***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

ARCHIVING: Please link to the full text of the series:
http://shannono.net/leftfield/stories/LessonsLearnedFull.txt

==========

Lesson Learned: How Will It End?
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Story, Angst, Romance, Mulder/Scully UST, Post-ep

Rated PG

Spoiler for "Milagro"

Summary: The aftermath, and the start of the healing. Third
in the series.

Thanks: To Robbie and Lena, for the quick, great beta! <g>

==========

Lessons Learned: How Will It End?
by shannono


"How will it end?"

The words are haunting now, forlorn, the last line written by 
a struggling author before he found the inspiration he wanted 
so desperately.

Careful what you wish for. You just might end up holding your 
heart in your hands. 

Literally.

He wrote the ending his characters demanded, the only true way 
these stories ever end. She died. His "stranger" would offer no
respite. But human nature longs for the happy ending; we never 
want the strangers in these tales of horror and isolation to 
win.

And so he wrote another ending for the masses, an ending of
which the audience would approve. Writing may be an art, but 
even artists can crave success.

In the end, he sacrificed himself not for his art, but for his
unrequited love.

Scully.

Nearly a half-hour passed before she calmed enough to 
relinquish her hold on me, and I felt the loss the second her
touch left me. I had cried with her for a time, partly out of
my own fear, but mostly in relief for her emotional release. 
She needed it so badly, and I thanked the gods or fate or 
whatever force allowed me to be there at the right time. For
once.

But she did finally come back to herself, both a little worse
and a little better for the wear. I was glad I'd started 
keeping the place a little neater, since it meant I could send
her to wash off in a bathroom that was actually clean, and even
knew where to find an old, soft cotton dress shirt for her to 
wear.

I couldn't hold back the grin when she emerged, barefoot, 
scrubbed, and changed, the shirt's tails falling nearly to her
knees and the sleeves turned up several times. "You look like 
you're playing dress-up in your daddy's clothes," I offered 
from my seat on the edge of the bed, reassured when she smiled
in return.

"I feel like it," she said, a bit sardonically, as she held
her arms out to the sides to show the extra room. "Remind me 
to leave a couple of my old t-shirts over here sometime."

I refused to let my mind go in the direction it wanted to with
that statement. Instead, I voiced the concern that had hit me 
only after I got a good look at the amount of blood covering 
her, just as she disappeared into the bathroom.

"Scully," I said softly. "I think you should go to the
hospital. There was a lot of blood."

She shook her head vehemently twice, then more softly a few
more times. "It wasn't as much as it looked like, Mulder," she
said. "My ... my chest is kind of sore, and I'm a little
lightheaded, but other than that, I'm fine."

I was on my feet instantly, taking her arm gently and leading
her toward the bed. "Why didn't you say anything, Scully? You
should be lying down."

She didn't resist my efforts, which only served to heighten
my worry. She was settled against the pillows in just a few
minutes, and I sat sideways on the mattress next to her.

"You rest, Scully," I said. "Arlington PD came by while you
were changing. I need to go down to the basement and speak to
them. They ... Padgett's body was found down there."

She tried, unsuccessfully, to cover the flash of terror that
burst across her face, and although I was unsure what, exactly,
precipitated it, I had a feeling she didn't want to be left
alone. But the fear faded quickly, and she nodded. "Okay," she
said. "I'll be okay."

I reached for her hand, squeezing lightly. "I'll be back as
quickly as I can," I said. "They'll need to come up here and
look around anyway. Again. I'm considering just painting crime 
scene tape on the door to save them the trouble. What do you 
think?"

She smiled at this, relaxing nearly imperceptibly, and I felt
able to pull away and leave her. I was nearly to the door when
her voice saying my name called me back, and I turned to look 
at her. Her eyes were closed, but the smile lingered around her
mouth as she said, "Thanks, Mulder."

==========

When I returned a half-hour later, leaving the police outside
so I could check on her before letting them in, she was 
sleeping, her breathing deep and even. She had wrapped her arms
around the extra pillow, holding it against her chest like 
open-heart surgery patients do to help ease the pain.

I eased the bedroom door closed, then let the police in, asking
them to be as quiet as possible so she could rest as long as 
possible. I knew they'd need to get a statement from her, but 
that could wait. Let them handle the physical evidence first.

I was surprised to see them note five bullet holes in the 
corner of the wall behind my door. I heard the first gunshot 
from down in the basement and only later realized the only 
reason I heard it so distinctly was that she was right next to
the heating vent when she fired. The ductwork amplified the 
sound.

