If I Should Dare

Title: If I Should Dare
Author: Toniann
E-Mail: ts19@cornell.edu 
Rating: PG
Category: SRA, M/S UST
Spoilers: small ones for Triangle, FTF
Keywords: Mulder/Scully, Mulder POV, minor angst
Summary: Mulder discovers that he may have reason to hope,
after all.

Author's Notes:  This story takes place during sixth season,
after Mulder and Scully have the X Files back. The title is
from a line in "You Were Meant For Me", from "Singin' in the
Rain". Complete lyrics can be found at the end. Feedback is
greatly appreciated.
Archive: Yes, please do so, just let me know where.
Disclaimer: You, CC, have it all. I have nothing. Leave me
these few crumbs of fanfiction as consolation, please.
_____________________________________________________________________

If I should dare
to think you care...

---

We got a call this morning regarding a request for help from
the local PD. One body, no witnesses, no sign of forced
entry in the home. Cause of death as yet unknown. But the
body was found lain out on the floor, covered with a velvet
black cloth, a pentagram sketched on the carpet. It's the
third this year, found the same way. The police suspect some
sort of cult involvement, and so they called us. It doesn't
sound like an X-file to me, but I agree when Scully points
out it's not much trouble for us to swing by the station. I
don't care; I don't feel like sitting in the office all
morning anyhow. It's a little odd, though, to suddenly be so
popular with the local PD.

Scully reads the newspaper on the drive over. Even Scully
reading the newspaper is interesting. She doesn't read the
whole thing out loud; that would be aggravating. She just
tells me the parts she knows I want to hear. Like the
basketball scores, and I know she really could care less
about basketball. That's my Scully for you.

"The Knicks won," she tells me.

I nod. "And a hell of a game it was."

A few minutes of silence later: "Somebody claims to have
spotted the Loch Ness Monster again."

"Tourist season. Happens every year," I tell her.

She smiles, briefly. "Mulder, where's your faith?"

And I want to say to her, Here's lookin' at you, kid. For
starters, that's what I'd like to say. Then I'd like to go
back to her place and spend the next twenty-four... decades,
or so, explaining to her exactly what I mean by that.
Without words. But I don't even say it, because if I did,
she'd write it off as another one of my quirky comments,
once worthy of some pause, now par for the course, and go
back to reading the paper. This time, maybe not out loud.

Don't get me wrong, I don't blame her.

That's the thing, I don't blame Scully for keeping me at
arms' length. For not responding to my not-so-subtle
overtures and innuendoes. For not returning what have
become, let's face it, my all-too-obvious feelings. Or my
blatant declarations of love and devotion, for that matter.
I don't blame her.

How can I?

How can I blame her, when she has every reason in the world
to stay away from me? When I feel, sometimes, that the best
thing I could do for her would be to walk away, and let her
have some sort of life like she deserves? How can I blame
her, when I know even that is a cop-out, that I could never
walk away from her. That she would come after me, no matter
what I did. More to the point, that I'm too much of a
selfish bastard to go in the first place.

You see, Scully loves me. She really does. I mean, she cares
about me, she wants me in her life. Maybe she even needs me
there, though not the way I need her. But she... likes me,
God help her. And she gets up every morning and chooses, all
over again, to follow me on this quest of ours. And I need
that. I can't let go of that. I'm addicted to that. Every
day she chooses to stay is like Christmas morning to me.
Because I need her, much more than she needs me. I know it.
She knows it. It's undisputed fact. She stays, then, not
because she needs to, but because she wants to. And that
makes me one lucky son of a bitch.

Scully loves me, she does.

But I'm in love with her.

There's a big difference.

I can accept that, though. I can stand it. Just as long as
she stays with me, it's okay. And so I'm not about to blame
her for not falling head over heels in love with me, basket
case that I am. Because when push comes to shove, I won't do
anything to jeopardize her continued presence in my life. If
she's ready to walk out the door, I'll pull out all the
stops, say anything, go to the ends of the earth, turn
myself inside out, whatever it takes. And I know those
aren't just empty words, because I've had to do just that
all too often. I don't always think before I act, sometimes.
At least, it seems, I don't always think about her.

So I don't blame Scully, for viewing my love for her
somewhat askance. For meeting my wilder attempts to get her
attention with that tiny half-smile, that quirked eyebrow,
and those heavy-lidded, doubtful eyes. She tolerates my
advances. I think she even finds them endearing. But
whatever affection I inspire in her aside, in the end she
always rolls those sapphire eyes, shakes her head, and walks
away. And that's as it should be.

