TITLE:  Forever Etched 
AUTHOR:  Brandon D. Ray & Brynna 
SPOILER STATEMENT:  Never Again 
RATING:  PG-13 
CONTENT STATEMENT:  MulderAngst.  ScullyAngst.  M/S RST, but we wouldn't really 
call it MSR.  A few bad words, including the "f" word.  Allusions to sex. 
CLASSIFICATION:  VA 
SUMMARY:   Post-ep for Never Again.  Mulder & Scully try to put the pieces back 
together in the aftermath of the episode. 
THANKS:  To Robbie, for the uberbeta! 
  
  
Forever Etched 
by Brandon D. Ray & Brynna 
  
"Why'd you do it Scully?" 
I turn my head slightly to look at Mulder, who's hovering, his face centered 
just over my lower back. "The tattoo?" This was not exactly the conversation I 
expected to have now, cutting off any good after-glow basking. 
He nods his head once, and settles his cheek against the center of my spine. The 
tip of his index finger traces the outline of the snake on my lower back, 
touching every detail, then starting over again. "Yeah. Why did you get it?" 
Hmm. Why did I? There's a question I haven't wanted to explore. I must be silent 
for too long, because the next thing I feel is that same finger poking me, in 
the center of the circle forever etched into my skin.  Licking my lips, I start 
to roll over; if we're going to have this discussion, I want to see his face. He 
stops me, and holds me firmly to the mattress. "No," he murmurs, pressing his 
weight more firmly against my back. "Just talk to me. You don't have to see me 
to talk to me." 
Sighing, I nod - he's right. In fact, it's probably easier if I don't.  Laying 
my head back on my pillow, I suck in a deep breath. "I'm not as sure on my 
reasoning as I should be," I begin, deciding on the honesty route. He deserves 
that, after what I'd said to him in the office last night. Telling him not 
everything was about him - what a load of shit.  Just about everything I do 
lately is, in fact, one hundred percent about Mulder. And I know how much I hurt 
him. That much was intentional. I'm not positive of the reasoning, but I did it 
with my eyes wide open. 
Just as I walked into tonight with my eyes open. Letting him into my apartment 
was hard. I knew he'd come to finish the conversation we'd aborted. But I didn't 
let him. I told him I didn't want to hear it, whatever he had to say. He mumbled 
something about not actually needing to talk. And he kissed me. From there to 
the end result is a little fuzzy; maybe I'll have him clear it up for me later. 
If he remembers. 
His finger taps me a few times; I haven't finished what I was saying. "Part of 
it, I think, was because of you." 
I can feel him tense, as those words sink in. "Because of me?" he repeats, 
turning his head and brushing the tip of his nose along my spine, his body 
slowly relaxing again. "Explain," he demands softly. 
"I was mad at you. Shit, I still am, Mulder." The pressure of his finger 
increases slightly, as he continues to trace the tattoo, over and over, as if 
trying to erase it from my flesh. "Sex isn't the be all and end all for me, I'm 
afraid. I am still mad. But . . . not as much. And Mulder, I was drunk." 
"Why don't you ever get that kind of drunk with me?" he questions idly. "And 
that's not a good excuse." 
I have to chuckle. "I didn't say it was good," I reply, reaching a hand back to 
touch his hair. "It's just . . . what happened. And how it happened. Ed was a 
smooth talker, I was too drunk to think straight, and you weren't there." That's 
what pissed me off. He wasn't there. He should have been there, by my side, and 
he wasn't. 
I'd told Ed, and even myself at the time, that it was rebellion - that I'd 
wanted to break away from being a 'good girl.' What a joke. It was a rebellion, 
of sorts - but one against the man who's currently half-sprawled on top of me. 
His finger leaves the pattern for a moment to trace down the cheek of my ass, 
down my thigh, stopping at the back of my knee. "So, you're saying-"  He traces 
his way back up, and resumes tracing the snake again. "That if I'd been there, 
this wouldn't have happened?" I nod. "Makes sense. Are you then blaming me for 
your stupid decision?" 
