Category: S/Scullyangst/UST/First person present tense narrative
Spoilers: US Season Six to "One Son"
Summary: Scully has the blues because of Mulder's willingness to trust
Diana Fowley...
Archive: Anywhere as long as my name stays attached
Disclaimer: Everything - the movie rights, the toy revenues, etc. -- is
owned by Chris Carter, that many-armed blue-eyed surfin'-bird God of the X
Universe.


If you are a noromo (to each her/his own, I guess) you WILL NOT like this.

This is nothing more than pure unadulterated fantasy. I wrote it in order
to redeem Mulder in my own eyes, 'cause I felt he was being an
inconsiderate jerk all through "Two Fathers/One Son". So I'm making him
apologize and explain himself to Scully. Ain't fanfic great for that sort
of thing?

Extraspecial thanks to Debbie Hewett, as always. She is the editor who
rocks my universe. Thanks to the awesome BeckyD for the extra eye.  And to
Leadbelly, bless his soul...

P.S. This is the second in a first-person present tense narrative series
I'm working on, because I'm currently obsessed with the style... the first
was "Erase Today", my post-Drive story, but you needn't read it to enjoy
this story.

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Volatile
by Terri Monture
xfactore@interlog.com


volatile  (vol-a-tyle) adjective. 1. Evaporating rapidly 2. Lively,
changing quickly or easily from one mood or an interest to another 3.
Unstable
4. Liable to erupt into violence.
-- From The Oxford Paperback Dictionary, New Edition, 1994.

Georgetown
Monday, 8:35 p.m.


The steam envelops me and sweat immediately breaks out all over my body. I
sigh and the sound echoes off the tiles of the sauna like a muffled
gunshot. I put a towel down on the bench and lie back. Instantly my muscles
melt into a puddle of sticky, spent goo.

The heat is wonderful. I fold my hands across my breasts and feel the hot,
wet air enter my lungs. I could fall asleep in this sauna. That would be
dangerous, but what a welcome death it would be... It seems that lately I
crave warmth. The hotter the better. Ever since the Antarctic I need to be
warm. I can't go outside without layers of clothing mummifying my body. I
bought several cashmere sweaters to wear against my skin and a new wool
coat that I wear with a polar fleece scarf. At night I pile blankets on top
of my duvet and snuggle into my bed with the covers pulled up around my
ears. If I get cold, I shiver uncontrollably and it takes me forever to get
warmed up again. I've been taking a lot of hot baths lately, drinking hot
liquids. In places like this, in the moist hot air of the steam bath, I am
finally content.

I came here to the gym right after work. I ran five miles on the indoor
track, spent an hour with free weights, then another hour gasping for
breath through a deep-water aquafit class. Aquatorture is more like it. An
unbearably perky 20-year-old who kept yelping slogans of encouragement led
the class. At least my outrage at her demeanour pushed me through the
class, past my exhaustion.

In fact, the entire punishing routine was satisfyingly mindless. I
channeled all of my angst, my anger, my finely honed sense of betrayal and
my horrified dismay at my partner's actions into torturing myself with
exercise. And now I am spent. Lying limp and lifeless on this narrow bench,
sweat dripping down my face and beading onto the floor.

But even here my memory serves up that dreadful scene at the Lone Gunmen's.
His bitter refusal to listen to me. My white-hot anger and disbelief that
he would believe that --that -- vile woman even in the extremis of the
situation. That he would choose her over me.

 argues the little voice in my head 

So why didn't he believe in me?

The cold reality of that question causes me to sit up, grasping my arms
across my chest in an attempt to prevent the contents of my heart from
spilling out all over the clean wet tiles.  The tears threaten to strangle
me and with the last of my strength, I take big gulping breaths of hot air
in a last-ditch battle against them. I emerge victorious, but only after a
struggle.

I rest my head in my hands. I can't take this anymore, I wearily
acknowledge to myself. Because I admitted it, the thoughts that I had
suppressed for four days pour out into my head. It's a no-holds-barred,
take-no-prisoners litany of pain.

