From: loislane Date: 1999/01/31 Subject: NEW: Almost 1/1 TITLE: Almost 1/1 started 1/31/99 finished 1/31/99 AUTHOR: Laine RATING: Strong R for language...lots and lots of language EMAIL: loislane@bright.net DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Sure, go ahead. But I would love to know where so I can visit, OK? SPOILER WARNING: Assumes US Season 6 and especially heavy Tithonus spoilers. CONTENT WARNING: Mulderangst, MS UST leaning heavily to the shippy side - no romos warning: Here be monsters...run away now. CLASSIFICATION: V, MS/UST, A SUMMARY: I guess this is kind of a post Tithonus story, but it takes place after Scully returns to work. It's a Mulderangst peice, what can I say? All the other kids were doing it! DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully don't belong to me (DUH) If they did, there would be no need for relationshippy fanfic. I'm only borrowing them, I promise. COMMENTS: This is, as always, and most especially, for my eviltwin, Lana, who gets to sleep with Mulder every night. But, you'll have to ask *her* about that. It's also dedicated to anyone who sends good feedback. FEEDBACK: yes, please - I write back! loislane@bright.net Constructive criticism is always appreciated, but flames serve no purpose other than to light my cigs. Almost 1/1 For once, it was through no fault of my own, but she had almost died. The thought just keeps slicing through my brain with laser-like precision, working its way down to my gut and boiling my insides like acid. I meant it when I told that fucking prick he was a lucky man. If Scully had died, my humanity would have followed. And then I would have personally issued *Peyton* a one-way ticket straight to the depths of hell, complete with a lengthy layover in hell-on-Earth. For once, my ability to remember everything with complete clarity would have ceased to be a curse, and I know without hesitation I would have called up every horrid detail of every sick fuck whose brain I've ever crawled inside for VCU, and I would have seen their more tortuous expertise revisited on his sorry hide. And when that was done, I would not have taken my own life, as many perpetrators of crimes of passion or revenge are wont to do. Not me. I would have allowed my life to continue in whatever dark cell they put me in to await my own death, each day reliving the moment her life slipped away, as the only fitting punishment I could muster for not being there for her. What? Did you think I wouldn't find a way to pin some sort of responsibility on myself? On the contrary, I take responsibility willingly on my shoulders. Of all the times I've chosen to say "fuck you" to my superiors and do whatever the hell I wanted, I pick this time to stay behind, rather than giving into my impulse to run to her side the minute she admitted the case was an X-File. And still, the knife keeps twisting. And the really interesting thing is, I've made a little discovery through all this. I'm more of a selfish bastard than I originally thought. And for Fox Mulder, that's saying something. Because here she sits, restored to full health once more, making her background checks and still looking a little thinner than usual because she's still working her way back to regular food, and all I can think of is how goddamn beautiful she is, and how much I want to tell her that. Like her life needs me to fuck it up a little more. Oh yeah, that'll help. Hey, Scully, I know I've pretty much taken over your life, so what do you say I just take over your bed, too? One left hook, coming up. So here *I* sit, chewing on my third Rolaid in less than an hour, glancing furtively in her direction every five minutes, just to reassure my own battered psyche that she's here, she's alive and she's Scully. Damnit. I stare blankly at the computer screen, knowing if I don't pick up the phone pretty soon and call Mr. John Q. Normal's former employer to make sure he's not the next Ted Bundy that Scully's going to start fussing over me. "Mulder?" Shit. Too late. I swivel in my chair and shoulder the intensity of those incredible blue eyes, scrambling for an air of nonchalance and coming out looking more like a whipped puppy, I'm sure. I can tell how pathetic I look from the way her brow furrows just enough to put a crease in the creamy skin on her forehead. Jesus, I'm obsessed. "Yeah?" I answer, wondering if I could possibly sound more pathetic in just one syllable. Apparently, pathetic is good, because I literally can hear the wind going out of the sails of her initial attack plan. Rather than demand to know why I'm pissing the day away doing pretty much nothing but staring at her every few minutes or so, her whole face takes on that soft look she gets when she's ready to play nursemaid to my damaged soul. God, or whoever, I love this woman. