Subtext: Little Green Men

TITLE: Subtext 08: Surveillance
SPOILER STATEMENT: Little Green Men; Fire; Darkness Falls; The Erlenmeyer Flask
RATING: PG
CONTENT STATEMENT: MSR. A few bad words.
CLASSIFICATION: VRA
SUMMARY: Post-ep for "Little Green Men". The X-Files are shut down, and Scully decides it's time to make her move.
THANKS: To Brynna, Paulette, Robbie and Shannon


Subtext 08: Surveillance

by Brandon D. Ray

I can't remember the last time I was this nervous.

Certainly I've been in anxious situations before -- even frightening ones. Everything from the time when I was 14 and realized that a boy was about to kiss me for the very first time, right up to three days ago when Mulder and I were nearly killed by those soldiers down in Puerto Rico.

But it all pales in comparison with this.

I get up from Mulder's sofa and make another circuit of his living room. I've been waiting here for nearly three hours now -- ever since I left him at his surveillance site. Three long, lonely, nerve-wracking hours, while I've paced and jittered and waited for him to come home.

I did not intend to come here when I left him. I'd simply stopped by to see how he was doing, and offer a little moral support. But he seemed so distressed and woebegone at having lost whatever had been on that tape that my heart nearly broke. I wanted to go to him and hold him and try to make him feel better -- and I almost did. Almost. But in the end I turned and walked away.

And I got as far as my car before I changed my mind. I sat there in the driver's seat, jingling my keys in my hand for nearly 15 minutes, trying to decide what to do. I knew that I wasn't just going to leave; Mulder's sad, desperate comment that he still had me, and that he still had himself, would not allow me to do that. But although I knew what I was *not* going to do, I had not yet figured out what I *was* going to do.

I'm still not sure whether it was his faith in me or his faith in himself that kept me from going. Perhaps it was a little of both. In any case, I finally made my decision: This time I was not going to run away from Fox Mulder. This time I was going to step up to the plate and let him know that I cared about him, and offer him comfort and support ... and love, if he'd have it.

Love. My God.

I knew when I first woke up in the isolation unit after our "nice trip to the forest" that my feelings for Mulder went beyond simple friendship. Those feelings have continued to grow since then, and by the night the X-Files were shut down they had gotten quite strong, although I still hadn't managed to articulate them, even to myself.

But something crystallized for me that night. Mulder came down to my car and just talked to me, after I'd sat there watching his window for over an hour in the middle of the night. Even though *he* was the one who was hurting, he came to me and tried to get past the last of the barriers we'd built between us. And at some point during that conversation something clicked, and that's when I knew.

I was in love with him.

I still am.

And now, tonight, I find myself standing in front of Mulder's fish tank, watching the fish swim around and around in tight little circles -- just as I've been pacing around and around his apartment in tight little circles. And it occurs to me -- not for the first time tonight -- that perhaps I'm not accomplishing anything more than the damned fish are.

For a woman in love, I have a funny way of showing it. An ordinary woman in my situation earlier this evening, sitting there in her car while the object of her affections was only a short distance away and feeling miserable, would have gone back inside and tried to offer some comfort. But not me. My life has never been that simple and straightforward. And so I finally started my car and drove over to his apartment. I've been here ever since.

Mulder didn't actually say when he'd be finishing up tonight, of course. For that matter, I don't know whether he plans to come home at all. I know he doesn't sleep very much; perhaps he'll just stay there, and maybe grab a quick nap at some point. He does tend to throw himself into whatever he's doing, even if he finds it stupid or offensive. So he might very well just stay at the surveillance site all night. He doesn't have any reason to expect me to be here in his apartment, and I don't even know for certain that the chance to spend time with me would be enough to lure him away from his work in any case.

Okay, that's a lie. Let's try to be honest with yourself, Dana, even if you can't manage to be completely honest with Mulder. You are about as sure as you can reasonably expect to be that if you had given Mulder the slightest encouragement he would have come after you tonight. The tension between the two of you has been building steadily ever since the X-Files were shut down and you were reassigned; you'd have to be pretty blind to believe that your feelings towards your former partner are unrequited.

Jesus. It's getting so bad I'm starting to think about myself in the third person.

I turn away from the fish tank and start pacing again, but I've only gone a few steps before my gaze falls on Mulder's answering machine. The little message light is not blinking tonight, indicating that no new calls have come in since the last time he hit the playback button. Looking at the machine, though, does bring back the memory of the time a few days ago when *I* played back his messages, and heard an unfamiliar woman's voice complaining at having been stood up for a lunch date.