But I didn't hear the rest of the shots clearly, so I hadn't
realized how many she fired. From the angle of the shots, she
must have been already on the floor and aiming up at her
assailant. I doubt she missed him with all five shots, but only
a few dried spots of blood marked the floor. I am sure they 
will turn out to be hers.

I left a forensic investigator to dig samples from the rug and
scrape the blood from the floor while I went back into the
bedroom to wake her. I hated to do it, but I imagined she'd
rather get the questioning over with so she could go home.

I slipped through to the bathroom to pick up the bloodied
blouse and jacket first, taking them back out to the living
room. I retrieved her her boots as well and left them on the
floor next to the door.
 
When I finally made my way to the the side of the bed to wake
her, her eyes were already open, focused on a spot somewhere 
in midair. She'd pulled the pillow down so it rested against 
her stomach, and her right hand was lying on her chest, 
directly over her heart.

"It's still beating," she whispered, a wondering tone in her
voice, almost as if she wasn't sure it would be. "I had to
feel it. I had to know it was still there."

My own heart clenched in sympathy with her pained expression,
and I lowered myself to sit on the edge of the bed. My hand
rose unbidden to rest atop hers, and she immediately grabbed
it and pressed my palm against her.

"Can you feel it, Mulder?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"Tell me it's not just me. Tell me you feel it."

"I feel it, Scully," I answered, just as softly. "It's there. 
It's beating. Just as strong and sure and beautiful as it's
always been."

Her eyes flicked to meet mine then, and she slid her other 
hand from the pillow, reaching out to place it against my 
chest. Neither of us moved for a few moments, simply taking
the time to feel the life beating within us. Between us.

Finally, though, I knew I had to do what I went in there to
do. "Scully, the police are here and they want to get a
statement from you," I said, gently. "I know you probably
don't feel up to it, but I thought you'd prefer ..."

"To get it out of the way," she finished, her hand falling
away from me as she nodded resolutely. "And I need to do it 
while it's still ... while it's still fresh in my mind." She
shot me a quick glance. "Although I don't know that it'll do 
much good."

I nodded, slowly. "Do you want to speak with them alone?" I 
asked carefully.

"No, it's fine," she said, pushing herself up to sit cross-
legged on the mattress. "I'd just have to repeat the whole 
thing for you later, so you might as well listen in."

She smiled again as she said this, and I grinned a little as I 
stood up. "So, let's go get it over with, then," I said, 
offering my hand to help her up.

She actually took it, to my surprise and relief, and she
didn't let go even when we got into the living room to face
the detective waiting for her. She pulled me to sit next to 
her on the sofa, and I wasn't about to object, so I motioned
the detective -- Miller, one I'd spoken with before, not
surprisingly -- toward the armchair on the far wall.

It was strange to hear the story of the last few days from
Scully's point of view. I had read Padgett's novel, at least,
as much as he'd completed before we released him from jail. I 
couldn't say how much of his narrative was based on watching 
Scully's movements, but nearly everything she said was backed 
up by what he'd written -- without the flowery language, of 
course.

Scully's statement was neat, precise, unencumbered by the
unneccessary and arcane. She's the one who should be a writer;
she has a gift for finding just the right words to express her
meaning without cluttering up the story with meaningless 
drivel.

She only stumbled toward the end, when she got to her
description of the attack and her attacker. My stomach 
tightened in tandemn with her grip on my hand as she related
how he'd thrown her to the floor and started digging at her
chest with his hand, even as she got him in a chokehold, 
pulled her weapon, and fired the five shots, emptying the 
clip.

She minimized the level of pain involved in the attack, I 
could tell. But she did not shy away from the facts as she saw
them, even though it was the kind of thing she normally would 
call impossible. 

"His fingers cut into my skin as if he was using a knife," she
said. "The previous victims' hearts had been removed, and I 
believe that was what he was attempting to do to me."

"What stopped him?" Miller asked.

Scully shook her head slightly at that. "I don't know," she
said. "He just ... stopped. His fingers stopped moving, and
then they were gone. And then ... he was gone." 

Miller looked up from his notepad at that. "You mean, he left?"

"No," Scully said firmly. "He was gone. He was here, and then
he was gone."

Skepticism flooded Miller's face, but he wrote down what she
said. I could almost see his investigative mind whirling,
ready to write off at least that part of her statement as due
to blood loss or injury. No matter. She knew what had happened,
and I knew what had happened, and we both knew it wouldn't be 
happening again.

