Subtext 01: Breaking the Ice

by Brandon D. Ray

Dear God, what have I done?

I'm sitting here curled in a ball on my living room sofa, not moving, barely breathing. I've wrapped a blanket around myself against the chill November air that's seeping in around the cracks of my living room window, but still I feel cold, so cold. I don't know if I'll ever be warm again. Not after the trip to Icy Cape.

And not after what I've just done.

I close my eyes and rock gently back and forth. How could I have been so stupid? How *could* I have been so stupid? How could I
have fucked my partner?

God.

It seemed so natural at the time; so obvious; so easy. We finally got back to Washington late last night, after that godawful case in
Alaska. We arrived quite late, and since Mulder had given me a lift home from the airport it seemed only natural to invite him in for a few minutes to have a cup of decaf and unwind. We were just two work partners spending a few minutes decompressing before going off to bed. Alone. In our own respective apartments.

It was natural. Obvious. Easy.

Easy.

Oh, yeah. Easy.

The rest of it seemed natural, obvious and easy, too: All it took was his hand resting lightly on my shoulder as he reached over my head to retrieve the sugar bowl from its place on the shelf -- and the next thing I knew I was wrapped around him and he was as deep inside me as it is possible for a man to be -- physically, at any rate. And thank God I still had a few condoms left over from when I was seeing Ethan, because I don't think I would have let it stop me if I hadn't.

I'd like to believe this was simply brought on by the stress of the case we just completed. I'm still relatively new to fieldwork, after all, and although I knew going into my assignment with Fox Mulder and the X-Files that I'd have to make some adjustments, that doesn't change the fact that it really has been more frightening and disturbing than I'd been expecting. So I'd like to blame what happened tonight on the stress I've been under: Something snapped, and before I could stop myself I'd blindly reached out to the nearest available comfort object, and it just happened to be my partner.

Yeah, right.

The attraction has been there from the start, though, and there's no use in trying to deny it, at least to myself. From the moment I first
walked into that stuffy little basement office I've been drawn to this man, and I'm at a complete loss to understand why -- and God forbid I should have to explain it to someone. He's nothing like any of the other men who have been in my life before, and he's certainly not someone I would want to bring home to meet my father. Ahab would shit a brick.

And let's just not go there, shall we? I'm not going to take Mulder home to meet my parents, because this is not going to be a
Relationship with a capital "R" -- this is going to be a one night stand, a single lapse in judgment which will not be repeated. I've never had a one night stand before, and so I can just add this to my collection of odd experiences and move on. Tomorrow -- later today -- we'll walk into that aforementioned basement office and continue to build the professional relationship we've been working on, and everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

Really.

Except that I keep having these flashbacks. I keep remembering how I felt when I had to draw my gun on him. God, I was scared. I was so scared. I didn't know what to think, I didn't know what was going on, and the one person in that miserable little outpost at the edge of the world who I thought I could trust -- suddenly I wasn't sure I could trust him. I was totally and completely alone for the first time in my life, hundreds of miles from other people, hundreds of miles from anyplace warm, hundreds of miles from any possible source of help or support. And the look on his face ...

No. I am not going to think about that. I am not going to *remember* that. It happened, and it's over, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with anything else. There was nothing personal there; it was all professional -- just as it was all professional when I walked back into that storage compartment a short while later and persuaded him to let me check him for infection. I *had* to do that; he's my partner and we're supposed to back each other up. I couldn't just leave him there, no matter what Hodge said.

It wasn't personal. It just wasn't.

It can't be.

God. I wish Mulder would wake up and go home, so I could go to bed. I realized as I was lying there next to him, before I'd even
completely caught my breath, that I could not allow myself to fall asleep with him. Sex is one thing, but sleeping with someone -- that's different. That's a greater level of intimacy, and it is not something I'm willing to share with this man. Not now, and not ever.

Better yet, I wish he could somehow be teleported out of my bed and into his own, wherever the hell that is. That way he wouldn't have to rummage around in my bedroom to find his clothes, he wouldn't have to use my bathroom, I wouldn't have to offer him a cup of coffee for the road -- that *is* how we got into this mess in the first place, after all -- and most importantly I wouldn't have to face him while I'm sitting here huddled on my living room sofa wrapped in a blanket and with not a stitch on.

So how about it, Agent Mulder? Can you get your mind around this particular extreme possibility? If I close my eyes and wish hard
enough, like the audience in "Peter Pan" trying to believe in fairies, will you disappear from my bed? Will I wake up in the morning
serene in the knowledge that tonight didn't happen -- or at least that we can act as if it didn't?

Because that's the way it's got to be. That's the way it's *got* to be.

Dear God, what have I done?

Fini

Author: Trixie

Distribution Statement: Anywhere, so long as my name & email stay
attached.

Spoiler: Ice (though if you haven't seen THAT by now . . . )

Rating: PG oughta do for a few naughty words & thougths . . . it's all *implied* people . . .

Category: VA

Summary: Post-ep for "Ice"

~~~~

Subtext 01: Shattered Ice

~~~~

What did I just do?

Well, I suppose I didn't =just= do it. I've had a few moments to rest. The point is, unlike the two other one-night stand's I've had in my life, this one might possibly be the stupidest thing I've ever done. Stupider than the drunken encounter I had in college, where I forgot to put on a condom. Stupider than the woman I picked up in a bar shortly after Diana left me.

