XFCreative Mailing List Posting
---------------------------------------------
Title: 'Uninhibited Emotions'
Author: Trixie
Email: scullymulder1121@hotmail.com
Spoilers: I just don't know. I think I tend to reference insignificant 
things in episodes that are sixth season.
Classification: V, MSR, A
Summary: It all started as a simple little post One Son vignette. This 
story falls into the universe I created with 'Split Seconds', continued 
with 'Wishes', took one step further with 'Drinking Buddies' and will no 
doubt continue beyond 'Uninhibited Emotions', as it has no sign of 
stopping. This can, however, I =believe= almost be viewed as a stand 
alone. If you need the other stories, email me, I'll be more than happy 
to send them to you :)
Notes: See? I don't do summaries well. At all. I would like to preface 
with the fact that most of this story was written on my laptop batteries 
last legs as I flew between Hawaii and California on United Air. So . . 
.. there you go. Feedback is cherished :)
Disclaimer. *Sigh* Duh. 

~~~~

Uninhibited Emotions 

~~~~

The second-most terrifying words in the world to me are 'Is this Dana 
Scully?'

They are second only to 'Do you know Fox Mulder?'

In the heartbeat it took me to answer question one, I'd already prepared 
myself for question two. It's not the first time they've appeared in 
succession to one another; the morning I was drug to identify a body 
that wasn't Mulder's at his apartment comes to mind. More horrifying 
occasions spring to mind, as well; times when I =didn't= know he was 
okay. Times when I was told my partner was near death. Times I'd stopped 
breathing. 

Tonight, for a brief moment, I'd believed our luck had finally run out.

When the call came in, when a woman's voice asked me the two dreaded 
questions in succession, my heart stopped beating; my entire being 
froze; and I forgot how to breathe. Everything seemed to flash behind my 
eyes - this was it. Mulder's dead. I allowed him to leave my apartment, 
questioning our entire relationship, questioning whether I'd ever be 
able to forgive him. And now he's gone and done something stupid - he's 
gotten himself run over, or was accidentally shot with his own gun. Some 
maniac mugged him in the park, or he was a victim of a drive-by 
shooting. The scenarios came faster than I could sort through them, each 
a bit different, but always resulting in the same ultimate conclusion.

Mulder's dead. Mulder's never coming back. My God, I've killed Mulder. 
Not directly, but by letting him leave in the state he'd been in. I 
should've heard him out, let him explain things to me, rather than 
dismissing him. He's dead and his last thoughts of me, were that I was 
hurt because of him and angry with him.

As that thought had occurred, the woman's voice on the other end of the 
phone had begun to penetrate. She'd started babbling on and on about how 
he was dripping all over her floor, ruining her rug, mumbling 
unintelligibly about 'making sure Scully =knows=', she'd found him 
nearly passed out in the lobby and could I please come and get him, he's 
really starting to freak her out.

I'd been out the door in a flash, heading toward my downstairs 
neighbor's apartment. And yet now, as I stand before her door, I 
hesitate. I know he's alive. I know he's safe. I have never been this 
frightened of seeing him. I am frightened of what will be said once we 
come face to face again; I'm unsure as to whether we can still salvage 
this thing between us. The partnership will go on; I know this. We will 
continue together until the very end; I will never leave him, and, 
despite my insecurities, I don't believe he would ever leave me; 
professionally, at least. He leaves me emotionally in little ways, each 
and every day. I know I do the same to him. I know we both do it as a 
kind of self-preservation. What I can't fathom is why we do it. For the 
last six years, we have trusted no other. We've lived and breathed each 
other, spending practically all our waking hours together, and, on 
occasion, our non-waking hours. 

Something occurs to me as I stare at the number 11 on the door before 
me. It's something I've never allowed myself to consider before. 
Something my pride, or my innate need to be the one in the right has 
never allowed me to fathom. 