At the time I was so worried about Mulder and so focused on trying to figure out where he'd disappeared to that I didn't pay any real attention to that message. Since he's been back, however, I've thought about it several times, and I have to admit that it's been bothering me more than a little bit.

Which is ridiculous, of course. I know there have been other women in his life in the past -- Phoebe Green, for one -- and I have to assume that there might be other women now or in the future. I have no claim on Mulder; he's free to see whoever he wants to see. I've reminded myself of that fact several times.

But that does nothing to alleviate the hurt I feel everytime I think about that message and what it might mean. *She* is free to call and leave messages on his machine, but if *I* want to see him I have to leave cryptic notes and skulk around in parking garages. Or follow a trail of breadcrumbs to find him wherever he's wandered off to *this* time ....

This isn't completely fair of me, I know. I haven't exactly been forthcoming to Mulder about how I feel towards him these past few weeks. Even the night the X-Files were closed and I *knew* he was hurting, I made him take the final step of coming outside to my car. I wouldn't go to him; he had to come to me. Which he did, and I'm eternally grateful for that, but it's completely understandable that he still isn't sure what I want from him.

Tonight, though, that's going to change. Tonight, or in the morning, or tomorrow afternoon, or whenever he finally comes home, I'm going to be here, and I'm not going to leave until he knows exactly how I feel. I don't know what I'm going to say or do to get that across to him, and no matter how clear the signs have seemed to be I can't be certain how he will respond. But I *am* going to do it. I even stopped at a drug store on my way over here and bought some condoms, just in case my fondest hopes actually come true.

Not that I'm counting on that, I remind myself firmly. I'll be happy if he doesn't laugh in my face, or give me the "let's be friends" speech. All I really want is a little contact; a little affection. Some concrete and unambiguous sign that he really does care about me the way I care about him, even if only a little bit.

I hear a key in the lock and I turn to face the door. This is it. My mouth is suddenly dry, and my heart is pounding in my chest as the door swings open. Please, God, let him be alone. Don't let him have another woman with him -- not the woman from the answering machine, or any other woman. Don't even let him have another man with him, with plans to drink beer and watch some damned ball game. I've taken such a risk to be here tonight; please let it be worth it, because I don't know if I'll be able to do it again.

And Mulder is standing in the open doorway, obviously alone, looking at me with an expression of surprise on his face. For a moment we both stand there, motionless and silent -- and then I realize that this time *I* will have to go to *him*. And so I take a deep breath and walk steadily across the room until I'm standing directly in front of him. I can see the question marks in his eyes; he's wondering why I'm here and what I want.

Time to show him, I guess.

I reach up and cup the back of his head with one hand, and draw his face down to mine and kiss him.

And after just a second, he kisses me back.

Fini

Title: Subtext 08: Wide Awake
Author: Trixie
Spoilers: Blanketing the first season once again . . . Little Green Men.
Classification: V, MSR
Rating: PG-13
Thanks: To Robbie & Brynna for the beta :)
Summary: Post-ep for Little Green Men.
Feedback: Feed me Seymour; feed me.
Disclaimer: I think David Duchovny & Gillian Anderson should own them.

~

Denial truly is a remarkable state of mind.

I know this for a fact; I've tested the theory a few times, but have never quite given it as vigorous a run-through as I am at this precise moment.

For instance, when I was twelve, I went into a supreme case of denial. For an entire year, I refused to believe that my sister wasn't coming back. It was almost like she ran away from home and I just =knew= she was hiding somewhere, waiting for us to get =really= worried before she came back. Once that particular phase of denial expired, my next experience wasn't until Oxford. After I met Phoebe, I spent months in denial; her dumping me snapped me out of that wave.

With Diana, the denial only lasted a few days; after that, I pretty much accepted she wasn't going to turn down a promotion to hunt ghosts, goblins and little green men with me. For almost a year I told myself I wasn't =really= spooky. That was just a nickname people who were jealous of my profiling abilities had given me.

The first time I found myself standing in the middle of a barren field, seeing images and shapes no one else could, I stopped denying it to myself; I was spooky. It was who I was and what I did. From that day on, I embraced the X-files. I allowed them to define me; I allowed others to define me by them. I didn't care what anyone else thought of me; no one else mattered. Nothing mattered to me beyond my search for Samantha and finding the truth.

And then Dana Scully walked into my life, turned it upside down and made me rue and cherish equally the day we were partnered.

With the exception of a drunken one-night stand, I can recall with perfect clarity every woman I have ever woken up next to. The first time, just before my senior year in high school ended, was bizarre. Most of my friends and hers had lost their virginity in the back of their car or, worse, one of their parent's cars.

