Filling the Gaps

By Mary Kleinsmith (

Category: Missing Scene, UST

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Demons, Never Again

Summary: Just what the title says

Archive: Yes, anywhere, just keep my name attached

Disclaimer: Nobody in here belongs to me, and I'm not making money off this - just having fun.

Acknowledgments: Thank you to Deb for the great quickie beta, and for keeping me honest.

Author's Notes: Written for After_The_Fact's Demons Challenge

Filling the Gaps

By Mary Kleinsmith

"I don't think it's my blood."

The deadness in Mulder's voice scared the crap out of me, even at this hour of the morning. "Where exactly are you, Mulder?"

"The keytag says Hansen's Motel. 99321 Evergreen Highway, Providence."

"Okay, I'm on my way. Just stay there, try to stay calm."

He didn't have to tell me he was frightened - I could hear it in his voice as he bid me goodbye. I didn't even set the receiver down, simply hitting the disconnect button and quickly dialing another number.

"I need a seat on your next flight to Providence," I said sternly. "I'm an FBI agent and it's a government emergency. Any airline will do, including shuttles and charter flights." I listened to the clicking of the computer keyboard as the ticketing agent checked all the options.

"I have a flight out at 5:25, arriving in Providence at 5:55."

"That's perfect," I tell her. "Book me on that flight, and run me a boarding pass that I can pick up at the gate. I'm leaving the house now, and hope to be there by quarter after. I can't tell you how vital it is that I get on that flight, so make any necessary allowances." I quickly rattle off my badge number for her verification in order to cut through the red tape, then give her my credit card number from memory.

I'm pulling on a pair of pants and a shirt while the conversation is going on, and by the time we're finished booking the flight, I'm lacing up my shoes. Thankfully, there's a bag packed for just this kind of last-minute trip, and I grab it out of the closet, sweeping up my car keys, weapon, cell phone, wallet, and ID as I flee my apartment.

At five o'clock in the morning, traffic is surprisingly cooperative, and while I don't quite make my 5:15 ETA, I am at the gate by 5:20. They're already boarding the small commuter jet, but a quick verification of my ID gets me my boarding pass, and I'm on the plane when it taxis to the runway about 5:30.

I know how silly it is, but I find myself leaning forward, for some reason thinking subconsciously that it will hurry our trip to the small New England state. It doesn't help, but we do arrive on time. I use the onboard skyphone to arrange for a rental, to be waiting when I arrive, and then to get clear directions to the Hansen Motel. The woman in Providence who gives me the directions doesn't think too much of my partner's choice in accommodations, but I ignore her tone as I scribble the instructions on a small pad of paper.

Looking down at myself, I realize, in my haste, that I hardly look the part of a Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of investigation, but it's not cause for concern at the moment. Once I know that Mulder is safe, I can change into something more suitable while we find out what the hell happened to him this time.

I find myself pushing the rental car well above the local speed limit as I make my way to the Motel. Given the time to think, it terrifies me remembering the empty, lost sound of his voice and the lack of memory of how he came to be where he was. I think maybe I should call an ambulance to meet me there, but, knowing Mulder, second guess myself and decide to wait until I've seen what he's gotten himself into.


I feel bereft as my only connection to reality, Scully's voice, ends our phone conversation. It had comforted me for a few moments - even the headache seemed to lessen as her voice lulled me. Without it now, the headache comes back full force. It's more than a headache - I've had those before, often. It feels like my head is coming apart, and for a second I wonder if Scully will be greeted by blood and brains on he walls from my exploding cranium. The pressure is that strong.

I'm not sure how long I sit on the bed, my legs pulled up with my forehead resting on my knees, but when I open my eyes, I'm greeted again by the sight of a great deal of blood staining my pristine white dress shirt. I've seen blood before, had it on me through my own doing and other people's. But this time, I had no idea how it got there, and that was unsettling to say the least. I have a sudden need - not just desire - to get out of the shirt. I move frantically to the bathroom, realizing along the way that I've begun to shiver and am not absolutely certain why.

I'm sure I displace at least three buttons in my freneticism to get the shirt off my body. Once I begin to strip, though, my eyes fall on the bathtub. Warmth. I'm freezing, even before I shed the rest of my clothes, and the hot water of the shower is a welcome thought.

I find my legs are surprisingly week, so I sit in the tub rather than standing as the shower head rains warm water down over me. I repeatedly turn the water hotter and hotter, but it doesn't seem to be helping as I grow colder and colder. Still, it's better than it was before, so I stay there, losing track of time until I finally hear a familiar voice.


"Yeah," I answer, but even I know my voice is weak and shaky.

"You okay?" she asks.

Hardly, I think, but my answer is more succinct. "I can't get warm."