Mulder wasn't the first to leave, emotionally speaking. I started it. I 
started withdrawing, feebly attempting to sever the already growing bond 
between us. I pushed him away first; kept this invisible barrier around 
me that clearly stated 'do not touch'. What did I expect him to do? Beat 
his head against the proverbial brick wall? Of course not. He realized 
he had opposition. Rather than break it down, his own insecurities and 
fears kicked in, stronger than ever. He withdrew in turn; built up a few 
walls of his own. When I was ready to break mine down, his were in peak 
form. Just as he was ready to break his down, I was having laser beams 
installed on mine. We've always been on opposite sides, opposite 
moments. If we finally do synchronize ourselves, something else happens. 
Catastrophe strikes; bees attack; he's all hyped up on Demerol. It 
wasn't until Christmas that we were totally, spiritually, physically and 
emotionally united. Everything just kind of clicked into place a few 
hours after we exchanged gifts.  It was perfection, for a few blissful 
hours. We melded, we let down our guards and broke down the walls 
between us. I've never felt that connected to another human being as I 
did in those few hours. 

Once Christmas was over, we each returned to our own apartments. 
Something happened once we were physically separated. The walls had a 
chance to rebuild themselves, seemingly without our knowledge or 
consent. The next time we came face to face, it was too late. The walls 
were back. Granted, we had a new physical intimacy to deal with; but 
rather than it helping us cope with the hells around us, it seemed to 
just add to the already existing complexities of our relationship.  
There've been little cracks in the foundations of our mutual walls; 
after Fellig, when I was in the hospital. For a few hours in Kroner, we 
really started connecting again. Spending a few days correcting people 
with the correct assumption about your relationship takes its toll, and 
you either let some steam out, or you explode. 

The first few weeks after Christmas were awkward. We didn't even kiss 
again until New Year's Eve, and that was only a chaste brush of our lips 
at midnight. We were in the middle of a stakeout at the time, part of 
our penance being to watch a man suspected of fraud. We didn't make love 
again until Kroner. The night he spent in my room after a cow fell into 
his is certainly very memorable in my mind; the coat room of that gym, 
more so. A faint smile curves my lips in remembrance. We aren't all pain 
and morose tendencies, Mulder and I. We have fun; we take joy in each 
other. When we let ourselves. Perhaps that's our main problem. Perhaps 
we need to learn to let ourselves enjoy each other. 

I am about to knock when the door is opened for me. "Oh thank God," my 
downstairs neighbor, Doris whatshername mutters. "He's right here, good 
riddance." 

She practically throws Mulder at me, who sort of collapses around me, 
while still maintaining his own weight and balance. He gives me the 
goofiest grin. "Scully," he mumbles, brushing a kiss to my cheek.

"Jesus Mulder," I mutter, getting a whiff of his breath, "did you 
swallow a brewery?"

He slings an arm around my shoulders and begins to walk with me toward 
the elevator. "Nah," he denies, waving a hand in the air, gesturing 
faintly. "Just a couple a glasses of scotch."

I raise an eyebrow at a 'couple', but let it slide; it's absolutely 
useless to argue with Mulder when he's drunk. His logic is confounding 
enough; add a drunk's logic to MulderLogic and . . . well, that way 
leads to madness. We stumble into the elevator, one of his arms slung 
around my shoulders, the other, hanging loosely at his side. It doesn't 
occur to me that I should pull away from his easy embrace; he doesn't 
need me for balance. He may be drunk, but despite Doris whatsername's 
earlier claims, Mulder is in full possession of both his faculties and 
his equilibrium. 

He's just massively uninhibited. 

I find myself containing a chuckle as he sways in the elevator. It takes 
me only a moment to realize he's swaying in time with the musac. Some 
old Barry Manillow song I'm amused to realize he's muttering the words 
to under his breath. We reach my floor in record time, but he doesn't 
move right away. Instead, he turns his head slightly, so that he's 
looking down at me, our eyes almost even, given the low slope to his 
posture. "You're beautiful," he whispers, staring at me with intensity, 
scrutinizing me in ways I've never before been on the receiving end of. 
"I know you know that, but I realized tonight I'd never told you." A 
funny look crosses his face; an emotion passing over his eyes I can't 
even begin to describe. "There's a lot of stuff I've never told you that 
I should've told you; stuff you need to hear."