My eyes open. Fast. I bite back the instant, angry retort, the 'no Mulder, I'd 
only do that if it =was= one, and god knows, you make enough you obviously don't 
actually know what stupid looks like.' Sucking in a slow, steadying breath, I 
let my eyes shut again. "No," I answer finally. "I'm simply answering your 
question, to the best of my ability. And it would not have happened if you had 
come with me, instead of going to Graceland. That's a simple fact." 
The tracing continues, with the edge of his fingernail this time. The touch 
causes me to shiver slightly, and I can feel him smile against my back. "So . . 
. why not?" 
"Because you don't =let= me be that stupid," I bite out, becoming increasingly 
more upset with every exchange. "You pretty much make sure that if one of us 
gets to wear the 'stupid' hat, it's you." Rather suddenly I'm feeling as if this 
entire night was a mistake, yet I can't bring myself to force him off me, and 
cover up, and I certainly can't kick him out of my bed. Not now. I've wanted him 
here for too long. 
"Did you fuck him?" The pressure of his nail increases, almost to the point of 
pain, but not quite. He stops just short of that. 
My head shakes instantly. "No," I whisper. Taking a breath, I quell my anger 
once again. "And do you honestly think that I care so little about you that if I 
had, I would have allowed what happened tonight to happen? 
His cheek presses more firmly into my back, and he's silent for a full minute. 
His head shakes, but the movement is so slow, deliberate, that it almost feels 
as though he's simply caressing my skin with his. "Did you want to?" 
And I don't stop myself from nodding. "Yes." And I gasp slightly as his 
fingernail finally crosses that line of pain. "But I didn't want him; I wanted 
to hurt you," I finish, and almost instantly, his touch becomes the same light 
brushing that it started out as. "So, we've established that I was stupid, that 
I was reacting mostly out of anger, and that it hurt both of us. You want to 
fill in the blanks on your end?" 
His lips press against my back for a moment. "I'm upset. I'm hurt; that you feel 
that had to hurt me. I'm confused as to why you felt you had to hurt me." He 
sighs, and slides his other arm under my stomach, pulling me closer, as if 
against the chance I might try to leave. 
"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper. His arm tightens. 
After a moment, he continues as if I hadn't spoken. "I feel betrayed, by your 
actions, by your thoughts -" he lays his entire palm over the tattoo.  "By this. 
I don't accept it. It's your body; you're allowed to do anything you want to it. 
But damn it, you're not allowed to use it against me." 
Tears begin to form behind my eyes, and I swallow them back. "I guess I didn't 
think that I was. Part of it was Ed. He was a smooth talker Mulder - and the 
idea of a tattoo intrigued me. I don't want to sound like I'm blaming him; I did 
this on my own. And I'm not entirely proud of it." My fingers curl tightly 
around the edge of the pillow under my head, as I try to think of how to explain 
this, when I don't fully understand it myself.  "The line between pleasure and 
pain is very thin. I should know, I straddle it every day I spend with you. And 
that night, I needed to cross it. One way or the other. And as much as fucking 
him would have let it be pleasure, and it would have been striking back against 
you, against every woman you fuck, or almost fuck, against your porn, and your 
damned innuendo - it wasn't what I wanted as an end result. It wasn't . . . what 
would have helped me." 
"And so an ink-filled needle worked better?" he asks, genuine confusion in his 
tone. 
"In it's simplest form, yes. No matter what happens between us, from here on in 
- I can look at this tattoo, and remember that even when things seem to be 
unfixable between us, they aren't. I know it doesn't make sense, but . . . I've 
got a permanent reminder that we can survive." Finally gathering up the strength 
to move his weight from my body, I turn over, and lay a hand on his cheek. "It's 
not for you to understand, or to permit. Or even to like. It's just for you to 
accept." 
I watch his eyes shut, as he leans into my touch just enough for me to catch.  
