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On Monday, Bernard Oates was taken into custody for attempted robbery and some charge of the death of his long-term girlfriend. On Tuesday, the case was closed from the perspective of the FBI whose agents had ben mixed up in the situation. It just barely qualified as an X-file, and only because of Mulder's own instincts.
Mulder's mysterious waterbed was out of commission since apparently Sunday night. He was back to sleeping on his couch. He'd been late on Monday, nearly late on Tuesday when it finally happened. Tuesday night he couldn't sleep, so Wednesday wasn't looking any better.
He couldn't sleep. It wasn't that he was scared that he would wake up on his leaky waterbed again. Pam had been sacrificed so that time could keep moving forward. His life had resumed from whatever derailment had occurred.
He'd been on the wrong end of a gun before. Probably more than was healthy for his psyche. The poor woman Pam had died so everyone could break out of the loop. The bullet meant for Mulder had actually been meant for her.
Mulder knew that the explosion was supposed to come next. Bernard had a bomb, he had a bomb: the words echoed through Mulder's head well through tuesday. In reality, Bernard had surrendered when his partner had died. The bomb was not triggered. He had been done. He didn't need to take anyone else out with him. It wasn't worth it any more with Pam gone.
Mulder couldn't understand that. If taking out the bank had been an option before a living Pam entered, then creating a giant funeral pyre for hire had to be an option. At the same time, he got it. Bernard had broken in that moment.
Mulder couldn't stop thinking about Pam, about the hell that she'd been in. He had no concept of what kind of afterlife she would now be in, only that anything had to be better.
Mulder's explanation for Skinner had been slightly better than what he'd managed to tell Scully. Skinner hadn't been satisfied with the strings of words giving nothing that he didn't already know. It existed in black and white and they could move forward.
He channel surfed since he was already on the couch. He sped past the police procedural reruns. He wasn't in any mood for seeing inaccurate portrayals of his life.
They were going to move forward. Monday was done, Tuesday was done. Wednesday lay ahead.
Mulder wasn't ready for Wednesday. Monday had been irritating enough in a mundane way before the bank. Tuesday had been a mass of confusion with everyone expecting Mulder to know what was going on.
He managed to fall into sleep. He didn't realize it was a dream instead of a relapse into that loop. He was in the bank. e was trying to make Bernard make a better choice.
Scully walked into the scene with Pam again. This time, one difference, Pam didn't jump in front of the gun fast enough. Scully made the move instead.
Scully was too far away, when it happened. Scully wouldn't take a bullet that she knew could be fatal. Mulder had assumed for years that Scully would give her life for him. This didn't seem like the time.
The world would be worse off without her. She wasn't the suicidal type, the ultimate sin. Mulder's absence from the world would absolutely take something away but it wasn't as much.
The way it played out for this time, Scully moved fast enough to take the bullet. Mulder dropped to the floor beside her. He couldn't stop the bleeding. He was allowed to try, to lay hands on his partner as she drew her last breaths. It was hardly last rites, but it was what comfort he could offer.
He knew that the explosion was supposed to come next. He was anticipating it, waiting for his end to follow her. Scully's death was functionally the end of his world. If he lived through it without her, he'd be missing a limb. He might survive if he could apply a tourniquet and cauterize the metaphorical wound.
He managed to close her eyes before the bomb went off. The full force of the explosion startled him awake.
He didn't bolt upright, gasping for air or bursting into tears. He laid on his side, mentally reviewing where he was and what was real versus what he had only imagined. With no witnesses, he couldn't be sure that he hadn't screamed out her name in real life as well as in his dream.
With only a moment's hesitation, Mulder reached for the phone on his coffee table and called a number he had memorized all too well. He hoped he'd earned moments of weakness.
She didn't answer right away, which was a small heart attack in the making. "Hello?" Scully said on the other end, her voice somehow sweeter and more alert than she had expected it to be.
Mulder had a sudden thought that she might not be alone. There was no sound of another person, a vague crackle of static possible. Still, it woke him up just a little bit more.
Mulder sighed in relief. "Scully, it's me."
"Mulder, are you okay?" Scully said. Mulder could imagine her rushing to get her car keys, proper clothes if necessary. He tried not to think about her in bed. It was a distraction, a presumption.
"I had a nightmare," he said. It wasn't enough of an explanation. He needed her to understand. Mulder couldn't even hear her breathing down the line. The few words that she'd said weren't enough. "I just needed to hear your voice. Someone's voice."
The tension was bleeding out of him already. Embarrassment was taking its place, which he could handle. If he'd been in her bed he still would've woken her up.
"What was the nightmare?" Scully said, with a sigh that might've been a yawn.
Mulder tried to find the right words to describe it, settling just for two: "the bank."
"Her death was a tragedy," Scully said.
"In my dream, it was you, not her."
Scully hummed a note of acknowledgement, encouragement. He didn't think that she got what he was saying.
"I'm glad you didn't take a bullet for me."
"I would if I had to," she said. She sounded as if she meant it.
"Don't," he said. "Literally my nightmare."
"Try and stop me."
"I will." Late night thoughts of sharing a bed with Scully started to flood his mind. She was teasing him and he could think of so many ways that he would tease her back.
"You'd do the same thing," she said. The truth was not necessary in that moment.
I love you he didn't say, because she might or might not say it back and either option would destroy him. A complete stranger had died for him, it didn't mean much that his partner claimed to be ready to do the same.
"I'm sorry to wake you," he said, which seemed a safer thing to say and had the benefit of being true. "I can't sleep. Have to get used to the couch since the waterbed broke."
Scully let those words wash over her without seeming to register. "Can I help?"
"Help?" Mulder repeated back to her. "You got your prescription pad handy?"
"Mulder, no," Scully said, managing to get the words out before starting to yawn.
"Go back to sleep," he said, slightly more condescending than kind. He hoped that she was prepared to forgive that. Forgive or forget would work either way.
"I think I am asleep." Scully was drifting off, her voice getting more distant. He could imagine the phone falling from her grasp.
"Good night, Scully," Mulder said.
"Good night, Mulder," she said, disconnecting the call on her end.
His sleep was dreamless from that point, interrupted only by the morning paper hitting her door hours later. Daylight was just starting to stream in. He was still curled around the phone, clutching it like a talisman. It took him a long moment to recall the events.
Wednesday had finally begun.