BLURRING THE LINES
BY
AllyinthekeyofX
ONE
Mulder is watching me. Even without looking up I can feel his eyes on me. Can feel the confusion that radiates from him in waves, swirling and eddying around the office space we share and even though I have removed myself to the farthest corner I can – an area that Mulder once referred to as being mine – I know that far away is currently not far enough to escape his scrutiny. Because he knows, just as he knew when I was trying desperately to hide my gradual decline from him when I was in the grip of my cancer, that this is my hiding place, partially separated from each other by a flimsy partition of wood and glass and which offers us a physical barrier, offers us space to breathe. But it didn't prevent him scrutinising me back then, searching for the slightest sign that I was struggling more than I was prepared to admit and it isn't preventing him scrutinising me now.
We are both confined to desk duty, more for Mulders benefit than mine because although he swiftly divested himself of the sling that was meant to support his injured shoulder, he is in no shape to be out in the field. The wound had been ragged; stitched together just barely at Muller's absolute refusal to entertain any suggestions of grafts and surgery and lengthy recuperation. It would heal, he had insisted, if he scarred he scarred. So he had escaped surgery by a whisker, promising to keep the sling on and his arm elevated for at least a week. His good intentions lasted a scant two days. I didn't waste my breath arguing against his decision. Over the years I have learned to keep my own counsel – to know which battles are worth fighting regarding his cavalier attitude toward his own health and wellbeing.
The days have dragged monotonously for both of us I think and while initially Mulder tried to draw me out of myself, after a while he gave up and became as silent as I have been. Because I can't bring myself to speak to him – at least not on a personal level and while I politely respond to his work-related queries, he is left with absolutely no doubt that anything else is currently off limits. So instead he just watches me, the silence that stretches between us punctuated only by the occasional rustling of paper, of the muted crack of a shell casing that he has manipulated between his teeth to release the tiny prize within. It's a sound that, over the years I have come to regard as being uniquely his and I can't count the amount of times I have awoken in the darkness of yet another anonymous motel room, heart pounding in panic from whichever monster has visited my dreams, to hear the sound of my partner cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth. How often I have felt safe and protected by the knowledge that he is just a few feet away from me; that should I call out to him he would be by my side in seconds, swiftly analysing just what I need from him whether it be by touch or by words he would find a way to affirm that I am okay.
To my intense embarrassment my eyes suddenly start to burn and I feel my throat begin to close as the words blur on the report I have been attempting to concentrate my attention on for the past hour or so and not for the first time I realise I am close to unravelling right there in front of him.
For exactly what reason I feel like this I am less sure. But as the days have passed since that moment the world celebrated I have become more and more morose, a feeling that is ridiculous in the extreme given that I am reacting this way because of a stupid unguarded moment from both of us.
A kiss. Just a kiss for Gods sake. A kiss that neither he nor I have even attempted to acknowledge; him because I suspect for him it was a sweet but insignificant moment in our lives and me because I am afraid of him telling me that is exactly what it was. And he would say all the right things to me, try to make light of his actions and totally fail to notice me dying inside right there in front of him. So instead I have said nothing and concentrated instead on just trying to get through each day with a man who seems to be content to sit and suffocate me with his unspoken concern.
And suddenly I just can't take it anymore, I can't remain in that office for even a second longer without screaming at him, without striking out at him for breaking the rules and blurring the lines and making me feel like the world has ended. Because he *is* my world and I have been content to love him from within the confines of the walls I have worked so hard to build around myself. Walls, which now threaten to come tumbling down. The pressure that has been building is just suddenly too much and I just can't do it anymore. Any of it.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Mulder become rigid in his posture as I stumble to my feet, pushing the chair back and wincing at the grating sound of metal against tile.
"Scully?"
His voice is soft, questioning; the underlying concern only barely contained beneath the surface. But I don't look at him. I can't.
Instead I grab my heavy winter coat from where it hangs still slightly damp from the morning snowfall I got caught in on my way to work, not bothering to waste time in shrugging it on before I head for the door.
"I don't feel well Mulder. I'm going home."
A part of me desperately hopes he will follow me, grasp a hold of my arm and force me to acknowledge him.
But he doesn't. A glance behind me as I exit the office sees him as though frozen in time, brow furrowed; mouth slightly agape at my sudden departure and it's only when I am sure that I am alone, when the elevator doors slide shut, do I allow the first tear to fall.
XXXXXXXXX
I finally arrive home just before 11:30 and I'm actually surprised how easy it was to find a cab on the slush covered streets that was available for hire. The weather was set to turn bad later in the day and was in part at least, the reason I had opted not to drive in to work that morning although if I'm honest I was also aware that snow covered roads coupled with my current emotionally confused state was an accident waiting to happen. My cell phone had rung insistently every five minutes or so and eventually, as it's strident tones filled the warm interior of the cab for the third time and I saw the driver huff in silent annoyance I simply removed it from my pocket and switched it off, feeling just a tiny pang of guilt as Mulders name disappeared and the screen went blank.