I can't I can't be with him anymore I can't It hurts too much He said he
loved me but it was a lie When push came to shove he collapsed and ran back
to her Back to some kind of solace that she represents to him and that I
can never be to him because I'm too fucking rigid rational and righteous
for him to bear...

Enough. I've had enough.

I climb woozily to my feet and hold onto the wall like an invalid, ignoring
my nakedness. I hurt too much to care. The door is hidden behind clouds of
swirling steam. I find it more by groping than by sight. I pull the door
open and the cool air outside the sauna rushes over me, causing instant
goosebumps to break out all over my body. I grab a clean towel from the
stack on the nearby shelf and wrap it around me. A brief moment of insanity
engulfs me, terrifying because I do not remember what it is I'm to do next.
Instinct propels me forward, back to the change room and the comforting
cold surface of my locker.

There's a mirror above a vanity table at the end of the row of lockers.
Mesmerized I move toward it and remove the towel. I'm standing naked in
front of it.

I remember that he saw me. He looked at my body. I know because I looked at
his and caught him looking at me...

Is this why he chose her? I can't help the self-deprecation that follows.
I'm not tall enough. My breasts are too small, my legs too short. My skin
is freckled from a childhood spent in the sun. My hair is wet and stringy
now, not long and shining and immaculately coifed. My features are mongrel
Irish, not classically WASP-ish. I'm irascible, irritable, argumentative
and demanding. She's all soft murmurs of assent, poised and elegant. She
believes in him.

And then there is the matter of this scar... Gloomily I inspect it. It
blossoms a centimeter below my left breast, an angry red memory of the
bullet that nearly cost me my life. And the long line of the surgeon's
blade, the mark they had to make in order to repair the damage to my heart.
It curves upward between my breasts, an indelible line drawn in blood.

Damage to my heart... I finger the scar and watch the Scully-mirage in the
mirror do the same. I'll carry this reminder of the futility of this insane
quest on my body for the rest of my life.

I realize with a start that another woman is watching me, looking at the
disfiguring scar with something akin to horror. I send her a glare in the
mirror and she looks swiftly away, but not before I see the pity in her
eyes. Yeah, sister, pity poor me. The man who said he loved me has gone
crawling back on his hands and knees over the shattered glass of conspiracy
to be another woman's dog.

I know it's unfair to think that. I can't help it, though. I know he wanted
me to come with him too. It's easier for me to think that he chose her than
to think that maybe his noble nature wanted to save both of us.

I moisturize my skin and dry my hair automatically, numbed by the motions
of an ordinary life. Wanting back that woman I used to be, secure in her
life, knowing beyond a shred of a doubt that her career and chosen path
were righteous, immutable and fixed. Knowing that she was loved. Cavalierly
assuming that she could have him whenever she wanted.

I pull on my clothes methodically. A black v-necked sweater and khaki-green
pants, ordered out of a catalogue because I used to have no time to go
shopping. Now I will have time... I still won't have a life. This
realization causes a wave of dizziness and I have to sit down on a nearby
stool, putting my head between my knees and breathing deep in order to
regain my equilibrium.

What am I going to do without Mulder? What will become of me now that he's
gone away without me?

 asks that inner omnipotent voice. 

Shut up. And anyway, he wanted to go...



I spend the drive home in a kind of daze, wheeling the car through
intersections on autopilot. I feel like my head is wrapped in layers of
gauze and it requires too much effort to think. Good. All of that physical
activity paid off. I'm exhausted. My thoughts have finally been turned off.
It only took four days and three sleepless nights staring at the phone to
get to this point.

My darkened apartment is very warm; I had turned the heat up before I left
and now it's like some small mammal's den, safe and cocooned against the
cold. The blinking light on my answering machine draws me close and I
stare, hypnotized by the red winking flare in the darkness. I reach my hand
out to press the button, then pull it away. No. I won't. I can't.

I know it's going to be Mulder, and I don't want to talk to him. I'm never
talking to him again.

That is my new resolution.

