#so apologies for all the therapy related rambles that have gone in the tags lately

[settle-down-frohike]

Healthy

Spoilers:  Ghouli

Word count: 1,570

C: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, MSR

R: R for language

Summary: An awkward post-Ghouli rambling, apologies in advance for any depression-related triggers. tagging @today-in-fic

“Keep cracking wise, you have no idea my state of mind.”

He’s healthy.

He goes to the gym before work, sometimes after (which is why he hopes today won’t seem unusual), exercise keeps the endorphins going. He needs them today. More than dinner. Certainly more than company. But it’s not her, really. It’s him. He just needs to stay healthy. His boxing coach says he would have had a mean right hook if he’d gotten a hold of him at a younger age. Now his rotator cuffs are shot to hell, but at least he’s healthy. He’s got more muscle mass now than he did when he was 30 which means his metabolism is still firing off pretty well but he still eats a salad now and then because it keeps him healthy. His eyes and ears are still sharp, his teeth are clean, his dick still gets hard when he wants it to and his frown lines aren’t too bad and that’s not because he steals a dab of Scully’s skin cream every now and then, it’s because he’s healthy.

He’s better.

He’s taking his meds. His serotonin and norepinephrine levels are where they should be now and he’s making sure to go to therapy regularly, to get plenty of fresh air and sleep and spend time with love ones…loved one--but who’s counting.

He’s better.

Better with her too. He’s listening and he’s supportive and shutting up instead of talking over her and kicking himself in the ass for all the stuff he probably missed before, back when he was an island.

It’s worth it. He gets to feel her arms around his waist again, her hands in his hair. The bedroom smells like lavender shampoo and sex again. 

The last few days have been….he wasn’t ready for this, who is ever ready for this--but he’s so glad he can be better so he do this for her. Be her Rock of Gibraltar, her tether in the storm. The surveillance tape. He remembers her looking up at him with those same eyes as he'd swayed and hummed a lullaby. Our son, they’d said, back then. Two days ago, looking at up at that monitor, my son, they’d said. (Or had he just interpreted it that way?) He’s been processing his emotions through her the last couple of days because it’s safer, a buffer. He doesn’t go to the dark place if she’s his proxy. She, apparently, feels safer too lately. She’s been opening up to him in ways that would have floored him years ago, but he likes it. Scully has always declared her trust through action. He loves feeling worthy of it again.

-----

The buzzing doesn’t bother him much anymore, not like it used to. He doesn’t even hear it most of the time. He’s healthy now. He’s better. He’s worthy and he won’t lose that again.

But sometimes. When he’s alone and been still for too long, or when the last few work days have been full of body bags containing of what turns out to be his son who turns out to not actually be dead, he’ll feel the old panic and smell the old fear. And he’ll remember. Running into her apartment, onto a mountain top, into an abandoned house and being so late, too late. A dollar short and fucking inadequate. His hands go cold and his lips go numb. And the whole world feels as though it might swallow him up. And then he’ll remember his child’s first cry. He’ll remember how it changed him. And how for a minute he began to hope again. And how hope didn’t make having a family again a fact for him. And that’s when the tears start. And no matter how hard he presses his palms to his ears, it won’t stop. Between the baby crying and Scully’s pleading and his own ruthless indictments,

I’m a guilty man in every respect. I deserve the harshest punishment for my crimes…

..a symphony of self doubt blends into a steady, shrill hum. And it drowns out everything else, including her voice. Before, it was all he could hear. His world was grey and silent and deafening and he would have stayed there. Because you can’t feel there.

But he’s better now..really.

It only gets this way sometimes. Not much shakes him anymore but he’s been steeping in adrenaline for too long, and he’s never been one for flight. So he turns down dinner in favor of the gym where he can punch his knuckles bloody if he damn well wants to. And when she shows up later he can blame it on doing manly things around the property. He’s funny like that. His sense of humor is still well intact. Depressed people don’t crack jokes. They don’t learn new recipes and have dinner dates and pick up quasi-bafoonish pastimes like squatching.

----

He can’t seem to burn the lump down tonight. He had that dream again, the one where he’s holding William against his chest and he’s warm and smelling of breast milk and baby detergent. And he can’t imagine ever having loved anything before now. He’s patting the gas from his baby’s belly and he’s so content. So drowsy. The baby snuffles and suckles in his sleep, safe on the chest of his father. There’s a sensation of free fall, and the baby sliding from his chest to the floor. He always wakes up before William hits the floor. He never dropped him, not really, but he could have. He probably would have at some point and that dream serves as a reminder. He can still feel the weight and warmth of him on his chest.  It’s not long before the bottle is empty but there’s still the aching lump. That hole at the back of his throat where the buzzing lives. His sinuses and his eyes are burning and his goddamned chin won’t fucking be still so he swipes angrily at his cheeks with both hands. Stop this. It’s indulgent and self-serving and it won’t help her and it won’t keep her.

He won’t do this. He’s better. He has to stay better. Keep holding her and holding it in. It’ll go away eventually. The buzzing will stop like it always does.

He should exercise again. That will help. His muscles will ache and his mind will go quiet. He’ll be back before she wakes up and he won’t have to think about the last time he touched his son. He won’t have to think about the fact that he told Scully not to hope too hard. Hope can hurt you. 

--And He just didn’t want her to be where he is now, can’t she understand that? But she did hope. She hoped and believed the way only mothers can. They never give up on their children. And she was rewarded. She got to talk to him. He wants to know her. He knows she loves him. Maybe fate is sending a message. He’s always had such shitty timing. If he’d gotten the gas instead of running to the bathroom maybe…. But maybe it’s the way it’s supposed to be. She’s earned it. She put in the time. I haven’t... I didn’t.--

“You can’t believe that.”

And he’s wondering how on earth he got out here on the porch steps and when did he put his running shoes on? His knees are bloody and he’s crying like an infant and it’s embarrassing as hell. She shouldn’t be out here. This can’t happen. He’s gone and felt to much and lost control again. He can’t remember when the thinking stopped and the talking started. How much has she heard?

“Mulder please come inside. It’s freezing and you’re sweating. Please? Let’s just get you inside, ok?”

He knows he should move, he really does because she’s right like she always is. But he’s gone and humiliated himself now and she knows. She’s knows everything. He can’t move. If he moves from this spot and they go inside she’ll tuck him in and be gone in the morning. He has to fix this. But the sweat is cooling on his skin and it’s making him shiver. He’s shivering and crying on the steps like a child and he can’t move for the life of him. He hears the screen door slam and waits to hear the jangle of keys. Instead the weight of a quilt is thrown over his shoulders, and she resumes her spot, wrapping both her arms around his bicep.

“I have dreams like that too, still. Sometimes I wake up, and for a split second….” her voice is a higher pitch, stretched and strained to a whisper, he knows she’s crying too, “I can still feel the both of you. Me holding him, and you holding me. It’s so real, Mulder….”

“I’m sorry you saw this Scully. I’ll be fine tomorrow. I promise I’m better. Its just. The body bag—— But he’s fine. I’ll be fine. Please don’t go. I just...I—he was right there…“ And he hates, he hates how pitiful he sounds right now. But she needs to know it’s not like it was before. He’s not sick again. The crying will stop and he’s just not used to her being home when this happens.

“I won’t go...we’ll talk some more tomorrow. I won’t go Mulder. And…when we see him again, I’ll make sure you get to speak first."