TITLE:  The Third
AUTHOR:  Susanne Barringer
EMAIL:  sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE:  Please archive this version, a single complete file with
no section breaks.
CATEGORY:  S
KEYWORDS:  Mulder/Scully UST
RATING:  PG
SPOILERS:  Lots of them up through Arcadia
SUMMARY:  A car, a late night, conversation, iced tea.  Yep, it's
stakeout fic.
DISCLAIMER:  Not my characters, alas.  They belong to Chris
Carter, 1013, and Fox.  No infringement intended.

THANKS to my beta reader and friend, Suzanne Schramm, for the
encouragement to go for it and enough puffing to keep me writing.

__________
 

The Third
by Susanne Barringer
 

I park the car around the corner from Ivan Mahoney's house and
walk the rest of the way.  Approaching the sedan stationed across
the street, I tap on the passenger-side window before opening the
door so I won't startle Mulder.

Mulder is on an "unofficial" stakeout.  We have been on the trail of
a mysterious killer for the past two weeks.  All evidence points to
Mahoney, except for the minor fact that he has been dead for a
month.  True to form, Mulder does not consider being buried six
feet under an air-tight alibi.  Somehow, he talked me into helping
him keep an eye on Mahoney's house tonight in case the "suspect"
shows up.  "The Undead inevitably return to their home at some
point," he helpfully explained to me.  The whole thing is ridiculous,
but I am out of rational explanations and the case is about to be
relegated to the "unsolved" file, so I reluctantly agreed to relieve
Mulder for a few hours so he could get some sleep.  It's only until
dawn anyway.  Apparently, Mulder believes if Mahoney returns, it'll
only be at night.  I don't know if this is just a hunch or some sort of
official Undead rule, but, in any case, I know if I don't agree to
cover for him, he'll sit here himself until dawn.  I'm doing it to keep
him healthy, not for the case.  This isn't the first time.

I slide in the car next to Mulder and toss him the keys to the car I
just vacated.  "Any sign of the walking dead?" I ask.  No way am I
going to let him get away tonight without any harassment about this
ridiculous stakeout.

"Nope," he replies quite seriously despite my own light tone.
"Haven't seen a sign of anyone.  Thanks for doing this Scully.  I
know you think I'm nuts."

"Wouldn't be the first time," I smile at him.  His nuttiness can be so
charming.  "Go home and get some sleep, Mulder."

"Uh, can I stay a little while and keep you company?  I feel pretty
wired at the moment."  I count five empty cans of iced tea at my
feet.  No wonder he's not tired.

My silence lets him know I agree.  Actually, I'm glad for his
company.  Being with Mulder is almost always preferable to being
alone.  Actually, it's usually preferable to being with anyone else as
well.  I can't help but wonder how I have gotten to the point where
Mulder has become my primary social life.  It's either pathetic or
inevitable; I'm not sure which is the more terrifying.

Mulder turns off the sports station to which he has been listening.
I'm not big on sports and he knows it.  Truthfully, Mulder and I are
terrible partners when it comes to surveillance together.  It is the
only thing we don't do with complimentary efficiency.  Mulder likes
to listen to sports; I prefer National Public Radio or some kind of
news program, if anything.  Most of the time I go for silence.
Mulder crunches his sunflower seeds and piles up the shells on the
dashboard, which drives me bonkers.  There's an ashtray right there;
I don't understand why he doesn't use it.  I won't even get into the
empty tea cans tossed on the floor.  Sometimes he even hums,
which is even more annoying than the crunching of the seeds,
especially since he tends to hum television theme songs.  I think if I
hear the theme song to "Mod Squad" one more time I will go on a
rampage.  Mulder and I could spend vast amounts of time together
and it would be no problem, unless that time involved being stuck
in close proximity for endless hours with no escape.