I know I should be embarrassed as she draws the shower curtain aside, taking in my naked, shivering form, but at this moment, all I can feel is relief. Scully's here, and she'll make it better. She always does.


I'm surprised at the level of Detective Curtis' cooperation after I explain to him my theory that whatever medical treatment both Amy Cassandra and his detective received had disturbed their minds to such an extent that they both committed suicide. There's no doubt that the officer's death was such, but with Mulder's lack of memory, his gun being the weapon of her death, and her blood on his shirt, the fact for Amy is much less conclusive.

Despite this, he's a professional, and agrees to have forensics check for some minutiae that a small-town police department wouldn't normally request. The blood spatter pattern exonerates Mulder, the angle of the wound shows it was self-inflicted, and they find a single print belonging to Amy Cassandra on Mulder's gun. I'm at the motel searching the web for medical information when he calls me with the good news. Somehow, he's not surprised that I'm not asleep in the middle of the night. Detective Curtis is not the judgmental, uncaring, police officer I had thought him to be.

With a sigh of relief, I push the end button on my cellular, happy to know that I'll be able to get my partner out of jail first thing in the morning It's about 3:30 am before I finish my research, and I strip down to my underwear for a few hours of sleep.

It's barely sunrise when the detective calls me again, this time to come to the jail where Mulder is being held. He doesn't go into detail, just to say that Mulder's been asking for me rather urgently. I feel a little guilty that I left him to spend the rest of the night in jail, but with his medical condition being what it is, I didn't see a reason to wake him just to get him out.

As we make our way to Mulder's cell, Curtis tells me that the corrections officer informed him that my partner spent most of the night screaming for somebody to talk to him, me in particular. He voices his suspicion that Mulder's memories are returning, and I pray he's right. We both know now that Mulder will be released later this morning, but it would be nice to have his version of the events to corroborate things.

I hate seeing Mulder like this. Locked up like a common thug, dressed in neon coveralls. I explain the situation, but he still wants - no needs - to know what happened. I wonder if we'll ever know, or if Mulder is fated to never remember what happened this weekend in Rhode Island, just as he doesn't remember what happened to his sister all those years ago. I'm not sure if Mulder can take another gap in his life.


I sit in my dark, rarely used office at the bureau, typing my report on the events that took place in Rhode Island this past weekend. I could have done it in the basement office, but somehow it doesn't feel right for me to be there when Mulder's not. It is his office, after all.

The case was resolved for the most part, and Mulder's seizures had subsided, but Skinner had given him the week off to recover. I didn't know if that was the best idea for him at the time - still don't, actually - but when the boss says you take time off, you take time off. I'm not sure how this is going to work out. Mulder entered the treatment program hoping to recover lost memories. Not only did he not truly gain any, but he lost yet more in the form of this past weekend. Once he settled down, he realized, as I did, that the memories he thought he retrieved through this method were suspect and uncertain, not reliable to any great degree.

I wonder, as I'm packing up my computer to go home, if he's spoken with is mother. I didn't hear everything that was said between them, but its harshness was clear, and the anger from his mother as she fled the family room was resonating. I don't know Teena Mulder that well, but I hope she's understanding enough to realize that anything her son said this weekend was not something he could truly be held responsible for. I think, for a moment, that I should call her myself and explain, but I don't want to interfere. That would definitely be a last resort.

I'm getting into my car when my cellular rings, and I hope for a second that it's Mulder asking me over for Chinese food and movie. We could use that kind of normal activity after all that's happened. I think for a second that my desire has come true until I hear the tone of his voice.

"Scully," he says, full of anguish. "Help." The phone line goes dead, but the caller ID reveals that he phoned from his apartment. Once again, I find myself racing to his side.

He doesn't respond to my knock on his door, so I let myself in with the key he gave me so long ago. I'm barely in the small apartment before I see him on the couch, clutching his head in pain. Before I even realize I'm moving, I've rushed to his side.

"Mulder, what's wrong?" I ask frantically, ready to call 911 if necessary. It hadn't been so long that he couldn't be suffering severe after affects of the invasive treatment he'd received.

"My head . . . exploding. . ."

"Did you try taking something for it?" I ask, remembering the Tylenol 3 that he'd been prescribed for just this kind of emergency.

"Tried . . . Upset stomach . . . Couldn't hold it down."

I sit on the couch and draw his sweat-soaked head into my lap, brushing the hair from his forehead and examining the puncture wound there before I begin to massage his temples. It seems to help a bit, for he settles and seems to be in less agony. I lose track of how long he rests and I massage, but suddenly, the eyes that were clenched shut pop open. They are clear hazel, and the pupils are normal sized.

"Feeling better?" I smile down at him.

He looks back up at me, and while there's no pain there anymore, there's something else. Something I can't quite name.

"I remember, Scully. The pain's gone and I remember everything!"

