Title: Things You Think and Things You Know
Author: Alicia K.
Email: spartcus1@msn.com
Rating: PG-13, for language
Category: mention of Scully/Other, Angst
Spoilers: Only for the previous stories in the series.
Summary: Mulder's turn.
Archive: Spookys are fine, anywhere else please ask.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to Fox and
1013. No infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This is the third story in the "Black
Coffee In Bed" series. This won't make much sense if
you haven't read those. They can be found at my site:
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html
I thought I'd jump on the second-person POV
bandwagon. Tons of thanks, as always, to my beta
readers: Joanna, Mish, and hap. Double thanks to hap,
for the ending.
XXX
You think you've finally gotten it right. You have a
woman - no, wait - you have THE woman. She's
agreed, she's smiled upon you, she wants to be with
you.
You think you'd be surprised at how easy it is to hurt
each other, but you're not. Not really.
All it takes is one secret, one secret so long and so
carefully hidden, so accidentally found and so quickly
thrust in your face.
You know that this woman means more to you than any
other in the entire world, save perhaps for your sister,
and you know that you've hurt her more deeply than
you've hurt her before.
And you have hurt her before - not intentionally, and
not that she'd ever place the blame on you, but oh yes,
she's been hurt by your single-minded and arrogant
quest. She could attest to this by pointing to her dead
sister, her dead daughter, her dead ovaries.
But never before had you reached inside her chest and
forced your fingers around her warm, dark heart. Never
before had you crawled inside and made her bleed so
red and rich.
She stands at your hospital bed and you can smell it on
her. You can smell the blood leaking from the holes
you dug in her heart; you can smell the sex on her body;
you can smell her betrayal and ferocity, and it hurts
more than you've ever hurt before.
You could not mention it, you could take that hurt and
harbor it deep inside of you, feeding on it until you are
once again cocooned in that safe haven of guilt. But
you don't. You turn on her, suddenly sure that you
want to see if she'll bleed again for you; how much of
herself will she let you scrape away?
"This is so fucked up," she says, and though you know
what she means, you play dumb, wanting to see how far
you can take this, to see what you have to do before she
retreats.
"Us, Mulder. We are." She glares at you, as if wanting
to know what you could possibly gain by pushing her.
You want to laugh, knowing there is nothing to gain.
You close your eyes, if only for a moment, needing a
brief respite from the emotions in her gaze: you see
hatred and confusion, but not the remorse or guilt that
you were expecting . . . hoping for.
Your words are harsh, your eyes deny admittance to the
tears that crawl their way up your throat. Vulgarities
are exchanged as if they were greetings - they roll off
your tongue and stick to her skin, her skin that still
smells of her new friend.
She spits them back at you, refusing to let you twist the
knife in her open wound.
With one last jab, you turn away from her and listen to
the door slam as she leaves you.
When she is gone, you look to the empty chair that she
had occupied and wonder if the seat is still warm, if it
bears the imprint of her tense body.
Trying to ignore the sharp pain in your head, you get
out of the bed and walk the four steps to the chair,
cursing the lack of concentration that led to your being
cold-cocked by the suspect.
You stretch out a hand to the chair and press gently at
the cadet blue fabric. It isn't warm, and you're
disappointed. Part of you wonders if she was ever there
at all.
The fingers of your left hand are splayed over the faded
cushion, and you look at your ring finger, trying to
remember what it looked like with the thin band of
gold.
Pulling your hand back to the slight comfort of your
body, you let out a small sigh and reach for your
clothes. The nurses will lecture you and tell you that
you can't go to sleep, that you need to stay for
observation, that you will be leaving AMA.
You know all of these things, but you also know that
there will be no sleep coming tonight.
After the lecture and the drive, you return home to find
that it's cold in your apartment. The temperature has
dropped, and you feel very quiet and alone there.
Not bothering to turn the lights on, you sit in the hard-
backed chair at your desk and stare at the fish tank.
You try to remember the last time you even had fish in
it, but give up when you realize that you have no idea.
You continue to stare at the bubbling tank anyway.
You love her. There's nothing more that can be said
that won't take away from the intensity with which you
love her. With which you've loved her for years. You
can't believe that she let you kiss her on New Year's
Eve. You can't believe that she listened without
embarrassment or discomfort to your quiet, heartfelt
words five nights later, when you told her that you
loved her, that you wanted to be with her.
