Disclaimer: The characters of Dana Scully and Fox Mulder belong not to me, but instead to the money-grubbers... er, nice people at FOX studios, Carter, the Great, the Fair Gillian, Dave, and Ten-Thirteen Productions. No copyright infringement intended, please don't hurt me.....................
Author's Note: I was actually making tortillas when this idea came to me, so I thought I'd give it a shot. This is an experiment, my first attempt at solving Angst with Fluff/MSR, instead of taking my normal route of solving Angst with more Angst. My tortillas came out well, so hopefully this story will, too. *g*
Dedication: This one is obviously for Tara, with all my heart and soul. My first MSR fic, for the master of MSR smut herself. My goddess, my friend, and one of my best supporters, I owe her a lot when it comes to my on-line image. Trust me, Tara, the day I turn 18 I am writing a MSR smut piece in honor of you. ;-)
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Type: Angst / MSR / Mulder/Scully POV Post-Pusher
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Pusher (BIG!)
Summary: In the aftermath of the Pusher case, Mulder goes to Scully's apartment while she is making tortillas.
"Divided We Fall"
by X-Woman
XWoman1121@aol.com
http://geocities.com/starlightstudio1121
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Cooking helps me think. It clears my mind, and I guess that helps me calm down a little, put this whole crazy-ass world into perspective. And, on top of that, it gives me a break. A break from work, from myself, from the world, and it lets me just slip into something approaching normalcy.
It probably has something to do with my family. In a family of six, meal times were very important. We would gather in the kitchen, talking and laughing and giving a hand to my mother, who would be hanging over the stove. It was a relaxing, bonding time, when everything awful and lonely in the world would be forgotten and it was just us, in the kitchen, happy as can be.
I guess that is why, whenever I get into a situation were I have no idea where to turn, what to think, and how to feel, I cook. A situation like this.
I take the tortilla dough out of my bowl and begin to knead it, pushing all my fear, anger, guilt, sadness... everything that I have felt in the last few days runs through my body, into my arms, and is pushed against the dough in my fists.
I love the feeling of it, the soft, cloud-like dough beneath my hands. I push my fingers into it, letting the soft, almost sticky sensation flow over my immersed hands... it lets me pour my feelings into it with all my heart and soul, and yet it does not weaken... or hate me. That is why I love it, I think, because no matter what, all of the pain my hands feed the ball of dough only makes it stronger, better.
I close my eyes, trying to lose myself into the kneading. Trying to forget everything... myself, my job, my partner... trying to lose that image that has been haunting me for the last week; the gun held to me, Mulder's face pained... not within his own control. My eyes blurring slightly, not so much afraid of the bullet as of the betrayal... not his betrayal to me, but to himself. The look in his eyes that makes me understand.
Suddenly the serene, glass-like silence of the room is rippled the by the ringing phone, followed not far behind by the high-pitched barking of my little dog, as he came skipping and sliding across the tile kitchen floor. I laugh a little, somewhat surprised at the dog's reaction to the phone. Having a dog has changed my opinion on many things, and I enjoy the feelings the little tyke seems to install in me. Having a dog is a lot like having a baby; but with less diaper changes. I don't mind one bit.
I brush my hands on my apron and walk to the other side of the kitchen, picking up the cordless phone and pressing the "Talk" button in a single, fluid motion.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Scully, it's me."
My heart skips a beat or two, and I suddenly feel very sad. I have spent the last half an hour trying to not think about this man, and here is calling me on the phone, as if trying to prevent me from forgetting.
"Mulder, I thought you were in North Dakota?" I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. Things have not been going well between agent Mulder and I, to put it gently, ever since the Pusher case. After watching someone point a gun at your chest, it is a little hard to look them in the eyes too soon after. Which is probably why Mulder took the case out in North Dakota anyway... and probably why I stayed in DC. It had been hard enough to share a city with him the last week, so sharing two seats in an airplane was out of the question.
"I was, until I landed back here an hour ago. There was no X-file, nothing worth our time..." He voice fades, and I am somewhat taken surprise by how he uses "our". It wasn't my wasted time. It was his.
What the hell is he calling me for?
"Scully, I was wondering, could I come by on my way back home? I'm at the airport now, so it won't be much..." My mind fades out his voice from then on, my heart fluttering as I try to decide how to respond.
I know I should say no. Every part of my mind tells me I should say no. Every part except for the one that holds the image of him, sitting at that table, the gun in his hand... and he looks as if he is dying. As if killing me would be suicide. My memory looks into his pained, influenced eyes, how they plead with me as he fights against Pusher. I remember how he seemed so weak, pulling the trigger of the gun while it was pointed at his own head, without a second thought. And then, how he fights so hard when the gun is pointed at me, how he struggles so hard, and overcomes just enough to whisper to me a warning; "Scully, run."
"I can bring by dinner?"
It doesn't register that he is still talking to me.
"I'm making tortillas." Oh, Dana, that is earth shattering.
"Even better." Mulder says, not missing a beat. But, I can hear the questioning and surprise in his voice, and I know that I will be questioned as soon as he gets here.
Well, anything is better than talking about Pusher. Anything.
"I'll be by in ten." He tells me, hanging up before I can object. I stand there, phone in hand, not quite sure what has just surpassed.
Dana, why didn't you tell him no?
I drop the phone back in the cradle with a soundly thunk, and turn back to my cooking.
And at that very moment, as I look, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Queequeg!" I exclaim, and he looks up from his place on the counter, where his nose was stuck in the soft pile of tortilla dough, a look of surprise and horror on his little, annoyingly cute face. He looks like Mulder, when I catch him red-handed, breaking the rules.
And, as if destroying the dough was not enough, half of my last bag of flour is spread thickly across the tiled floor, and almost as thickly through the little dog's fur.
"Queequeg!" I glare at the dog from across the room. "I am going to..." I advance across the room, but Queequeg is at least smart enough to not wait around to see what happens. He takes flight off the counter, slipping and sliding across the flour covered floor and running full speed to my bedroom, where the messy little twerp will hide under my bed until he is hungry enough to come out. He knows as well as I do that I will not chase him; I have enough on my mind already.
I sigh soundly, making my way over to the pantry, where I retrieve a broom and a tiny dustpan, annoyed at the task before me. And, as luck would have it, Mulder would be by in less than ten minutes, and I didn't even have one tortilla. I'll have to start back at square one.
Not that doing so is a foreign experience, after working almost four years on the X-files.
I attack the kitchen floor with a vengeance, flour dust flying up into my hair, on my clothes, up my nose and into my mouth. I don't seem to notice, however, because at this point my eyes are filling up with tears. What had started out as a normal day had turned into a day filled with mistakes, from inviting Mulder to letting Queequeg wander the house while I cooked. I am annoyed, tired, pissed, and now caked with specks of flour.
I am dumping the remains of most of the flour into the garbage when I hear Queequeg bounding across the living room to the front door, and he sits patently as the lock clicks open and the door swings open. I know it is Mulder; any other person and Queequeg wouldn't have been so calm. But Mulder is one of Queequeg's favorite people, and he passes the puppy radar quite easily. Besides, Mulder believes I am cooking, and will let himself in with his key as often as he needs to.
