Talk To Me

By Jeannine Ackerson



Rating: PG.

Disclaimer: The X-Files and it's characters are property of C.C., FOX & 1013 Prod., etc. Lyrics incorporated as dialogue are from "Talk To Me", sung by Lee Ann Womack. All of these things are used without permission.

Spoilers: 3rd season - "Wetwired".

Relationship: Scully & Mulder angst with borderline . . . no, ok full MSR.

Summary: When he shuts himself off from her, Scully pushes Mulder into talking to her.

Hi all! No, it's not a song story! <g> Actually, the lyrics sounded so much like what either one of these two would say to the other, I had to let them 'speak' for themselves. It was a toss-up between the aftermath of "Wetwired" or "Never Again". I took the earlier of the two just so anyone who still isn't that far into the 4th season could read this. Now, to the story . . .

Scully found him sitting on the leather cushions of his couch.

The apartment was pitch black except for the street light that illuminated a patch of floor and wall across from him. That little light somehow reflected enough for her to see the shadowy form of his face and body.

If she had to guess, she would say that he was hiding in the dark.

From her.

After she'd gotten out of the hospital, she had expected him to check up on her. But he hadn't. In fact, he hadn't called or stopped by for two days. Her mom had told her that he knew she was out, but he'd still refrained from coming to see her.

And that meant that something was wrong.

She still felt terrible about what had happened. Her pulling a gun on him. Saying that he never trusted her. Accusing him of those horrible acts against her. She knew that he felt incredibly guilty as it was about everything she'd been through since she'd started the X-Files, without her adding to that guilt. But she had been in the grip of a paranoia so overwhelming that she hadn't cared what damage her words would do. She'd *believed* them at the time.

It had *hurt* him to hear her say those things, have her fear him, but there was more to this disappearing act of his than that. Something else that she didn't know about was fueling this. It was something that went deeper than her induced fear of his betrayal, her running from him in total panic. Something that he had yet to tell her about.

Whatever it was, it had pierced him straight to his soul.

There was silence in the room, making it feel blacker and colder than it was. She watched him, waiting for him to say something. Time passed and neither of them moved. Finally she was about ready to turn on the lights, make him see her, acknowledge her presence when she felt a physical shift from the man on the couch.

"Leave me alone Scully," said Mulder's tired sounding voice, coming out of the dark. He'd been watching her since she'd walked in, and now he turned away from her piercing eyes.

"Don't shut me out Mulder," she replied, walking closer, coming to stand in the light.

The distance between them was closing, even if he was trying to emotionally back away from her. To escape the feelings that seemed to be threatening to come out. The deep, powerful emotions that seemed to be consuming him.

She knew the pain was there. She could feel it as if it were her own. In fact, it was hers. They were joined; tied together as tightly as a Celtic knot. Intertwined. They'd been that way ever since his cause had became hers.

And now that Mulder was feeling the weight of it all, including her own suffering and he refused to let her help him.

In the dark, she could barely make out his form on the couch. She shouldn't have come over without calling. Shouldn't have let herself in. But she knew that she had to see him. Be with him. Help him even if he didn't want her to.

His resistance to her attempts to console him frustrated her. She knew that this was hurting him, but he refused to talk to her.

"How will I ever know what you're feeling?" she blurted out, not realizing that the words had passed her lips until his head swung around so his eyes could regard her, and she decided to press on with her unplanned questioning. "How will I ever know what to do if you simply refuse to tell me what's going on inside of you?"

The shock her words had sparked in him was visible, even in the low light. She'd struck a nerve. It was true. For both of them actually. Neither of them opened up to the other, especially when they needed to.

It had to do with their solitary nature, that and their resistance to show weakness. Even to those who they *trusted*.

"Have a little faith in me. Can't you see," she stressed, coming to stand next to the arm of the couch, dropping down in a crouch before him, "you've got to *talk* to me."

For the first time their eyes finally *really* connected, and the emotions were there for both of them to see. He knew that she could look right into him, and it scared him. He didn't want her to know what he was feeling. To find the cause for his concern and pain. She'd been through enough. He wouldn't burden her with this as well. Suddenly he closed his eyes, cutting off her silent intrusion into his soul.