Now I will test my resolve. I walk to the kitchen, reach up on tiptoe to
the cabinet above the refrigerator. The bottle of Glenlivet scotch is
actually dusty. I haven't needed it in a long, long time.

I pour myself two fingers of amber liquid into one of my good cut-crystal
glasses, the heavy smooth finish of it cool against my palm. My hand
involuntarily curves against it; a perfect fit.  The first swallow is
always a shock, liquid fire numbing my tongue and leaving a trail of warmth
that I can feel all the way down my esophagus to the pit of my belly. And
then the inevitable welcome glow... The Scots called it "usquabae", Gaelic
for water of life. No wonder.

I dig a CD out of the box that came from Melissa's apartment. She had an
amazing boxed set of Smithsonian-recorded blues tunes from the 20's -- old
Leadbelly and Robert Johnson, Bessie Smith and a lean mean Howlin' Wolf. I
need to hear it right now. Minor-key songs of heartbreak and pain, and
deals made with the devil at the crossroads at midnight. Perfect for my
melancholy and sadness.  All that is left in my heart is ashes, the
remnants of an anger that flared up, burning and consuming everything.

The CD player clicks on. "My girl my girl don' lie to me/tell me where did
you sleep last night/in the pines/in the pines/where the sun don't ever
shine/I'm a shiver the whole night through..."

I collapse onto my sofa, leaning heavily against one of the overstuffed
pillows. Leadbelly's gravelly, world-weary voice is perfect in the
darkness.  A balm for my ache. I sip slowly at the whiskey. It makes the
dark place that is my soul seem a little less empty.

The phone rings. I turn my head to stare at it. The answering machine
clicks on, my own recorded voice sounding mechanical and hollow.

Mulder. Of course. "Scully, pick up. C'mon, I know you're there... pick up.
Please."

Is that pleading I hear in his voice? I cock an eyebrow at the machine, too
comfortable and fuzzy in my place on the sofa to consider moving. No, not
pleading. I can see him pacing even now, chewing on his lower lip, pacing
in the narrow confines of his living room.

"Scully. I know you're at home. I saw you go in. I'm in my car... c'mon,
Scully, talk to me. Please?"

I close my eyes, take another swallow. Go away, Mulder. But of course I
don't say it. I can't. I want him to come up. My traitorous heart admits it
even if I won't say it aloud.

"Okay. Look. I'm going to come up. I need -- we have to talk." The machine
clicks off with finality.

I don't move. I sit here, unable to think or move a muscle. I'm too much of
a coward. I have always been. He is really the brave one, the dashing hero
who will walk through fire even though it terrifies him. I only go along to
take notes. To catalogue. To prove he actually did it. I don't have the
faith. He's the one with the courage to see it through. The power of his
belief has always been frightening to me. Because he can make a believer
out of me. Not so much in his wild theories, but in him.

I believe in him. That's why I hurt so badly.

I feel he has lost faith in me.

The knock at my door comes sooner than expected. I'm paralyzed. I can't get
up. The knocking becomes louder. "Scully, it's me. Let me in?"

I can't answer him. I physically cannot do it.

His voice becomes more urgent. Strident. "Open up, Scully, please." One
heartbeat, two, three. "I'm going to use my key."

The key scrapes in the lock and the door swings gently open. Mulder pokes
his head through the door, as if afraid of what he will see. Or won't. He
calls my name again, steps through the door, his hand near the lightswitch.

I find strength to protest. "Please don't turn on the light." I'm
embarrassed by the quaver in my voice.

He closes the door behind him and stands there for a moment, uncertain. He
is wearing black and is reduced to a shadow. I feel his eyes on me, though,
know he is seeing me as clearly as if a halogen light was glaring down on
me, baring my secrets. Even in the dark I look down at my glass, unwilling
to look at him. He makes me afraid because he knows me so well.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" Mulder asks finally, coming forward
to stand uneasily across the space from me. Leadbelly is still moaning. I
think his voice is the sound my heart would make if it could.

"Because it's night out?" I offer this up weakly.