She smiled, a bright and rare light, and took your face
in her hands and kissed you. She echoed your words in
a simple manner that made your heart feel as if it were
glowing. She expressed her concern that a more
intimate relationship could not last if you both
continued lurching down the unpaved road of
miscommunication, whose rock-strewn ruts had
become familiar, even comfortable to the two of you
over the years.
You agreed eagerly, but already felt the pang of guilt as
you realized that you didn't want to tell her everything.
There were some secrets that should remain locked
inside your heart.
You agonized over that secret for days, knowing she
would be hurt that you hadn't told her years ago. She
would wonder why your records show your marital
status as 'single' instead of 'divorced.'
Of course, being the single-minded, arrogant fool that
you are, you forgot that you had kept the physical
reminder of your biggest mistake. Of course you never
imagined that she would stumble across it and that you
would make her bleed.
You could tell her, "Take it, Scully. Take it. It belongs
to you, just like everything else." You could press the
ring into her palm and close her fingers around it, as if
it were the most precious gift you could ever give her,
but it won't stop the bleeding.
You watched her walk out the door and down the hall,
calling her name as both a plea and a curse. The
elevator doors closed between the two of you, and it felt
like a slap.
Now you sit in the dark, scared because you don't know
how to even begin to fix it. And you cry.
In the middle of your self-loathing tears, there's a
knock at the door. You know there's only one person it
can be, and you wait for her to use her key.
"Why aren't you at the hospital?" she asks, her voice
calm but not particularly kind.
You swipe at your eyes and clear your throat. "Come
on, Scully," you tell her, trying to keep your voice
steady. "I've walked away from hospitals with worse
than a concussion and a broken bone."
She locks the door behind her and sits on the couch,
hands templed under her chin. Her hair is wet, and you
realize that she's taken a shower, washing the evidence
of your pain away.
"Why did you going back to the hospital?" you ask her,
picking at a loose bit of plaster on your cast. "I didn't
think I'd see you . . ." You let your words trail away,
not wanting to finish the sentence: again.
She sits back and stares unblinkingly up at the ceiling.
"You tell me, Mulder." You're not really sure what she
wants to hear, and your lips form silent words around
your fumbling answer. "You tell me why I felt the need
to be at your side when I was so sure I hated you."
You stand up, your knees popping from sitting for so
long, and pass a hand over your mouth. "I don't know,
Scully," you whisper, feeling suddenly bone weary.
You'd just as soon not have this or any conversation
tonight (this morning), but are afraid that if you turn her
away now, the damage will most surely be irreparable.
The two of you are silent for long, uncomfortable
minutes, and you wish that she wasn't sitting where you
wanted to lie.
"So who is she?" she finally asks, her voice tight.
You hear a hint of fear in her question, and you wonder
if she's thinking of Diana. "Kathleen. But she 'was,'
Scully. There is no 'is,' I told you that."
She ignores your emphatic words and gives a short,
humorless laugh. "Kathleen Mulder. Has a lovely ring
to it, doesn't it?"
Your voice gains volume, frustrated that she's not
really listening to what you're saying, but knowing
deep down that it probably doesn't make much
difference anyway. "Yeah, it would have, but she kept
her own last name."
Silence descends upon the room again, and you stand
across from her, arms folded over your chest, rocking
slightly from foot to foot.
"So are you going to tell me what happened, or will I
find that when I'm looking for a corkscrew?"
You want to laugh at that, but her expression is still
unforgiving, so you just bite your lip and tell her the
truth you've denied her. "She cheated on me." You
shrug a little. "I cheated back."
"Oh," she says, obviously drawing the parallels
between your ex-wife and herself.
"No, Scully, not 'oh,'" you argue. "It . . . it was a
mistake."
Her eyes meet yours, and you're surprised to see the
shine of tears there. "Am I a mistake, too?" Your
mouth drops open, and she continues before you can
protest. "You couldn't share this with me after seven
years, and I've given you everything." Her voice is soft
and trembling. "You said that everything belonged to
me, but Mulder, you should have given it to me." She
looks down at her hands, folded loosely in her lap. "I
feel like I stumbled across something you didn't want
me to have, but I asked you for it anyway."
You feel a little lost, and you're not sure if it's from
exhaustion, or if her emotions are making her unclear.
