Subtext 04: Amber

by Brandon D. Ray

I wish Mulder would come back.

More to the point, I wish he hadn't left in the first place. I've been sitting here alone in the bullpen on the third floor of the Hoover Building for the past hour. I've been sitting here alone, staring at this stupid watch, the one I gave Jack on his 35th birthday, and wondering why it decided to stop at the precise moment that his heart stopped beating in the emergency room that day.

Of course, there are a number of possible explanations for that occurrence. One obvious explanation is that Jack was of necessity being treated very roughly at the moment his heart stopped, and that rough treatment could have caused the watch to stop. And if his watch was only a little slow, the electric shocks he was given a few minutes later to resuscitate him could also account for it.

Or it could just be a coincidence.

I sigh, and for the hundredth time I look down at the watch, its hands frozen at 6:47. I turn it over in my hands, and I look at the inscription: "Happy 35th, Love D." And it occurs to me that this is also frozen in time: A moment in our history -- now *my* history -- forever suspended, like a fly caught in amber.

Mulder, of course, has what he considers to be a straightforward explanation, although he chose not to shove it at me today. Mulder believes -- I am quite sure -- that the watch stopped at that moment as a result of the trauma of Jack's lifeforce leaving his body.

Which is ridiculous. Even if I believed that sort of unscientific nonsense, Jack's lifeforce did *not* leave his body. We successfully resuscitated him, and he lived several days after that, until he finally succumbed to diabetic shock.

But I didn't get to argue the point with Mulder, because he never presented his theory to me -- and I am just now coming to realize that this is what has me so upset. It isn't the loss of Jack, or my own brush with death, or even the fact that this week for the first time in my life I killed a man.

No, what's really bothering me is that Mulder is not treating me like his partner anymore; he's treating me like an outsider. He's treating me so much like an outsider that he doesn't even feel it appropriate or necessary to tell me why he thinks this is an X-File.

I even asked him about it; I asked him why he thought the watch had stopped at that exact moment. And for just an instant it seemed as if he might tell me -- but then he just said, "It means whatever you want it to mean." And he turned and walked away, leaving me all alone in a crowded room.

He turned and walked away.

Mulder has never done that to me before, not in all the months we've been working together. He has ditched me, yes. He's gone charging off into dangerous situations without telling me or giving me a chance to talk him out of it -- or at least provide backup. But he's never failed to tell me his mind when I asked him; he's never evaded a direct question and then walked away, leaving me hanging.

Dear God; why is he doing this to me? To us?

That's not a fair question, of course. It's not all Mulder's doing; the fault is at least partly mine. I was a willing participant, both in the initial act which disturbed our fragile but growing partnership, and in the subsequent pretense that nothing had happened. God, if only I could turn back the clock; if only I could take back some of the things I said to him that morning when he came out of my bedroom -- or at *least* find a better way to have said them.

Hell, as long as I'm wishing for the impossible, I may as well wish that it never happened in the first place. I may as well wish that we could be back in my kitchen, exhausted both physically and emotionally after the trip to Icy Cape. Then I could just step to one side when he reached for the damned sugar bowl, and none of this would have happened ....

Except, of course, that I *am* wishing for the impossible. That night *did* happen, and I *did* say the things I said, and I *have* taken part in the coverup. And Mulder was telling me this afternoon, as clearly and as openly as his poor, broken psyche will let him, that it's over, and that it's time to call it a day.

And I can't help but wonder if he might be right.

No. I will not accept that. I rise from my chair at long last and I begin to pace, ignoring the strange looks and whispers which I know my behavior is drawing from the other agents in the room. They've been looking at me and whispering ever since Mulder left me here; they can just go on looking and whispering. Six months ago I would have cared, but now ....

One thing Mulder does have right: We can't go on like this. Something has got to give, and it's either going to be our partnership -- what's left of it -- or it's going to be my pride.

Yes, pride. I realize as I continue to pace that it's been pride more than anything else that has prevented me from addressing this issue with Mulder. I was unwilling to accept or acknowledge the fact that for the second time in my FBI career I had allowed myself to become involved with an older, more senior agent.

Which is the worst possible thing that a woman in a man's world can do, of course. I've seen what happens to the careers of women who do that, both in medical school and now in the Bureau. And I was unwilling to consider the possibility that I might be the sort of woman who stumbles into that sort of situation, even inadvertently.

But Jack's reentry into my life has forced me to confront this fact about myself, and now it's time to fish or cut bait. Mulder has apparently just written me off, and turned and walked away. I have little doubt that if I just let things ride it's only a matter of time -- probably only a matter of days -- before I'm called to Blevins' office once again and informed that I'm being transferred back to Quantico. Which of course will be the end of any hopes I had of a career as a field agent, but that's the least of my concerns at the moment. There's also the small matter of my self-respect ....

