E-MAIL ADDRESS: audrey_roget@yahoo.com
DISTRIBUTION: Please forward to ATXC; archive at Gossamer; others please flatter me by requesting permission first.
SPOILERS: Various; most significantly, Pine Bluff Variant, Elegy, Ascension
RATING: Varies from PG to NC-17
CLASSIFICATION: SRA
KEYWORDS: MSR, M/S/Sk friendship
SUMMARY: Set between Pine Bluff Variant and The End. The traditional toss of a bridal bouquet at the wedding of a colleague (yes, a cheesey situation, but work with me here) sets Mulder and Scully on a relationship slalom which causes them to question the nature of truth in their lives.
DISCLAIMER: Indulge me a moment. The principal characters portrayed herein are ultimately owned by Rupert Murdoch, spawn of Satan. I thank Chris Carter and company for bringing them to life and continuing to oversee their development and ongoing existence. At the same time, Fox Television and 1013 Productions would do well to acknowledge that, in the larger sense, these characters belong to all of us, for without us, there is no they. With that in mind, I declare a complete lack of intent to derive profit from the production/distribution of the following material or to infringe upon the ownership of the personages not created from my own imagination.
DISCLAIMER OF A DIFFERENT STRIPE: Humor me. Scientific, geographical, historical and institutional inaccuracies are most gratefully overlooked.
THE SHIRT by Audrey Roget
Part 1/10
I check my watch for the third time in four minutes, but I have no idea what time it is. I hate these kinds of functions. Don't mind putting on a tux though. It's one of the few times I feel like I'm living up to the 007 image people tend to associate with the work I do. I just wish the occasion didn't call for a fun-filled evening in the company of my fellow agents, most of whom are also stylishly dressed, milling around the lobby of this swanky Georgetown hotel.
I've never been particularly comfortable at large social gatherings where one is obliged to feel festive. If I had any choice, I'd have made my excuses long ago, but a request was made of me I couldn't refuse. So I concentrate on my duty to a friend this evening, genuinely pleased at his good fortune and, knowing the difficulty he has making personal requests of any kind, honored that he has asked me to be here tonight.
Absently, I finger the chunky gold band in my vest pocket, a little tempted to try it on for size. But I'd rather not relive any moments from the distant time when I wore a ring like this one for real and - I thought then - forever. I think of the matching one Scully must have on her somewhere and what these rings mean to their owners. Where the hell is Scully anyway? Not like her to run late.
It was just like Skinner to say nothing about this impending celebration until just a couple of weeks ago. One morning like any other, he called us into his office, but instead of briefing us on a new case, he gave us the news that he and Sharon had reconciled and decided to reaffirm their wedding vows. I actually felt a little surge of hope hearing this, for him and for me.
He delivered the information is his usual no-nonsense way, so it took a minute to process that what he was telling us had nothing to do with serial murders or government conspiracies. He was issuing an invitation and a request - though it still managed to sound like an order - that we, Scully and I together, stand up for him at the ceremony as his "Best Agents." Scully was particularly flattered, going so far as to plant a kiss on the SOB's right cheek. I swear he blushed. I'm afraid I blushed a bit myself, mostly in relief that there would be one fewer in the pool of competitors for Scully's attention.
Since her remission, the two of them have shared some sort of quiet understanding, which I found unsettling somehow. Standing in the AD's office that day, offering a hearty congratulations, I knew that the joy I felt was as much for me as it was for him.
Finally, across the room, I spot Scully by the coat check. She's late, but damn was it worth the wait. I start to rise to go meet her, but am pinned to my seat as I watch her shed her black coat, revealing a fitted, sleeveless evening gown, midnight blue, cut low enough in the back to bare half of her creamy shoulder blades and spine. Before I know it, I'm on my feet, striding over, probably grinning like a fool, and trying to come up with an appropriate opener.
"Hey Scully. Nice threads," is the best I can come up with.
"You clean up pretty nice yourself, Mulder," she replies, then dips her head to hide the smile creeping at the corners of her lips. They look dark and sweet, as if she's been eating fresh berries. Her hair is a little different tonight, too, falling in soft waves around her face. I stifle an intense desire to run my lips over the gleaming crown of her head.
###
Mulder seems to be in good shape, though I can practically smell the tension I know courses through him when he's feeling awkward or out-of-place. He's in especially good condition, considering what I've been overhearing in the lobby concerning last night's bachelor party. Let's just say the Bureau has made many strides to officially welcome women into the ranks, but sometimes you'd never know it from listening to certain agents recount their weekends.
"Some shin-dig, huh?" observes Mulder, glancing around the lobby. Then, as if reading my thoughts, leans in to add, "I'm surprised some of those guys can even walk today." An evil glimmer lights his eyes.
"Well, I guess Skinner knew what he was doing when he chose you as Best Man," I reply lightly, fixing him with a practiced look.
"Hey - I only provided the entertainment. It was actually a pretty tame evening while I was there," he says somewhat defensively. "Some Best Agent you are. You didn't even show up."
"Thanks for the invitation, but I was sure you'd try to talk me into jumping out of a cake, " I quip, and start moving toward the ballroom.
Our familiar banter eases his edginess. He trails me to the head table, asking, "Just out of curiosity, Scully, how hard would it be to talk you into that?" Luckily, my back is to him so he can't see the stupid grin spreading across my face. I refrain from mentioning that it would take very little persuasion if it were for a certain audience of one.
I am rescued from having to make a comeback as someone steps to the microphone underneath a canopy set up on the dance floor, and asks the members of the wedding to take their places. Skinner spots us from the far end of the table, and flags us over. We troop to the right side of the canopy, where Sharon Skinner, her parents and the rabbi are already waiting.
Mulder suddenly notices that I'm wearing the bride's ring on the chain with my cross and reaches out to examine it. "Aw, gee, I thought you said you'd by /my/date for the prom, " he cracks.
"They don't design women's formal wear with pockets in mind," I complain.
"Where would they put them?" he teases, giving me the once-over. My stomach flips as his gaze travels over me, lingering just a moment longer than necessary to prove his point.
I give him a disgusted sigh an start to remove my necklace, when he steps behind me, saying, "Allow me." He undoes the clasp, slips the ring off and re-fastens it almost entirely without touching me. A little disappointed, I turn around to be confronted by a glare from Skinner.
"If you're ready, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, may we proceed?" I have seen Skinner's human side just often enough to know of its existence. I have to assume his wife sees a good deal more of it, though I have my doubts. In my experience, even at his most sincere and good-natured, Skinner's behavior is always closely guarded. His personal defenses make my own substantial ones look like 3-foot chain link. Lately, I've come to appreciate the respect we have for the other's boundaries.
The Skinners' vows are simple and to the point, naturally. Though I have never cried at a wedding in my life, a hard lump rises in my throat when Mulder and I hand over the rings. I actually have to blink back tears hearing them recite, "I am my beloved's, my beloved is mine."
I steal a glance at Mulder, who is smiling gently to himself, not altogether present. This is one of those rare moments I choose not to speculate what is going on in the complicated labyrinth of his mind. Standing close to him, I shift slightly to feel the soft wool of his jacket against my bare arm and his warm breath on my shoulder.
After the ceremony, the chuppa is cleared away and an army of caterers hustle around serving dinner and pouring champagne. Reluctantly agreeing that Mulder could speak for both of us when making the ceremonial first toast, I stressed, perhaps a bit to strenuously, that it should be short, sweet and sincere. I reminded him that attempts at humor could easily backfire, since Mulder's wit is often razor-edged and not universally accepted as funny.
"Here's to the happy couple," he addresses the fifty or so guests. "Two people who have proved that, though the course of true love never did run smooth, the truest of loves never lose each other entirely." He turns directly to Skinner and continues, "Sir, on behalf of Agent Scully and the rest of these good people, I'd like to impart my best wishes to you and Mrs. Skinner for a long, happy, healthy life together. I can only hope someday to count myself as lucky a man as you are tonight." Raising his glass, he turns back to the other tables. "To Walter and Sharon."