"It can wait Mulder," I tell him firmly, uncomfortable with the 
direction this is heading. I don't know if I'm ready to have a deeply 
emotional conversation with Mulder right now; I'm still not past the 
'licking my wounds' stage. We have an unspoken agreement, he and I. No 
matter how severe the disagreement, how hurtful our words, we get 
twenty-four hours of recoup time. If the wronged party decides they wish 
to end the sentence sooner, they may, by making a simple phone call, 
extending an invitation for Chinese take-out and a video, or, in more 
recent times, a shared shower and the request for breakfast in bed. 
Whoever was in the wrong =always= does the cooking. It's one of those 
unspoken things between Mulder and I; we've never discussed it; we've 
never assigned that particular duty; since we became lovers, though, 
whoever fucks up biggest cooks. 

"No, it can't."

I jump a little at the sound of his voice. I'd managed to drag him from 
the elevator to my door without so much as a peep. I backtrack my recent 
thoughts and pinpoint the last I'd voiced. "Why not, Mulder?" I ask 
patiently, using my best 'this is for the best, Mulder,' tone of voice. 
"It's waited this long; I hardly see how a few more hours is going to 
matter."

"It matters because I've only known I needed to say it for an hour," he 
tells me, his voice and his eyes much clearer than they should be, given 
the level of his intoxication. 

The above-mentioned MulderLogic, mixed with a drunk's logic has 
officially been presented to me. And, as I believe I mentioned, arguing 
with him in this condition only leads to insanity.  "I take it then that 
you've known whatever it is for longer?" I ask, blatantly stalling him, 
hoping to gather the tattered threads of my control before hearing him 
do one of two things; One, tell me every insecurity I have is right on 
the money, in which case I might just have to subscribe to Lyda and 
Maurice's murder suicide theory. The other, far more plausible theory is 
that he's going to apologize; and it won't be just an 'aw, jeez I'm 
sorry I fucked up Scully can you ever forgive me?' mumbling; oh no. 
Mulder's going for broke this time. I can tell. If he actually works up 
the nerve to apologize, it's going to be the mother of all apologies.

Either way, my mental state is not exactly stable and I need all the 
time I can get to prepare myself for either eventuality. 

"Oh Scully," he mumbles, a wry grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. 
He glances at me as I walk us through my doorway, his fingertips 
beginning to move in slow little circles along the skin of my upper arm. 
"I've known for years. I've acknowledged it for months now." He laughs, 
the sound a bit unstable to my ears. "And it's taken a royal fuck up on 
my part and a conversation with some guy in a bar for me to admit it to 
you." He shakes his head slowly, the gesture directed inward. "I'm so 
sorry Scully."

"What are you apologizing for exactly?" I ask slowly, unsure as to where 
he's taken us now. I begin stripping the soaking clothes from his body, 
my touch remaining impersonal, doing this only because I refuse to have 
him catching his death on my conscience. 

"Scully, are you coming on to me?" he asks as my hands reach the buckle 
on his belt.  He sends me his best drunken leer and I actually have to 
work not to smile; no way is he getting off =that= easy.

"Mulder, as you should well know by now, if I were coming onto you, you 
wouldn't have to ask," I remind him, arching a single eyebrow as I 
successfully strip him to his boxers. "Go take a hot shower," I 
instruct.

"Come with me?" he asks, a naked sort of vulnerability in his eyes.

I take a deep breath, knowing what he's asking. Come with me. Forgive 
me. Heal with me. But I can't; not right now. There's still too much 
between us. "Not tonight," I answer softly, unwilling to wound him with 
my words as I know I so easily could. 

"Then I'm not taking a shower," he states adamantly. 

"Mulder, if you don't get warmed up, you're going to catch a cold," I 
tell him wearily. "Your skin is like ice; you're shaking," I point out, 
wanting nothing more than to erase the last few days; to be able to peel 
off my clothing, to wrap my body around his, to warm him and myself. 