But that's a lie, too. I'm not that self-sacrificing. I may
play the martyr with consummate skill, but I still want her.
I still wake up every morning, go into work, and try my
hardest to change her mind, expecting to fail but thriving
on the chase nevertheless. I know it's pointless, and I know
it's hopeless. And yet the smallest part of me refuses to
believe that, refuses to give up, and dares to think that
the smallest part of her feels the same. That someday she'll
want and need me, the way I want and need her.

A guy can dream, after all.
 

* * * * * * * *
 

Arriving at the station, I follow Scully into the building;
we've been here often enough to know our way around. There's
a desk sergeant who works the night shift here who doesn't
like me, I remember. But that's not, you know, unusual.

Scully spots our host before I do. "Detective Harris?"

He turns, glances at me for the briefest of seconds, nods,
and then looks down at Scully. "Agent Scully, it's always a
pleasure to see you. Thanks for coming down."

*Now* I know why we were called in on this case.

"We're happy to help out, Detective Harris. You know Agent
Mulder, don't you?"

Always the diplomat, my Scully. Yeah, we know each other.
Harris isn't all bad. He's probably a nice enough guy. But
he thinks I'm nuts. Whatever; he's close enough to right
that I won't argue with him.

"Mulder," he says, sticking out his hand.

"So, you want us to take a look at some case files?" I ask,
anxious to get this show on the road.

"We were hoping you could look over the evidence and point
out any connections we've missed," he explains. "I was just
on my way down to the lab to see if the results are in on
the latest autopsy."

Divide and conquer, I always say. "Scully, why don't you
head down there with Detective Harris, and I'll start
reading through these files in the meantime."

She gives me a look, one which translates to, "As long as
you actually sit here quietly and read, and don't piss
anyone off while I'm gone." But she agrees, and Harris
eagerly leads her down the hallway.

A half an hour later, I've finished looking over the case
files. Frankly, I don't have anything in particular to add.
It sounds like a cult. The PD has turned up some leads; if
they need us to follow up on any of them, we'll be happy to
lend a hand. But that's about it. So I'm a little bored,
waiting for Scully to come back from the lab with Wonderboy.
I want to leave here, go back to the office, dig out
something a little more promising, a little more, shall we
say, paranormal, and prod her into poking holes in my
theories for the rest of the day. I'm antsy; this isn't what
we got the X-files back for. I got sick of bullshit
assignments with Kersh, and now my tolerance level is down.
And I'll admit it. I'm sick of watching Harris hit on my
partner, and what's more, I'm sick of watching Scully take
it all in stride.

I hear them walking down the hall before the door opens.
Harris is talking quietly, I can't make out the words. When
they come in, Scully is... laughing.

"That surprises me, Steve. I never would've guessed," she's
saying to him, shaking her head.

"You'd be amazed, the kind of things we see here, Dana."

Dana?

I lean back from the table, tossing the case files down in
Harris' direction. "Find anything?"

Scully shakes her head. "Not really. You?"

"Nope."

She shrugs apologetically to Harris. "We'd be happy to
follow up a few leads for you, if you're short-handed."

"No, we've got it covered. I was just hoping for something a
little more promising."

I stand, more than ready to hit the road. "Sorry we weren't
more help."

"Not at all. I appreciate your coming down here. In fact,"
Harris continues, "Can I buy you a cup of coffee before you
go?"

This is getting to be too much. "Thanks but no thanks,
*Steve*, we'd better get back to the office," I say, handing
Scully her coat.

Harris pauses, seeming to think for a moment. "Dana, how
about a raincheck?"

She smiles, perfectly congenial. "The next time I come by
the station, I'll make sure to take you up on that."

There's a awkward silence; Harris coughs, looks at me, and
finally continues. "Or, instead of waiting for the next cult
member to show up in our morgue, you could give me your
number."

I can't help it; I was already looking at Scully when
Wonderboy started talking, and now I can't look away. It's
rude, it's awkward, I should at the very least look away. I
should probably step away, move aside, leave the room, move
to China. I really should. It's the same old litany I've
been through a thousand times before. Go be a doctor,
Scully, I told her. Get as far away from me as you can. Go
practice medicine somewhere, go find a nice guy like Harris,
go live the life you thought you were going to have, before
you met me. Just go, before I try to stop you.

But like I said, I'm a selfish bastard. I don't want Harris
to be the one to make her laugh, to stand at her side, or to
take her home at night. Not Harris, and not anyone like him.
I don't want anyone else doing those things but me. I know
how territorial that is, and I know Scully doesn't belong to
anyone but herself. But narcissistic as it may sound, I know
that Scully was meant for me. Just like I was meant for her.
Maybe not the way I want us to be, but still, for each
other. And so I can't step aside, and I can't even look
away.