As the guests echo his sentiment and raise their glasses, I register what he has said. Mulder wants to settle down someday? I never really thought of him as the marrying type. I imagine a scene like this sometime in the not-too-distant future. Mulder in a morning coat, facing his glowing lace-bound bride....and me to his right, in this same fucking dress. Why does this image send a searing hot pain knifing through my abdomen? It's not just a case of `always the best man, never the bride.'
Mulder takes his seat next to mine and leans in to whisper, "How was that? Did I work in all three /S's/?" There's a faint gleam in his eyes, casting them a deep green.
"Short, sweet, sincere. Works every time. " I take another sip of champagne to banish my waking nightmare.
"Snappy Scully. You could have your own infomercial."
"Just so long as I don't have to demonstrate surgical instruments on alien corpses."
After dinner, a little swing combo gets set up and the lead singer announces the first dance. The Skinners take the floor. He is surprisingly graceful as they fluidly turn around the floor to `Our Love is Here to Stay.' Halfway through the song, Sharon's father cuts in, while Skinner dances with her mother, and soon other couples drift into the fray.
Mulder and I are standing well off to the side. He hasn't asked me to dance, even out of courtesy. I glance up at him several times and clear my throat, waiting for him to take the hint.
The song ends and he finally says, "Well Scully, I guess that's my cue." I turn to him, holding out my hand, already humming the strains of the next song, `Cheek to Cheek.' More like cheek to sternum in our case, which is fine with me. He grabs my hand, gives it a squeeze. "Night Scully. Don't stay up too late. See you in the morning."
He's well on his way toward the door before it sinks in. As soon as it does, I'm skittering after him in this damn narrow skirt, vainly trying to catch up with him, as usual.
"Mulder - where the hell are you going?" I almost have to shout to be heard and I'm not bothering to hide my disappointment. He looks surprised by my question, my attitude.
"My work here is done, Scully," he tells me as if he's wrapped up a cut and dried case. "Vows, rings, toast. What else is there?" He shrugs. Maybe it's the lighting, but I can't tell if his nonchalance is genuine or smartly contrived.
"It's only 8:30, " I sputter. "I can't believe you're leaving already, just like that."
"What am I, your date?" He almost looks amused. I feel like I've been slapped.
"Oh. Excuse me. I didn't realize you had something more important to attend to." Angry, embarrassed heat rises in my cheeks. "What? Did Langley pick up the latest issue of Licanthropy Enthusiast? I hear Miss May is a real dog."
He's a bit chagrined, but continues in full retreat, completely blowing me off. I bring down the volume but sharpen the tone. "But how could I expect you to endure something as mundanely enjoyable as a party?" I turn heel and head back toward the dance floor, not waiting for an answer, and not really expecting one. Still, it stings when I realize he's not going to follow me.
Once my anger has cooled a bit, I find myself inwardly reciting one of Mulder's own admonitions: /Go with it Scully/. But it's been quite a while since I've faced down a big, loud party. Or any party, for that matter. I'm still mulling over my options when a nice-looking fair-haired man around 35 approaches me.
"Doctor Scully?" Doctor. Not Agent. Must not be with the Bureau. Actually, I've noticed that the great majority of guests seem not to be connected to work. I nod in the affirmative.
"David Rosen." He sticks out a hand. "Sharon's brother? Walter has told me a bit about your work," he says.
"Don't hold it against me," I reply dryly. He looks puzzled by my remark, but asks for a dance anyway.
"I've, uh, always been fascinated by the paranormal," he tells me.
"You'd probably rather be dancing with my partner, then," I quip, which elicits another perplexed face. "Not that it isn't fascinating, of course," I feel compelled to add, "and challenging. But even after all this time, I'm still a die-hard skeptic." I try changing the subject. "What do you do?"
"Real estate risk management," he answers, without much enthusiasm.
I nod vaguely in response, causing him to grin self-consciously and explain, "Which may tell you why I have a hobby like freaky phenomena." We chat politely through the next song. He asks me about memorably bizarre cases, and I pull out a few anecdotes, steering clear of any mention of shadow governments or alien colonization.
It's a pleasant fifteen minutes or so, but I can't help feeling like something's missing. David seems perfectly nice. What is wrong with me that that isn't enough? When did tall, paranoid and oral retentive become my criteria for attractiveness? And there's something else. Given David's relationship to Skinner, I'm getting the feeling I've been set up. Christ, I'm beginning to subscribe to conspiracy theories in social situations. Where will it end?
As the song winds down, I hear a familiar throat clear itself. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one lanky arm tap David on the shoulder. "May I?" Mulder asks.
I thank David for the dance and, almost without missing a beat, a new song has begun. "How High the Moon." My right hand rests in his left, my left on his shoulder, his right rides cautiously at my waist, and even though we've only done this once before, it feels like coming home.
END PART 1/10
The Shirt - 2/10
DISCLAIMER, etc: See part 1
It's rare nights like these when I wish I'd let Mom push me into going to those cotillion dances Sundays on the Vineyard. But I didn't stop to consider the fact that I'm probably the worst dancer in this or any other galaxy until now. I wouldn't even be thinking of it now if something hadn't caught my eye after Scully stomped off and I turned back toward the door.
Two men were following her progress across the room. Damn that dress. One was a blond, wiry guy who looked about 17 but must be at least forty. The other was Skinner, hunched over, whispering something in the guy's ear to send him scurrying in Scully's direction. For the second time tonight, I was rooted to the spot, watching my partner. /What did you expect, asshole?/ a voice says from somewhere behind my eyes. Once freed of my temporary paralysis, my legs carried me here of their own will. There must be something in the files about involuntary movements of limbs or digits.
OK. I came of age in the dark, overlapping days of disco and punk. With one memorable exception, I haven't been near a dance floor - or a mosh pit, for that matter - in I don't know how long. But I strode down here like Fred Fucking Astaire, and here I am, barely lifting my feet for fear I'll crush Scully's toes. And lovely toes they are, painted a delicate pink, peeking out of her high heels. Staring at our feet gives me a few seconds to figure out what to say. She beats me to it.
"I thought there was somewhere you had to be?" she asks guilelessly.
"Yeah - uh," I pat the jacket pocket where I usually keep the phone. "Byers called. The boys are all down with the flu. Very contagious. They didn't want to infect me, too."
"Mmmhmm...that's a shame." She cocks her head. "Maybe we should go by there, see if they need anything from the pharmacy. This new South American strain of influenza can be lethal. Here -" she reaches for my breast pocket "-let's call them, make sure they're all right."
I quickly bring my hand down over hers, over the empty pocket. "Can't. Battery's low - I lost the connection talking to Byers." I call her bluff. "Why don't you use yours?"
She shrugs innocently, enjoying every second of my squirming like a live specimen under her microscope. "I left it in the car, Mulder. I told you -no pockets. Besides, who brings a phone to a wedding?" She can't resist a victorious little half-smile. Seeing that smile, I don't even care.
This little exchange lets Scully put me in my place while simultaneously letting me off the hook. How does she do that with such grace? And why? It has also distracted her enough to allow herself to relax a little in my arms. She leaves her hand on my chest, with my fingers curled around it. Meanwhile, the band has shifted into a down-tempo number.
With the speed of a glacier, I slide my hand around to the small of Scully's back and pull her an inch or two closer. We're still dancing at a respectable distance. A prom chaperone would approve. Something about her posture and sudden quietness tells me she wants to be even nearer, but the situation and her own sense of space hold her back.
I can't help thinking, that though I've held her closer on more than one occasion, there is something slightly unsettling about the way we cling to each other now. It's as if our bodies exert a gravitational pull on each other and only our own inhibitions keep us from colliding and erupting in flames. We feel the heat of these flames, even as we chastely sway on a crowded dance floor, our easy conversation dissolved into a heavy silence, and neither of us daring to look the other in the eye.
Still, now that an opportunity to be this close to Scully has presented itself, I'm sure as hell going to enjoy it. I lean imperceptibly closer, breathing her in. Her scent is warm, sweet and a little earthy, like sun-ripened apricots. Her bare arms and shoulders glow under the soft light, her skin supple and soft-looking. I ache to slide my hands along the length of those arms, following with my lips and tongue, tasting every inch, fingertips to collarbone.