I dust my flour-covered hands onto my apron, and push my flour-filled hair from my face, not sure of what was going to happen next. The truth of the matter is, I think, I don't want Mulder here...
And that gets a laugh.
What a load of bull.
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I am an idiot.
Really, there is no other way to explain it. I don't where I get the gall to call up Scully, like she is some lonely, desperate woman that needs me hanging over her shoulder, acting like she is my friend.
And she is. But, not the way she used to be. The last week has changed her.
And the woman she has become scares the hell out of me.
We have barely exchanged more than a "hello" over the last week, since we left Robert Modell's side at the hospital. I had assumed by the small squeeze that Scully's hand gave mine, we were on good terms.
Of course, I have been wrong a lot lately.
I knew the case in North Dakota was a far from an X-file as I could get, but I needed some room, and so did Scully. I think she bought the idea that I bought the fact that she was "still shaken up from what happened"... even though she should know, after four years, I know her better than she thinks.
This is the woman that worked the day after her father died, because she "needed" to. This is the woman that was up and roarin' for another case less than two weeks after being returned from a month abduction. And, she thinks I am blind enough to buy that what happened with Pusher was enough to make her bury herself in her apartment with tortilla mix and a good book for a whole week.
Of course, her father did die of natural causes. The only way to find out what happened to her during those missing months was through the X-files. In this case, I had held a gun to her head and told her to "run."
I find myself outside her door before I have had enough time to find out what exactly I am going to say to this woman. I suppose I could confess my feelings, tell her that I would go to the ends of the earth and back for her, that nothing short of God Himself would be enough to hide my love for her, and even then I wouldn't give in without one hell of a fight.
Or, we could play our games, the ones that, over the years, we have become so used to. Hop around each other, never let our eyes meet, imply that we would rather crawl over burning coals that spend five minutes with each other. It was a common game, and it would continue until, finally, we would confront another case that would force us back into each other's hearts, and then wait until that moment where "it" would happen again; when one of us would betray the other in the worst way, and then we would play our games again.
In this case, it had been less of a betrayal to Scully than it had been to myself. I had given up, let this man control my mind, and almost let him let me murder the only person I could never live without. I hurt her by hurting myself, and I knew, this time, her forgiveness was an eternity away; hidden along side my own.
Now, here I am, shaking in my shoes outside the door of this woman that I know so well, yet I do not understand. I do not understand her logic, her drive, how she can deny the things I have seen, and not believe. Not believe in the conspiracies, the whispers, the secrets... how she cannot believe in me.
For some reason, something possesses me to use my key, instead of knocking. I don't even think about it; it just occurs to me that, if she is cooking, she might not want to be bothered by me knocking the door.
And that thought brings me back to questioning why I was even here in the first place. Standing outside Scully's door, unlocking it with a key she probably doesn't even remember I have... a little key with a faded piece of tape on it labeled "Scully."
I can never keep my keys straight.
My hand is shaking a little as I catch the lock and hear it click open. I turn the doorknob, my hand tightening around the thick metal, the same thought running across my mind over and over and over...
What am I doing here?
I swing the door open, revealing to me Scully's dog. My first sight is Scully's dog.
I hate Scully's dog.
Well, it's not a hatred aimed at Queequeg specifically. I hate dogs in general. I think it is my bitterness toward the animal. Dogs were supposed to be "man's best friend", always be there, to save their wonderful master from the bad guys in a blaze of fur and glory. Of course, when my sister disappeared from a bedroom in a blaze of her own, my retriever, Tiger, was not of much help. And neither was I, for that matter. So, maybe my hatred of dogs was spawned from my own personal hatred. A betrayal that when I needed him, man's best friend was no stronger than man himself.
Unfortunately, Queequeg does not feel the same about me. He actually feels the total opposite, something Scully finds very endearing. I, on the other hand, find it just plain annoying.
He skitters up to me, his tounge hanging from his tiny mouth, his little tail going a million miles an hour, as he tries to jump on me, probably in an attempt to knock me over and, once on ground level with the little midget, have me all to himself. I can see Scully's face in that situation already, and I can't help but start to wonder again why I had come, instead of heading home and sitting on my couch, with a warm bowl of buttered popcorn, watching one of those videos that aren't mine.
I try to discourage Queequeg from jumping on me without hurting him severely. Finally, the little dog scuttles away, his tail still wagging furiously, and I follow his lead with my eyes, until they meet two somewhat familiar, tennis-shoe clad feet. I run my eyes up the muscular legs, thin waste, perfectly shaped torso, and finally, her wonderful, beautiful face.
It takes my eyes a second to take in her sight, but I do notice the thin layer of white powder covering most of her body. I remember her comment about making tortillas, and I recognize the white powder as flour. It is dusted over her clothes, highlighting her crimson hair, smeared across her left cheek, the right side of her chin, her forehead, and her nose. She is not wearing any makeup; a rare sight, but the absence of the material does not make her any less stunning. Finally, my eyes meet her captivating green ones, and I am at a loss.
But, at least, I finally understand what I am doing here.
"Hi." Is the only thing I seem able to croak out. She raises one eyebrow, her obvious amusement at my loss for words leaking from her every perfect pore.
"Hey, Mulder." She seems fine. I guess I am not as stunning as she is. Or, maybe she is still afraid of me. As I run my eyes over her again, reality starts to leak back into my smut-ridden brain. For God's sake, just six days ago I was holding a gun trained at the woman! And now, here I am... I haven't even apologized to her, yet I am fantasizing about her in her own apartment. I should have stayed home. I think angrily. Anything to save me from this embarrassment.
"Umm, we had a little accident." I don't see that as a royal "we." I didn't have to be here to know that Queequeg, the Mutt, was up to no good. I am just now noticing the flour speckles through Queequeg's own copper colored fur.
"I guess there are no tortillas." I say, as if that was the one thing she needed to hear to make her day perfect. Her wonderful, homicidal, insane and infatuated partner acting disappointed because there were no tortillas.
I am suddenly very sorry that I came.
"That's right, Mulder." She says, and it surprises me for a second that she didn't come up with some smart-ass retort aimed at making me feel worse than I already do.
Maybe because she knows it would work.
I walk forward on some sort of impulse, letting the door shut behind me, and I catch Scully's shoulders visibly sag. I kick myself mentally for putting her in this situation; but the truth of the matter is, at this point in time, I have no choice. I'm sick of playing these damn games, always ending the day with me backing off and Scully walking away, victorious, as I stand like an idiot and let the greatest thing that ever happened to me get away... again. Like usual.
I take the leap, my mind made up. I have a choice; let Scully and my shaky relationship fall apart before my very eyes, and watch us tumble into the jagged rocks below. Or, I can step forward, and let her know that I'm not letting this happen. That I am hanging on like hell, whether she likes it or not. She can dig her nails into my flesh as hard as she wants, but I will not let go. I will not let go of her.