He's struggling with his thoughts; I can tell.  I have no idea what conclusion 
he will reach -- and that uncertainty is abruptly terrifying.  Have I hurt him 
that much?  Finally, his eyes open again. 
"I don't know if I can do that, Scully," he says soberly.  "I want to; you have 
to believe me.  But I can't let you have this all on your own terms."  He 
hesitates, and my heart stops beating as he once again considers his own words.  
Finally:  "But I can accept you.  That much I *can* promise." 
I sigh, and nod, and I resist the urge to hug him to me.  And I say, "I guess 
that will have to be good enough." 
#          #          # 
And now she's asleep. 
I suppose I should feel flattered.  I mean, what greater compliment can a woman 
give, than to be the first one to fall asleep after sex?  It means I didn't just 
satisfy her -- I wore her out.  I exhausted her.  My ego should be doing 
handsprings along about now. 
But it's not. 
Because of course I *didn't* wear her out.  The fact of the matter is that she 
was exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster ride she's been on the past few 
days -- including my own no-doubt-unexpected appearance on her doorstep a couple 
of hours ago. 
And I'm sure it *was* unexpected.  Dana Scully is the undisputed world champion 
compartmentalizer, and I am *positive* that it never once entered her head that 
I might show up tonight.  She made it abundantly clear in our office that she 
just wanted to put it all in a box and shove it to the back of the highest shelf 
in the closet, and never think about it again.  She plainly expected me to 
follow this script, and I could see from the brief flicker of shocked dismay on 
her face when she opened her door earlier this evening that she wasn't sure what 
to do with me when I didn't. 
Well, surprise.  Not everything is about her. 
Of course, she still doesn't really understand what my needs are.  When I first 
arrived this evening she wouldn't let me talk about it, and even just now, when 
I tried to force the issue, she managed to deflect the discussion just enough so 
that I couldn't get said the things I really wanted to say. 
The things I really *needed* to say. 
Take Jerse.  Despite the fact that I asked her, I don't really give a damn 
whether she slept with him or not.  No -- that's not really true.  I *do* care 
about that -- I care about it a lot.  And in the bleak honesty of this moment, I 
have to admit that one reason I came over here tonight was to erase whatever 
mark that son of a bitch may have left on the woman who I have long since come 
to think of as my territory. 
But no matter what they may have done that night in Philadelphia -- and despite 
my partner's somewhat glib assurances, I'm still not sure I've heard the truth 
-- that really isn't the big issue, at least to me.  As much as it makes me sick 
to my stomach to imagine Scully in the arms of another man -- especially a 
sleazeball like Jerse -- that isn't what really matters. 
What really matters are the lies. 
Yeah, the lies.  Not everything is about me?  Well, at least she's acknowledged 
that one, albeit it took her long enough to get around to it.  But that doesn't 
make it hurt any less -- the fact that she was able to sit there in our office 
-- not *my* office, *our* office -- and calmly say that to me, as if it were the 
most true and obvious thing in the world.  And even tonight, when she finally 
admitted her duplicity, she simply dumped it into the conversation in an offhand 
way, as if it were something of no real importance. 
Maybe to her it isn't. 
No, I can't really believe that.  No matter how hurt and angry and bitter I may 
be feeling at the moment, I know that Dana Scully values honesty above almost 
all other virtues.  If I know anything about this woman at all, I know that the 
lies she's told this week have been eating at her and wearing her down, whether 
she's consciously aware of it or not.  That's almost certainly why she fell 
asleep so quickly and easily after our little talk -- because it's so 
emotionally taxing right now for her to be around me. 
Or to be around herself. 
I turn restlessly in bed, so that now I'm lying on my side, facing her.  She has 
her back to me again, of course, which is yet more proof -- if any is needed -- 
that she's not coping with this at all well.  For just a brief instant I'm 
tempted to reach out and wrap my arms around her, as I did when we were talking 
a little while ago -- but then I think better of it.  She wouldn't take it as an 
offer of comfort -- not tonight.  Tonight, given all the things we've both said, 
I'm sure she would see it as a further effort to control her. 