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I don't deserve her. Her small hand throws something akin to an electrical charge into my shoulder when she lays it there, and I have to fight not to jump. She flicks her eyes over me, undoubtedly gauging what the hell is wrong with me this time, and does that almost smile thing that makes me think of poetry. I am truly gone. "What do you say we cut out a little early?" she says, and I want to double over in relief. She's giving me an out, giving me time to go home and regroup and get over whatever it is her whacked-out partner is struggling with today. And maybe I can. Maybe I can go home, go for a run, and sort this shit out. OK, maybe not. I can't stop myself from asking, just to make sure. "Are you feeling all right, Scully?" She does the almost smile thing again, and her eyes go all soft, like she loves me for asking but she'll kill me if I keep it up. "Mulder, I'm fine. Are you?" Guilt shoves its steel fist into my gut at her words. *She* is the one who fought death, pain and recovery to climb back into this farce of a job and she wants to know if I'm OK. I reaffirm my earlier theory. I don't deserve her. I want to wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair, but of course, I don't. I'm afraid if I give into that urge, I might be so overcome I'd crush her. "Sure," I answer her, unable to stop my voice from dropping to a dangerously intimate level as I stand and touch her arm. I come as close to gazing at her as I'd ever let myself and inject as much meaning into my next words as I can muster. "Why wouldn't I be?" You're here. You're alive. How could I not be OK, my eyes ask her, and I know she reads me, loud and clear. As worked up as I can get at times, I know deep down, that for whatever reason, Scully loves me. She tells me every day. And I try, I try so goddamned hard to tell her back. Of course, nothing short of Demorol could drag the actual words out me, but, that's the way we are. "No reason," she says, letting me slide again. "I just figured the Lincoln Memorial could do without a janitor for another day. These background checks aren't going anywhere." Without another word, she makes her way to the door and pauses briefly until I follow. She doesn't even turn around, just somehow knows I've started moving, before she continues on her present course. A couple of the agents in the bullpen who have been watching us exchange a knowing glance, something to the efect of "See. It's spooky, the way they are." I give one of them my best "fuck off" glare and push through the door without giving them another thought. My long legs catch her easily, and we are in the elevator quickly enough to have slipped out without attracting much attention. I'm watching her again, and she knows it. I sometimes wonder if she can feel my eyes like I feel hers. Every time they touch me it's like a physical caress, and my skin, and other areas, react as though she were running her soft, strong hands over me, instead of just her eyes. Christ, I don't even know why she puts up with my sorry ass. And it is sorry, believe me, no matter how appreciatively the secretarial pool watches it as it passes their desks. That's part of the reason I didn't go to New York when she agreed that the case was an X-File. I was trying to squelch my selfishness for once...letting her see how successful she could be without SpookingfuckingMulder tying her down. I nearly wince as the knife slides in once more, and I feel her eyes again, caressing me, calming me, soothing over my brow. Her touch, so feather light. Shit. It is her hand. She's touching me, and I was so wrapped up in my self loathing I nearly missed the chance to catalog it. I turn and face her, knowing the guilt radiating from me must nearly be a palpable entity in the cold, impersonal cage carrying us to the parking garage. The almost surreal blue of her eyes traps me with their weight, and she looks into my soul. I didn't mean it Scully, Jesus, I'm sorry, so sorry I wasn't there for you. Her eyes cloud up so on cue that I wonder briefly if I spoke the words aloud. Fuck. Now she's going to go ahead and cry and I did this to her. But, my strong, independent Scully resolutely refuses to let those tears spill over. She just keeps looking at me, and my heart starts falling in time with the elevator's descent. "Mulder." My name is a soft sigh on her lips. That one word holds so much in it. Restitution. Resolution. Acceptance. Love. I have no idea why. It's one inexplicable phenomenon I don't want to seek out the answers to - I just want to accept it. I just want to believe. In her. In us. In what we can do together. "How can you blame yourself for this, Mulder? You weren't even there." She meant to comfort me with those words, and instead she ripped open the wound. Oh, Scully. I should have been. I want to crumple and cry like a baby, just sob into her shirt like the sorry sonofabitch that I am.But I don't. I'm a master at self-inflicted punishment through denial, and right now, crying on Scully's strong shoulders