He got up slowly from the couch, the cushions swelling back up into place with his weight gone. He wandered away from her again, heading to the door that barred entrance to his bedroom. A bedroom he rarely used.

Not like it mattered. He didn't sleep anyway, did he?

Not with the nightmares . . . God, the nightmares, he thought as his head rested on his arm that was laying on the door. He would be seeing her in them for the rest of his life . . .

Scully watched him and could feel the anguish coming from him. He leaned heavily on the door to a room she knew he didn't use. Because he couldn't sleep. She knew he had nightmares, and that was one reason he slept on the couch. But she also knew what some of those nightmares were about: her abduction, his inability to save her. And she hated the thought that she was partially responsible for his pain because of them.

The waves of guilt and pain coming off him rocked her to her soul. The strength of the emotions hit her with enough force that it caused her to sway in her position by the couch.

"How can I ever know how to help you? How can I ever know what to say," she questioned, pushing herself upright and turning to stare at his back, "if every time your heart is hurting, you turn from me and walk away? Have a *little* faith in me. Can't you see, you've *got* to talk to me."

She watched him as he slowly turned towards her, began to open his mouth and pass across his lips the platitudes that she was so fond of giving him. It had become an established routine. Deny that you have feelings. Deny that you're in pain. Don't acknowledge that you need someone.

She cut off his feeble attempts with a quick swipe of her hand.

"No, you don't have to lie," she said candidly, gazing at him with the understanding of someone who has been where he was at that moment.

Her words stopped him cold.

"Look into my eyes, there's nothing here but love for you," she said, her heart on her sleeve now. She wanted to show him how she cared for him: as her partner, her friend, and as so much more. His eyes widened at her words and his throat threatened to close up on him. "You don't have to feel alone. Let me share the load."

"But . . ." he hesitantly started, but she cut him off.

"There's nothing more I'd rather do."

It was the truth, and they both knew it. She would willingly walk though fire for him. Sacrifice her career and respect for him. Kill for him. *Die* for him. No matter what she had done, that was the truth.

Again she saw him pause, closing his eyes as he tried to draw back within himself. This was important, she could sense it. This had to do with something that had been within him before this television signal thing, except that something had happened then to pull up this deep fear. And interlaced with it she knew was an equally deep passion.

All she had to use to discover the truth from him were her words. So she continued to make it clear to him how much she cared. How deep her love ran in the hopes that he would open up to her. Let her in. Let her know what he was feeling.

"I'm the one you can always turn to. I'm the one who will stand by your side. My love for you is forever, you don't ever have to run away and hide," she informed him matter of factly, in her 'typical Scully' way that she knew Mulder responded to.

There was a wry grin that crept onto his face at the tone of her words. They had been said with the same determined tones he was used to from her. Ones that usually accompanied her belief in scientific answers to paranormal situations. Things she believed with absolute certainty. And now he was hearing them in regards to him, and them.

And it filled his heart like he never thought possible.

"Have a little faith in me," she told him, walking over to him slowly.

He gazed at her, his eyes saying so much that he couldn't. His heart feeling so much that he couldn't express.

"Mulder, can't you see? You've got to talk to *me*."

At that she stood next to him, and placed a hand on his arm. Her feelings for him radiated from her through the heat of her hand. Through that touch, the emotions she felt seeped into his body, spreading through him and stirring his soul.

His body started shaking.

And then he fell apart.

In one move he drew her tightly into his embrace, his head and tears falling onto her shoulder, his body shuddering. He held her to him, needing to have that contact, needing *her*.

After many minutes had gone by, she felt his tears slow, and his body stop shaking. He eased back a bit, so he could look at her. Without thinking, she raised both a hand to his cheek and an eyebrow in question as to what he was up to. He smiled for a second, and then it was gone, the seriousness back in his face. But she wanted the seriousness. The humorous Mulder would shrug off telling her what had happened, while the serious Mulder would possibly be willing to answer her.

He drew in a shaky breath and let it out. He took her hands into his and tightly gripped them. It was the moment of truth. He was going to finally tell her what had happened. Why he was so frightened . . .

"They called me to identify a body . . . that they thought was yours . . ."


I think that finishes this up well enough. I know that all you (us) shippers will see where the rest of the conversation was going, right? <g> J.

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