Conflicted Yearnings
By: Olivia
5:00 p.m. Quittin' time. Friday.
Normally quittin' time means nothing to me, to us I should say, as I glance over at Monica, sittin' at her desk, typing up a report on her computer. We only clock out when we've done all that we can for the day, but quite frankly, it's been a slow week for the paranormal.
I study Monica for a little bit as she types. She doesn't realize it's time to go. She's oblivious that I'm watchin' her, observin' her.
That's when the realization hits me, and it floors me as it always does, that Monica moved all the way here, all the way to this new and strange city, to this dangerous and, let's be honest, unglamorous assignment, for me. I try to comfort myself, as I always do, that this is the kind of work Monica loves. For the first time, she more substantial proof than she has ever known of the paranormal.
And yet still the lurkin' guilt gnaws at the back of my mind. It is dangerous for her to be here. This assignment draws her into more ridicule and disrespect than she ever knew down in New Orleans. None of this bothers her, but it bothers me. It bothers me because I asked her to come here and quite frankly, the thought of anyone thinking less of Monica angers me. Maybe that's how Dana felt about Mulder-that need to protect your partner's image from being tarnished, cause you know he, or in this case she, is a good agent despite what anyone else thinks.
Monica's fingers fly across her keyboard as her thoughts come tumblin' out.
Suddenly, I feel her loneliness from across the room. Or is it my own loneliness that I feel? She hides it well, but I know. I know it because I feel it to. I wear mine like a cloak. It's comfortin' after all these years, keepin' me from getting hurt or hurtin' others.
But Monica, here I drag Monica to this new town, away from all her friends. Now granted, Monica has a very upbeat, sunny personality that naturally draws people to her, even if they do find her viewpoints off putting at first. But it's hard to meet people when your assignment involves one other person (the anti-social me) in a small, dark basement office, which, by its reputation alone, is shunned by your colleagues. It's a lonely life. Just look at Mulder and Scully. They only had each other to trust down in this unit. All I've got is Monica and yet somehow I know that's all I need.
That I needed Monica here to help me make sense, if that is all possible, of this mumbo jumbo, provides little comfort to me. That she is the only one I can trust to watch my back, to tell me the truth, comforts me even less because it's all about me. She deserves better. She deserves more than me attacking her viewpoints.
The more and more I think about this assignment the more I wonder why Monica ever accepted my offer, why she stays. Sure I can say that she loves this kind of work that she realizes that the work is important, but what really frightens me is the one overriding reason I think she scoffs at the danger and at the Bureau jokes at our expense. I fear that it might be me, that I might be the reason she stays, that she might have feelings more for me than friendship. She deserves better than me.
But I find myself getting' up and walkin' over to her desk. I'm determined to make up for dragging her half-way across the country. She stops typin' and looks up at me with those inquisitive eyes and for a second I almost lose myself in those eyes. I find myself trying to be casual as I ask her out to happy hour. She smiles at me and nods her agreement. I can't help smiling back.
So about twenty minutes later we find ourselves at The Irish Times. I realize then that maybe I should have picked a more upscale place, but Monica just chuckles at my comment, saying that it's fine. I tell her I'll be back in a few seconds as I walk up to the bar to order us some beers.
After getting the beers, I turn back around and see that Monica's not where I had left her. I scan the bar area, luckily it is too early to have filled up with the late night college crowd, and I spy Monica near the back talking to some mook.
As I make my way back to her, I'm tryin' valiantly fight down a spike of jealousy and protectiveness. This is ridiculous, I berate myself wonderin' where all this was comin' from. First off, Monica is unattached and can be with whom ever she chooses and second of, I know she is more than capable of taking care of herself. And yet despite all this, I can completely quash these feelings inside. When I thought that Monica deserved better than me, this mook is not what I had in mind.
I walk up to Monica and the guy she is talkin' to. He's just some young college kid, albeit slightly good looking. Monica turns to me smilin', saying that this kid and his friend are going to allow us to use the pool table in the back.
I give the kid and his friend my thanks. I smile, but I have a feeling that it looks more like a grimace than a grateful smile. Although I am grateful when the kid and his buddy move away allowin' Monica and I full use of the billiard table.
I hand Monica her beer. I dig quarters out of my pocket and we take our cue sticks. I set up the balls. Monica gives them a good break and knocks a striped one into the right corner pocket. So it's official, I think as I take a sip of my beer, she's stripes and I'm solids. Happy hour has begun.
So we play billiards. We're both quite good. We talk and laugh about the game and life. We don't broach any serious topics. It's all light-hearted and fun, somethin' we both needed, some sort of release from all the frustration and problems of workin' on the X-Files. Chasin' after little green men is hard work despite what our colleagues think.