I picture Scully getting ready for tonight, stepping out of the shower, smoothing a fragrant lotion over her arms, shoulders, neck, belly, breasts. /Whoa, whoa whoa/. Too much. Too far. I shake my head slightly to clear the steam from between my ears.
Scully gives me a confused look. "No, what, Mulder? Are you feeling all right?"
There's genuine concern in her voice. I smile sheepishly and in a thick voice assure her I'm fine. She doesn't know what to make of the expression that must still hang on my features, probably somewhere between dazed and confused.
"Are you sure? You look flushed. Do you have a fever?" The hand I'm not holding presses against my forehead. She can't be taking the Lone Gun flu seriously, can she? Maybe she's starting to buy it. That would be typical Scully procedure: Immediately dismiss anything implausible I throw out, then chew on it for a while and reconsider if any hard evidence turns up. I've come to rely on that process, to need it. Need her.
"Seriously. I'm great," I say a little too loudly, then confess into her waiting ear, "I - I'm glad I decided to hang around for a while."
Her answer is a smug, mildly surprised grin. But it does bring her eyes up to mine. Looking down into her face, I'm picturing that fogged-up bathroom again. But this time, I'm there too, spreading lotion across her shoulder blades, kissing my way down the curve of her spine. I'm on the verge of circling my tongue around the tiny dimples above her ass when I suddenly feel a pang of uneasiness.
A familiar hot swelling between my legs comes as no surprise. But I realize all at once that while I've immersed myself in a fantasy, the real live subject is directly before me, rocking side to side, her hand over my heart. A cool flood of shame washes over me. I've fantasized about Scully plenty - and with increasing frequency as the years have passed -but never while she was physically this close. Yet, for some reason, instead of backing away, I am emboldened.
I have touched Scully in comfort, in friendship, and now, in a way that could be called social obligation. But never without an excuse, never in any way that couldn't be innocently explained away, even as that contact later launched any number of uninnocent daydreams. And, I should add, that though touching her and having her touch me is always pleasant, I have never touched her sheerly for pleasure.
The hand that has been resting at the small of her back begins to slide slowly upward, along the zipper of her dress, resisting a passing but powerful urge to grasp it and pull for all I'm worth. Instead, I trace the edging lightly with one finger before slipping the whole of my splayed hand further up and across the silky expanse of her bare back. I let it wander in a wide, lazy circle, over one shoulder blade, to the nape of her neck, then down along the other side, slowly, so slowly, and back to the center, where my thumb draws tiny figure-eights over her spine. I know I'm crossing a line here. A line so deeply ingrained, so long-standing, that the sands of time have all but covered over it, erased it completely. I'm trying to work out a way to say all of this to Scully when she breathes in sharply, blinks hard, and tries to suppress a tiny shudder.
###
"Mulder." It takes a moment to get his attention. Almost the entire time we are dancing, he looks like he is a million miles away, off in another solar system or a black hole. What is going on in that skull of yours, Mulder? Where is it you want to be instead of here, dancing with me? Who is there with you? What is putting the beginnings of a self-satisfied smile on your lips?
"Mulder," I repeat, "the music has stopped."
He resurfaces, stops shuffling, and offers a half-shrug. "Oops. Forgive my faux-pas. What can I say - I'm a dancin' fool." From the slow, soft delivery of these words, if I didn't know better, I'd say he was stoned. But his eyes are clear and focused.
On me.
All at once, the answers to my questions gather on the horizon. It's me. We've been right here on a dim dance floor the whole the time, volleying little electric sparks back and forth, with him absently caressing my back, sending arctic grade shivers down my spine. But in some well-lighted room in Mulder's mind, we were somewhere else entirely. And I get the impression now that we weren't chasing down a band of extraterrestrial bovine exsanguinators.
I'm suddenly overly aware of every point where our bodies are touching, especially where my hand rests over his heart, feeling its strong, steady beat and the smooth muscles under his clothes. Glancing down, I notice one of my sandals planted squarely on Mulder's toes. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Scully - uh - I'm kind of particular about these shoes. And you're about to crush two of my favorite toes. "
I mumble an apology, dropping my arms away from him, somehow embarrassed now that the song is over. Within seconds, the band is onto another tune, this one bouncy and oddly familiar. Mulder's broad hand is against my back, stilled, but unmistakably there. I must be wearing a too-serious expression, because he pushes out a short laugh and asks, "What's the matter? Not up for the Hokey Pokey?"
"I'm up for just about anything," I challenge. I know he's caught my tone, but looks as if he hasn't heard correctly, and gives a strange little cough.
"You want me to put an end to all the speculation?" he furrows his brow, realizing how that must sound.
"What speculation, exactly?" I push the parallel conversations one degree further.
"The speculation that Spooky Mulder has no sense of humor. Especially when it comes to himself." He grins - in relief? - and leads me to place in a wide semi-circle just as the bandleader begins to croon, "You put your right foot in, you put your right foot out..."
This is absolutely surreal. Far rarer than a hundred Human Blockheads. I laugh almost without break at the sight of Walter Skinner, an Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and a few fellow Fibbies wriggling their ankles like seven year-olds. I laugh to see Mulder, too, watching his long, beautiful limbs flailing loosely about, an open-mouthed, all-out smile having taken over his entire face; at myself, thoroughly and utterly silly and un-self-conscious, for the first time in far too long. It feels so good to let go like this. I am momentarily...liberated.
I am unbelievably turned on.
The game ends, Mulder and I still grinning like fools. This is one of those moments in overwrought, idealistic romance novels - okay, I'm not proud to admit I've read one or two - where the hero and heroine give each other a meaningful look, draw each other into a fierce embrace and finally confess their mutual love and admiration. Which, if they'd simply done two hundred pages earlier, would have ended the story right there.
As if I need reminding, my life is most definitely /not/ a romance novel. And, as if to prove it to me yet again, Mulder claps a hand lightly on my shoulder, laughing, "Look at you Special Agent Scully - who knew you could Hokey like a pro! I don't think I've seen you smile so much since they doubled the number of women's toilets in the Hoover Building." Oh Mulder, you hopeless romantic. Nevertheless, my spirits remain high until the bandleader calls out, "All right, all you unattached fillies out there - it's that time. Come on up to the bandstand and let's see which one of you lucky gals will be the next to hire Big Bob and the Boppers!"
Absolutely not. My shoulders slump and I make a face of pure disdain. Mulder gives me a look of mild, mocking surprise. "What? Don't tell me you're not going to take a shot at the coveted bridal bouquet?"
I cross my arms before me. "I'm certainly not going to line up like a piece of chattel hoping I'll get lucky enough to be the next one harnessed to the yoke." Wow. All-time land speed record for breaking the mood. Way to go, Dana.
It gets a laugh from Mulder, though. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around, ushering me over to where a tight knot of a dozen or so women, presumably unattached, are waiting for Sharon Skinner to fling her flowers over her shoulder.
"Mulder..." I offer a feeble, whiny protest. I am already attached, I want to say. More married than half of the wives I know. Or so it seems for the moment.
"Listen Scully, there's somewhere else I have to be. You can get yourself home?"
"Of course, but -"
He looks apologetic and relieved all at once. "Good luck. I'll see you in the morning."
Having delivered me into this crowd, he gives me a little wave and turns toward the door. I'll be damned if I'm going to chase after him a second time tonight. And I know with a sinking surety that this time, he's not coming back.
I'm still fuming when a forest of arms rises up around me, my own among them.
END 2/10
The Shirt - 3/10 DISCLAIMER: See part 1
I glance back toward the dance floor just before pushing through the ballroom's double doors. I spot Scully with her arms waving in the air, giving in to the competition of the moment because she just can't resist the pull to best anyone in any situation. There is a look of pure determination on that gorgeous face, ignited, no doubt, by her fury with me and my abrupt exit. I hang by the door just long enough to watch her spring off the floor, arms reaching high, higher, snatching the flowers out of the air, thwarting the attempts of the statuesque dark-haired woman directly behind her. Back on terra firma, a 1000-watt smile of triumph flashes across Scully's face, and she high-fives the tall colleague, who has at least six inches on her. Spontaneously, I raise my fist to her victory, chuckling to myself as I head out into the chilly spring evening.