I walk toward her, and she stiffens, no longer trying to hide her visible fear of me. Watching her shake, as if I am one of the people that abducted her, as if I am there to take her precious life and shred it into bits with my bare hands, breaks my heart into a million pieces. But, she stands strong, and I understand she is overcoming her fear. She has been afraid of me, of what I had the power to do to her, and to myself, but it was a childish, irrational fear, one that she must struggle to overcome. And one that I must help her destroy.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Scully." I tell her, as if it will comfort her. Or maybe to comfort myself. She seems to relax a little at the words, but she still draws back as my hand reaches forward to touch her.
My own audacity frightens me, but that fear is not enough to stop my hand from making contact with Scully's fair skin. I reach down, wiping the gathered flour from her nose, rubbing it away with my fingers. To my surprise, the feel of her skin is thunderous, and I feel like a religious man touching the face of God. And, maybe in a few ways I am. Scully has been my savior, my protection, my need, for the last four years.
I slide my finger from her nose and down to her cheek, where I continue to clean off the powder. She seems in shock, whether it is from my touch, or my gall I am not sure. But, as I clean the flour from her face, she does not pull away, and somehow that comforts me. Makes me feel that, maybe, she will forgive me.
Her face is soon clear of the flour, but my hand continues to rest at its final place, on her chin. Her eyes have reverted nervously away from me, as if she really is afraid of what I will try to do. It takes me a minute to realize that I am afraid of what I might try to do, what I am about to do. But my fear does not scare me, it makes me anticipate the possible result.
I tilt her head up toward me with my fingers, but I do nothing too quickly. I want to wait until it is right, until I know. Her eyes still revert away from mine, and I know that the moment will not come until her eyes lock with my own. And, she knows that, too.
"Scully."
I am not impatient, or itchy, or excited. I simply want her to know that I am ready. Ready for what might come next. Another minute passes before she finally gives in, her amazing eyes wandering up my body in lazy waves, to finally meet my face.
And it is time.
I lean to her, pushing her head back slightly as to make It perfect. I want It to be perfect. I want It to be as perfect as she is. My lips hover closer to hers, so close that I can smell her sweet breath, and the particles of flour that still float around her. I feel her breath against my own, and I let my eyes fall closed, my hand never leaving her chin. My heart begins to beat manically, and I am so close I am sure I can feel the tiny hairs of her skin tickling my own.
And her we are, looking eternity in the eye.
And she pulls away.
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He has my chin in his hand, I think I am going to have a heart attack.
I wonder if he can feel my heart beating, or maybe even see it, considering it is probably ready to fly out of my chest, like I am some hopelessly-in-love cartoon character from one of those shows my nephews love so much.
He has been preening me. I have never had a man preen me before. I guess that is Mulder for you, his idea of the ultimate foreplay is rubbing flour from my face. I am shaking, I know he can tell, but it is not because I am afraid. I am excited, maybe a little scared, but I do not fear him.
But that is a lie. Maybe I do not directly fear Mulder, but I do fear his intensity. His passion. I fear what becoming his lover might do to my soul, and his. He tortures himself over me, I know. Over my abduction, the many attacks I experience through the X-files. I am still young, the long-term effects of my abduction may have not shown through yet. I still have a lot of time to witness, along with Mulder, of what my abduction really did to me. And I know that he fears any future revelations as much as I do. I don't know if I could look into his eyes everyday, and be able to accept myself as part of his body and soul, when I know that, very possibly, he will hate himself forever for what They did to me. And for what They did to him.
What I fear most is our memories of Pusher. I know in my heart this is not the way to solve our fight; that sex, or even, at the least, the promise of a possible long-term commitment, wouldn't solve the fear we felt in out heart for each other.
I fear his weakness. Not so much toward me; he had fought, at least, when it came to me. But, to himself, the fact that he had not thought twice about protecting himself. He knew I had been wary of letting him go, he saw the fear playing in my eyes, the tears that were so close to falling. I understood the power Pusher could have, and, somehow, I had started to respect it more than Mulder did. Mulder took it for granted, and it destroyed a part of his soul. I know it did, because I watched it die, as he held that gun to his own head, and then aimed it at mine. What I fear the most was his loyalty for me; the fact that I knew he would die for me, and the fact that I knew if he ever did, I would never be able to forgive myself for his blind trust, loyalty, and faith.
And I know he fears me for the same reason. He fears me because he knows he will give his life for me... and I know, even though he will never admit it, Mulder does fear death. Not so much the act of death, but more the repercussions. The fact that, if he dies, we will never find the truth of his sister's disappearance, my own, and uncover the secrets that the government works so hard to hide from us.
And I know, at this moment, that we could never be lovers. It is hard enough for us to be friends. Our loyalty to each other in a platonic relationship is frightening in it's intensity, and should we ever be wed, or should I ever bear a child in his name... the results could be disastrous.
Or, they could be our Heaven on Earth.
But, I will not take any chances. I know that the second his lips touch mine we will forever become one, that I will fall victim to his desires and to my own. And, I know that this is not an option. It cannot happen, and I will not let it.
And, now, we are so close and I can feel his breath playing of my own lips. My insides, every part of my body screams to let him have me, to give in. But I know what I must do, for if I do really love him, I cannot let him love me.
So I pull away.
He is adamant, however, and his face does not stop it's decent. I pull my lips from the path of his own, his soft lips brushing passed my cheek in an electrifying moment of revelation. He lets his head continue to fall and bury itself in my shoulder, and his hand drops from my chin as he wraps his arms around my body. I have no other choice but to embrace him back, for, as much as I try to hide it, our desire for each other cannot be veiled. Our breath comes out in gasps, our hands grasp each other in a death grip. It is almost as if we have already made love, and I realize that, in many ways, we have. Somehow, Mulder and my relationship has gone far beyond physical caring... and I thought occurs to me, making me believe that the act of us loving one another in a physical way may almost set us back on the evolutionary scale of love.
Of course, under any other circumstances, this thought wouldn't have stopped either of us from doing so.
"Scully," he whispers, his voice throaty and hoarse, as I pull away from him completely this time, my need for him almost overcoming my common sense. His voice is laden with disappointment, fear, loneliness. And want.
We stand in silence for what seems like hours, until I finally realize what a waste of time this is really becoming. I could stand here forever, my back to him, his head hung in fear and desire, my mind racing, filled to the brim with my want and need and love... So I raise my head again, turn to him, and overcome the worst fear I have had since the Pusher case. Since he held that gun to his own head and then to mine.
I speak.
"Mulder," my voice is tired and spent, and I feel breathless. I know even though our bodies have parted, our souls have not, and I can feel his gentle caress, the sweet feel of his lips pressed against my own, the sound of my beating heart as it rushes the blood through my body at breakneck speed.
"Mulder... you want to help me take another shot at those tortillas?"
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I take the honor of locking the dog in Scully's room while she cleans up the rest of the spilled flour. I deposit Queequeg head first on Scully's bed, and rush to the door, as to be sure the little Mutt won't escape. As I slip the door shut behind me, I lean against the doorway for a moment, my mind lost in the gentle waves of thought.
I guess I should apologize, but for what I am not sure. Maybe for what happened with Pusher... but how am I supposed to? "Gee, Scully, I'm sorry I tried to blow your brains out." "Oh, no prob, Mulder, happens all the time." No shit. And it is usually me holding the gun.