And it comes as sort of a surprise how much I've come to depend on Monica, how much strength I've drawn from her presence in my life. She tells me about being adopted and about her parents and living in Mexico. She tells me about her childhood and growin' up in Mexico. She tells me about her decision to go to college in the States and afterwards to joing the FBI. I never really realized how difficult is must be for her, havin' one foot in Mexico and yet one in the U.S. or how it must be to never really know her birth parents or why she was given up for adoption. And yet it's obvious from her stories how much she loves her adoptive parents. It's endearin' really. Her stories make me realize to my ultimate shame how little I know about this woman I work with everyday who knows such much about my own life.
It's my turn to hit. I hit the ball hard and it goes careenin' off the table at the two college kids we had spoken to previously. We try valiantly for a few seconds, but end up laughin' as tears start streamin' down our faces. The kid brings the ball back over to us. He puts the ball on the table and then he rejoins his friend.
It's Monica's turn now. The game goes on. We play for a while longer, but it's obvious that Monica is gettin' as tired as I am. The bar is gettin' more crowded as the college students are pourin' in. I sorta hate for this evenin' to end, but it's time to go.
We walk outside into the crisp, cool air and I take a deep breath. The moon is already shining down upon us and I look to Monica as she too looks up at the moon. She really looks beautiful in the moonlight, I think as strands of her dark brown hair blow gently in the breeze. She puts an errant strand behind her ear and sends me a smile that I can feel, takin' my breath away as she always does. C'mon, I'll take you home, is all she says.
So I follow her to her car realizin' once again how much fun I had tonight with Monica. I haven't had fun like that in a long, long time. We should do things like this more often.
We get in the car and start drivin' home. A few minutes later the fear take over me, as it always does, when I find myself relaxin', lettin' my guard down in Monica's company. It's the fear that my love for Monica is not enough. I know that no one will ever love her as deeply as I love her and yet I still feel she deserves someone better than me. Someone whose not chasin' after the ghost of his dead son, someone whose full of the same laughter and light that permeates Monica and draws people to her. It's drawn me to her, like a moth to a flame. I'm not sure how long I can keep her at a distance like this cause she's slowly crumblin' all the walls I've built up around my heart.
The End
"I can see it in your face-the fear, the conflicted yearnings, the subconscious desire to find fulfillment through another. Intimacy through codependency. Maybe you repress the truth about why you're here, pretending it's out of duty or loyalty, unable to admit your dirty little secret. Your only joy in life is proving him wrong."-"How the Ghosts Stole Christmas"
By: Olivia
5:00 p.m. Quittin' time. Friday.
Normally quittin' time means nothing to me, to us I should say, as I glance over at Monica, sittin' at her desk, typing up a report on her computer. We only clock out when we've done all that we can for the day, but quite frankly, it's been a slow week for the paranormal.
I study Monica for a little bit as she types. She doesn't realize it's time to go. She's oblivious that I'm watchin' her, observin' her.
That's when the realization hits me, and it floors me as it always does, that Monica moved all the way here, all the way to this new and strange city, to this dangerous and, let's be honest, unglamorous assignment, for me. I try to comfort myself, as I always do, that this is the kind of work Monica loves. For the first time, she more substantial proof than she has ever known of the paranormal.
And yet still the lurkin' guilt gnaws at the back of my mind. It is dangerous for her to be here. This assignment draws her into more ridicule and disrespect than she ever knew down in New Orleans. None of this bothers her, but it bothers me. It bothers me because I asked her to come here and quite frankly, the thought of anyone thinking less of Monica angers me. Maybe that's how Dana felt about Mulder-that need to protect your partner's image from being tarnished, cause you know he, or in this case she, is a good agent despite what anyone else thinks.
Monica's fingers fly across her keyboard as her thoughts come tumblin' out.
Suddenly, I feel her loneliness from across the room. Or is it my own loneliness that I feel? She hides it well, but I know. I know it because I feel it to. I wear mine like a cloak. It's comfortin' after all these years, keepin' me from getting hurt or hurtin' others.
But Monica, here I drag Monica to this new town, away from all her friends. Now granted, Monica has a very upbeat, sunny personality that naturally draws people to her, even if they do find her viewpoints off putting at first. But it's hard to meet people when your assignment involves one other person (the anti-social me) in a small, dark basement office, which, by its reputation alone, is shunned by your colleagues. It's a lonely life. Just look at Mulder and Scully. They only had each other to trust down in this unit. All I've got is Monica and yet somehow I know that's all I need.
That I needed Monica here to help me make sense, if that is all possible, of this mumbo jumbo, provides little comfort to me. That she is the only one I can trust to watch my back, to tell me the truth, comforts me even less because it's all about me. She deserves better. She deserves more than me attacking her viewpoints.