It's not as if I don't feel like a real shit for bailing on Scully. But feeling shitty is virtually second nature to me. Most of the time, I take little notice of it, letting it run its course through me like a low-grade fever. And if I don't exactly enjoy it, at least it's familiar. Scully's ire, though unpleasant, will pass. I don't look forward to the day when she finally decides not to forgive me for one of these little stunts.
She doesn't know the favor I'm doing her by getting the hell out of Dodge while I had the chance. I completely let my guard down tonight, starting with that moronic fantasy and working up to the Hokey Pokey. At some point in between, I noticed that the shitty feeling had disappeared. That was a red flare, because it's whenever I feel unburdened of that constant weight that I know the sky is about to cave in. Happens time and time again. I usually get just enough time to let the lightness settle over me before the mushroom cloud erupts. This time, I didn't want Scully standing in the bull's-eye.
Not to sound too cocky, but I could see where the night was headed. One more slow dance like that last one and I would've been leading Scully to a room upstairs where I would have devoured her with teeth sharpened on five years' attraction and denial. And then....what?
Even assuming the fair Dana would have let down her own inhibitions and allowed herself to act out of pure, untempered instinct - and I pause here to consider that assumption fully - I repeat: Then what? Watch the Bureau separate us again? Let the men who took her from me and nearly let her die an early, agonizing death pit us against one another? Not to mention what substantiated rumors of fraternization with her partner would do to her career. The Bureau is brutal on its female agents who don't play by the book. Scully has already put her reputation on the line more times than can possibly be healthy. Because of me. As I walk the six blocks to an appointment at a bar in another hotel, I predict the entire meteoric rise and crash of our phantom love affair, knowing that our friendship, our jobs and our lives would inevitably follow. I set this meeting for tonight on purpose, to give me a marginally justifiable reason to make an early exit, should anyone have asked, before things could progress too far to turn back.
Jesus. I can't believe I let him get to me. That bastard, Skinner. He has to make sure everyone's following the rules. After making his little announcement two weeks ago, he dismissed Scully and asked me to stay back.
"So," I rubbed my hands together, "I know strip-o-grams are popular these days, but I think I can find something much more interesting in the celluloid vault."
Skinner was wholly unamused. "Agent Mulder, what in the hell are you talking about?"
"Planning the bachelor party?"
He regarded me stonily. "Later." His tone softened slightly. "You understand now why I've been somewhat distracted lately. I haven't been tracking your work closely since your infiltration of the militia group. Anything new to report on that front?"
"You tell me, sir," I reply. Immediately regretting the flippancy in my tone, I scramble to add, "You heard, of course, of the untimely and unnatural demise of Jacob Haley." He nods. "Scully has been researching every pathogen she can identify that shares characteristics with the bio-weapon tested in Ohio. Through unofficial sources, we've had reports of similar-sounding agents in California and Alabama, but we've only been able to obtain microscopic tissue samples from the bodies. Agent Scully continues to carry out further lab analysis, but I don't really see the point." My voice takes on a bitterer edge. "We know who was responsible for the deaths in Ohio and Folger Park and there's not a goddamn thing we can do about it." Recalling my own role as patsy in that scam brought a fresh rush of shame up my spine. "Other than that, we've just been working background on some stalled projects."
"And Agent Scully. How is she dealing with Dara Kernoff's death and the subsequent...events?"
I shrugged, noting the concern in his voice, wondering what brought that up. "She seems to be holding her own well enough. She took a couple of personal days, but you know her. She says she needs work to feel whole."
"Is she still taking advantage of the Bureau's counseling services?"
"I think so, but I haven't asked how regularly." This little rap session was beginning to feel familiar, like the regular updates I used to give him during Scully's illness. It was oddly comforting then to have someone to discuss her condition with. No matter how deep his concern, and how deeply sublimated, that stoic exterior let me deal with the turmoil a little more calmly. Scully didn't like discussing the particulars much and worked hard at protecting both me and herself from careening out of control on that narrow, twisting emotional highway. Near the end of the ordeal, when push literally came to shove, Skinner forced me to find a solution, instead of letting my anger and grief consume me. But I could tell he had an agenda that morning, was heading somewhere I didn't want to go.
"Sir, shouldn't you be asking Agent Scully all this?"
"If I wanted to ascertain Agent Scully's physical or psychological state, I /could/ ask her, or simply consult her personnel record. What I've been trying to determine, Agent Mulder, is /your/ level of communication with your partner and /your/impression of her well-being" he explained, as if to a developmentally disabled six year-old.
The son of a bitch wanted to know how we were getting along, probably whether we were sleeping together, as there are certainly rumors to that effect in circulation. Of all people, he knew how it tore me apart to keep my involvement in the Bremer investigation a secret from Scully. He could damn well have taken some responsibility for any lapse in trust that might have engendered.
Even though I knew the answer before asking, I decided to force the point. "With all due respect, sir, may ask where you're going with this line of interrogation?"
He registered my sarcasm, chewed on his options and finally said, "I'll be frank with you, Mulder. I'm concerned about the path I see your relationship with Scully taking. I've fought tooth and nail to keep you partnered up in the X-files, because you make one hell of a team. Your devotion to the work and to each other is admirable, but potentially extremely dangerous. Given the losses and near-misses you've both already sustained since you became partners, I'm sure you're all too aware of the peril to which you subject each other." Then he used the phrases I've been trying to get out of my head ever since. Fraternization. Protocol. Policy. Sexual harassment. Lack of propriety. Objectivity. Reputation. Departmental integrity. And my personal favorite: Self-Preservation. Mine. Hers. His.
I listened as politely and coolly as I could, for as long as I could before interrupting. "A.D. Skinner, not that I should have to tell you this, but let me assure you I have considered all of these issues." I fought to retain my composure.
"And Agent Scully?" he asked, glaring at me narrowly.
"I have no doubt that, if she feels they are relevant to her, she has thought them through."
"'If relevant?' So you are saying these issues do hold relevance for you, Agent Mulder?" And when did you stop beating your wife?
I have no reply, so he answers for me. "From what I've observed, they do. For both of you." He paused and took on a confessional tone. "I'm a man who has finally made some peace in his personal life, Mulder, set some priorities straight, so maybe these things are foremost in my mind and are making me go out of my way to see situations, connections, that don't exist." He paused for a moment, considering his own doubts.
"I've given the two of you a lot of leeway to pursue investigations as you've seen fit. Your results have been consistently above Bureau standards, and when they're not, it has been sufficient in my mind that you've raised necessary questions, even when the answers have eluded you. For that reason, I'm generally reluctant to interfere with your methods or question the dynamics of your partnership. It is imperative you understand that I personally am not interested in what you - either of you - do off duty. But I must ask you directly: What is the nature of your relationship with Agent Scully?"
A thousand replies sprang to mind. Lust. Ache. Unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger. Safe harbor. Love. Truth. Redemption. I voiced none of these things, said nothing at all.
Gingerly, and with visible discomfort, he finally reached ground zero and dropped the bomb: "Are you in love with her?"
In a tight voice, and without raising my eyes to his, I answered as simply and truthfully as I could. "I respect Agent Scully. I trust her. I care about what happens to her." My control began a long slide down a slippery slope. "She is the finest agent I've worked with, one of the sharpest minds I've ever encountered, and probably - no, definitely - the best friend I've ever had. I can't imagine ever doing something stupid enough to jeopardize that." Shakily, I stood and made for the door to the outer office.
"That's what I thought," he said quietly, then handed me a parting shot. "Back during Watergate, we called that a non-denial denial."
I refused to turn around, to give him the satisfaction of my anguish, even though I knew perfectly well that my own interests were foremost among his concerns. "Call it what you want," I said quietly, striding across the floor and closing the door behind me with a quiet click.
Leaving Skinner's office, I didn't feel like going back to the basement, couldn't face Scully given the denial I'd just endured. Instead, I made my way through the bullpen and leaned into the glass double doors, heading out without direction, just needing to move.
Story of my life. Keep moving. Don't stop, don't even slow down, or you're dead. But the joke's on me, because for all of this motion, I'm not getting anywhere. At least I didn't give Skinner an opening to ask what would surely have been his next question. `Does she love you?' Well, does she? How would I have answered, without sounding cocky or deluded, or both?