But I don't have to let that happen. I can take control of the situation, and step up to the plate and accept responsibility for the things I've done and said. There's no guarantee that this approach would make things all better between me and Mulder, but at least I'd know that I'd done my best, and I'd be able to reclaim my own good opinion of myself. It's what my father would have expected of me.

It's what I expect of myself.

I realize that I've stopped pacing. I'm standing now looking down at the small box of Jack's personal effects. A fly caught in amber, I think once again. That's what I've been the last couple of months, ever since we got back from Icy Cape. A fly caught in amber, unable to move either forward or back, either up or down, caught in the slow, glacial movement of the fossilized resin that surrounds me.

But all that's about to change.

I reach out and drop Jack's watch into the box of his effects, and then I turn and head for the door.

I want my partner back.

Fini

~

Subtext 04: Cloaked

~

I want my partner back.

Somehow, over the last few weeks I've spent analyzing, categorizing and fretting over this =thing= Scully and I have together, I managed to miss the most important, most singularly pertinent piece of information.

I want my partner back.

Reginald Brongsworth, my favorite psychology professor at Oxford, would be thoroughly disgusted with me. Good old Reggie always had this theory - if you couldn't figure out what was ailing your own life, you had no chance of finding out what was ailing someone else's. The man took the term 'physician, heal thyself' to a level I doubt it was ever intended to reach. He was hard on me, but in a way I'm grateful for today.

Using the most general of terms, I can satisfactorily explain to myself what the major malfunctions in my life are.

Missing sister.

Tense working relationship with my partner for the last few months.

A social life most inmates would find comical.

Of course, all those examples are mere surface excuses, Professor Brongsworth would lecture me were the old fart still among the living. Missing sister; sure, life's =just= that simple, isn't it Foxy boy? Samantha's abduction is the single most significant event in my life. It's shaped who I am and what I do each day when I pull my miserable ass off the couch. Her abduction is, I believe, at the very heart of a government conspiracy to conceal the truth about the existence of extra terrestrial life on this planet.

It doesn't get much more complicated than that.

But just for shits and giggles, let's try. Tense working relationship with my partner; there's the understatement of the decade. Scully and I were never tense; not in the first few weeks of our partnership. We were wary; mistrustful, even. But we were never tense. We flirted and baited and danced around each other, nothing serious, nothing overt and certainly nothing concrete until that moment in her kitchen when absolutely everything shifted.

The word irrevocable comes to mind, although I know it doesn't nearly do what went on - what's going on - justice. It has not yet effected the professional dynamic that has wrapped itself around us, easy as breathing, from the very beginning. It has, nonetheless, destroyed something infinitely fragile and precious between us; something I hadn't even realized we had until it was gone.

As I move on to examine my social life, I once again reflect ruefully that all roads apparently do lead back to Scully. I haven't so much as attempted casual flirtation, so long as you don't count Phoebe; which I don't. The logical, rational part of my being tries to assure me it's of my own choosing; I'm not with a woman right now because I'm devoting myself to my work. I'm going to find my sister. I'm going to bring the big bad house of cards down on top of all those bastards who lurk in the shadows.

Another, much more persuasive part of me rips the cloak of denial I've lived under for the past few months away roughly. Apparently not even my psyche will allow me my delusions any longer.

Scully and I have a problem, and rather than focus on it, I choose instead to reflect on the things that are actually =good= in my life.

I've been walking without the aid of crutches or cane for two weeks now. Scully stopped paying me little visits a week before that and I found myself engaged in a healthy round of self-flagellation because I wasn't anywhere near as relieved as I knew I should've been.

Grimacing, I mute the TV on 'Unsolved Mysteries' and try damned hard not to think about my partner for five fucking minutes. I use this time constructively, pulling myself off my couch so I can wander into the kitchen and grab another beer from the fridge. I hate beer; I would much rather be drinking something =much= stronger, but I have to be into work early tomorrow for a meeting with Skinner, and I'd just as soon not have to deal with the tight-ass while hung over.

Meandering back to my sofa, I sink into it with a little sigh of pleasure, something about being cocooned in my rat-hole of an apartment making me feel safe. I have this thing with being emotionally safe. I drift through my life, secure in the notion that this invisible cloak that only I can see surrounds me and keeps me from emotional harm.

Just because the cloak isn't successful doesn't mean I should give the damn thing up. Hell, I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have some mental equivalent of a security blanket to wrap myself up in when the going gets tough.

It got really tough these last few days.

>From the moment I heard the name Jack Willis, I have been deeply, deeply conflicted. Part of me was glad; Scully wasn't around me constantly because of this little bone the higher ups decided to throw her. I had some breathing room. Yet, at the same time, I found myself missing the very thing that had been tying me in knots for the better part of three months.