"I'll make you a deal," he proposes, piercing me with a heated gaze. 
"You hear me out - you listen to my alcohol induced epiphanies and I'll 
get in the shower like a good little boy," he wheedles, his voice almost 
angry. 

I understand his anger. I do not let go of pain easily; I do not allow 
myself to forgive him easily. Ultimately, I do it; however, it takes me 
more time than it should. Even when I forgive him on the surface, 
resentment lingers. It manifests itself in little ways, ways I'm not 
even conscious of. He is frustrated by this; I am frustrated by this; I 
am also powerless to change it, as it is as much a part of me as he is. 
In the end, I am far too curious not to take him up on his proposal; my 
need to believe is greater than my fear. 

"All right Mulder," I murmur tiredly. Holding out an arm, I gesture us 
onto the sofa. I suppose I should feel absurd, sitting across from 
Mulder, dressed only in his Marvin the Martian black silk boxers, but I 
don't. It's him; it's us; it's who we are. Despite everything, I do love 
who we are. "You wanted to talk," I remind him, adopting a suitably 
interested pose.

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth and begins to gnaw on it. His 
hands are poised on his thighs, and his brows are furrowed in 
concentration. A full minute goes by before I snap. "Mulder," I begin. 
Before I can fully pronounce the 'er' of his name, he cuts me off.

"I'm trying to find a less cliché way to say you complete me," he 
explains, meeting my eyes for a fraction of a second, before staring 
down at his lap. "It's the simplest way I can put it; to elaborate, I 
could say you give my life substance and that you ground me. I could 
tell you that you tether me to reality; that you stand guard against the 
demons of my past, that lurk in my soul; that you manage to keep them at 
bay most of the time now. I . . . I could say I love you with a depth 
and breadth indescribable with the English language, or any other known 
to mankind." He looks up again, meets my eyes once more. "In the end, it 
all comes down to what I told you in my hallway nearly a year ago; you 
keep me honest, Scully. You make me a whole person. I can't do this - 
the quest, the search, my fucking =life= - without you. I don't =want= 
to do it without you."

=Crack=

I don't recognize the sound immediately. I am, in fact, puzzled by its 
existence in the first place. The internal workings of the human psyche 
are =not= supposed to have sound effects.  Especially not =my= internal 
workings. When I get an idea, a light bulb doesn't appear above my head, 
=snicking= on as the notion fully forms itself.  When a human being is 
hurt emotionally, when they're deconstructed at a deeply personal level, 
their hearts don't actually break. The organ doesn't cease to function; 
it beats along, same as always. 

Over the last few years, I have become better acquainted with the inner 
workings of my psyche than I ever had before. I've learned things about 
myself I'd been either too scared, or too blind to see in the past.  The 
things I've become most accustomed to, are my walls. They're precious to 
me; vital to my survival. They keep me safe and secure, sheltered from 
all the bad stuff that surrounds me. Sure, sometimes they fail me; 
sometimes a psychopath scales one of the lower, less guarded walls; 
mostly, Mulder just finds a way around them. But this is different than 
the other times he's penetrated my defenses. He hasn't just found a way 
around my walls, or even gotten me to lower them. With the words he just 
spoke to me, somehow, someway he has caused my walls to crack.

It's no more than a stress fracture, really. But it's the first step to 
total deconstruction; I know I won't last long. I'll put up a good 
fight. I'll do my damnedest to keep a few of them in place; but Mulder 
won't stand for it. He wants my total surrender, and I wan to give it to 
him; to claim his, in return. But I can't. I can't let it go. He knows; 
I see it lurking in his eyes, a wariness. He awaits my reply to his 
declaration; he awaits his opportunity to make my walls crumble. 

I am so angry with him. I am so God damned angry I can barely think 
straight. I have hidden this anger behind my walls; they were not just 
for my benefit; doesn't he know that? Doesn't he know those walls exist 
to keep things in, just as surely as they do to keep things out? I get 
so upset with him; so hurt by him; so enraged with him. I don't want him 
to feel the full brunt of my anger, for I fear it may do irreparable 
damage to his already tattered psyche. I don't want to unleash the full 
force of my insecurity and my rage over Diana Fucking Fowley.  I never 
want him to have to know how deep it cut me to know that he kissed her 
=after= he'd kissed me; after he'd made love to me. 

