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New: Fatigue Summary: Scully's thoughts over Gibson's bed Author notes: Special thanks to Vered, without her this story wouldn't have come to life. Thanks to you too, Marcia!
I sit here, so very stiff, on that white chair next to Gibson's bed, thinking about you. It would not have sounded so pathetic had I not confessed you weren't out of my mind for an hour over these last three days. At times, it's my anger towards you that flames your memory, and I treasure this feeling as a consolation for myself. Other times it comes with a small pang of regret, when I doubt my attitude towards you, trapped by the delicate situation we were thrown into. But mostly it's your reflected self that I find in every little gesture of the people around me. I guess I just miss you. I miss you so, Mulder. Gibson here is a true fighter. He is perforated everywhere, but keeps his Breath without the machine. He looks so pale... On these endless hours I sit here staring at him I can clearly count the blue veins under the skin of his hands and face. He has become much thinner than he once was. We all know he won't keep on like this for long. And my place is here with him. I cannot let him slip under my sight again. I think you know that. I received a call telling me to come to this hospital three days ago, when I came home from work so mentally tired. At first I just stood there, holding the receiver loosely in my hand, feeling no emotion at all. I could sense the fatigue overcoming me, threatening to drop me down like a helpless leaf. I knew I should call you, argue with you, wait for you to join me, but this routine would have meant forgiveness, or worse, an acceptance, and I didn't have those in me. The lines of betrayal were still burning my face, just like I could read your eyes screaming the same at me. We were not together anymore, we both felt that, knew that. Still we were trying to pretend. I could hear a hoarse shout in me protesting "not anymore!" and with that I came back to life, packing, arranging, stopping only briefly to chance the voice-over in my answering machine. Me, on my way to Hopetown hospital, where Gibson Praise might be. Alone. It was when I was sitting there on the plane, on the most inner seat I could find, trying not to hold the handles too tight as the plane soared, that the first drops of tears fell from my eyes. They were round, ugly and fast, and I smashed them before they had the chance of coloring my face with red lines. I think it was your hands that I missed then, their gentle whisper over mine at moments like this. I wanted them there so I could slap them, neglect them, push them away, but you were too far. Stupidly, I think I was angry with you for that, too. I was on my way to Gibson. The call I received was not unexpected. After the terrible sleepless night following Gibson's disappearance was over, I sent urgent messages to every small hospital and charity organization I could put my hands on, demanding to be notified on each new child patient who happens to arrive. I lost a child who was under my care; still, wherever I turned, I could see his eyes. And you said nothing. I wanted you to shout, to shoot charges at me... Still, your silence held the cruelest way of intensifying my pain, screaming endless accusations I couldn't argue with. It made me hate myself even more. By the time I reached the hospital the sun stood proudly in the middle of the sky, shining brightly, and I must have looked like hell since everybody was letting me through without comments. Gibson's condition was already very poor, his vitals low, his brain activity damaged beyond repair. I was so relieved seeing him alive, yet so completely shocked by his lifelessness, that I could feel my blood pressure turning down at once, and I struggled for my sight for a minute. That was the last breakdown of my vow not to let my eyes off of him. I have been sitting here on this chair, watching, since then.
It has darkened now again. I've opened the window a bit, letting the soft wind blow in. I want Gibson to feel the pure whisper of the air, the soft voices from the outside, the serenity only darkness can give. I can sense this is his last night. His breathing is much slower now, too tender... His weight on the bed has reduced to such a level he seems like floating. God, this feels so much like the day Emily died. I stand up and move the curtains aside a bit so I can see the moon from where I'm sitting. I also stop to turn my cellphone on, even though I am aware such a thing is not allowed in here. I don't want to miss it if you called. I wait. I know you won't call. Why would you? I mean, for once, you are the one being ditched, and you can't refuse playing that game with me. That "Who would break down first" meaningless, stupid game. I'm tired, Mulder. I'm so tired with this fragile partnership that we have, from its rises and falls. I'm tired treading eggshells with you, trying to avoid the gulfs of pain surrounding us, weighing every comment for its possible consequences. For all our fears of losing the most important of all, we are letting it slip away. I can see it in your eyes- you're evaluating me all over again, comparing me to my old self, comparing me to your dearest Diana, not liking what you find. It's almost funny, my letting you have that power over me. Had it happened years before, I wouldn't have considered my actions twice. Only now, there's a piece of heart in your hands, my heart, which is forever yours. To leave you would mean to abandon that part of myself behind, and I don't know if I can do that. I wish we were just... free. I wish I could love you with ease.
There is a sharp, steady noise. The hand I've been holding for the last hour is losing its warmth. In the sudden rush inside the room, harsh hands are trying to stop me from staying. I fight against them, shouting my protests like a wild, injured animal. At last, I am being left aside, in the corner of the room, watching through white forms and hands how Gibson's little body fights for its life. At the end, there is just silence. I feel like voyeur as I look at that peaceful face. I step forward to say goodbye and suddenly all the dam breaks and I'm caressing Gibson's face and crying, not only for him, but for us, for our hope that died along with this boy.
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