Or maybe I could apologize for what she has been through. "Gee, Scully, sorry about the whole alien abduction thing. But, hell, you joined the FBI for God's sake, you should have expected that!"
Or how about trying to kiss her? "You know, G-woman, you are pretty hot, so what the heck? Wanna get naked?"
Suddenly I hit my head against the wall, the sound startling me. I am realizing what a brat I am acting like. Five year-old thoughts are what these are, stupid and immature and... thoughts I really need to think.
I stand there for a while, until I realize that she is not going to follow me. I know that is what I want; for her to wander down the hall, wondering if "everything" is okay... and humoring me when I say "Yes", even though she knows I am lying. Or, maybe reaching out to me if I could gather the streangth to tell her the truth... to say "No." But, she is afraid of me. Afraid of my need to have her. Maybe afraid of her own need.
But I agree with her, the fact that she doesn't want to take any chances by coming within such close proximity of her bedroom. The only thing I don't understand is why she hasn't asked me to leave yet. Instead, she asks me to help her make tortillas.
Maybe she does want an apology.
I pad back down the hall, glimpsing Scully as she finishes cleaning up the spilled flour. I notice that Queequeg must have made quite a mess; her face is once again powdered with flour, almost as if what occured in the entrance wasn't real, never happened. And for a second I wonder if it didn't; if it was really all just an innocent dream being played out by my wild imagination. Maybe that was what my whole life was, and Scully was simply a part of it. An enchanting figment of a dream never meant to be true.
But, that doesn't make me feel any better. I suppose that hurting a dream Scully is just as painful as hurting a real one.
And, maybe, that is why I have so much trouble sleeping. I don't know a single person who can control their dreams.
Scully's eyes greet me as I enter the kitchen, and she heads over to a drawer, removing an apron and tossing it my way. I put it on as she collects the ingredients for her tortillas, and I file away the fact that she does not use a mix; she makes them from scratch.
It really is the little things I adore about Scully.
"So, Scully, where did you pick this up?"
My words surprise me. I didn't think I'd be able to talk to her, but somehow I am able to break the ice without too much effort.
She tilts her head a little as she mixes the ingredients together, obviously taken surprise by my question. I don't know why. Her hands move gracefully, with purpose, like she always moves around me. I have to wonder if this is a shield she puts up when I am by her side, to hide her imperfections, and put up a mask of professionalism and reason, maybe to intimidate me, and deter away from ever seeing her as anything more than a partner.
Or, maybe to intimidate herself from ever wanting me.
"When I was a kid, my uncle Thomas lived in New Mexico. He was a member of the Air Force, and was stationed out there." She smiled a little. "He was our only uncle, so when my father would be sent out to sea for months at a time, if it was during the summer, my mother would rarely hesitate at shipping all four of us out to New Mexico to stay with my uncle. He didn't mind the least bit, since he wasn't married." She gives me a sideways glance, as if testing me to see if I was listening.
"This the amateur magician uncle?"
She smiles, and I have passed the test. "You remember that?"
"What does this have to do with tortillas?"
She shakes her head as an answer to my question, as if I had instead asked, "Did you expect anything less of me?"
"He taught Melissa and I how to make them, from scratch." She pauses, in deep thought, with the mention of her sister. We talk little about Melissa; I know Scully misses her, and I can truthfully say I know how she feels. I add another apology to my ever-growing list. "I kept it up. It relaxes me." Her voice fades into my thoughts.
I find that curious, Scully being relaxed by such a hard job. But, I guess it is no harder than what we struggle through at work. I guess kneading the dough is preferred over having your enraged partner wave a gun around in your face.
I wince as the memories of the Pusher case slide back in my mind, and my original question floats back to me; Why am I here? To help Scully fry up Tortillas? I shake my head to myself, not caring if she notices the gesture. The truth of the matter is, what happened that day has not left our minds. She fears me. I fear myself.
We need to discuss it.
But, we have stopped talking.
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I am looking at him, but I don't think he notices.
I know what he is thinking about. He tried to shut himself off, like I do with him. Hide his feelings from me... but, it doesn't work. I can read him like a computer screen. Like an open book.
He is thinking about the Pusher case. More specifically, the events at the end of the Pusher case.
I rarely cry in front of Mulder. I did, for the first time, when I was kidnapped by Donnie Phaster. I remember almost laughing at myself after that, wondering how I could have made it through the ordeals after my abduction without sheading a tear before Mulder. And then, after my second kidnapping, my second close call, I finally break down. At first, I thought it was because I was strong, that it took much more than that first experience to break me. And then, I realized what it was.
Fear.
I feared crying in front of Mulder. I feared that he would think I was weak, that he would not respect me if I showed any hint of the sadness and dispair I felt inside. So I held it in, until I couldn't anymore. And then, as I cried, he held me. And I realized I had nothing to fear from him; that no matter what, in his eyes, I was still strong, no matter how many tears I shed.
So, when my sister died, I cried again. And he held me. And somehow, with his arms around me, I felt stronger than I had ever felt before.
I look up at him now, realizing how weak I feel. And how strong I had felt, with his arms wrapped around me. My eyes close for a moment, pursed, as I relive something that was so special to me.
I when my eyes open, he is standing directly in front of me. And I finally understand.
If I love him, I must let him love me. United we stand, divided we fall. If I push him from me, and fall into my own personal abyss of sadness, he will, in turn, tumble into his own. And as we rot away in our own personal prisons, the world will continue to move around us, and the things we have fought so hard for will forever be lost. I realize that, when he holds me, I feel like I can take on the world. That whatever we are fighting against is not in vain; I feel like we can win.
Like I can win.
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"I was afraid of you."
Wonderful. We are getting somewhere.
"You betrayed me."
"I know."
We stand and look in each other eyes, still startled by Scully's sudden comment. We are talking now; her musical voice is tickling my soul, even with her harsh words. Because, no matter how harsh, we are communicating.
The look I give her as I gaze into her eyes makes me realize she understands. We know I betrayed her. We know I betrayed myself. We know that we cannot live without the other.
We don't have to say it to know.
She is in my arms then, warm tears flowing down my shirt. I let her cry, let her mourn, content with the fact that, even through her sadness, she no longer fears me. Or hates me. I hold her tightly until the heaving of her shoulders softens, and then I tell her something I have been waiting to long to say.
"I'm sorry, Dana."
No long winded apology, no falling to my knees. Just a simple word. And she knows. She knows that I care about her more than anything in the world; I love her.
But, I don't say those words. Those can wait. First, the trust must be rebuilt. Love will follow. I know by the feeling of her hand sliding into my own as she pulls her body from mine that, yes, we may have to start over and rebuild what we lost with my betrayal, but, we do love. And even if it takes the rest of our lives to fight against those that wish to hurt us, we know that as long as we love ourselves and trust ourselves, we will love and trust each other. We will not betray the other as long as we do not betray ourselves.
But, to live with the fact that our lives and souls are one, we must understand it. And we must learn to sacrifice ourselves for the other. And, my betrayal must be forgiven by us both.
And, I know that Scully will forgive me, after I forgive myself. But that will take years. But, I am in no hurry. Because, I know, that even though we are still rebuilding our trust, we do love each other. Even if it has not yet been voiced. Even if it won't be voiced until that day we understand, and I forgive.