He is frowning, I can tell. He bends down and switches on the small lamp
sitting on the end table. I blink furiously in the sudden soft light. I
look horrible, I know it. But then Mulder has seen me at my worst more
times than I care to count. He's even seen me dying, for chrissakes. So I
guess it won't kill me now to let him see how exhausted I am. And how sad.

In that lithe, cat-like way he has of moving he is beside me and insinuates
himself into my space, the only man I even think about allowing such
transgressional behaviour. He goes to his haunches and lifts my chin with a
gentle hand. "Are you okay, Scully?" he asks. His voice is so soft, so
concerned, and that look... he probably perfected that look on his mother
at the age of two. It is searching and remorseful and wants so very much to
make amends. I can't stand it. I never could. It makes me want to take him
in my arms and tell him it's all right, everything is going to be all
right.  I grip my glass in both hands so tightly that my knuckles whiten,
to prevent myself from throwing my arms around him and begging him to tell
me that it's not true, that Diana Fowley really hasn't reclaimed his heart.

I realize he is waiting for me to reply to his question. There is only one
answer, the only answer I can ever give him, because I have to protect
myself, to deflect his discovery of the truth. "I'm fine," I whisper, still
unable to meet his eyes.

Mulder is still staring at me. "No... no, you're not." He takes his hand
away and swings up to sit beside me on the couch. We sit quietly for a
moment, neither one willing to be the one to broach the topic that we must
discuss if we are to continue working together. On the stereo the music has
changed to the anquished guitar playing of Robert Johnson and an entire
lifetime of his pain pours out of the speakers.

Finally Mulder cannot bear it and clears his throat. "Got the blues,
Scully?" he asks, trying to make his voice light and teasing.

I look into the amber depths of my glass, consider any number of bantering
replies. No point to any of them. "Yes. I do."

He chews the inside of his cheek, at a loss to respond. "Are you mad at
me?" he asks, his voice oddly high, like a small boy's.

I sigh and lean forward to put my glass on the coffee table. Suddenly I
don't want the scotch any longer, the sharp peat taste too unpleasant to
finish drinking. "I was," I finally allow. "I'm not anymore. I'm just...
tired. That's all. I'm tired."

I can feel his eyes on me but still I can't return his gaze. "Of me?" he asks.

The anger flares up, white-hot and intense, a lava explosion. "Goddammit,
Mulder," I hiss, unable to stop myself from the hurting outburst. "What the
hell do you think? You are such an asshole!"

He winces and his entire body tenses, as if I had smacked him across the
face. And immediately I am sorry for my harsh words, for letting him get
under my skin. Still... I was so angry and hurt. Perhaps it won't kill him
to let him know that. But the apology bubbles to my mouth anyway, years of
ingrained politeness at the hands of Margaret Scully taking control.
"Sorry.  I shouldn't call you names." I take a deep breath and raise my
eyes to his.

They are that fathomless beautiful hazel that I must confess I love so
well, and now they are hurting. "It's okay. I deserve it," he says. Mulder
takes a deep breath. "You were right, Scully. About everything."

This is something new. I stare at him, dumbfounded. "What do you mean?"

"Diana's gone. Her apartment is cleaned out, her phone disconnected." He
mumbles the words and slumps inside his jacket, defeated and broken. "She
went to the air base, I know she did. But she wasn't there, she wasn't one
of the ones who -- who were burned. She's disappeared."  He manages a
lopsided smile, painful in its earnest remorse. "There's one other who is
conspicuous by his absence. I think you know who I mean. He was at her
apartment the other night. He was -- familiar there. I think she works for
him."

There's nothing I can say to stem the tide of his hurt, so I don't say
anything. I can only let him know with my eyes that I empathize with his
pain. But he also needs to know that I was hurt by his refusal to see the
obvious -- that Diana Fowley was playing him for a fool, and playing with
his heart. I'm torn at this moment -- I'm burning to know about his past
with her, and at the same time, I don't want to know.

Mulder can read my mind, though, and he licks his lips, steadying himself
for the confession to follow. "I need to tell you about her," he whispers.