All you can think to say is "I'm sorry." It isn't until
after the words leave your lips that you realize that you
mean it, that you would do anything to take it all back.
You take a step toward her, but she raises a trembling
hand, telling you without words to keep away. "I'm
sorry, too," she says, and you frown. Does she mean
she's sorry for what she's done? Or sorry that you
didn't give her what she needed?
For right now, it doesn't matter. Her words are enough
to give you a very small bit of comfort. "Well," you
murmur, shuffling your feet awkwardly on the floor.
You move into the kitchen and fiddle aimlessly with
some dirty dishes. Picking up a glass, sudden anger
flares through you, and you smash it against the edge of
the sink, surprised when it shatters against the metal.
Turning to grab the dust broom from the closet, you see
her standing there in the doorway, arms around her
middle as if for protection. The unmistakable sheen of
tears makes her eyes shine a brilliant blue, but you
know that she's gritting her teeth to keep the tears from
falling. "I'm sorry," she repeats in a fierce whisper.
You want to go to her, you want to take her in your
arms and crush her to you, crush her until the events of
the last hours are erased, but you remain by the sink,
gripping the remnants of the glass.
"Mulder, you're bleeding." Blinking rapidly, she
approaches you. You let her raise your hand and pry
your fingers from around the jagged glass. She bends
intently over your hand, inspecting the cuts in your
skin, and all you can do is stare down at the top of her
head and ache.
You don't realize you're crying until she reaches a hand
up to your cheek with a touch that is both awkward and
tender. She is still fighting her own tears, and your
chest is tight.
"I can't lose you," you choke, wanting so badly to
touch her but afraid of what her rejection would do to
you.
She continues to press her warm hand to your skin, and
you wet her palm with your tears.
You're standing ankle-deep in shards of fear, confusion,
and pain. She is looking up at you, and you can see the
same splinters in her eyes, the bleeding you caused.
But you don't see rejection and you don't see despair,
and you realize that you can reach down into the jagged
pile inside you and brush against the edge of hope.
XXX
Not enough for ya? There will be an epilogue, of sorts.
Feedback lovingly embraced at spartcus1@msn.com
Thanks for reading!
Author: Alicia K.
Email: spartcus1@msn.com
Rating: PG-13, for language
Category: mention of Scully/Other, Angst
Spoilers: Only for the previous stories in the series.
Summary: Mulder's turn.
Archive: Spookys are fine, anywhere else please ask.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to Fox and
1013. No infringement is intended.
Author's Note: This is the third story in the "Black
Coffee In Bed" series. This won't make much sense if
you haven't read those. They can be found at my site:
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html
I thought I'd jump on the second-person POV
bandwagon. Tons of thanks, as always, to my beta
readers: Joanna, Mish, and hap. Double thanks to hap,
for the ending.
XXX
You think you've finally gotten it right. You have a
woman - no, wait - you have THE woman. She's
agreed, she's smiled upon you, she wants to be with
you.
You think you'd be surprised at how easy it is to hurt
each other, but you're not. Not really.
All it takes is one secret, one secret so long and so
carefully hidden, so accidentally found and so quickly
thrust in your face.
You know that this woman means more to you than any
other in the entire world, save perhaps for your sister,
and you know that you've hurt her more deeply than
you've hurt her before.
And you have hurt her before - not intentionally, and
not that she'd ever place the blame on you, but oh yes,
she's been hurt by your single-minded and arrogant
quest. She could attest to this by pointing to her dead
sister, her dead daughter, her dead ovaries.
But never before had you reached inside her chest and
forced your fingers around her warm, dark heart. Never
before had you crawled inside and made her bleed so
red and rich.
She stands at your hospital bed and you can smell it on
her. You can smell the blood leaking from the holes
you dug in her heart; you can smell the sex on her body;
you can smell her betrayal and ferocity, and it hurts
more than you've ever hurt before.
You could not mention it, you could take that hurt and
harbor it deep inside of you, feeding on it until you are
once again cocooned in that safe haven of guilt. But
you don't. You turn on her, suddenly sure that you
want to see if she'll bleed again for you; how much of
herself will she let you scrape away?
"This is so fucked up," she says, and though you know
what she means, you play dumb, wanting to see how far
you can take this, to see what you have to do before she
retreats.