Until then, I am content with just knowing.
And, right now, we have some tortillas to make.
Author's Note: I was actually making tortillas when this idea came to me, so I thought I'd give it a shot. This is an experiment, my first attempt at solving Angst with Fluff/MSR, instead of taking my normal route of solving Angst with more Angst. My tortillas came out well, so hopefully this story will, too. *g*
Dedication: This one is obviously for Tara, with all my heart and soul. My first MSR fic, for the master of MSR smut herself. My goddess, my friend, and one of my best supporters, I owe her a lot when it comes to my on-line image. Trust me, Tara, the day I turn 18 I am writing a MSR smut piece in honor of you. ;-)
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Type: Angst / MSR / Mulder/Scully POV Post-Pusher
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Pusher (BIG!)
Summary: In the aftermath of the Pusher case, Mulder goes to Scully's apartment while she is making tortillas.
"Divided We Fall"
by X-Woman
XWoman1121@aol.com
http://geocities.com/starlightstudio1121
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Cooking helps me think. It clears my mind, and I guess that helps me calm down a little, put this whole crazy-ass world into perspective. And, on top of that, it gives me a break. A break from work, from myself, from the world, and it lets me just slip into something approaching normalcy.
It probably has something to do with my family. In a family of six, meal times were very important. We would gather in the kitchen, talking and laughing and giving a hand to my mother, who would be hanging over the stove. It was a relaxing, bonding time, when everything awful and lonely in the world would be forgotten and it was just us, in the kitchen, happy as can be.
I guess that is why, whenever I get into a situation were I have no idea where to turn, what to think, and how to feel, I cook. A situation like this.
I take the tortilla dough out of my bowl and begin to knead it, pushing all my fear, anger, guilt, sadness... everything that I have felt in the last few days runs through my body, into my arms, and is pushed against the dough in my fists.
I love the feeling of it, the soft, cloud-like dough beneath my hands. I push my fingers into it, letting the soft, almost sticky sensation flow over my immersed hands... it lets me pour my feelings into it with all my heart and soul, and yet it does not weaken... or hate me. That is why I love it, I think, because no matter what, all of the pain my hands feed the ball of dough only makes it stronger, better.
I close my eyes, trying to lose myself into the kneading. Trying to forget everything... myself, my job, my partner... trying to lose that image that has been haunting me for the last week; the gun held to me, Mulder's face pained... not within his own control. My eyes blurring slightly, not so much afraid of the bullet as of the betrayal... not his betrayal to me, but to himself. The look in his eyes that makes me understand.
Suddenly the serene, glass-like silence of the room is rippled the by the ringing phone, followed not far behind by the high-pitched barking of my little dog, as he came skipping and sliding across the tile kitchen floor. I laugh a little, somewhat surprised at the dog's reaction to the phone. Having a dog has changed my opinion on many things, and I enjoy the feelings the little tyke seems to install in me. Having a dog is a lot like having a baby; but with less diaper changes. I don't mind one bit.
I brush my hands on my apron and walk to the other side of the kitchen, picking up the cordless phone and pressing the "Talk" button in a single, fluid motion.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Scully, it's me."
My heart skips a beat or two, and I suddenly feel very sad. I have spent the last half an hour trying to not think about this man, and here is calling me on the phone, as if trying to prevent me from forgetting.
"Mulder, I thought you were in North Dakota?" I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. Things have not been going well between agent Mulder and I, to put it gently, ever since the Pusher case. After watching someone point a gun at your chest, it is a little hard to look them in the eyes too soon after. Which is probably why Mulder took the case out in North Dakota anyway... and probably why I stayed in DC. It had been hard enough to share a city with him the last week, so sharing two seats in an airplane was out of the question.
"I was, until I landed back here an hour ago. There was no X-file, nothing worth our time..." He voice fades, and I am somewhat taken surprise by how he uses "our". It wasn't my wasted time. It was his.
What the hell is he calling me for?
"Scully, I was wondering, could I come by on my way back home? I'm at the airport now, so it won't be much..." My mind fades out his voice from then on, my heart fluttering as I try to decide how to respond.
I know I should say no. Every part of my mind tells me I should say no. Every part except for the one that holds the image of him, sitting at that table, the gun in his hand... and he looks as if he is dying. As if killing me would be suicide. My memory looks into his pained, influenced eyes, how they plead with me as he fights against Pusher. I remember how he seemed so weak, pulling the trigger of the gun while it was pointed at his own head, without a second thought. And then, how he fights so hard when the gun is pointed at me, how he struggles so hard, and overcomes just enough to whisper to me a warning; "Scully, run."
"I can bring by dinner?"
It doesn't register that he is still talking to me.
"I'm making tortillas." Oh, Dana, that is earth shattering.
"Even better." Mulder says, not missing a beat. But, I can hear the questioning and surprise in his voice, and I know that I will be questioned as soon as he gets here.
Well, anything is better than talking about Pusher. Anything.
"I'll be by in ten." He tells me, hanging up before I can object. I stand there, phone in hand, not quite sure what has just surpassed.
Dana, why didn't you tell him no?
I drop the phone back in the cradle with a soundly thunk, and turn back to my cooking.
And at that very moment, as I look, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Queequeg!" I exclaim, and he looks up from his place on the counter, where his nose was stuck in the soft pile of tortilla dough, a look of surprise and horror on his little, annoyingly cute face. He looks like Mulder, when I catch him red-handed, breaking the rules.
And, as if destroying the dough was not enough, half of my last bag of flour is spread thickly across the tiled floor, and almost as thickly through the little dog's fur.
"Queequeg!" I glare at the dog from across the room. "I am going to..." I advance across the room, but Queequeg is at least smart enough to not wait around to see what happens. He takes flight off the counter, slipping and sliding across the flour covered floor and running full speed to my bedroom, where the messy little twerp will hide under my bed until he is hungry enough to come out. He knows as well as I do that I will not chase him; I have enough on my mind already.
I sigh soundly, making my way over to the pantry, where I retrieve a broom and a tiny dustpan, annoyed at the task before me. And, as luck would have it, Mulder would be by in less than ten minutes, and I didn't even have one tortilla. I'll have to start back at square one.
Not that doing so is a foreign experience, after working almost four years on the X-files.
I attack the kitchen floor with a vengeance, flour dust flying up into my hair, on my clothes, up my nose and into my mouth. I don't seem to notice, however, because at this point my eyes are filling up with tears. What had started out as a normal day had turned into a day filled with mistakes, from inviting Mulder to letting Queequeg wander the house while I cooked. I am annoyed, tired, pissed, and now caked with specks of flour.
I am dumping the remains of most of the flour into the garbage when I hear Queequeg bounding across the living room to the front door, and he sits patently as the lock clicks open and the door swings open. I know it is Mulder; any other person and Queequeg wouldn't have been so calm. But Mulder is one of Queequeg's favorite people, and he passes the puppy radar quite easily. Besides, Mulder believes I am cooking, and will let himself in with his key as often as he needs to.
I dust my flour-covered hands onto my apron, and push my flour-filled hair from my face, not sure of what was going to happen next. The truth of the matter is, I think, I don't want Mulder here...
