag on the counter she returned to the living
room.
He was seated in the arm chair, turning a baseball found on the coffee tabl
e
over in his hands.  He held it up to his nose as she sat down.
"Perfume," he murmured to himself.  He hadn't seen her pocket the ball that
night.
It made him smile to himself a little.  The upright, by-the-books agent
stealing a baseball.
She regarded him with serious, wary eyes.  "So...I'm here.  I didn't leave.
You should still be in the hospital..."
 "I'm fine, "  he cut her off, throwing her much-used phrase at her. "Fine.
I've been thinking ...You were right.  I *don't* know why I am sorry.  But
I
am.
And I know something I did or said upset you and I want to understand.
I mean, up until yesterday morning I thought things were going well..
the other night," he gestured with the baseball, "I felt...connected to you
again."
She nodded, closing her eyes, remembering the lightness and affection
between
the two of them as they hit baseballs into the night sky.  She hadn't felt
that way since...since when?  Christmas?  That garbage monster thing?
She sighed and opened her eyes.
He was looking at her steadily.  "I know you didn't leave.
But I still feel you going." he said quietly.  "How can I get you to stay?"
A familiar flash of heat went through her: this is when it started.
In the hallway.  A desperate attempt to get her to stay.  Those words *your
science saved me...I can't do this without you..*  "So what are you going t
o
do - figure out which
buttons to push so you can goad me into staying this time?" she asked
bitterly.
"I don't want to hear more words you don't mean!"
"What the hell are you talking about?"  The almost instantaneous change
in the mood of the room shocked him.  He looked at her, baffled.
She looked at him, desperation and frustration evident in her blue eyes.
She gestured with her hand , trying to put into words what she was feeling,
finally expoding.
"I don't want... this!"  Her cry coincided with the shrill whistle of the
tea kettle
and for a brief moment, he thought the sound was coming from her.
She jumped up, ran to the kitchen and removed the pot, slamming it back
down on a cool burner.  She returned to the living room only marginally
calmer.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to say words you don't mean to get
me to stay.
I'm not going anywhere.  The work is mine now, too.  I have invested far to
o
much to walk away."
He sat for a moment in the sudden silence, before he quietly responded.
"I'm not talking about the work.  I don't want you to leave *me*."
"Why? Because my *science saves you*?," she said with a sneer in her voice.
"According to your rant yesterday, you find my science annoying, a burden.
You can't have it both ways."
"What I was saying in the office..." he fumbled to a stop, taking a deep
breath.
"When I said that, my feelings were hurt.  I was excited about the case.  I
was
excited about working with *you* on the case.  And I felt like we were on
the
same wavelength again - the first time in a while - and you shut me down. 
I
got angry."
"You thought because we hit some baseballs, had a good time, I was going to
believe an alien abduction story that had *no* evidence to back it up?"
"No," he said, frustrated. "But I thought you'd give me the benefit of the
doubt.  Hell, after everything you have seen, witnessed, heard,
*experienced*, why is it so hard
to say 'Gee, you may be on to something here'?"
"Have I not given you enough?" she questioned quietly, but with a fiercenes
s
in her voice.
She did not meet his eyes.  "I've given you my trust, my confidence, my
protection.
I've given you my compassion, my intellect, hell, my career!
I've given up things, precious things, so I could continue on with you:
my innocence, my faith, almost my life."
In the air hung the names of those other things she had lost: Missy,
Emily....
"I told you I stay with the work for my own reasons.  If you say I have to
give
you more than I have already to stay with you...I don't know what else I
have to give,"  her voice which had been gaining in intensity, cracked and
failed her.  "I believe in you.
I have always, *always* believed in you.  Isn't that enough?"

He sat with his hands cradling his head.  *All this because I made a crack
about being right?* he thought to himself.
Then he remembered similar thoughts, three years ago about a desk.

"No," he said aloud.
"No?" she asked, increduously.
"No, I don't mean 'No it's not enough', of course it is enough.  It is more
than
enough, more than I deserve.  But.." he stopped again.

She sat down on the couch, watching him.  "But, what?"

"But, that's not it.  This is not what we're upset about.
I know you believe in me.  I know you believe in the work.  I think this is
deeper...
I think this goes back.." he could not get his brain and mouth to work in
tandem.
"This frustration with each other, this anger, has been building for a whil
e
now.
We work together for six years, as closely as we do, things are bound to
back up.
I think we should clear the air right now, while neither of our lives are i
n
eminent danger.
And before either one of us run off,"  he was thinking of Philadelphia, she
thought of the entomologist.

After a pause, she nodded her assent.  "OK, where do we start?"
He thought for a moment.  "You said *words you don't mean*..."
"I was talking about when you said you needed my science."
"I didn't say that just to make you stay."
"I know.."
"No, I don't think you do and that is my fault.  We never talked about it."
He took a deep breath and began, watching the floor with fascination, unabl
e
to
look her in the eye.

"Until you walked out into that hallway, I didn't know how I would be
without you,
if I *could* be without you."  He reached out for her hands, but still
avoided
her eyes, watching their hands instead.  "When you disappeared, I could
concentrate
on finding you.  When you were in a coma, I could focus on finding the
bastards
who did it to you.  With the cancer, I could try to find a cure.  Even with
the bee,
I knew you were out there, somewhere, and I had to find you.  But when you
walked
out that door, *you * were making the decision.  It wasn't some maniac, or
a
chip, or a bee.
It was *you*.  All the other times, I fought because you were fighting, too
.
And I could think, imagine... believe we were fighting to stay together, to
get back to each other.  Every other time we have been separated,
we've been separated be something or someone else.  This time, *you*
were doing the separating." He paused, still unable to look at her.
She gripped his hands tighter and quietly said,  "But I stayed."