I was unsurprised therefore to find, when I entered my apartment, that the small red light on my answering machine was blinking accusingly at me and although my first instinct was to just ignore it while I got changed in to more comfortable attire, by the time I exited my bedroom dressed in worn blue jeans and soft cream cable knit sweater, the guilt at ignoring Mulder had begun to prickle at me in a singularly uncomfortable way. He had left four messages, which by Mulders standards was pretty tame although I could detect a subtle increase in urgency by the time the fourth one began to play; his voice pitched slightly higher, the cadence of his words a little more rapid.
*ummm Scully it's me again...I guess you aren't home yet but when you get this message...ah shit forget it. Stay where you are okay?...I'm coming over to you...*
I don't listen to the rest of the message even though I know there is more, because I suddenly feel trapped, panicked even. Because it's one thing to remain detached from him in a work environment but something altogether different when we are on our home turf; and I don't want this, I don't want this to become blown up in to something it isn't. I just need time alone to get things straight in my head; time alone away from him.
So I do the only thing that makes sense to me amid the confusion that is raging within me– I seek to escape – grabbling my warm parka with the fur-lined hood before stuffing my feet in to my winter boots I exit the apartment before I can change my mind.
XXXXXX
I'm not sure how long I have sat here, just sat here amidst the snow covered shrubs and bushes that have been softened and melded together by the snow that fell briefly but heavily this morning and while the pristine whiteness in the city has already been rendered a dirty grey slushy mess by the DC traffic, here it is virtually untouched – a sparkling white canvas which is breathtaking in its simplicity. This part of the park is slightly off the beaten track, set back from the runner's routes with a couple of benches that afford an unobstructed view of the lake that is now magically transformed in to a solid sheet of gleaming ice, weak sunshine bouncing off it in almost blinding intensity to reflect back on the untouched virginal snow that blankets the area around it's edges. And it's so peaceful here; the snow has insulated this small oasis from the sounds of traffic, of people, of life. Even the birds are silent, no doubt huddled together with fluffed feathers to capture and keep the warm air against their small bodies in the midst of a DC winter. And that thought makes me aware that I am beginning to feel cold despite the down filling in my jacket, and even though it is long enough to reach mid thigh, the cold metal of the bench beneath me isn't the ideal surface to spend any length of time on at this time of year and a chill is starting to work its way up my back. The logical part of me knows that at some point I will have to return to my apartment and with that knowledge comes a realisation that Mulder will be there, and while he probably won't presume to let himself in with his key, he will camp outside the door for as long as it takes for me to arrive back. Seven years in his company has taught me many things regarding his character and the man has the stubbornness of a mule with regards to keeping his word. And if he has decided to come check on me, I would find him still sitting there waiting for me hours later. He's done it before. Today will be no different.
But I don't know how I can even begin to confide in him the way I am feeling right now, knowing that despite my earlier anger he has no idea what he has done to garner such an extreme reaction from me.
Just a kiss Dana. It was just a kiss. Nothing more and nothing less. And maybe if I keep telling myself that I might even start to believe it.
Yeah. Right.
I swipe angrily at my nose, trying to persuade myself that the sudden urge to sniff is only about the cold and not about the tears that have once again filmed my vision, gathering unbidden and blurring the scene in front of me; and I hate this. This is not me. This is not who I am. Or at least it's not who I used to be. So I blink quickly, my vision clearing as I feel wetness once again on my face, the tears instantly growing cold in the frigid air, and concentrate instead on the lone swan that is swiping at the soft snow with its long orange beak in an attempt to find a morsel of food to satisfy its hunger.
Bread. I should have brought bread.
And suddenly I tense as a slight weight drops on to my shoulder, an unseen presence behind me whose voice is as familiar to me as my own and infinitely more precious, his hand squeezing my shoulder gently as he speaks softly.
"Did you know swans mate for life Scully? That even though they know that they will be alone if one dies, they still take a chance on each other? That the chance of happiness is worth the potential heartbreak it might bring?"
And then he is right there in front of me, pulling me gently to my feet and resting his gloved hand against my cheek, rotating his thumb to make small circles against my skin. I can smell the leather, warm and fragrant, mingling with the scent of him.
"I suspect" he drops a kiss on my forehead, breathing in to my hair "That we could learn a few things from them" before tipping my head so he can look at me properly. His expression is intense, his eyes dark green and fathomless, hard to read for most people but not for me.
"Don't you think?"
Continued chapter two