And that gets a laugh.
What a load of bull.
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I am an idiot.
Really, there is no other way to explain it. I don't where I get the gall to call up Scully, like she is some lonely, desperate woman that needs me hanging over her shoulder, acting like she is my friend.
And she is. But, not the way she used to be. The last week has changed her.
And the woman she has become scares the hell out of me.
We have barely exchanged more than a "hello" over the last week, since we left Robert Modell's side at the hospital. I had assumed by the small squeeze that Scully's hand gave mine, we were on good terms.
Of course, I have been wrong a lot lately.
I knew the case in North Dakota was a far from an X-file as I could get, but I needed some room, and so did Scully. I think she bought the idea that I bought the fact that she was "still shaken up from what happened"... even though she should know, after four years, I know her better than she thinks.
This is the woman that worked the day after her father died, because she "needed" to. This is the woman that was up and roarin' for another case less than two weeks after being returned from a month abduction. And, she thinks I am blind enough to buy that what happened with Pusher was enough to make her bury herself in her apartment with tortilla mix and a good book for a whole week.
Of course, her father did die of natural causes. The only way to find out what happened to her during those missing months was through the X-files. In this case, I had held a gun to her head and told her to "run."
I find myself outside her door before I have had enough time to find out what exactly I am going to say to this woman. I suppose I could confess my feelings, tell her that I would go to the ends of the earth and back for her, that nothing short of God Himself would be enough to hide my love for her, and even then I wouldn't give in without one hell of a fight.
Or, we could play our games, the ones that, over the years, we have become so used to. Hop around each other, never let our eyes meet, imply that we would rather crawl over burning coals that spend five minutes with each other. It was a common game, and it would continue until, finally, we would confront another case that would force us back into each other's hearts, and then wait until that moment where "it" would happen again; when one of us would betray the other in the worst way, and then we would play our games again.
In this case, it had been less of a betrayal to Scully than it had been to myself. I had given up, let this man control my mind, and almost let him let me murder the only person I could never live without. I hurt her by hurting myself, and I knew, this time, her forgiveness was an eternity away; hidden along side my own.
Now, here I am, shaking in my shoes outside the door of this woman that I know so well, yet I do not understand. I do not understand her logic, her drive, how she can deny the things I have seen, and not believe. Not believe in the conspiracies, the whispers, the secrets... how she cannot believe in me.
For some reason, something possesses me to use my key, instead of knocking. I don't even think about it; it just occurs to me that, if she is cooking, she might not want to be bothered by me knocking the door.
And that thought brings me back to questioning why I was even here in the first place. Standing outside Scully's door, unlocking it with a key she probably doesn't even remember I have... a little key with a faded piece of tape on it labeled "Scully."
I can never keep my keys straight.
My hand is shaking a little as I catch the lock and hear it click open. I turn the doorknob, my hand tightening around the thick metal, the same thought running across my mind over and over and over...
What am I doing here?
I swing the door open, revealing to me Scully's dog. My first sight is Scully's dog.
I hate Scully's dog.
Well, it's not a hatred aimed at Queequeg specifically. I hate dogs in general. I think it is my bitterness toward the animal. Dogs were supposed to be "man's best friend", always be there, to save their wonderful master from the bad guys in a blaze of fur and glory. Of course, when my sister disappeared from a bedroom in a blaze of her own, my retriever, Tiger, was not of much help. And neither was I, for that matter. So, maybe my hatred of dogs was spawned from my own personal hatred. A betrayal that when I needed him, man's best friend was no stronger than man himself.
Unfortunately, Queequeg does not feel the same about me. He actually feels the total opposite, something Scully finds very endearing. I, on the other hand, find it just plain annoying.
He skitters up to me, his tounge hanging from his tiny mouth, his little tail going a million miles an hour, as he tries to jump on me, probably in an attempt to knock me over and, once on ground level with the little midget, have me all to himself. I can see Scully's face in that situation already, and I can't help but start to wonder again why I had come, instead of heading home and sitting on my couch, with a warm bowl of buttered popcorn, watching one of those videos that aren't mine.
I try to discourage Queequeg from jumping on me without hurting him severely. Finally, the little dog scuttles away, his tail still wagging furiously, and I follow his lead with my eyes, until they meet two somewhat familiar, tennis-shoe clad feet. I run my eyes up the muscular legs, thin waste, perfectly shaped torso, and finally, her wonderful, beautiful face.
It takes my eyes a second to take in her sight, but I do notice the thin layer of white powder covering most of her body. I remember her comment about making tortillas, and I recognize the white powder as flour. It is dusted over her clothes, highlighting her crimson hair, smeared across her left cheek, the right side of her chin, her forehead, and her nose. She is not wearing any makeup; a rare sight, but the absence of the material does not make her any less stunning. Finally, my eyes meet her captivating green ones, and I am at a loss.
But, at least, I finally understand what I am doing here.
"Hi." Is the only thing I seem able to croak out. She raises one eyebrow, her obvious amusement at my loss for words leaking from her every perfect pore.
"Hey, Mulder." She seems fine. I guess I am not as stunning as she is. Or, maybe she is still afraid of me. As I run my eyes over her again, reality starts to leak back into my smut-ridden brain. For God's sake, just six days ago I was holding a gun trained at the woman! And now, here I am... I haven't even apologized to her, yet I am fantasizing about her in her own apartment. I should have stayed home. I think angrily. Anything to save me from this embarrassment.
"Umm, we had a little accident." I don't see that as a royal "we." I didn't have to be here to know that Queequeg, the Mutt, was up to no good. I am just now noticing the flour speckles through Queequeg's own copper colored fur.
"I guess there are no tortillas." I say, as if that was the one thing she needed to hear to make her day perfect. Her wonderful, homicidal, insane and infatuated partner acting disappointed because there were no tortillas.
I am suddenly very sorry that I came.
"That's right, Mulder." She says, and it surprises me for a second that she didn't come up with some smart-ass retort aimed at making me feel worse than I already do.
Maybe because she knows it would work.
I walk forward on some sort of impulse, letting the door shut behind me, and I catch Scully's shoulders visibly sag. I kick myself mentally for putting her in this situation; but the truth of the matter is, at this point in time, I have no choice. I'm sick of playing these damn games, always ending the day with me backing off and Scully walking away, victorious, as I stand like an idiot and let the greatest thing that ever happened to me get away... again. Like usual.
I take the leap, my mind made up. I have a choice; let Scully and my shaky relationship fall apart before my very eyes, and watch us tumble into the jagged rocks below. Or, I can step forward, and let her know that I'm not letting this happen. That I am hanging on like hell, whether she likes it or not. She can dig her nails into my flesh as hard as she wants, but I will not let go. I will not let go of her.
I walk toward her, and she stiffens, no longer trying to hide her visible fear of me. Watching her shake, as if I am one of the people that abducted her, as if I am there to take her precious life and shred it into bits with my bare hands, breaks my heart into a million pieces. But, she stands strong, and I understand she is overcoming her fear. She has been afraid of me, of what I had the power to do to her, and to myself, but it was a childish, irrational fear, one that she must struggle to overcome. And one that I must help her destroy.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Scully." I tell her, as if it will comfort her. Or maybe to comfort myself. She seems to relax a little at the words, but she still draws back as my hand reaches forward to touch her.