"Yes, but why?" he finally looked up with a challenge in his eyes.  "And
does it matter why?
You *left* me - or, were going to leave me.  You did it and whose to say yo
u
wouldn't
or won't again? I *trusted* that.  I trusted you would stay and now...And
when you
did say you would stay, it was for the work.  Not me, the work," his eyes
dropped again.
"And I figured that was your way of saying what was between us wasn't
personal any more."

She looked off for a moment. Personal.  *You're making this personal*
his words floated back to her.  A humorless laugh reached her throat and
she shook her head.  "That's why when I questioned you about Diana..."

He nodded.  "I was pissed.  I thought you had made it clear we were all
business and then you were trying to ... "

They sat silently for a few moments, their hands the only part of them
touching,
their eyes focused on the twined fingers between them.  When she spoke,
her voice was quiet and tender.
"Do you remember what you said at the reflecting pool, after the hearing?
You told me to get as far away from you as I could and I said I couldn't?
That I wouldn't?  I meant you.  I couldn't leave *you*."
 He looked at her.  Tears were running slowly, silently down her face. She
continued.
 "I was always fighting to get back to you. *Always*.  Even when I was
reassigned,
I resigned from the FBI, not from the work.  *Never*from you.
When you came to me in the hallway, I thought you were talking about
the work; how what I did for the work was important.
I thought that was why you were desperate for me to stay.  And I took it.
I thought, if I was necessary to you at work than you would want me to stay
.
And then with Diana..."

He reached up to hold her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him.
"Diana isn't necessary.  None of it is necessary.
The work isn't even necessary to me any more,
at least not for the same reasons.  Now it's necessary because it is
important to you, yoo.  And *you* are necessary to me.
No matter what happens, you are my constant,
my universal invariant," he smiled at her quirked brow.
"You complete me and make me whole.  Not the work. Me."

She broke the stare, the intensity of the moment shaking her.
He dropped his hands to hers.
"I don't know why we are here, together, " he continued.
"I don't know if it was planned, fated or just happenstance.
And for once, I don't care," she looked up, hearing the smile in his voice.
"All I know is how lucky I am to have you here.  I get scared, I get angry,
I get frustrated but all that passes.  What matters is this," he released
one
of her hands to motion between them. "This is what matters."

She looked at him, reading the honesty in his eyes.
"I know, " she said.  She paused for a moment and smiled to herself.
"I thought you were dead."
"What ?!!"
"In my hallucination," her voice went soft again and her smile faded.
"I saw your skeleton, I went to your wake.  But I didn't, I couldn't believ
e
it.
I was sad, but more than that I was furious!"

He laughed at the sudden growl to her voice. "That's great," he said dryly.
"Why?  Why were you angry?"

"Because it wasn't how it was supposed to happen.  We were supposed to be
there."
He looked at her bent head, puzzled.  "Where? In the cave?"
"No, I mean wherever, whenever.  I was supposed to be there.
You *couldn't* die without me - it couldn't happen.  And you couldn't be
dead - not really."
The tenderness in her voice took his breath.
"Why?", he whispered. "How did you know?"
"Because if you gone," she looked him right in the eye, willing him to
understand her next words, "I would have felt it. I would have known."
He held her gaze for a long moment and nodded.
Tears unshed caused his vision to swim.
"So," she continued with a small smile, "when you walked through the door
into
my hallucination, I wasn't really surprised."
"Wait," he said, "was it your door? Your apartment door?"
"No, yours.  Why?"
He dropped her hands and started pulling scraps of paper
from his jacket pockets.  He looked through them and handed her a piece of
paper covered in his erratic scrawl.  She started reading:
"...walked through the door and she began asking me how I got there.
She also asked if I was aware there had been a wake held in my honor..."
The narrative continued, matching her report to the letter, down to when
they were pulled from the earth.

She looked up at him, confused.  "You read my report?"
He shook his head slowly.
"Well," she started " there has to be.."
"A rational explanation?", he finished for her with a grin.
She smiled back at him.  He pulled her over to sit by his side.
"I think there is an explanation, but I don't know how rational it is."
"Oh, you have a theory, do you?", she asked with an arched brow.
"Yes, as a matter of fact."  He shifted so he could face her.
"You know that little voice in your head that tells you to watch your back?=
"
A thousand amused thoughts ran through her mind but she only nodded,
wanting to see where this was leading.
"Well, mine speaks in *your voice.* 'What are you doing?  Turn your cell
phone on.
Do you *really* think those pictures are real?  You're nuts!'"
She smiled at his version of her voice.
" You are with me even when your not.  Your here even when your gone.
I can't look at anything any more without seeing it through your eyes, too.
And that can be damned frustrating sometimes," he said with mock
frustration.
"You are a part of me. It only makes sense I'd reach out to you in my
dreams."
"Hallucinations," she corrected with a smile.
"Potato, potahto," he said with a grin.  "I think if you hadn't come into m
y
dream..."
"YOU came into MY hallucination," she corrected again.
"Whatever.  If we hadn't been together, figuring it out together,
I don't know if we would have made it out."
She agreed. "I don't know if I would have figured it out on my own in time,
" she admitted.
"I wouldn't have either.  See this connection we have, this completeness
is stronger than anything we've ever come across.  I'm here for you.
You're here for me.  That's it."

She looked at him for a moment.  She saw the truth in his eyes and
it warmed her to the core.
"Well, Mulder," she sighed, leaning into him, her head against
his shoulder and her arm across his waist.  "When you're right, you're
right."
He sat there a minute, unwilling to say anything to break the
sweetness of the moment and the rightness of her body against his.
But in the end, he could not resist it.

"So, Scully, how does that affect my average?"

She hid her smile against his shirt front.  "Don't push it, partner."