The fact that my Alpha-Male status was threatened by her ex held absolutely no redeeming values to the situation whatsoever. The fact that I wasn't sure I had a right =to= my Alpha-Male status exacerbated things further. And of course, the more I thought about it the more it pissed me off. I had no claim on Scully's life. I wasn't even sure I =wanted= a claim on Scully's life; I just knew damn good and well I hated the choice being taken away from me.

I donned a very different cloak while I searched for her.

This one wove around me like a second skin, so familiar I barely realized I was wearing it. Scully was - and is - the most important person in my life. I'm not very proud of that fact, especially given how distant our relationship is at the moment, but it's true. And, once again, it appeared as though Spooky was going to lose another woman he . . . cared about.

I tried really hard to wear my cloak of indifference around her. I think I might've succeeded after I found her.

I was so lost in terror, I realize, so totally consumed with the need to find her, to make sure she was safe, to wrap my arms around her and convince myself that she was okay, that she was ALIVE, I was totally unprepared for her to not feel the same way. I felt something inside me break and die as she continually called after 'Jack' once we found her. Her fucking hands were still handcuffed to that God damn radiator and all she could do was call after him, trying to see if he was all right.

I know my anger in that regard is irrational. If our positions were
reversed, I can't say I'd be acting any different toward the likely death of a former lover. Especially one who'd undergone such . . . personality changes.

Trying to be good around her is starting to choke me like my various cloaks never have. I know how hard losing Jack is to her; I am attempting to respect her boundaries and sensitivities in this situation. Rather than engage her intellect in a battle of wits, challenging her to prove that =wasn't= Warren Dupree in her late lover's skin, I backed away. I tried to be as supportive as I knew how - as she'd let me be - and give her the space she coldly told me she needed the morning after our . . . indiscretion.

Indiscretion; I hate that fucking word. I hate it like I can't remember
hating a word before in my life. It makes what we did sound dirty and wrong. It wasn't dirty. It was . . . nice. Nice; Jesus, sometimes I make myself sick.

It wasn't nice. It was life affirming. We were two very lost, very weary souls who clung to each other for a night because we needed it. I am not ashamed to need her, but for reasons I am just beginning to understand, Scully is terrified to need me, or anyone else. Perhaps my fearlessness toward her stems from the fact that I do trust her totally now, like I never thought I'd be able to trust anyone. I know she doesn't feel the same toward me. I wish to God it weren't so, but I suppose that's my cross to bear.

Glancing down at the five empty beer bottles on the table, I decide that perhaps I am just the =teeniest= =tiniest= bit drunk.

The psychologist in me that's sounding more and more like Reggie every minute pipes up again and informs me that I'm attempting to mask some feeling of inadequacy or pain under the haze of alcohol. To that particular facet of my personality, I reply with a patented no shit Sherlock and force my tired body up to get another beer. Might as well polish off the six pack while I'm at it.

Leaning a hip against my kitchen counter, I take a long, slow swig of this newest bottle, staring at the stain on my tile. It's been there since I moved in; I've never gotten around to even attempting to clean it, mostly because I don't notice it half the time. I notice it now because it's marring what would otherwise be a spotless kitchen floor. It's tainting perfection and it bugs me. I scrub the back of my neck with the palm of my hand and try to ward off the uncomfortable feeling running through my system.

Even alcohol can't keep the ghost of Reggie Brongsworth quiet for long.

One of the rational, calm, and oh-so-cool reasons she gave me for our =indiscretion= being better left forgotten, was that I was technically her superior. She thought it unwise for us to enter into something that would without a doubt effect our working relationship. It's somewhere she didn't think we ought to go and she would be very thankful for my god damn fucking understanding.

Okay, so she didn't curse; that was me. But damn it, I'm half-drunk and I'm pissed off and I want to know why she can fuck Jack Willis on a regular, exclusive basis, without a qualm of remorse, but the thought of having even one night with Fox Mulder on the record sends her screaming into the hills. Am I really so weird, so freaky that even the idea that us being more than just partners terrifies her this much?

Once again, Reggie shakes me. More likely, she's once bitten twice shy; more likely, she learned her lesson with Jack Willis and doesn't want to risk jeopardizing a partnership that has every indication of being the best of both our professional lives. More likely, I'm being an insensitive jackass who can't see past his own bruised ego, or battered heart, either or at this point.

Giving the stain a final glare, I stumble back to my couch, lining all six bottles up neatly in a row on my coffee table. Lying back on my couch, I let my eyes drift close and begin to pull the tattered remains of my control back around me like the cloak that they are, preparing myself to face her again tomorrow.

I've really got to do something about that stain.

~

End