"Us, Mulder. We are." She glares at you, as if wanting
to know what you could possibly gain by pushing her.
You want to laugh, knowing there is nothing to gain.
You close your eyes, if only for a moment, needing a
brief respite from the emotions in her gaze: you see
hatred and confusion, but not the remorse or guilt that
you were expecting . . . hoping for.
Your words are harsh, your eyes deny admittance to the
tears that crawl their way up your throat. Vulgarities
are exchanged as if they were greetings - they roll off
your tongue and stick to her skin, her skin that still
smells of her new friend.
She spits them back at you, refusing to let you twist the
knife in her open wound.
With one last jab, you turn away from her and listen to
the door slam as she leaves you.
When she is gone, you look to the empty chair that she
had occupied and wonder if the seat is still warm, if it
bears the imprint of her tense body.
Trying to ignore the sharp pain in your head, you get
out of the bed and walk the four steps to the chair,
cursing the lack of concentration that led to your being
cold-cocked by the suspect.
You stretch out a hand to the chair and press gently at
the cadet blue fabric. It isn't warm, and you're
disappointed. Part of you wonders if she was ever there
at all.
The fingers of your left hand are splayed over the faded
cushion, and you look at your ring finger, trying to
remember what it looked like with the thin band of
gold.
Pulling your hand back to the slight comfort of your
body, you let out a small sigh and reach for your
clothes. The nurses will lecture you and tell you that
you can't go to sleep, that you need to stay for
observation, that you will be leaving AMA.
You know all of these things, but you also know that
there will be no sleep coming tonight.
After the lecture and the drive, you return home to find
that it's cold in your apartment. The temperature has
dropped, and you feel very quiet and alone there.
Not bothering to turn the lights on, you sit in the hard-
backed chair at your desk and stare at the fish tank.
You try to remember the last time you even had fish in
it, but give up when you realize that you have no idea.
You continue to stare at the bubbling tank anyway.
You love her. There's nothing more that can be said
that won't take away from the intensity with which you
love her. With which you've loved her for years. You
can't believe that she let you kiss her on New Year's
Eve. You can't believe that she listened without
embarrassment or discomfort to your quiet, heartfelt
words five nights later, when you told her that you
loved her, that you wanted to be with her.
She smiled, a bright and rare light, and took your face
in her hands and kissed you. She echoed your words in
a simple manner that made your heart feel as if it were
glowing. She expressed her concern that a more
intimate relationship could not last if you both
continued lurching down the unpaved road of
miscommunication, whose rock-strewn ruts had
become familiar, even comfortable to the two of you
over the years.
You agreed eagerly, but already felt the pang of guilt as
you realized that you didn't want to tell her everything.
There were some secrets that should remain locked
inside your heart.
You agonized over that secret for days, knowing she
would be hurt that you hadn't told her years ago. She
would wonder why your records show your marital
status as 'single' instead of 'divorced.'
Of course, being the single-minded, arrogant fool that
you are, you forgot that you had kept the physical
reminder of your biggest mistake. Of course you never
imagined that she would stumble across it and that you
would make her bleed.
You could tell her, "Take it, Scully. Take it. It belongs
to you, just like everything else." You could press the
ring into her palm and close her fingers around it, as if
it were the most precious gift you could ever give her,
but it won't stop the bleeding.
You watched her walk out the door and down the hall,
calling her name as both a plea and a curse. The
elevator doors closed between the two of you, and it felt
like a slap.
Now you sit in the dark, scared because you don't know
how to even begin to fix it. And you cry.
In the middle of your self-loathing tears, there's a
knock at the door. You know there's only one person it
can be, and you wait for her to use her key.
"Why aren't you at the hospital?" she asks, her voice
calm but not particularly kind.
You swipe at your eyes and clear your throat. "Come
on, Scully," you tell her, trying to keep your voice
steady. "I've walked away from hospitals with worse
than a concussion and a broken bone."
She locks the door behind her and sits on the couch,
hands templed under her chin. Her hair is wet, and you
realize that she's taken a shower, washing the evidence
of your pain away.
"Why did you going back to the hospital?" you ask her,
picking at a loose bit of plaster on your cast. "I didn't
think I'd see you . . ." You let your words trail away,
not wanting to finish the sentence: again.
She sits back and stares unblinkingly up at the ceiling.