would make me feel better. I don't deserve to feel better. I can't even speak when she looks at me this way. It's all I can do to breathe. And once again, Scully senses my needs without my giving them voice. She places her silky, cool hands on either side of my face and pulls my head down until her lips touch my forehead. And don't even think her actions don't remind me of the last time she did that. Her lips feel so sweet and warm on my skin that I concentrate all my energy in memorizing their texture against me. Satin. It's the only word I can think of that comes close, and at the moment, I'm fucking amazed I can even think at all. She pulls away, and I feel her lips leaving my skin millimeter by millimeter. It's like I'm having an appendage ripped away. Don't do that Scully, don't pull away. I need it. I want to groan with the injustice of it, and she's still moving back, taking away my life's breath with every bit of air she puts between her lips and my forehead. And before I know what I'm doing, I'm crushing her against me, holding on so tight I know I'm bound to be hurting her but I can't help it. I can't stop myself from reveling in the feel of her warm heart beating against me. It's happened before, but those were the times I was there, where I should be. Those were times when no matter how little hope was left, I was comfortable in the knowledge that I could fix this, I was in control in as much as I was there for her. I Was There. I hear her breathing, in and out, in a steady rhythm, reaffirming her life, reassuring me of her presence, and I want to cry out in relief. But I don't. I just hold her, and wish like hell the elevator would stay suspended right here forever. I so rarely get what I want that it's absolutely no surprise when the elevator stops and we pull apart so quickly my heart stops with it. The doors open, and too soon we are at her car, and she is unlocking it and still hasn't looked at me. Shit. I upset her. She should be angry, but instead she's finally looking up at me with a smile in her eyes. Instead of berating me for being the idiot that I am, instead of insisting that I should be worried when the time for worrying is appropriate, she just stands there behind her open car door wearing an expression of complete understanding. Well, she should be used to my bad timing by now, I guess. And all I can do is stare at her with my heart in my eyes, hating the fact that I have to let her out of my sight for even a minute, let alone the rest of the day and through the night. Maybe she'll just let me move in, just sleep on her couch...left hook number two, coming up. "You know Mulder, War of the Worlds is on tonight..." she lets her voice trail of meaningfully and I want to grab her and kiss her right there in the parking lot and then run up to the security office to see if they'll let me have a copy of the tape. I'm sure my gratitude is making me look all of 13, but I don't give a fuck right now. The opportunity to spend more time in the presence of my Scully has presented itself, and I'll be damned if I'm going to pass it up, no matter how pathetic I look. "You want me to pick anything up? Um, bring you anything?" Real smooth, Porky Pig. Can you stuh-sta-stuh-sta-stutter a little more? I'm so suave. Hey Scully, how many condoms should I bring? None? What's that? Go to hell? Sure thing, Scully. My self-flagellation is cut short again by my only saving grace in this world. "No...Just bring yourself." And then she turns a bonafide, full thousand watt Scully smile at me, and I'm sunk. I can't even think of a reason to beat myself up right now, not in the light of that smile. I'm so stunned I just blink and smile goofily back at her. My smile doesn't fade a bit as I watch her drive off and I don't really even remember making my way over to my car. But here I sit, staring at the dashboard like a love-sick moron, waiting for my hands to stop shaking before I risk moving out into traffic. I glance down at the clock and realize she didn't tell me what time to come over. Granted, I could check the listings in the paper and find out what time the movie starts. But, that would be too easy. Scully, my beautiful, perfect, understanding Scully, is going to let me spend as much, or as little, time with her as I want. And my smile grows impossibly bigger just before it starts to fade. I can't help but marvel at the depth of her generosity and understanding where I am concerned. And I can't help but be so fucking grateful for her love that it hurts. Yeah, she did. Almost. But, she didn't. And she's still here, and alive, and for whatever reason, the root of which I am positive I will never, ever understand, she loves me. I know this. I don't know the why of it, or the how of it. I just know the truth of it. She's here, she's alive and she's waiting for me. The truth is in an apartment in Georgetown, and all I have to do is go grab onto it, in whatever way she'll let me.