But it appears Mulder has taken that decision from me. I can no longer 
hide behind my walls, because that small but well placed crack has 
sprouted a leak. And everything inside me - the rage, the anger, the 
fear - is flowing. Every nerve ending in my body is humming; I am more 
alive than I have been in years. I only pray as we step into this next 
level of our relationship that we do not destroy one another. 

And so I gather my thoughts and my emotions as best I can; I lick my 
lips slowly, considering my next words, choosing them carefully. I meet 
his curious, frightened, relieved eyes and I say something I've wanted 
to say to him for a very long time. 

"Why do you only give me reason to stay, when you're terrified I might 
leave?"

Damn it. I hadn't intended for my voice to sound that lost; hadn't 
intended for it to sound that weak. I am like a child, pleading for an 
answer I'm years away from understanding. I hate that. It feeds my anger 
and the crack grows. 

"Why can't you trust me to stay with you? Why can't you have even an 
=ounce= of faith in my judgment, in my intuition? What the fuck gives 
you the right to take =HER= word over mine? Who the hell do you think 
you are Mulder? How =DARE= you come over here and tell me things I've 
been craving from you for =YEARS=? What gives you the right to make me 
feel guilty for my anger?" My last question ends on something that 
sounds suspiciously like a sob. But I am not crying; I will not cry. 
Everything is leaking out of me, but I will be damned if my tears fall 
free as well. 

"I don't mean to make you feel guilty," he begins, his voice so soft, 
absent any anger or malice; that only serves to infuriate me more. Be 
careful what you wish for Mulder; you just might get it.

"Fuck what you mean!" I almost scream at him. My thoughts are chaotic; I 
can barely discern my words, let alone their meaning. "You never mean to 
hurt me, yet you do. Over and over and over you hurt me; you ditch me; 
you walked away from us, before there even was an us to walk away from! 
I know you're scared Mulder. I know you're fucking terrified. But did it 
ever occur to you, even once, that maybe, just maybe I'm as terrified as 
you are? Did it ever occur to you that I might be sick of being the 
responsible one? Maybe I don't want to be your conscience Mulder! Maybe 
I want to be able to lean on you. Maybe I want to relinquish my control 
to someone, someone I can trust it with. Someone I can trust =me= with." 
I pause, taking a few deep breaths. My heart is beating rapidly and I 
can almost hear my blood, coursing through my veins. 

He sits before me, his face totally impassible. I can't read his 
thoughts; I can't gauge his emotions. That expressionless face pisses me 
off more and the need to see it change hits me full force. "Say 
=SOMETHING= God damn it!" I shriek, pounding against his chest with my 
fist; hard enough to hurt; possibly hard enough to bruise. I am beyond 
caring. 

I hit him twice more before he takes hold of my wrist, squeezing once, 
stilling me. "I concede you nearly every point you've made," he says 
quietly, his face finally shifting, showing an emotion. What I see 
floors me; something between unconditional love and all consuming fire; 
perhaps both. I had never wanted to burn before I knew him. "But 
Scully," he whispers, betraying some of the bewilderment he feels in his 
tone, "how can I know what you need if you won't tell me?" Very slowly, 
the hand not restraining my wrist moves to the side of my head. Mulder 
brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, his eyes never leaving mine. "I 
fucked up," he says quietly, sincerely. "I thought I needed something 
from Diana you couldn't give me," he explains gently. "What I hadn't 
taken the time to figure, was that you couldn't give it to me, because 
you didn't know I needed it." His thumb slowly begins moving in small 
circles over my cheekbone. 

Something that's been niggling at the back of my brain since my walls 
began to crack finally penetrates. I answer a few of my own questions, 
both those I've voiced, and those I haven't, in these few precious 
seconds I spend staring into his eyes. Just to be sure of what I'm 
seeing, I look closer; and he allows me in; Mulder allows me to see 
everything. It must've happened sometime while he was away from me 
tonight. It's the only explanation.  Because I would've noticed this 
before he left; how could I =miss= this?