I just had sex with my partner. And she's not just any partner. She's the only partner I've ever been able to put up with for longer than a few weeks. She's the partner I originally believed was sent to spy on me. I know about the little notes she takes and gives to them; it's not like she tries to hide it. Over the last few months, I've grown to like her; to trust her. And, God help me, I've even grown to love her.

Until three hours and forty-two minutes ago, I hadn't believed that love to be a romantic love.

This case scared me. Not a lot is capable of scaring me; fascinating me, yes. Enthralling me, definitely. Giving me a moment of pause; on more than one occasion. This was different though. I'd really love to blame what I felt when Scully pulled that gun on me on the extreme circumstance. It would be so easy to chalk it up to the situation and go home happy.

But that would be dishonest. And because of what our relationship has become, I force myself to admit that I have to be honest with Scully.

When she pulled that gun, I felt betrayed. And as my psyche so helpfully intoned, in order to feel betrayed, that means I had to have expected better. I had an expectation of her - to be my partner, to watch my back - and I actually TRUSTED that she'd live up to it. I'd trusted so much that it had actually SURPRISED me when she turned on me.

I really felt like an idiot until she came into the storage room.

The sheer fact that she came in restored my faith in her. She had just been trying to please everyone, as I've noticed is her habit. She was just trying to keep us ALL safe. I worked up a little profile on Scully after our first few weeks together. She craves approval, especially from male figures of authority, or male figures she respects in her life. This stems either from her being 'Daddy's Little Girl', or from receiving little or no response from her Father. I haven't decided yet, and Scully hasn't volunteered the information.

She closes herself off from affection. She doesn't like to be touched. She's fine with having a close working relationship, but she doesn't want anything more personal to confuse or complicate her situation. She isn't offended by heavy sexual innuendo, nor does anyone having a differing opinion from hers piss her off. She's perfectly willing to discuss her point of view, but she gives as good as she gets.

She has the makings of one of the Bureau's finest, and I give her maybe another six months down in the basement with Spooky Mulder before she runs screaming to the brass to request a transfer. Somewhere nice and safe, like Violent Crimes.

I roll on my side and feel the spot beside me in bed. It's still warm. She left her own bed what seems like hours ago, but what in reality was probably only a few minutes. I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger.

I'm not some idiot who falls in love with a woman after I fuck her.

I'm the kind of idiot who falls in love with a woman BEFORE I fuck her. Usually, that emotion isn't returned. I'm willing to bet some serious money that Scully is about to fall cleanly into that category. In fact, I'll bet my pension on it. (That is, assuming I remain either in the Bureau or alive long enough to EARN a pension.)

Shaking my head slowly, I stare at her ceiling, noting absently that it's a very nice ceiling. I fell in love with Phoebe the first time I saw her. She was gorgeous and the most intelligent woman I'd ever known to date. Unlike Diana, Phoebe actually pretended to love me. I think I like Diana's way better. It may have been cruel, but at least it was honest. Phoebe let me worship her, all the while having no intention of ever returning the emotion I held so strongly for her.

Before the thought 'I wonder if Scully could ever love me . . .?' forms in my mind, I shut it down. She couldn't; she wouldn't let herself. From everything I know about her, that fact screams at me. She sees me as a fucked up nut case with a fetish over finding his sister. My sense of humor is kindly referred to as quirky, but is in actuality closer to morbidly warped. I'm flippant and sarcastic, probably incapable of expressing an honest, heartfelt emotion to her. She'd need that, I can tell. She has such a problem opening up, whoever decided to love her would have to assume all the big firsts, emotionally speaking. First declaration of love, first to suggest they see each other exclusively, first to suggest they move in together, first to bring up the subject of children . . .

Woah Mulder; back up boy. That guy is definitely not going to be me. It can't be. I can barely take care of myself; how the hell could I possibly even FATHOM taking care of Scully and a brood of little Scully-Mulder's . . .

Did I mention I'm also neurotic? You want proof?

I made love with a woman not an hour ago and I'm already having panic attacks about our children's futures.

I can't be in love with her. I just can't. I don't have the time or the energy or the discipline to love Dana Katherine Scully. I repeat it over and over again in my mind. She'll get so scared she'll end up ripping my heart out and stomping on it. And in retaliation, I'll do it right back, because once we get going, I'll know all the buttons to push, I'll be able to hurt more than anyone else and I won't be able to stop myself . .

I am not in love with her. I care about her. She's my partner and I trust and care for her. I protect her, just like she protects me. So we had sex. That's all it was - just sex. Two people reacting to the stress of the moment . . .

Lying here, in the midst of my internal denials, all I can feel is her gentle, steady little hand moving over my neck and back. I should've been terrified. Instead, all I could feel was a sort of repressed longing. I was beginning to crave her touch in that room. It got worse as soon as we step foot back in DC. Once we were in the vicinity of her bedroom, all hope of keeping things strictly professional flew right out the window.

I'm attracted to her. That's why this happened. I'm sure she's attracted to me two. We're just two attractive people who were attracted to each other. Now that we've quenched our mutual attraction, we'll be able to conduct ourselves in a strictly professional matter. This is a good thing, I tell myself firmly. No sexual tension; no longing looks; no wondering what it would be like to press my body against her soft, hot flesh . . .

What the hell have I done?

The End (for now)