I lost my virginity backstage while the senior class production of 'The Wizard of Oz' played on, unaware. As our Dorothy was searching for the Tin man's heart, my Dorothy was searching for another body part entirely.

As long as I live I will never forget the first time I had sex coinciding with the Wicked Witch of the West melting.

There's symbolism in there I'm unwilling to tackle at the moment.

My high school sweetheart and I were steady until I went to Oxford. Neither of us pretended we'd sustain a long distance relationship and we parted as friends. I dated at Oxford, but mostly I became enthralled with my first quest; the quest for knowledge. Oxford was the perfect place for me. I absorbed everything I possibly could: the culture, the texts, the wisdom held by most of my professors. I dated a bit, (had that drunken one night stand I still can't quite recall) but nothing serious until Phoebe.

Phoebe Greene: a name forever burned into my consciousness.

Everything with Phoebe seemed so innocent, so normal when you took it out of context. A few hateful words spoken on both our parts; teasing she believed to be harmless, which in reality sent my psyche through shock waves. Angry sex that really only got us both off when we were in public places, thereby heightening the event with the thought that we might be caught. The tryst atop Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tomb about sums up exactly what my relationship with Phoebe was all about.

When it ended, I swore I would never allow myself to be used again; I would never go into denial over a woman just because I couldn't stand the thought of being alone.

My vow lasted almost two years. I dated a woman briefly after Phoebe; we slept together twice then went our separate ways. Apparently I was already slipping into 'Spooky' mode.

That was when I started collecting the tapes. Subconsciously, where I could pierce through the denial, I must've realized what a headache I was. Already, as soon as I graduated from Oxford and was recruited by the FBI, I became consumed in the work. The criminal mind fascinated me; the idea that I could actually bring justice into the lives of others - it was heady, to say the least. Even though I hadn't yet recalled the circumstances surrounding my sister's disappearance, the chance to play hero, to save someone else's life, was irresistible.

A few weeks before I met the gunmen, I met the woman I eventually married. She thought it was sexy that I carried a gun. We'd only been together two weeks when Reggie Purdue and I were assigned to a case in Vegas and Corrine came along with us. It was routine and we'd be done in time to play awhile. After the case was solved, wee got blitzed out of our minds and woke up married. That was a morning after I could never, ever forget. She came to her senses that very morning and I learned that while she found my gun sexy, she didn't find the idea of life as a law enforcement professional's wife sexy in the slightest.

Even after the marriage was annulled, I continued to wear the ring. I'm still not sure why; maybe I wanted the world to think that I wasn't alone. Whatever the reason, I didn't take it off until shortly after I met Diana.

She asked me point blank why I was wearing a ring when I wasn't married; I told her I didn't know. She said that was a stupid reason. I agreed, I took off the ring and it's remained in the back of my sock drawer, beneath the Marvin the Martian sweat socks I never wear.

The first time I woke up next to Diana was the morning after my hypnotic regression therapy. She was comforting and enticing when my mind was in such turmoil. She practically moved into my apartment for awhile. It was good, for what it was. It was a relief to have something other than those videos and my own hand for release. She understood the work; she understood the way my mind worked, and I could trust her.

There wasn't anyone after her. Not until Scully.

Of all the crystal clear memories I have of waking up next to someone, the clearest is the recollection of waking up =without= Scully after we'd returned from Icy Cape.

It felt oddly empty; wrong. And I stayed in denial for nearly a year. First, I denied that I wanted her. Then, I denied that I was in love with her. Finally, I committed the most ridiculous act of denial ever recorded.

I convinced myself I could stay away from her.

Even though I know they are watching us, I can no longer ignore her in the hallways when she says hello to me. I can no longer wait for her to slap a post-it to Samantha's picture and leave it face down on my desk. And I most assuredly can't live with only seeing her under the cover of some dark parking garage.

I meant what I told her last night as I went over surveillance tapes and binge-ate sunflower seeds. I still have her; I still count her as one of the guiding forces in my life.

And at this moment, I am more than in denial. I am in a state of suspended hope, paralyzed, unable to open my eyes for fear of what I might see. I fear I dreamed all that happened last night; am still dreaming the presence I sense in the room with me. I don't want to open my eyes; don't want it to be a dream or, worse, a repeat of what happened after Icy Cape. I don't think I could bear waking up without Scully again. Not after what happened last night.

Fortifying all the strength I have, my eyes open and I focus to my left.

Scully is there, her cheek resting against my shoulder, her eyes clear on mine.

And she is smiling.

~

END