I find that I am not ready for this. "Mulder, you don't need to tell me
anything."

"But I want to explain --"

I put out my hand to stop him, my palm resting against his knee. "No. You
don't have to. I think I know."

He looks at me, confused. "What do you mean?"

I shrug in studied nonchalance, concealing from him just how great a price
I am paying for my seeming indifference. "If that had been me, you would
have done the same. Defended and trusted me."

Mulder does not understand. Neither do I. "I'm -- what are you saying, Scully?"

I manage a very anemic smile, but suddenly I do understand. "It's because
you want to believe. You believe even in the face of overwhelming and
damning evidence against someone. It's just in your nature."

He looks suspicious and relieved, all at the same time. "So you're saying
that I can't help but be an asshole?" He picks up my hand from his knee,
turns it over in his own to look at my palm. With one finger he traces a
line across the crease around my thumb -- my lifeline.

It takes the last vestiges of my control not to betray the delicious shiver
that wracks through my body. "Basically," I reply, wondering why it is that
my voice has dropped into a very husky register. Why is that we are so
volatile, so changeable when we are together? We can go from arguing over
the minutest of details and hating each other to being more intimate than
most lovers are. We can explode and be bored and stressed and stupid and
angry together, quite often in the space of minutes. It's crazy. It's
wonderful. I will not question it ever again.

"Scully," he says softly, his voice so warm and gentle that I could float
away, "I'm sorry if I upset you, I'm sorry for not -- for being stubborn
and obstructionist and uncommunicative. I'm sorry that I doubted you, and
I'm sorry that I made you think for even one minute I would put Diana
before you. Because I won't. Not ever." His eyes reveal nothing but the
purest truth and God help me, I believe him. Like I always do.  "Okay?" he
asks, waiting for me to forgive him.

I nod, very nearly undone. "Okay," I whisper back, not trusting myself to
say more.

Mulder brings my palm to his mouth and presses the darkest and warmest kiss
that I have ever received into the center of my hand. I want to close my
eyes in ecstasy but dare not, for he is looking straight at me with the
most intense look I have ever seen. It says that he loves me and wants more
than anything to be with me, and I am lost. I want to give in right there,
to lie back on my sofa and open my heart and body to him, right at this
instant, and the FBI and Diana Fowley and everything that else that stands
between us can just blow away and disappear forever. I don't care about
anything else at this point. I want nothing more than this. In my entire
life, he is everything that I have ever wanted... and more.

And yet... not tonight.  Not now. Instead I gently pull my hand away, but
not without first curving my palm against his face. He understands. He
smiles at me.

Suddenly I am so tired that I want to curl up into a little ball on the
sofa and pass out, and Mulder sees the exhaustion on my face. "Gotta go,"
he says, and I can see his reluctance even as he stands and smiles down at
me.

I decide that I will curl up on the sofa and lie back into the cushions,
closing my eyes. "Lock the door behind you, would you?" I say, pretending
to be dismissive.

He chuckles softly and bends down, pressing a light kiss on my forehead.
"Sure, fine, kick me out." He straightens and turns to go. "See you
tomorrow?" His question is hopeful and imparts much more meaning in it than
the casual words belie.

I open my eyes to look up at him and allow myself the maudlin realization
that his presence is so dear to me and vital to my life. I love this man.
Soon I will let him know just how much. "Try and stop me," I tell him.

The turning of Mulder's key in the lock comes back to me as I drift off to
sleep. Tomorrow I will have more than enough time to think about what our
next step is going to be.



THE END

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Terri Monture
"X-Files worshippin', bike ridin', beer drinkin', music listenin',latte
lovin', bread makin',tattooed nose-pierced urban Mohawk ultramom... slaving
over a hot computer."
-- Proud member of The Cult of The Smoking Alien:
RESIST OR SERVE at http://home.istar.ca/~gea/index.html
"...what good is it to be the lime burner's daughter/left with no trace/as
if not spoken to in the act of love/as if wounded without the pleasure of a
scar" -- The Cinnamon Peeler, Michael Ondaatje