`Of course she does, sir. Haven't you seen the looks she gives me, especially when she thinks I'm not paying attention? But you have to watch carefully, sir because we're the only two who can feel it, and the really high-voltage stares only happen when no one else is around. Scully's not one for lavish displays of affection so you'll almost never catch her groping my ass.' Unspoken sarcasm is the bitterest kind. `No, Mr. Skinner, she hasn't told me in so many words, but we share this quasi-telepathic means of communication. If we didn't love each other, how else on earth could we have put up with each other this long?'
I walked around the city for nearly two hours that afternoon before returning to my office. At one point, I collapsed on a park bench, reliving moments I could point to as proof of the depth of our connection, knowing that, even if she truly wanted it, openly giving Scully my love would be, at best, a dubious gift.
I thought back to the night Scully poured out all of the reasons she was bound and determined to fight her cancer. Among them all, she didn't list the sheer delight of being with me. She didn't have to. I saw it. I felt it when her arms encircled my waist, under my jacket, not just resting her head on my chest, but burrowing into it. Or maybe I am delusional. Maybe she just needed someone - anyone. If Frohike had held vigil outside Penny Northern's room that night, would she still have been momentarily mollified by platitudes about truth and salvation?
Scully's brother was right. I am one sorry son of a bitch. He flattered me. I'm not just sorry, but sick. One sick bastard, that's me. Because in that empty hallway, exhausted and scared, and clutching at my partner, I was unbearably aroused. That's right, tell me you have a terminal disease and I'm poppin' wood.
No. Her show of strength and vulnerability all wrapped up together was what did me in. I wanted to take her home, into my bed, as if fucking her with my whole body, my whole soul, would make it all go away. As if I could make love to her with such passion, give her such pleasure, and finally confess how completely I love her, there wouldn't be room for anything else.
It was an rare instance where we were able to open up to each other at the same time. Normally, in terms of emotional disclosure, Scully and I have spectacularly lousy timing. She risks laying herself open to me and I'll crack a joke or pretend I haven't heard; I somehow know to reach out to her just as she's looking for the nearest exit. We put physical and emotional distance between ourselves in the belief that it will keep our partnership untainted. And how else to define love than by the ache that comes with separation, voluntary or enforced? I know. Sick. Sorry.
So I'm sitting here in the hotel bar, nursing an iced tea, catching the odd glance from the bartender, probably wondering who the freak who just left was. No. Freak is too harsh. Deranged, deluded even. Probably in need of serious psychiatric intervention.
We sat here for two hours while he gave me "information" so fantastical, and more importantly, so illogical, ill-conceived and patently disprovable that even I couldn't take it seriously. Funny how people who can sound so reasonable and credible in an e-mail message can turn out to have only a passing acquaintance with reality. The icing on the cake was when he asked me to autograph an article that appeared several years ago in a MUFON journal. It wasn't even my article.
So now I've proved myself a schmuck twice in one night. I hang my head, letting the tip of my nose touch the glossy wood of the bar. I consider ordering something stronger than tea, thinking the burn of whisky in my throat might bring me some clarity. Instead, I opt for the thudding ache of self-pity.
I contemplate the span of my life for a moment, which I tend to do when I've just had a fresh reminder of how far removed it is from...normalcy, I guess. Was Neil Young right? Is it better to burn out than to fade away?
Am I going to be doing this when I'm seventy years old? Waiting in bars and back alleys and deserted parking garages for some shadowy figure to leak the one crucial piece of information that will finally bring this quest to an end? If I were to meet the individual tomorrow who could give me definitive proof of exactly what happened to Samantha - why she was abducted and how she came to call Cancer Man her father - what would I do then? After everything I've seen, knowing how wide the net of obfuscation and injustice is spread, how complicated this web we're caught in is, would I be satisfied with that? With finding the answers to just one of a hundred-thousand mysteries? Could I just walk away - put away everything I've experienced?
Let's dream big for a minute. Let's say, thirty years down the line, the Bureau finally acknowledges the legitimacy of the work we're doing - that feels so oddly right to say "we" in terms of the far-off future, but I'll consider Scully separately - and they give me autonomy over the X-Files division. I'm 67 years old. I've got a whole staff of young, brave investigators. Do I become the Matlock of the paranormal? Creep around suspicious DOD facilities with my flashlight in one hand and my oxygen stroller in the other?
And what about Scully? If we were somehow ever to pinpoint the criminals responsible for her abduction, her cancer and the tragedy of Emily's life and death, then bring them all to justice, would this all end for her? Will she leave me when her own mysteries are solved? Will she need me then? And do I believe any longer that we can ever achieve those aims? I want to believe we can...or do I, if it means facing the possibility of losing Scully to a `mundanely enjoyable' life? Better that than to lose her irrevocably when her nine lives eventually run out.
My tea is long gone. I've even chewed through the last of the ice, my tongue numb. I raise my head from the bar top and glance around. The place has mostly cleared out, save for a huddle of post-grad policy wonks in their power ties over in the corner. Nothing like asking yourself the big questions after midnight on a Monday morning. I suddenly feel exhausted. I pay my tab, slide off the stool and go off toward the Metro stop and the Alexandria station. I climb on the train, hoping that, once home, sleep can claim me for a few hours, that blackness can absorb some of this loathing.
END 3/10
The Shirt 4/10 DISCLAIMER: See part 1
It was an early night, sort of.
I politely waited around for the garter toss, with its accompanying striptease soundtrack and testosterone-induced hooting. Actually, none but the drunkest had the guts to make cat-calls over Skinner's round of territorial glares. That, at least, was entertaining. Mental note: Demand and destroy all copies and negatives of the traditional bouquet/garter-catcher photo.
I was home by eleven and in bed a half-hour later. It was difficult to let go of the anger I still harbored over Mulder's abrupt departure and couldn't stop trying to imagine where he had taken off to, whom he had to see. Around midnight, I broke down and tried calling his apartment, and got the machine. I didn't leave a message. I managed to convince myself I had too much self-respect to try reaching him on his cel phone. Besides, I don't think I really want to know where he was or with whom. Unable to settle down, I found myself channel surfing and finally drifted off during a Discovery Channel documentary on the mating habits of the praying mantis.
I made a point of rising a little before usual this morning so I could hit the lap pool in the gym before the early crowd amassed. There's something about the rhythm of moving through water when I have the pool all to myself that lets me focus my thoughts. The soothing sounds of lapping water and my own breathing let me sink into a meditative state. Even when, like today, I don't arrive at any conclusions, I still come out thinking straighter that when I went in.
A little later, Mulder looks surprised that I've beaten him into the office (arriving first being precisely my other reason for getting up at the crack of dawn), though he is apparently eager to get a jump on the day as well.
"Morning," he nods, hanging up his coat.
"Morning," I reply, turning back to my computer screen.
I can't, I won't be the one to open for discussion the events of last night. The air is alive with tension. He wants to say something, I can feel it. He's afraid to ask outright how the rest of the reception turned out, and he's certainly not going to apologize for taking off, let alone tell me where he went. At least, not without a hell of a lot of prodding. I'm not in the mood to play Spanish Inquisition.
Besides, the sight of him in my favorite shirt is distracting. I wonder if he knows I have favorites among the items of his wardrobe. I doubt it. I don't imagine he has his clothing categorized according to What Drives Scully To Distraction. That shirt would always be at the top of the laundry rotation, if such things were up to me. It fits him like nothing else I've ever seen him wear. The fabric is fine cotton and drapes his body as if his muscled shoulders were doing it a favor by allowing it to grace him. But it's the color that makes it remarkable. A deep blue-gray-green, it is exactly the hue his hazel eyes take on when he's lost in thought, rolling a complex riddle around in his head, making connections, looking like he's about to coax the secrets of the universe out of the Sphinx. It's a pleasure to watch him in that state, even when I'm shooting down whatever theory results from it. Not often, but every once in a while, I catch him fixing me with that dusky gaze, as if he's processing some piece of information that will finally unravel the enigma that is Special Agent Doctor Dana Katherine Scully. Good luck, pal.