Miller asked a few more questions, then handed over his card, 
asked us to call if we had anything to add, and left.

As soon as he was gone, Scully turned to face me. "Mulder,
what happened to him?" she asked.

Padgett. I knew she'd ask, and I shrugged lightly. "He was 
found on the floor next to the incinerator, his heart in his
hand," I said. "He had burned the manuscript. I don't know 
if whoever, or whatever, attacked you, killed him, or if he 
somehow did it himself."

Her face pulled up in a mix of confusion and horror. "How
could he do something like *that* to himself?" she asked.

"How could *anyone* do something like that?" I replied,
without rancor.

She conceded the point with a small quirk of her lips and
nod of her head, then finally let go of my hand and stood.
Hands on hips, she surveyed the array of recording equipment
spread out on the coffee table. "We need to pack this stuff
up and get it back to the Bureau," she said. "Those tech guys
get antsy if their stuff is missing too long."

"It'll wait," I said, reaching up to grab her hand in mine
again, already addicted to the feel of it. "If they want it
back that bad, let them come get it. We need to get you
home."

I could see her back stiffen slightly at my words, and I
jumped in to clarify. "It's been a long couple of days for
both of us, Scully. And you're hurt, even if it's not bad.
We'll have plenty of time tomorrow to take this stuff back."

She relented reluctantly, but at least she did. She went to 
get her shoes while I shut down and closed up the equipment, 
and when she returned, she allowed me to escort her downstairs
and drive her home, in my car, without complaint. I think she 
knew I needed to do it, do something for her, and somehow, 
instead of pushing me away as she's done in the past, she let
me do it.

We were quiet for most of the fifteen-minute drive to her
apartment, speaking only once or twice, and then only about
mundane things. She glanced at me when I stopped the car, 
silently asking me to come up, and so I did.

She went into the bedroom immediately and came back out 
minutes later, barefoot again and wearing a t-shirt, my own
shirt in her hand. I shot her an off-center grin and said, 
"Leave it here. Never know when I might need it."

She smiled back and nodded, stepping back into the bedroom to
drop it somewhere out of sight. Probably on the chair just 
inside the room, where I sat and waited for her on one of the
darkest nights of my life, a year and half ago.

She sighed as she seated herself on the far end of the sofa 
from me, leaning back into cushions and closing her eyes. I 
watched her for a moment, noting the pallor of her skin, and 
said, "Scully, you should have something to eat, or at least 
to drink."

She hesitated, then nodded. "I should have some orange juice,"
she said. "Water, sucrose, and potassium. There's a reason 
they serve it to blood donors."

I was on my feet by then, headed into the kitchen. She did
have orange juice, but I bypassed the short, rocks-style
glasses in the cabinet in favor of a tall tumbler. As an
afterthought, I grabbed one for myself, pouring for us both.

She opened her eyes and smiled when I set the glass on the
table, then grinned even wider when she saw me with a glass
for myself. Picking up her drink to take a sip, she paused and
said, "Sure that health food won't send your system into 
shock, Mulder? I know you lean towards Sunny Delight."

I assumed what I hope was an expression of offended pride. "I
drink orange juice," I said loftily. "I simply don't drink 
enough to use up a carton before it gets all nasty."

I let my voice degenerate into mock disgust there at the end,
scrunching my face up in distaste, and it got the desired 
result. Scully laughed, briefly but undeniably, and I had a 
smile on my face as I took a large gulp of the sweet juice.

We fell into silence again for a few minutes, until Scully
finally set down her nearly-empty glass and turned to face 
me. I took the hint and followed her lead, and she simply 
looked at me briefly before she spoke.

"Are you lonely, Mulder?" she asked.

Where the hell did THAT come from? I thought. I was expecting
her to ask about the victims, about Padgett, about whatever it
was that attacked her. I did not, in any way, shape, or form, 
expect anything like that.

"What do you mean?" It was lame, but it was all I could think
of to say.

She sighed. "I mean just what I said, Mulder," she answered. 
"Are you lonely? In general, I mean, not just sometimes. 
Everybody gets lonely sometimes, so that's not what I'm 
asking. I want to know if you're lonely *all* the time."

I was bewildered by her line of questioning, but I did my best
do answer her truthfully. "I am lonely sometimes, Scully," I 
said. "Like you said, everyone is. But all the time? No, I'm 
not. I couldn't be. I have friends. Not many, but a few, very
good ones. I have my work. No, I don't think I'm lonely."