"You tell me, Mulder." You're not really sure what she
wants to hear, and your lips form silent words around
your fumbling answer. "You tell me why I felt the need
to be at your side when I was so sure I hated you."
You stand up, your knees popping from sitting for so
long, and pass a hand over your mouth. "I don't know,
Scully," you whisper, feeling suddenly bone weary.
You'd just as soon not have this or any conversation
tonight (this morning), but are afraid that if you turn her
away now, the damage will most surely be irreparable.
The two of you are silent for long, uncomfortable
minutes, and you wish that she wasn't sitting where you
wanted to lie.
"So who is she?" she finally asks, her voice tight.
You hear a hint of fear in her question, and you wonder
if she's thinking of Diana. "Kathleen. But she 'was,'
Scully. There is no 'is,' I told you that."
She ignores your emphatic words and gives a short,
humorless laugh. "Kathleen Mulder. Has a lovely ring
to it, doesn't it?"
Your voice gains volume, frustrated that she's not
really listening to what you're saying, but knowing
deep down that it probably doesn't make much
difference anyway. "Yeah, it would have, but she kept
her own last name."
Silence descends upon the room again, and you stand
across from her, arms folded over your chest, rocking
slightly from foot to foot.
"So are you going to tell me what happened, or will I
find that when I'm looking for a corkscrew?"
You want to laugh at that, but her expression is still
unforgiving, so you just bite your lip and tell her the
truth you've denied her. "She cheated on me." You
shrug a little. "I cheated back."
"Oh," she says, obviously drawing the parallels
between your ex-wife and herself.
"No, Scully, not 'oh,'" you argue. "It . . . it was a
mistake."
Her eyes meet yours, and you're surprised to see the
shine of tears there. "Am I a mistake, too?" Your
mouth drops open, and she continues before you can
protest. "You couldn't share this with me after seven
years, and I've given you everything." Her voice is soft
and trembling. "You said that everything belonged to
me, but Mulder, you should have given it to me." She
looks down at her hands, folded loosely in her lap. "I
feel like I stumbled across something you didn't want
me to have, but I asked you for it anyway."
You feel a little lost, and you're not sure if it's from
exhaustion, or if her emotions are making her unclear.
All you can think to say is "I'm sorry." It isn't until
after the words leave your lips that you realize that you
mean it, that you would do anything to take it all back.
You take a step toward her, but she raises a trembling
hand, telling you without words to keep away. "I'm
sorry, too," she says, and you frown. Does she mean
she's sorry for what she's done? Or sorry that you
didn't give her what she needed?
For right now, it doesn't matter. Her words are enough
to give you a very small bit of comfort. "Well," you
murmur, shuffling your feet awkwardly on the floor.
You move into the kitchen and fiddle aimlessly with
some dirty dishes. Picking up a glass, sudden anger
flares through you, and you smash it against the edge of
the sink, surprised when it shatters against the metal.
Turning to grab the dust broom from the closet, you see
her standing there in the doorway, arms around her
middle as if for protection. The unmistakable sheen of
tears makes her eyes shine a brilliant blue, but you
know that she's gritting her teeth to keep the tears from
falling. "I'm sorry," she repeats in a fierce whisper.
You want to go to her, you want to take her in your
arms and crush her to you, crush her until the events of
the last hours are erased, but you remain by the sink,
gripping the remnants of the glass.
"Mulder, you're bleeding." Blinking rapidly, she
approaches you. You let her raise your hand and pry
your fingers from around the jagged glass. She bends
intently over your hand, inspecting the cuts in your
skin, and all you can do is stare down at the top of her
head and ache.
You don't realize you're crying until she reaches a hand
up to your cheek with a touch that is both awkward and
tender. She is still fighting her own tears, and your
chest is tight.
"I can't lose you," you choke, wanting so badly to
touch her but afraid of what her rejection would do to
you.
She continues to press her warm hand to your skin, and
you wet her palm with your tears.
You're standing ankle-deep in shards of fear, confusion,
and pain. She is looking up at you, and you can see the
same splinters in her eyes, the bleeding you caused.
But you don't see rejection and you don't see despair,
and you realize that you can reach down into the jagged
pile inside you and brush against the edge of hope.
XXX
Not enough for ya? There will be an epilogue, of sorts.
Feedback lovingly embraced at spartcus1@msn.com
Thanks for reading!