The casters of his chair squeak painfully when he collapses into it, breaking my reverie. He starts rifling through the piles of paper on his desk. Collecting a stack of files, he catches me watching him on his way to the file cabinet. He twitches his eyebrows as if to say `What are you looking at?'
"You look like hell, Mulder," I toss off, peering over the tops of my glasses. He does. It hurts to look at him. Hurts more to consider the possible reasons for his unfocused state. Wherever he escaped to last night must not have turned out according to plan.
He lets out a squeaky, self-deprecating laugh. "Not all of us can look so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on so little sleep."
"Strange words from a man whose personal definition of R.E.M. is `Ready Ever Mulder," I try to inflect a casual tone. "And why do you assume I didn't get much sleep last night?" I pause for a second. "Because to told me not to stay out too late?" Damn. I didn't mean to go there. I'm going to be sorry for that. But he doesn't zing back, despite a perfect opening.
"Should've taken my own advice," he replies quietly, sitting down again.
I don't know how to respond. I came out punching but he just threw up his hands and collapsed against the ropes. God, I feel like a bully.
###
So Scully had a late night, did she? I'm not even going to ask myself, let alone her.
Paper. I'm drowning in it. If I weren't so paranoid, I'd requisition a file clerk to put all this crap in order. My inability to focus this morning exists in sharp relief to Scully's even cooler, calmer and more-collected self. I'm making all kinds of conspicuous busy-work noises: Slamming drawers, feeding outdated files into the shredder, shuffling and re-shuffling piles of paper. No remark from Scully, just a sideways glance or two.
After a couple of hours of uncomfortable near-silence, I decide to venture what should sound like a little light conversation, but quickly turns into something else entirely.
"So...," I start, "didja catch the bouquet?" That's mistake number 1, pulling up the thread of a conversation she obviously didn't want to continue in the first place.
She makes that little noise in her throat that means I've caught her off guard and she isn't sure how to answer, if at all. "No." She sips at her coffee and won't meet my eyes. "Cindy Duran. Over in Hate Crimes?"
My turn to be unprepared. "Well, don't feel bad. She's...uh...pretty tall, isn't she?"
"She's got quite a reach," Scully agrees too readily.
"She could play for the Sparks," I add lamely.
"Three-time All-American at UCLA, I believe she said."
"There you go," I say, trying to sound casual, but getting more and more pissed off by the second. What the hell is going on with you, Scully? Why lie about something so inconsequential? Then, and epiphany. I pushed her to into it, and she's refusing me the satisfaction of having won. What the hell, let's see how far I can go down this road. "How `bout the garter?"
"Huh? Oh...uh...David Rosen, I think - Sharon's brother."
I nod. "That the guy you were dancing with?"
"Yep."
"I'll have to stop over by Duran's desk, see if she's got the photo of her and Rosen. They'd make quite a couple, with the height difference and all..." Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, then narrow to shoot me a sideways look that would shrivel cactus. Finally a response. The last five years have given me a certain amount of practice in cracking that shell, but it is amazingly durable.
She arches one eyebrow and responds dryly, "Don't laugh, I saw them catching a cab together as I was leaving."
Is that it? Was she getting her hopes up for /him?/
"Well, I hope they find a better band for their wedding that Bob and the Boppers," I say, immediately regretting it.
Scully rolls her head back on her shoulders, then finally faces me head on. "Is there a point to this conversation?" she asks.
I purse my lips and start to shake my head. But the words come out before I can stop them. "Just wondering what's got you so freaked out about a bunch of flowers that you'd have to lie about it."
###
My blood turns to ice water. My turn to go to the mat. I'm trapped in his accusatory glare, his eyes nearly black with anger and - what - pain, betrayal? Over something so pointless? So pointless I had to fabricate a goddamn story. I sigh and turn away, rising out of my chair. I pull off my glasses, rub at my eyes.
"Forget it," he says, not meaning it. I hear him wheel his chair around and push out of it.
"So you do have eyes in the back of your head," I say, turning around, sounding colder and more accusatory than I intend.
That gets him to face me. "I'm sorry," he offers angrily.
"For what?" I counter, "I'm the grown woman who made of spectacle of herself participating in a ritual I don't even like. A supposed adult acting like a damn fifteen year-old who couldn't handle her best friend leaving the party for a better offer. I'm the one who should be sorry." My throat begins to constrict.
At the words `better offer,' Mulder lets out a short bitter laugh and shakes his head. After a moment he ventures, "The Church teaches that there are sins of omission as well as commission, isn't that right?"
I nod, sensing I've missed a segue somewhere.
"If I were to let you assume I had done one thing, but really done another, and avoided telling you the truth, that's just the same as lying, isn't it?"
Searing cold flashes through me. What does he think I did last night, anyway? "Yes, but, I'm telling you now, I admit caught the stupid thing, and I went home by myself twenty minutes later. I didn't mean to suggest that I was out all night with David Rosen or anyone else. And it's debatable that leaving out the details of the rest of my evening is even relevant here. How is it that even a discussion of my personal life turns into a philosophical discourse?" Only after the words tumble out do I realize I've said far too much.
He flinches at the words, `my personal life' as if I don't have any business having one. Truth be told, I don't really have one, anyway. Mulder heaves another sigh, as if trying to explain something to a two year-old, his patience evaporated. "I didn't mean to parade the sacred cow of /your personal life/ before the USDA, Scully, and it /is/ beside the point. I'm trying to apologize for last night."
Last night. I wanted to avoid this at all costs, but we're already in too deep. I must still look perplexed. "You weren't talking about me just now?"
He shakes his head. "I had an appointment with a potential source last night in Georgetown and it was a fiasco," he says quietly.
"And you didn't want to tell me about it because you knew it was a specious lead to begin with." Momentary relief sweeps over me, replaced in quick succession by anger, annoyance and frustration.
"I had my suspicions, yes."
"And because you knew how I'd react if you'd just told me that up front." My own voice has become softer now, too.
He nods, still angry with himself and me. Despite the quieter tone our discussion has taken, I feel anger again bubbling below my skin, though I'm not sure I'm entitled to it. Neither of us says anything for several moments.
Finally, he asks with wrenching sincerity, "How do we keep ending up back here, Scully? Selectively wounding each other with what we hold back?" This question runs much deeper that the trivial issues we have ostensibly been arguing. A bridal bouquet, a fruitless meeting. He's venturing into uncharted territory, here. As usual, I'm reluctant to follow without knowing the lay of the land first. I can't take the intensity of his eyes on mine, so I drop my head to my chest, choosing the road more traveled.
"Mulder, is it logical or fair to compare what we do in our off-hours to what goes on in relation to our work? Do you honestly see our lives as being that closely intertwined?" Posing this last question feels like leaping from a cliff.
His only answer is to turn his back to me and snort, "Logic..."
That does it.
###
I can feel her stare shooting through my back. That was mistake number 2...or number 37, I've lost count now...deriding her precious logic. There's nothing logical about how we operate, surely it can't have escaped her notice. I thought, deep down, she had come to terms with the randomness of our lives -excuse me, /my life/. I've reached something far beyond that inside of her, and she's hanging on for dear life to the rock she knows best: Reason.
"Mulder you become frustrated with me for keeping things to myself that you perceive as essential to our partnership." I turn to face her. "And for those instances where our work has suffered because of it -and I could count those instances on one hand - I apologize. But don't come after me with platitudes about honesty unless you're willing to live up to them yourself."
Pulling the sword from my gut, I try to explain. "Scully, this guy I met with last night sounded so promising on paper, but he was out of his mind -"
"I'm not just talking about last night," she cuts me off, exasperated and humming with ire, "or even instances where you feel the need to remain secretive because of some misguided, albeit noble, desire to protect me. Here's a little honesty for you: You can't." She immediately looks like she would like to take it back, if she could. If it weren't true. Her lips move soundlessly, searching for words. Getting past it, her forehead creasing, she adds more gently, "And even if you could, that's not what I expect of or even want from you. That's not your job."
Oh, but it is. And not just a job, but an adventure. "I expect you to protect /me/ on occasion," I manage to slip in.
"But then you're talking about very specific, immediately life-threatening situations." She shakes her head and sighs. "I'm only trying to point out that you say you want absolute truth, but the reality is that there are things we /never talk about/, either because we can't find the words to use or because we know we can't deal with them honestly."