Mulder's walls haven't just cracked; Mulder's walls have crumbled. His 
walls have crumbled and he's allowing me to stand in the ruins, to bathe 
in the streams of emotion he's leaking more furiously than I am. This 
experience releases the flood of emotions in me that so far haven't been 
allowed past the barriers.

=Crack=

=Crack=

Unmeasurable, unconditional love flows directly from me to him, like a 
current, I feel it crackle where our skin meets, his hand on my wrist. 
He feels it too; I read it in his eyes.  My anger simmers; my rage is 
passing; other emotions fight their way to the surface; care for him, 
they scream at me; love him; hold him; keep him safe. And I will. I have 
to, for him and myself. But first, I need to know. "What is it, Mulder?" 
I ask, my voice softer than it has been all evening, my eyes filled, but 
not spilling over, with tears.  "What did you need from her?"

"I needed someone who knew me, who knew me before I was Spooky Mulder, 
who had a memory of someone with a few out there ideas, but hadn't yet 
been written off as a lunatic. I needed someone to validate me, to tell 
me I =wasn't= crazy. I needed to be with someone I knew at least cared 
for me, who I cared for just enough for it to matter, but not enough for 
it to terrify me. I needed to feel less. When I'm with you Scully . . . 
when we're being more than just partners, I feel more than I've ever 
felt in my life. I cover the entire emotional spectrum in a matter of 
hours. And I still didn't even know what this thing between us =was=." 
His brows furrow as he tries to phrase this properly. "You were 
attacking the person I'd chosen to be someone I wasn't anymore with; 
someone I desperately needed to be, just for a little while. In essence, 
Scully, you were attacking the small, sane part of me that still exists. 
Only you didn't know it and I didn't tell you, because =I= didn't know 
it." He sighs and bends his head, raising my hand at the same time. He 
places a gentle kiss to the inside of my wrist, caressing my skin with 
his lips, reverently moving to my palm.

I curl my fingers around his jaw, feeling the stubble scrape the pads of 
my fingertips. I want to say a thousand different things, and bask in 
the quiet we share together forever. I want to hold him so close, he can 
never leave me again, in any way. I am tempted to put the distance 
between us again, to close off this bridge forever; because what I feel 
is frightening me. I have no defense against him. My walls are 
crumbling. Soon, there will be nothing left. There will be nothing left 
but me, and it hasn't been just me in over a decade. 

"Take your shower Mulder," I whisper, removing my hand from his face, 
ending all tactile contact between us. "I don't want you catching cold."

His eyes are sad; infinitely haunted that I'm not saying more; that I'm 
not joining him, that I'm not doing anything but push him away. He 
stands mutely and walks to the bathroom. The door shuts behind him and I 
hear the water start. I sit in the quiet of my living room, feeling the 
air practically vibrate with the tension that still remains.  My every 
nerve ending is still alive, is still humming with nervous energy. I 
feel his lack of presence more than I felt his presence. He's in the 
shower, I try to tell myself. He's just beyond that door; somehow, it 
doesn't help.

He completes me, and without him, I'm not a whole person either. 

I stand on shaky legs and once again contemplate the fact that I was 
wrong; my heart is breaking and I can feel its beating cease. I can't 
allow this to happen; no amount of safety is worth losing what we have. 
It won't be easy; it will be damn hard. But I want it. I need it. I need 
him.

A single tear runs down my cheek; then another; then another. With every 
tear, I take a step toward the bathroom door; with every step, I remove 
an article of clothing. I reach the door, naked, tear tracks covering my 
face. I twist the knob and reach for something undefinable, but 
infinitely precious. I reach for my sanity, for my spark of madness; I 
reach for my present and my future; I reach for my rocky road, my 
difficult, but ultimately worthwhile journey. I reach for my heart, my 
soul and my salvation. I reach for Mulder.

And the walls are nothing but dust at our feet.

~~~~

END 

~~~~