She nodded slowly, her gazing falling away from mine to land 
somewhere on the sofa back between us. She appeared to be deep
in thought, and I wondered why she was asking. I was about to 
ask her when she saved me the trouble.

"Padgett said I was lonely, Mulder," she said, still studying
the pattern of the sofa's cover. "When I stopped by his 
apartment the other day to return the milagro. He had watched
me for months, years, maybe, and he had come to the conclusion
that I was unhappy. Because I was lonely."

I pursed my lips and nodded slowly, listening carefully as she
went on. "I was surprised that he would think that, surprised 
that anyone would," she said. "I told him that loneliness is a
choice, and I've been trying to figure out since then what it 
was about me that made him think I was so lonely."

She paused for a long time then, and I was beginning to think
maybe I should say something. I didn't want to; I had a 
feeling this was something she needed to work out herself. And
she proved me right.

"I think it's because I live alone, and I spend a lot of time
alone, and I don't have many friends or much family," she 
said, sounding as if she were simply thinking aloud. "Padgett
saw me alone all the time, and because he so obviously 
disliked being alone all the time, he thought I must hate it,
too. But he never really understood my motivations at all. He
said it himself -- motive is a tricky thing. All he did was 
learn my habits, my patterns, like studying a computer game,
or memorizing a routine. He knew what I did, but he never knew
why I did it."

I finally decided to speak, sending her question back to her.
"Are you lonely, Scully?"

She looked up at me then, then inclined her head a bit to one
side. "Sometimes," she admitted. "Like anyone is. But in 
general? No. Most of the time, I *like* being alone. I like 
spending time by myself. It helps me unwind and relax, not 
having to worry about someone else. I've always been a loner,
really."

I nodded. "Like me," I said.

"Yeah," she said, then quirked a small grin. "Although I
usually leave more lights on when I'm sitting around being 
alone with myself."

I felt a smile crease my face, but it quickly fell away as my 
next question formed. "But you're not happy, either, are you?"

She tilted her head up slightly, and at first I thought she 
wasn't going to answer. But then: "All the time? No," she 
acknowledged. "But I think happiness, in some ways, is a 
choice, too. There are things I could to to make myself 
happier. But I haven't yet made those decisions. And in the
meantime, I'm satisfied with my life."

I nodded again. "Well said," I replied with a small smile.
"Couldn't have done it better myself."

She returned the smile briefly, then was serious again. "What
do you think happened to those people, Mulder?" she asked.

*There* was the other question I knew was coming. We did still
had a report to finish on this case, and even after nearly 
losing her heart in a quite literal way, Scully wanted to get
to the truth.

One problem. I wasn't quite sure just what the truth was.

"I don't know, Scully," I said, slowly, trying to decide just
how to answer her. "I think it happened just as you described.
It fits with the evidence, and you're certainly not one to 
make up something like that."

She almost smirked. "Well, Detective Miller seemed to think 
so," she said. "Somehow I doubt the Alexandria PD will be 
putting much stock in that part of my statement."

I shrugged. "They can write what they want in their report.
They were more concerned with the report of gunshots than 
anything else, and they'll turn the rest over to us, since it
was our case to start with." I grinned again. "Besides, they 
kind of expect this kind of thing from me."

She didn't argue, but she didn't agree either, which I saw as 
a concession. Instead, she stood up and gathered our glasses, 
then disappeared into the kitchen. I heard water running, then
clinking sounds as she rinsed the glasses and put them in the 
dishwasher, and I forced back the urge to go running in there 
and help her. I didn't relish the idea of getting my face 
bashed in, and besides, punching my lights out would hurt her
far more than some minor kitchen work.

She was back in a couple of minutes, and much as I hated it, 
I knew I needed to get out and let her get some sleep.

She didn't say a word as I rose, just followed me to the door.
But she stopped me just as I stepped into the hallway.

"Mulder?" she said, her voice tentative for the first time 
since we'd arrived, and I turned back to look down into her 
upturned face. She moved closer, rising up onto the balls of 
her feet, and brushed a soft kiss across my cheek. "Thank 
you," she murmured against my skin, never once looking me in
the eye, and then she withdrew into her apartment and closed 
the door.

I stood as if riveted to my spot for a minute before swiveling
on my heel and heading for the door, a smile on my face and my
steps just a little buoyant.

Yeah, I thought. I know how this story will end.

==========END==========