‘Don’t go! I didn’t mean it. Don’t leave me alone!’ He was screaming inside, fear paralyzing him, but he refused to let her see it. He was alone, now more than ever. He watched the door close behind her and nearly lunged for it to stop her. When he’d awakened and seen her beside him, seen the trauma in her eyes, on her face, and known that his disappearance has caused it, he had felt . . . loved.
Now she was leaving. He’d driven her away. He was screaming for her to stay even as he yearned to be alone for a few minutes. He desperately needed to get his thoughts straight. And he wanted to go over his thoughts slightly less than he wanted a prostate exam.
To get his thoughts straight he had to think, to go over what he’d been through.
Maybe it would have been better to remain dead. Dead and buried.
She’d buried him. He shivered as though feeling the cold earth surrounding him. Scully had buried him. If she, pathologist par-excellence, had declared him dead, he must have been pretty dead.
She remembered nothing of her abduction, she said. So why was every moment etched so clearly in his mind? Torture, that was the only word for it. He realized his hand was touching the scar on his chest again. Damn, would the sound never leave him? The whine of the blade as it spun toward him, the sound of his flesh parting, his bone cracking. He could see the blade, spinning, reflecting light, coming toward him over and over.
He shivered again and closed his eyes to block out the sight. No! The whole scene was in front of him then. He was lying naked on that, that form. It hadn’t been a table, it wasn’t hard, more organic feeling and slightly oily. Did they expose his body on purpose? Yes, they had been around humans long enough to know that having their genitals exposed make them feel more vulnerable. Could he have felt more vulnerable?
He tried desperately to superimpose this more recent memory with the one of Scully’s hands cupping his balls, stroking his length. But that memory was tainted now too.
What should he think about? How the hell he could ever go to a dentist again? Oh yeah, that was helpful. His tongue felt the ridge of scar tissue on the roof of his mouth for the millionth time. Was it smaller than it had been?
She said his scars were healing. Maybe they were, physically.
When he’d awoken and found her beside him in the hospital, for just an instant he hadn’t realized that what he’d endured was real. He’d thought maybe a nightmare, and she was there to make it better.
His first deep breath had put that theory to ruin. Then . . . then what was left of his life had imploded and he was thrown into a waking nightmare that hadn’t gone away.
Everything was different, especially his place in the world. The X-Files had been reopened - in order to find him. Irony at its best, but other agents were in charge now. Hell, did he even want to be involved with them? He was the ultimate X-File, abducted by aliens and risen from the dead.
He had little desire to investigate that. Living it had been bad enough, thank you.
And Scully.
Scully.
He closed his eyes, shuddering at the pain just the thought of her brought to him. He should be thinking about what a wonderful time this was for her. She was pregnant. She had her heart’s desire. He’d stammered his way thought actually saying it. Why wasn’t it true? So what if he was a selfish shit for wishing he had a part in it. He hadn’t asked how it had been achieved. ‘It’ not ‘her baby’. He wasn’t able to go there yet, no matter how hard he tried. He’d thought all of her viable eggs had been used when they had attempted . . . Obviously he’d been wrong.
He didn’t think her new partner had been involved. No, she’d probably used one of those anonymous donor places, some member of Mensa or a Noble Laureate. She had, hadn’t she? It was none of his business anyway. That was obvious.
He’d never felt so alone.
He looked over at the fish tank. Scully was wrong, the Molly had been luckier than him. If he’d stayed dead . . .
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