The more and more I think about this assignment the more I wonder why Monica ever accepted my offer, why she stays. Sure I can say that she loves this kind of work that she realizes that the work is important, but what really frightens me is the one overriding reason I think she scoffs at the danger and at the Bureau jokes at our expense. I fear that it might be me, that I might be the reason she stays, that she might have feelings more for me than friendship. She deserves better than me.
But I find myself getting' up and walkin' over to her desk. I'm determined to make up for dragging her half-way across the country. She stops typin' and looks up at me with those inquisitive eyes and for a second I almost lose myself in those eyes. I find myself trying to be casual as I ask her out to happy hour. She smiles at me and nods her agreement. I can't help smiling back.
So about twenty minutes later we find ourselves at The Irish Times. I realize then that maybe I should have picked a more upscale place, but Monica just chuckles at my comment, saying that it's fine. I tell her I'll be back in a few seconds as I walk up to the bar to order us some beers.
After getting the beers, I turn back around and see that Monica's not where I had left her. I scan the bar area, luckily it is too early to have filled up with the late night college crowd, and I spy Monica near the back talking to some mook.
As I make my way back to her, I'm tryin' valiantly fight down a spike of jealousy and protectiveness. This is ridiculous, I berate myself wonderin' where all this was comin' from. First off, Monica is unattached and can be with whom ever she chooses and second of, I know she is more than capable of taking care of herself. And yet despite all this, I can completely quash these feelings inside. When I thought that Monica deserved better than me, this mook is not what I had in mind.
I walk up to Monica and the guy she is talkin' to. He's just some young college kid, albeit slightly good looking. Monica turns to me smilin', saying that this kid and his friend are going to allow us to use the pool table in the back.
I give the kid and his friend my thanks. I smile, but I have a feeling that it looks more like a grimace than a grateful smile. Although I am grateful when the kid and his buddy move away allowin' Monica and I full use of the billiard table.
I hand Monica her beer. I dig quarters out of my pocket and we take our cue sticks. I set up the balls. Monica gives them a good break and knocks a striped one into the right corner pocket. So it's official, I think as I take a sip of my beer, she's stripes and I'm solids. Happy hour has begun.
So we play billiards. We're both quite good. We talk and laugh about the game and life. We don't broach any serious topics. It's all light-hearted and fun, somethin' we both needed, some sort of release from all the frustration and problems of workin' on the X-Files. Chasin' after little green men is hard work despite what our colleagues think.
And it comes as sort of a surprise how much I've come to depend on Monica, how much strength I've drawn from her presence in my life. She tells me about being adopted and about her parents and living in Mexico. She tells me about her childhood and growin' up in Mexico. She tells me about her decision to go to college in the States and afterwards to joing the FBI. I never really realized how difficult is must be for her, havin' one foot in Mexico and yet one in the U.S. or how it must be to never really know her birth parents or why she was given up for adoption. And yet it's obvious from her stories how much she loves her adoptive parents. It's endearin' really. Her stories make me realize to my ultimate shame how little I know about this woman I work with everyday who knows such much about my own life.
It's my turn to hit. I hit the ball hard and it goes careenin' off the table at the two college kids we had spoken to previously. We try valiantly for a few seconds, but end up laughin' as tears start streamin' down our faces. The kid brings the ball back over to us. He puts the ball on the table and then he rejoins his friend.
It's Monica's turn now. The game goes on. We play for a while longer, but it's obvious that Monica is gettin' as tired as I am. The bar is gettin' more crowded as the college students are pourin' in. I sorta hate for this evenin' to end, but it's time to go.
We walk outside into the crisp, cool air and I take a deep breath. The moon is already shining down upon us and I look to Monica as she too looks up at the moon. She really looks beautiful in the moonlight, I think as strands of her dark brown hair blow gently in the breeze. She puts an errant strand behind her ear and sends me a smile that I can feel, takin' my breath away as she always does. C'mon, I'll take you home, is all she says.
So I follow her to her car realizin' once again how much fun I had tonight with Monica. I haven't had fun like that in a long, long time. We should do things like this more often.
We get in the car and start drivin' home. A few minutes later the fear take over me, as it always does, when I find myself relaxin', lettin' my guard down in Monica's company. It's the fear that my love for Monica is not enough. I know that no one will ever love her as deeply as I love her and yet I still feel she deserves someone better than me. Someone whose not chasin' after the ghost of his dead son, someone whose full of the same laughter and light that permeates Monica and draws people to her. It's drawn me to her, like a moth to a flame. I'm not sure how long I can keep her at a distance like this cause she's slowly crumblin' all the walls I've built up around my heart.
The End
"I can see it in your face-the fear, the conflicted yearnings, the subconscious desire to find fulfillment through another. Intimacy through codependency. Maybe you repress the truth about why you're here, pretending it's out of duty or loyalty, unable to admit your dirty little secret. Your only joy in life is proving him wrong."-"How the Ghosts Stole Christmas"