And then, I'm glad I didn't, because something... amazing
happens.

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, and completely noticeably, and with
obvious and clear intent, Scully looks at me. Steadily, and
with this intoxicating Mona Lisa smile on her face. When she
finally answers Harris, it is without looking away from me.
"I'm sorry, I don't think that would be a good idea."

I would love to see the look on Harris' face right now, but
I can't. As in, physically can't. Because there's no way I'm
going to take my eyes off Scully, not when she's looking at
me like this. I've seen her face nearly every day for six
years. I've seen her cry, and much too rarely, I've seen her
laugh. I've seen her angry, and scared, and dubious, and
confused. I've seen her panicked, and hurried, and
aggravated, and thoughtful; I've seen her compassionate and
caring, worried and distracted. I've seen her intent and
determined, disappointed and disgusted. And for six years,
I've seen her smile. I've watched for that smile, worked for
it, coaxed it out of her, using any means necessary. She has
a thousand different smiles, each one different, and they
all break my heart, over and over again. But this one, this
smile, it makes my heart feel whole.

Finally, Harris coughs awkwardly. "I understand. Thanks
again, for coming by."

I'd forgotten he was there. Luckily, as always, Scully is
taking everything in stride, as I stand there struck dumb.
"Anytime, Detective Harris."

I barely notice him leaving, or that Scully is now moving
towards me. "Ready to go, Mulder?"

When I don't answer, she reaches up to touch my face,
briefly. "Mulder."

"Scully?"

"How long are you planning on making me wait?" she asks,
softly. The breath catches at the back of my throat, and I
still can't answer. She sighs indulgently. "Okay, let's go."

We head out to the parking lot, and the air clears my head a
little. What just happened in there? Am I reading too much
into an admittedly breathtaking smile, and a perfectly
innocuous question? It would be far too easy to convince
myself that there is more here than meets the eye. And if I
do that, if I make the mistake of thinking there's any
chance Scully feels the way I do, then I'll screw up. I'll
scare her away. And that can't happen.

By the time we reach the car, I'm breathing somewhat
normally again. I unlock her door, walk around, climb in the
driver's seat, put the key in the ignition, and pull out of
the parking lot. And then, as if my brain has detached
itself from my mouth, surrendering control to other, less
cautious portions of my anatomy, I blurt out, "I didn't know
you were waiting, Scully."

She looks at me steadily, with the same intent that was on
her face just moments ago, now more predatory, seemingly
searching the expression on my face for something she needs
to see. "You learn something new every day, Agent Mulder."

I don't know how to answer that. I don't know how to answer
her. I feel like I've been challenged to a duel, but I don't
want to fight; I'd rather just bare my chest to her sword
and throw myself on her mercies, such as they are. The image
has, I must say, possibilities. But that's not what she
wants, I can tell. I know her, and the last thing she wants
from me is abject submission. Let's face it; I doubt I'd be
very good at it anyhow. No, Scully doesn't want surrender,
she wants me to answer her dare.

Finally, I glance over at her, in the passenger seat. Her
head is back and her eyes are closed, but she doesn't look
tired. She looks refreshed, and relaxed, and ready for
anything the world has to throw at her. And suddenly, I know
how to answer.

"How far are we from your place, Scully?"

She opens her eyes and spots a street sign. "Maybe about ten
minutes. Why?"

"Think you can wait that much longer?"

At first she doesn't answer, and I concentrate on the road.
Then I feel her small hand reach up to caress my neck,
briefly, warmly, and all-too-fleetingly. And when she does
speak, I know exactly which smile is on her face even before
I turn to look. Her voice is a warm whisky breath, close to
my ear, as she answers me with one simple word.

"Hurry."

Scully loves me. She really does. God damn, I am the
luckiest bastard alive.
 

END
 

____________________________________________________________________

*Final Author's Note: Anyone who has seen the wonderful
movie, "When A Man Loves A Woman" will notice that I have
unabashedly stolen one of Andy Garcia's lines to (and about)
Meg Ryan. And if you haven't seen it, I heartily recommend
it.  

You Were Meant For Me
(from Singin' in the Rain)

Life was a song
you came along
I lay awake the whole night through

If I should dare
to think you care
this is what I'd say to you

You were meant for me
and I was meant for you
Nature fashioned you and when she was done
you were all those good things rolled into one
You're like a plaintive melody
that never lets me be
I'm content the angels must have sent you
and they meant you just for me