I'm not sure whether he means from his childhood or from this weekend, but I wait for him to continue rather than asking. Instead, I decide to use his method and go for the humor.

"Dr. Scully's patented headache massage. Feel free to ask for one any time." I'm only half kidding. I'd be more than glad to share this kind of closeness with him more often.

I wait for him to go on, and I'm not surprised when he does.

"There was a magazine in my mailbox when I got home on Friday. Amy Cassandra was the cover story - she was an abductee who had found a way to retrieve the lost memories from her abductions. I called her to talk about it, and she invited me up."

"So you decided on a working mini-vacation."

"Sort of. Actually, at first, my only interest was in hearing what she had remembered from her abductions. Once I was up there, she went on and on about this doctor of hers, and I began to get the idea that I might be able to retrieve my own lost memories. She seemed like a healthy, normal person - it never dawned on me that what they were doing was hazardous in any way."

"You didn't think that drilling a hole in your head was dangerous?" I ask, incredulously, a slight anger in my voice.

"No more than going off with a stranger and getting a poisonous tattoo from an unlicensed tattoo parlor," he shoots back, and I know I had that one coming. I can't fault him, so I simply wait for him to continue.

"The treatment session went rather uneventfully, actually, and at first, when the drug wore off, I didn't feel any different than I had before. After that, Amy and her husband took me to lunch. She was telling me about how she remembered each time she was taken, including the very first, as a teen from the house where she grew up. She seemed so normal, even when we suggested visiting the abandoned old homestead.

"We arrived at the house, and I'd gotten into a discussion with David about some of the work that needed doing at the house. As you saw, it was pretty run down, and I guess we got into some man talk about it all. I wasn't watching Amy, or even aware of what was going on, but David must have sensed something because he noticed when Amy's expression changed. He asked her if something was wrong, but before I knew it, she'd grabbed my gun. I was still a little unsteady from the treatment, so when she pushed me, I landed hard, stunned for a second. I got my bearings just in time to see David chase her into the house."

"Oh, my God, Mulder," I said, unable to grasp feeling so helpless.

"Obviously, I didn't get to them in time. I heard the first gunshot just as I crossed the threshold to the house. I wasn't sure who she'd shot, but I kept running, finally finding them in the living room . I heard the second shot just as I got into the room." I could see the anguish now on his face. "I saw the bullet go through her chest into the wall behind her, and I caught her body before it hit the floor. I shoved the gun into my waistband, and that must've been when the treatment kicked in.

"I can't explain it, Scully. It was like I completely disassociated myself from what had happened. I stood up - my hands were bloody but I didn't care - and walked out. The keys were in the Cassandra's car, and I just drove off like it was nothing!" Mulder's tone was getting frantic, and I realize I need to calm him.

"It wasn't your fault, Mulder. You couldn't have stopped her from doing what she did. If you hadn't been there, she would have found another way. It was inevitable."

"You don't get it, do you? I didn't even check to see if either of them was still alive before I left them there! They could have had a chance, but I wouldn't have known it. What kind of a person does that make me?"

"It makes you somebody who made a mistake. Somebody who was under the influence of an outside source and not yourself." The sadness is still in his eyes, but I also see acceptance there. "Will you promise me something, Mulder?" I ask, drawing his attention back to the current time.

"What?" he asks.

"You're my partner. You're also my closest friend. I care for you, Mulder. I'm also a doctor and a reasonably level-headed individual. Next time you get it into that thick head of yours to go off on an excursion like this, promise me you'll call me. At least give me the opportunity to come along if I think it's warranted."

"You would have gone with me?" he asks, surprise clearly evidence in his voice, and I'm taken aback by the innocence there.

"Yes, I'd have gone with you, Mulder. Without a second thought." He smiles at me, looking happy and comfortable.

"Okay, I promise. And, the offer goes both ways, partner. You don't need to go all the way to Pennsylvania to let yourself relax and drop the FBI/doctor persona. You can do it here, and I'll make sure that you get what you need without risking yourself."

I'm less than comfortable with his statement, but I know he's right. "I promise, too. Now what do you say you get yourself cleaned up, and I'll take you out for dinner and movie."

His grin has regained its warmth. "Do I get to pick the restaurant?" he asks, making me smile.

"We're partners, so I'll let you pick. You can choose the restaurant or the movie, and I'll pick the other. What would you rather risk - my choice in food or my choice in flicks?" I laugh as he looks perplexed.

"I think I'll have to mull that over while I get dressed," he murmurs as he disappears into his bedroom. Mulder's not totally back to himself, but being able to remember and talk about what happened helps. I now have no fear that Mulder will regain his course, perhaps even with a better, safer perspective than he's had in the past. And that lets me sigh with relief as I wait for him to join me for our evening out. Mulder's going to be all right, and that means I will, too.

The End