Red-hot warning signals go off before my eyes. Where is she going with this? "Are you calling me a hypocrite?" I ask, barely controlling my temper.
"No. Never," she answers emphatically, then softly adds, "just...human."
I'm caught off guard by the melancholy in her tone, which causes my heart to clench. Oh God, I want nothing more at this moment than to erase the space that separates us, to throw my arms around her, plant a kiss on the mouth that can't tell me these truths and make her show them to me instead.
The alarm on Scully's watch goes off. She lets out a frustrated groan and throws her head back. "I have to go," she says, gathering up her coat and keys.
I can't let her leave with all of this so up in the air. I make it to the door just as she's about to got through it. "Scully," I say, barely above a whisper, laying a hand on her shoulder. She turns her head, reads my expression, and nods. We'll finish this later. I manage a small smile as I reach down to squeeze her hand. She surprises me by leaning up to lay a fast kiss on my cheek before closing the door behind her.
END 4/10
The Shirt - 5/10 DISLCAIMER: See part 1
Karen Kosseff knows me well. An odd thing to say about someone with whom I've held perhaps a dozen or so conversations in five years' time. But she knows things about me that no other single person on the planet does. This doesn't disturb me because I know it's her job. She's a keeper of secrets, harborer of other peoples' fears and angst, like a confessor without a collar. Her office is a safe place to voice the thoughts that won't emerge in front of other people. People like Mulder and my mother, who have a personal stake in these thoughts. I have been recounting the events of last night and this morning.
At one point, she asks, "We've talked in previous sessions about your concerns that your partner feels that you are his responsibility, that he may perceive it his role to look after you, somehow. But let me pose this to you: Would you say that censoring what you tell your partner and others about your anxieties or desires is a way of protecting them, as well as yourself?"
"I suppose so," I say slowly, trying to absorb exactly what she's getting at. "To keep them from worrying about my well-being, for instance."
"That's one example. Or to avoid upsetting the balance of the relationship, or altering its dynamic," she offers.
I pull in a deep breath at her acuity. "Yes, though I think my motivation in the latter examples is spurred as much by a egotistical need to control certain aspects of my life as by a concern for others."
"Of course," she agrees, "but often, so are the motivations of others."
"You're saying that my partner, besides wanting to protect me from possible injury or anxiety, may also want to simply avoid getting into an argument, or dealing with the consequences of having told me something that might alter my own perceptions or actions."
"Sounds like that's what you're saying."
"Got me." I smile a little to myself. But something she said about not being able to express my desires has me perplexed. I tend to be pretty upfront about my goals and ambitions. They don't shame me like fear. "When you suggested that I'm not forthcoming about my desires, what did you mean?"
"Why don't you tell me? Does the risk of expressing what you want, or of pursuing it seem too great?" she asks in her ultra-rational but sincere way.
"I never used to think so," I mumble.
"What's changed?" she asks gently.
I think hard on this before responding. "The goals I want to achieve. The person I want to be once I get there." I say, and quietly add, "who I want with me."
"Tell me about that, Dana."
"It's funny. On one hand, self-determination has always been my guiding principle, despite, or maybe because of, the presence of major players in my life who hold substantial influence over me. And part of me seems to need that - it's part of how I define myself - even as the other side demands total autonomy. Until a few years ago, that was my father, and our relationship was pretty typical. He was strict but loving; I was eager-to-please but with a rebellious streak. After his death, I thought I had transferred this dynamic to the relationship with my partner. But this man - whose opinion carries more weight with me than I care to admit, by whom I measure myself, who demands so much and needs so much I wonder whether I can ever possibly be enough - is constantly asking me to shake loose the ties that bind me." A notion that's been forming in my head for some time now suddenly coalesces. "Here's the paradox: He acts as if he wants me to let down my guard, be less rigid in my standards, more open to `extreme possibilities.' But what he truly needs from me is structure and stability. So when I rebel against his ideas, his plans, am I doing it to assert myself in the face of his expectations, or out of a desire to fulfill them?"
"Where your partner is concerned, is your desire to meet his expectations one that you've had trouble expressing?"
I take another deep breath, giving myself time to think. "Among others." An encouraging look from Karen prods me forward. "It's hard to explain, but one of the ways I've changed is that, deep down, I like being challenged to push my limits, to push the boundaries of my world-view. I like the way my partner, in particular, does the pushing. I...I think I've come to depend on it."
"You've spoken before about coming to terms with relying on your partner's strength, his drive, and now about he ways he motivates you to stretch yourself. Your growing ability to accept these things seems to me to reflect that you're becoming more comfortable with a certain level of intimacy in your relationship."
I consider her words carefully and recognize the essential, if fluctuating, truth of them. I shrug, then nod. "It varies. There are times when I feel so close to him that words aren't even necessary. Other times, he's an utter mystery, and language isn't sufficient to bridge the chasm that separates us."
"Is there a constant across that spectrum? A common thread woven into all of those perceptions?"
Karen is fond of saying that each of us knows how to solve our own problems, that whatever truth we seek is already deep within us, and just needs to be allowed to come into the open. When I nod and open my mouth to answer her question, I realize how right she has been all along. "Love," I whisper. She smiles slightly. She knew it was coming down to this. "I love him." I finally say aloud what I have known to be true for a very long time. And it feels good to say it.
Right.
"I would like you to do something for me, Dana." I look up at her. "The next time you're sharing one of those intimate-feeling moments with your partner, do your best to put into words the things we've been discussing here today. It isn't always best to rely on silence to convey what you're thinking."
"Which part?" I feel it necessary to ask.
"Any of it," she smiles warmly. "All of it."
###
I find Scully in an otherwise vacant lab spooning cheesecake yogurt and peering into a microscope. Her back is to me and she doesn't hear me come in. For a long minute I admire the straight line of her shoulders, the casual way she hooks her heels on the rungs of the work stool, since her feet don't touch the floor. She brings her hands around low on her back, stretches her spine, then slowly rotates her head a few times.
I wonder if she knows how often I've taken to doing this very thing. Roaming the miles of Federal Building corridors, hoping to spy the gloss of her head bent over a specimen. Seeing her like that, hair tucked behind her ears, totally focused on a puzzle always undoes me a little. I feel a pounding in my chest, then hear it in my ears.
Without warning, Scully wheels around to find me looking at her, not quite managing to hide her surprise at finding me here, watching her. "Hi," she says in a small voice.
Today, fortunately, I have a legitimate reason for tracking her down. "Hey," I answer, taking my cue to move toward her on my suddenly rubbery knees, unsure of whether my appearance is welcome. "You get cable on that thing?" I ask, indicating the microscope, lobbing a soft one her way and getting a little grin in return, a minor victory.
"Fifty-seven channels and nothin' on," she quips back. Any conversation where the Boss is quoted can't turn out badly.
"I take that to mean the sample isn't yielding any clues about the specific nature of the pathogen?" I segue into professional mode.
"Only that the decay was swift - we already knew that. I just wish we had access to larger samples. I appreciate the trouble your contact took to get these for us, but these cells just don't let me draw any conclusions." She looks dejected, but I think I can cheer her up.
"Well then today is your lucky day. Larger sample, you say? How about an entire body?"
Her eyes brighten at the prospect. How can I be so turned on by a woman who thrills to cutting open corpses? She's still pissed over not being able to get her hands on any of the bodies from California or Alabama before they were destroyed. There was no way for her to confirm that the substance that killed another 11 people was the same as the one unleashed in a small-town movie theater in Ohio. Even though I have my doubts about being able to unravel the covert government operation that has continued to develop these bio-weapons, it still seems crucial that we track their progress, learn what they know, try to bring them into the light. And the renewed fire in Scully's eyes is all worth it.
"Up in rural Pennsylvania. I got tipped to a body found this morning by state troopers displaying what sounds like remarkably similar indications of tissue decay."
"Oh my God. Did you warn them about how easily we think it might be spread in its active state?"
"According to the troopers, they took one look, called the medical examiner, and he went out in full bio-hazard gear."
"And the M.E. hasn't alerted the CDD?"