My own audacity frightens me, but that fear is not enough to stop my hand from making contact with Scully's fair skin. I reach down, wiping the gathered flour from her nose, rubbing it away with my fingers. To my surprise, the feel of her skin is thunderous, and I feel like a religious man touching the face of God. And, maybe in a few ways I am. Scully has been my savior, my protection, my need, for the last four years.
I slide my finger from her nose and down to her cheek, where I continue to clean off the powder. She seems in shock, whether it is from my touch, or my gall I am not sure. But, as I clean the flour from her face, she does not pull away, and somehow that comforts me. Makes me feel that, maybe, she will forgive me.
Her face is soon clear of the flour, but my hand continues to rest at its final place, on her chin. Her eyes have reverted nervously away from me, as if she really is afraid of what I will try to do. It takes me a minute to realize that I am afraid of what I might try to do, what I am about to do. But my fear does not scare me, it makes me anticipate the possible result.
I tilt her head up toward me with my fingers, but I do nothing too quickly. I want to wait until it is right, until I know. Her eyes still revert away from mine, and I know that the moment will not come until her eyes lock with my own. And, she knows that, too.
"Scully."
I am not impatient, or itchy, or excited. I simply want her to know that I am ready. Ready for what might come next. Another minute passes before she finally gives in, her amazing eyes wandering up my body in lazy waves, to finally meet my face.
And it is time.
I lean to her, pushing her head back slightly as to make It perfect. I want It to be perfect. I want It to be as perfect as she is. My lips hover closer to hers, so close that I can smell her sweet breath, and the particles of flour that still float around her. I feel her breath against my own, and I let my eyes fall closed, my hand never leaving her chin. My heart begins to beat manically, and I am so close I am sure I can feel the tiny hairs of her skin tickling my own.
And her we are, looking eternity in the eye.
And she pulls away.
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He has my chin in his hand, I think I am going to have a heart attack.
I wonder if he can feel my heart beating, or maybe even see it, considering it is probably ready to fly out of my chest, like I am some hopelessly-in-love cartoon character from one of those shows my nephews love so much.
He has been preening me. I have never had a man preen me before. I guess that is Mulder for you, his idea of the ultimate foreplay is rubbing flour from my face. I am shaking, I know he can tell, but it is not because I am afraid. I am excited, maybe a little scared, but I do not fear him.
But that is a lie. Maybe I do not directly fear Mulder, but I do fear his intensity. His passion. I fear what becoming his lover might do to my soul, and his. He tortures himself over me, I know. Over my abduction, the many attacks I experience through the X-files. I am still young, the long-term effects of my abduction may have not shown through yet. I still have a lot of time to witness, along with Mulder, of what my abduction really did to me. And I know that he fears any future revelations as much as I do. I don't know if I could look into his eyes everyday, and be able to accept myself as part of his body and soul, when I know that, very possibly, he will hate himself forever for what They did to me. And for what They did to him.
What I fear most is our memories of Pusher. I know in my heart this is not the way to solve our fight; that sex, or even, at the least, the promise of a possible long-term commitment, wouldn't solve the fear we felt in out heart for each other.
I fear his weakness. Not so much toward me; he had fought, at least, when it came to me. But, to himself, the fact that he had not thought twice about protecting himself. He knew I had been wary of letting him go, he saw the fear playing in my eyes, the tears that were so close to falling. I understood the power Pusher could have, and, somehow, I had started to respect it more than Mulder did. Mulder took it for granted, and it destroyed a part of his soul. I know it did, because I watched it die, as he held that gun to his own head, and then aimed it at mine. What I fear the most was his loyalty for me; the fact that I knew he would die for me, and the fact that I knew if he ever did, I would never be able to forgive myself for his blind trust, loyalty, and faith.
And I know he fears me for the same reason. He fears me because he knows he will give his life for me... and I know, even though he will never admit it, Mulder does fear death. Not so much the act of death, but more the repercussions. The fact that, if he dies, we will never find the truth of his sister's disappearance, my own, and uncover the secrets that the government works so hard to hide from us.
And I know, at this moment, that we could never be lovers. It is hard enough for us to be friends. Our loyalty to each other in a platonic relationship is frightening in it's intensity, and should we ever be wed, or should I ever bear a child in his name... the results could be disastrous.
Or, they could be our Heaven on Earth.
But, I will not take any chances. I know that the second his lips touch mine we will forever become one, that I will fall victim to his desires and to my own. And, I know that this is not an option. It cannot happen, and I will not let it.
And, now, we are so close and I can feel his breath playing of my own lips. My insides, every part of my body screams to let him have me, to give in. But I know what I must do, for if I do really love him, I cannot let him love me.
So I pull away.
He is adamant, however, and his face does not stop it's decent. I pull my lips from the path of his own, his soft lips brushing passed my cheek in an electrifying moment of revelation. He lets his head continue to fall and bury itself in my shoulder, and his hand drops from my chin as he wraps his arms around my body. I have no other choice but to embrace him back, for, as much as I try to hide it, our desire for each other cannot be veiled. Our breath comes out in gasps, our hands grasp each other in a death grip. It is almost as if we have already made love, and I realize that, in many ways, we have. Somehow, Mulder and my relationship has gone far beyond physical caring... and I thought occurs to me, making me believe that the act of us loving one another in a physical way may almost set us back on the evolutionary scale of love.
Of course, under any other circumstances, this thought wouldn't have stopped either of us from doing so.
"Scully," he whispers, his voice throaty and hoarse, as I pull away from him completely this time, my need for him almost overcoming my common sense. His voice is laden with disappointment, fear, loneliness. And want.
We stand in silence for what seems like hours, until I finally realize what a waste of time this is really becoming. I could stand here forever, my back to him, his head hung in fear and desire, my mind racing, filled to the brim with my want and need and love... So I raise my head again, turn to him, and overcome the worst fear I have had since the Pusher case. Since he held that gun to his own head and then to mine.
I speak.
"Mulder," my voice is tired and spent, and I feel breathless. I know even though our bodies have parted, our souls have not, and I can feel his gentle caress, the sweet feel of his lips pressed against my own, the sound of my beating heart as it rushes the blood through my body at breakneck speed.
"Mulder... you want to help me take another shot at those tortillas?"
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I take the honor of locking the dog in Scully's room while she cleans up the rest of the spilled flour. I deposit Queequeg head first on Scully's bed, and rush to the door, as to be sure the little Mutt won't escape. As I slip the door shut behind me, I lean against the doorway for a moment, my mind lost in the gentle waves of thought.
I guess I should apologize, but for what I am not sure. Maybe for what happened with Pusher... but how am I supposed to? "Gee, Scully, I'm sorry I tried to blow your brains out." "Oh, no prob, Mulder, happens all the time." No shit. And it is usually me holding the gun.
Or maybe I could apologize for what she has been through. "Gee, Scully, sorry about the whole alien abduction thing. But, hell, you joined the FBI for God's sake, you should have expected that!"