And maybe she would even be right. 
And now that I've inventoried her shortcomings, I'm also forced to admit that I 
haven't exactly covered myself in glory this week, either. 
The whole miserable business came about in the first place because of my own 
self-absorption, I remind myself.  Hell, let's call a spade a spade -- I was 
selfish and dishonest.  I told Scully that Skinner was forcing me to take a 
vacation, but we both knew that was a lie.  Under the regs, federal employees 
cannot be forced to use vacation time.  The most Skinner could have done was to 
require me to go on desk duty for awhile -- or if he really wanted to press the 
issue, he could have ordered a fitness for duty exam, and possibly put me on 
mandatory sick leave. 
Much of what I told her was bullshit, and we both knew it even as I was uttering 
the words.  The fact of the matter is that when Skinner strongly *suggested* 
that I take a few days off, I leapt at the chance.  Scully had been acting 
strange and restless for the last few days, but whenever I tried to talk to her 
about it she'd brushed me off, and I was getting pretty fed up.  Better to put 
some distance between us, I thought, and give her a chance to cool down and deal 
with whatever was bothering her. 
Big mistake. 
Another big mistake was when I refused even to tell her where I was going or how 
long I'd be gone.  I should have recognized her inquiry for what it was -- an 
attempt to reach out, and reestablish contact. 
But I didn't.  She'd been pushing me away all week, and when she suddenly turned 
around and tried to grab on, instead of offering the support she clearly wanted 
I pushed *her* away.  Turnabout's fair play, after all.  I remember thinking 
those very words, and feeling a little smug about having given her a dose of her 
own medicine. 
I am such a shit, sometimes. 
And so I went off to Graceland and had a miserable time, and she went off to 
Philadelphia and had an even more miserable time, apparently.  The end result of 
all this misery is that now we're lying in bed together.  I suppose I should be 
happy about that; god knows I've been wanting this for a long time.  But the 
circumstances are far from ideal -- in fact, I'm not sure this has actually been 
a good thing.  By coming over here and not-quite-forcing myself on Scully, I may 
in the long run have made things a whole lot worse. 
Scully stirs slightly in her sleep, and the covers slip down a little farther.  
I let my gaze drift down her back, and finally, reluctantly, my eyes fall once 
again on the tattoo. 
God, I hate that fucking thing.  Scully said a little while ago that she thinks 
of it as a symbol of our ability to survive, but I'm not at all sure she's 
right.  To me it's ugly and garish, and stands for everything that's wrong 
between the two of us.  It represents all the pain we've inflicted on each 
other, and I quite frankly don't need the reminder. 
Earlier, when we were talking, I kept running my fingers over it, trying to come 
to terms with its existence, but it just wasn't working. 
But I couldn't just stop; no, that would have been too easy.  Instead I had to 
test the boundaries, and see if she really meant what she said, about the line 
between pain and pleasure being a thin one for her.  From the reaction I got 
when I dug my nail into her flesh, I guess I got my answer -- as if the events 
in Philadelphia weren't enough to prove it to me already. 
So at least that much of what Scully said is true.  I've verified it, god help 
me.  And there's one other thing she said which is also absolutely true:  the 
tattoo exists.  It's real.  It's going to serve as a constant reminder to me of 
just how precarious my relationship with my partner is, and I'm just going to 
have to deal with that.  I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to adjust to 
these realities, although I promised Scully that I'd try. 
But trying is not the same thing as succeeding, and I can't help but feel that 
by insisting that the tattoo is a positive thing, Scully has put one more brick 
on the wall we've built between us.  Maybe it's positive for her -- but not for 
me.  And I don't think she really understands that. 
I also can't help feeling that this relationship is going to get much, much 
worse before it has a chance to get better. 
  
  
Fini