"Not yet. I convinced them to keep the body warm -cold - just for you. But we have to get down there this afternoon."
A look of frustration passes over her. "I'm still waiting for the computer to finish running my data. Will we have time to stop at my apartment for my overnight bag?"
"I hate to waste any more time than necessary. I don't think you're going to need it, anyway. It'll only take an hour and a half to get down there. You can look at the body, take some more substantive samples, and we're outta there. We'll be back tonight."
She considers my timeline for a moment before agreeing. She gets that look in her eyes that tells me she's excited about the potential of this little road trip. I haven't seen that look in far too long. It makes my heart swell a little and I smile down at her. She takes it in for a second, acknowledging that the bond we share is intact, if a bit mangled.
"So, why don't we meet up in the basement in an hour?" she suggests.
"Sounds like a plan," I reply. She goes back to her scope, and I turn to leave, but am wrenched backward by a loud, sharp "CHRIIIIIIIIST!" I spin back. Scully's face is contorted in pain and she's got one elbow pointed up behind her head as if trying to work a cramp out of her neck.
A shot of sympathetic pain rings through me. "Jesus, Scully, what did you do?"
"Too much time spent hunching over stiffs," she tries to joke, panting, her voice tight.
I try to say something soothing and figure out how to ease her discomfort. Slowly lowering her arm, I guide her back to the stool. "OK. Easy does it." I lay my hands on her shoulders, feeling the ache of her tension in my own fingers. I press them deeply against her muscles, trying to get her to let go a little. "Just take a few deep breaths," I croon, exerting more pressure, really digging in with the heels of my hands. I see her wince at the strength with which I knead at her muscles, but in typical Scully fashion, she sucks it up and doesn't make a peep of protestation.
I do my best not to notice that, at this angle, I can look directly down the front of Scully's shirt, the little bow at the top of her bra peeking out, the creamy swells of her breasts just barely in view. "Just think of going limp," I murmur calmly, wondering which of us I'm trying to convince.
Soon, the tightened muscles unknot, becoming softer and more pliable. Her shoulders lower in relief, and her head bobs forward, revealing the tiny, raised white scar at the nape of her neck. My insides lurch and unconsciously, I begin to lower my head to press my lips against it.
###
The pressure of Mulder's large, warm hands through the thin fabric of my blouse slowly but surely eases the muscle spasms in my back and dispels the accompanying panic. Though my breathing returns to normal, my heart is racing. I worry that he can feel it under my skin.
I'm facing a wall lined by glass-doored storage cabinets. In them, I can clearly see our reflection. The determination on Mulder's face as he labors over me is almost unbearable to watch. I can't help imagining what it would be like to feel him caress me this way all over. My center turns to liquid at the prospect.
My head begins to pound and I lower it to my chest, but I can't take my eyes off of the reflection before me. At this, Mulder's pace slows and lightens, his hands moving slowly up the center of my back. Then I realize what has distracted him. I forget it's there myself, sometimes. His head dips toward me as if to get a better look, then snaps back. I watch in astonishment as he raises one hand to his mouth, kisses the fingertips, then smoothes them over my nape with such inexpressible tenderness, sudden tears spring to my eyes and threaten to fall.
I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out. Mulder catches me wiping the dampness from the corners of my eyes. He leans down, and in voice filled with a matching tenderness says, "Scully, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"
I can't turn to face him yet. I can only shake my head, and say thickly, "No, no. Really. You helped. Thanks."
He's silent for a second or two, perhaps arguing with himself whether he should say out loud what comes next. He swivels the stool around so that we face each other, almost eye-to-eye. "Scully, if I did something to hurt you, I wish you'd tell me. I won't think you're weak."
My heart stops altogether now as I consider his meaning. He isn't talking about a too-vigorous massage, is he? Taking courage from his last words, I begin, "Mulder, thank you for getting rid of my back spasm. you didn't hurt me just now, and I feel better."
I'm not finished yet, but he can't resist prodding me a little. "Just now?" he repeats softly.
This second, right now, is one of those moments I told Karen about. I can feel its current as if I were wading in it. It would be so easy to verbalize only a vague remark and let the ocean of unspoken meaning wash the tension out to sea, as we so often do. I let my eyes rest in his a few seconds longer before looking away.
"You did hurt me last night." I shift my gaze back to his face. It's his turn to stare off into space. I continue, "When you left last night, it stung to recognize that there might be someplace else you'd rather be." Especially after the looks and caresses you bestowed on me, I think, but decide against going so far as to say out loud. He brings his eyes back into focus as if to protest, but I go on. "Maybe if I were less skeptical of your sources, you would have been more comfortable being up front about where you were going." His expression clouds, and I clarify, "I say this as a statement of fact, not as apology."
"That's not why, Scully," he says quickly. I wait while he scrubs his face with both hands and lets out a quiet, guilt-ridden sigh. Letting his hands drop, one of them comes to rest comfortably on my knee. "I purposely set the time and date for the meeting so that I would have an excuse to get out of there."
I should have known. And he must've shown up late to meet his "source," since he came back to dance with me. "I know those kinds of affairs aren't easy for you. But I think we did Skinner proud." I manage to smile a little, savoring the word `we.'
"And I suppose the disastrous result of that meeting could be my penance for a sin of omission?" He allows himself a small relieved grin.
Back to secrets and lies.
"I hope the penalties are never more severe than that, "I reply more seriously than intended.
He catches my tone, gives me a quizzical look. I let my head drop to one side
"It's not as if I have a spotless record," I admit, almost to myself.
His hand leaves my knee and comes up under my jaw, caressing it gently and bringing our eyes to meet again. "What are you not telling me?" he asks, again in that same tender voice which moves me so deeply.
/Any of it./
I find a place to start.
"A while back - it must be over a year ago now - we had an argument because of something I'd held back from you." I watch him search his vast memory for a bit before continuing. "You were angry because you thought I didn't trust you enough to tell you what I'd seen, to admit I doubted my own perceptions." He's remembering a late-night conversation in the sloping hallway of a psychiatric hospital. He doesn't see yet why I've dredged up this, of countless arguments debating faith and belief we've engaged in over the last five years.
I continue, "To strengthen my trust - which you already had, by the way -" at this he nods, "you told me you knew what I was afraid of, and that you were afraid of the same thing." He doesn't like my bringing this up, I know. Doesn't like to be reminded of how close death hovered, and how helpless he felt in the face of the cancer. His eyes grow deep green with buried sadness. I hope saying what comes next can wash some of that away.
"You thought I was afraid of what the visions of those girls meant - that the end of my life was imminent, that the cancer was working faster that we thought it would. And that did scare me, but I let you assume that was all there was. I couldn't let myself admit that what you were saying to me was the essence of much greater fears. Fears that predated the cancer, the abduction, that go back almost to the beginning of our partnership." I am careful not to sound accusatory, to inflect these words with kindness . Above all, I don't want him to make himself responsible for my fears.
This time, he breaks our gaze. I reach for his hand and twine my fingers with his. Even this minor contact makes me tingle uncontrollably. But it's this contact that lets me finally get to the point. "When you said that by keeping information from you, I was effectively working against you, I felt everything slipping away. Among my greatest fears is that of disappointing you, of somehow failing you. Of failing myself in the process by proving that I'm not tough enough or fast enough or smart enough to keep up with you. Of losing you."
At this last, Mulder's eyes slam shut and he shakes his head violently. "No no no no..." He repeats the word over and over, then takes my face in his hands. "I was right then, and I didn't even know it," he says tightly. "We /are/ afraid of the same things." He pulls me against him in a fierce embrace. This is sensory and information overload. I can't process it all at once, so I bring my arms around his waist, reveling in the lifting of this great psychic weight.
After a moment, I pull back, and ask the inevitable. "The $64,000 question, Mulder, is why are we so afraid of losing each other?"
He answers with another question, my own. "Do you see our lives as being so closely intertwined?"
Before I can formulate an answer, the ancient dot-matrix printer on the counter across the room explodes to life, noisily spewing out page after page. We both erupt in nervous, relieved laughter.
"I think your data's up," Mulder croaks.
"Yeah, I guess," I snort. "I'll get this and meet you the basement, OK?"
END 5/10