Or how about trying to kiss her? "You know, G-woman, you are pretty hot, so what the heck? Wanna get naked?"
Suddenly I hit my head against the wall, the sound startling me. I am realizing what a brat I am acting like. Five year-old thoughts are what these are, stupid and immature and... thoughts I really need to think.
I stand there for a while, until I realize that she is not going to follow me. I know that is what I want; for her to wander down the hall, wondering if "everything" is okay... and humoring me when I say "Yes", even though she knows I am lying. Or, maybe reaching out to me if I could gather the streangth to tell her the truth... to say "No." But, she is afraid of me. Afraid of my need to have her. Maybe afraid of her own need.
But I agree with her, the fact that she doesn't want to take any chances by coming within such close proximity of her bedroom. The only thing I don't understand is why she hasn't asked me to leave yet. Instead, she asks me to help her make tortillas.
Maybe she does want an apology.
I pad back down the hall, glimpsing Scully as she finishes cleaning up the spilled flour. I notice that Queequeg must have made quite a mess; her face is once again powdered with flour, almost as if what occured in the entrance wasn't real, never happened. And for a second I wonder if it didn't; if it was really all just an innocent dream being played out by my wild imagination. Maybe that was what my whole life was, and Scully was simply a part of it. An enchanting figment of a dream never meant to be true.
But, that doesn't make me feel any better. I suppose that hurting a dream Scully is just as painful as hurting a real one.
And, maybe, that is why I have so much trouble sleeping. I don't know a single person who can control their dreams.
Scully's eyes greet me as I enter the kitchen, and she heads over to a drawer, removing an apron and tossing it my way. I put it on as she collects the ingredients for her tortillas, and I file away the fact that she does not use a mix; she makes them from scratch.
It really is the little things I adore about Scully.
"So, Scully, where did you pick this up?"
My words surprise me. I didn't think I'd be able to talk to her, but somehow I am able to break the ice without too much effort.
She tilts her head a little as she mixes the ingredients together, obviously taken surprise by my question. I don't know why. Her hands move gracefully, with purpose, like she always moves around me. I have to wonder if this is a shield she puts up when I am by her side, to hide her imperfections, and put up a mask of professionalism and reason, maybe to intimidate me, and deter away from ever seeing her as anything more than a partner.
Or, maybe to intimidate herself from ever wanting me.
"When I was a kid, my uncle Thomas lived in New Mexico. He was a member of the Air Force, and was stationed out there." She smiled a little. "He was our only uncle, so when my father would be sent out to sea for months at a time, if it was during the summer, my mother would rarely hesitate at shipping all four of us out to New Mexico to stay with my uncle. He didn't mind the least bit, since he wasn't married." She gives me a sideways glance, as if testing me to see if I was listening.
"This the amateur magician uncle?"
She smiles, and I have passed the test. "You remember that?"
"What does this have to do with tortillas?"
She shakes her head as an answer to my question, as if I had instead asked, "Did you expect anything less of me?"
"He taught Melissa and I how to make them, from scratch." She pauses, in deep thought, with the mention of her sister. We talk little about Melissa; I know Scully misses her, and I can truthfully say I know how she feels. I add another apology to my ever-growing list. "I kept it up. It relaxes me." Her voice fades into my thoughts.
I find that curious, Scully being relaxed by such a hard job. But, I guess it is no harder than what we struggle through at work. I guess kneading the dough is preferred over having your enraged partner wave a gun around in your face.
I wince as the memories of the Pusher case slide back in my mind, and my original question floats back to me; Why am I here? To help Scully fry up Tortillas? I shake my head to myself, not caring if she notices the gesture. The truth of the matter is, what happened that day has not left our minds. She fears me. I fear myself.
We need to discuss it.
But, we have stopped talking.
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I am looking at him, but I don't think he notices.
I know what he is thinking about. He tried to shut himself off, like I do with him. Hide his feelings from me... but, it doesn't work. I can read him like a computer screen. Like an open book.
He is thinking about the Pusher case. More specifically, the events at the end of the Pusher case.
I rarely cry in front of Mulder. I did, for the first time, when I was kidnapped by Donnie Phaster. I remember almost laughing at myself after that, wondering how I could have made it through the ordeals after my abduction without sheading a tear before Mulder. And then, after my second kidnapping, my second close call, I finally break down. At first, I thought it was because I was strong, that it took much more than that first experience to break me. And then, I realized what it was.
Fear.
I feared crying in front of Mulder. I feared that he would think I was weak, that he would not respect me if I showed any hint of the sadness and dispair I felt inside. So I held it in, until I couldn't anymore. And then, as I cried, he held me. And I realized I had nothing to fear from him; that no matter what, in his eyes, I was still strong, no matter how many tears I shed.
So, when my sister died, I cried again. And he held me. And somehow, with his arms around me, I felt stronger than I had ever felt before.
I look up at him now, realizing how weak I feel. And how strong I had felt, with his arms wrapped around me. My eyes close for a moment, pursed, as I relive something that was so special to me.
I when my eyes open, he is standing directly in front of me. And I finally understand.
If I love him, I must let him love me. United we stand, divided we fall. If I push him from me, and fall into my own personal abyss of sadness, he will, in turn, tumble into his own. And as we rot away in our own personal prisons, the world will continue to move around us, and the things we have fought so hard for will forever be lost. I realize that, when he holds me, I feel like I can take on the world. That whatever we are fighting against is not in vain; I feel like we can win.
Like I can win.
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"I was afraid of you."
Wonderful. We are getting somewhere.
"You betrayed me."
"I know."
We stand and look in each other eyes, still startled by Scully's sudden comment. We are talking now; her musical voice is tickling my soul, even with her harsh words. Because, no matter how harsh, we are communicating.
The look I give her as I gaze into her eyes makes me realize she understands. We know I betrayed her. We know I betrayed myself. We know that we cannot live without the other.
We don't have to say it to know.
She is in my arms then, warm tears flowing down my shirt. I let her cry, let her mourn, content with the fact that, even through her sadness, she no longer fears me. Or hates me. I hold her tightly until the heaving of her shoulders softens, and then I tell her something I have been waiting to long to say.
"I'm sorry, Dana."
No long winded apology, no falling to my knees. Just a simple word. And she knows. She knows that I care about her more than anything in the world; I love her.
But, I don't say those words. Those can wait. First, the trust must be rebuilt. Love will follow. I know by the feeling of her hand sliding into my own as she pulls her body from mine that, yes, we may have to start over and rebuild what we lost with my betrayal, but, we do love. And even if it takes the rest of our lives to fight against those that wish to hurt us, we know that as long as we love ourselves and trust ourselves, we will love and trust each other. We will not betray the other as long as we do not betray ourselves.
But, to live with the fact that our lives and souls are one, we must understand it. And we must learn to sacrifice ourselves for the other. And, my betrayal must be forgiven by us both.
And, I know that Scully will forgive me, after I forgive myself. But that will take years. But, I am in no hurry. Because, I know, that even though we are still rebuilding our trust, we do love each other. Even if it has not yet been voiced. Even if it won't be voiced until that day we understand, and I forgive.
Until then, I am content with just knowing.
And, right now, we have some tortillas to make.