You used to know what he was thinking, but lately, you're not so sure.

You used to believe in him the way you believe the sun rises in the east
and sets in the west, but lately you wonder if the earth has shifted on
its axis and no one remembered to tell you.

You used to think he loved you. Were pretty certain of it, even.

And now?

Now. Now you remember the way he looked at you in the instant before
his lips dipped toward yours in the hallway outside his apartment and
wonder if you imagined it. You recall the tenderness with which he
massaged your neck in the wake of the bee sting, the care with which
he held your hand until the ambulance came, the ferocity with which
he sheltered you from the explosions of steam that rocked the place
of your imprisonment, and can't decide if you hallucinated it all.

In one rare, unguarded moment Mulder confessed that rescuing you had
felt like setting Sleeping Beauty free from her sleep. Maybe he was wrong --
maybe you never really woke. When life suddenly consists of walking
dazedly through a nightmare of your own making, it's as good an explanation
as any.

Now, you hand him the file, the evidence, you give him what he wants, and
it's still not enough. You look up at him and the unconditional trust you had
grown so accustomed to seeing there is fading. The light is going out of his
eyes - the light that shone for you, anyway. He questions you now. The
pledge is not given as freely as it once was.

And yet you are still here. Why?

Maybe Bill was right. Maybe you have lost sight of what should be important
to you, of where your priorities should lie. Maybe you have already given
more than anyone could be expected to give.

Maybe you should take a break. Leave. Escape.

But.

But you saved him.

What is that honorable tradition? If you save someone's life, they are your
servant forever. How appropriate. You have saved each other's lives countless
times, in more ways than one, and so now the two of you are bound together
for all time, until death. Until death do you part. How romantic.

Suckers.

You know the real reason that you stay, don't you. You know what keeps you
coming back, again and again, disappointment after disappointment, ditch
after ditch. You cannot be without him. Will not. He has become a drug and
you are nothing more than a trembling junkie in need of a fix. He is your
oxygen, and without him you will be asphyxiated. You're at the end of his chain
and all he has to do is give it a gentle yank.

It could be worse. He doesn't beat you, or mistreat you, or even verbally abuse
you. Most of the time when he's hurting you he doesn't even realize he's doing
it. It's not his fault. He is who he is and can be nothing more than that.

Fox Mulder, the poor, misunderstood martyr. The tortured soul at whose altar
you worship until your knees bleed.

He'd give more of himself if he could. After all, he's emotionally crippled. It's not his fault, dammit. It's yours. You keep feeding his frenzy, enabling his dysfunction, cheering him from the sidelines even when he's distracted by the opposing team and doesn't notice you standing there.

No one to blame but yourself. So go home to your empty apartment, glare at your silent answering machine, check your vacant e-mail box, and go to sleep in your empty bed.

He'll still be there tomorrow. Maybe.

End.