There's no greater proof of that than our recent case in San Diego,
playing a married couple.  All that time together, seeing all those
little habits of his that would drive me nuts if I had to deal with
them, certainly didn't convince me that we were made for each
other.  The thought brings a smile to my face, and a breathy laugh
which I do not realize I've allowed to escape until Mulder turns to
me.

"What?" he eyes me suspiciously.

"Nothing."  Better keep that one to myself.

"Okay," he says.

Pause.

"No, really Scully, what had you so entertained?  Would you care
to share it with the whole class?"

Damn, I should have known Mulder would push it.  He can't ever
settle for a simple "nothing."  There's always some truth to be
found.  I could make up something, but I can't think of anything
funny enough to justify my self-entertainment.  Besides, what the
hell?  "Well, I was thinking that you and I didn't do a very good job
at being married, did we?"

I am met by a burst of hysterics from Mulder.  He is laughing.
Hard.

"What?" I query, feeling suddenly offended.

"*We* didn't do a very good job?  I did a fine job, Scully.  You
were the one who was so uptight about everything."

"What are you talking about?  I wasn't uptight.  One of us had to
keep you under control."

Mulder laughs once more, then suddenly grows more serious and
flashes an uncomfortable grin.  He looks away before speaking
again.  "I don't understand why you wouldn't even play the game,
Scully."

"What are you talking about?"

"The jokes, the clichÈs, you didn't even laugh at the whole
situation."

"Marriage isn't a game, Mulder."

"I know that, Scully, and that's not what I'm saying.  But would it
have hurt to laugh at a joke, to play along with me?  How often do
we get to go undercover as a couple in suburban hell?  Let's face it,
the whole thing was funny."

"I don't see what's so funny.  People were dying."

"You and I married.  That's what was so funny."  Mulder erupts in
laughter again.  I don't think I've ever heard him laugh so hard.  For
the record, I am now officially offended.

"What's so funny about us being married?"

Mulder manages to stop laughing long enough to look at me.  His
smile fades as suddenly as his laughter.  "Uh, Scully, think about it.
What would kill us first--your obsessive control or my organized
madness?  You don't honestly think it could work.  Do you?"

For some reason I feel on the defensive.  I know I shouldn't take it
personally, especially since Mulder is probably just taunting me, but
I do.  What makes him think I'd be so impossible to live with?

"I don't see why not.  We spend most of our time together anyway.
What difference would it make if we were married?"  Yes, I realize
that's an absurd question, but that's not the issue.  I cannot believe
Mulder finds the idea funny of all things.  Surprising, unlikely,
thought-provoking, yes.  But not funny.

Mulder looks at me curiously, his eyes studying me.  He is
wondering how serious I am, or if I am just egging him on.  He
seems unable to decide.  "Well, Scully," he says with mock
seriousness, obviously trying to play both possibilities, "I think
being married would be very different than what we are now."  A
thick sarcasm underlies his words.  "Besides," he continues, the
sarcasm drifting into a barely perceptible melancholy tone, "I'm not
exactly the marrying kind."  He turns back to look at Mahoney's
house.

"I don't believe that, Mulder."  It is difficult to imagine Mulder
married, in the abstract anyway.  Even so, something about his
comment doesn't seem right.

"I meant I'm not the kind of man a woman would want to marry."
His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, clueing me in that he is
more serious than he wants to let on.  It hurts me sometimes to
know how little he values himself, how easily he assumes that he is
somehow faulty or flawed.

"I'd marry you," I say without thinking.  I mean it in a general way,
of course.  Just to make a point.

Mulder turns and smiles at me ruefully.  "Yes, you would, wouldn't
you," he says, his eyes now suddenly warm.  What the hell did that
mean?  Is he implying I'm desperate?  I wonder if I should be
insulted, but for some reason I'm not.

"We'd definitely have to set a few rules, though," I add, bringing the
conversation back around to my original point and trying to take
the edge off the tension that has suddenly sprouted between us like
Jack's beanstalk.

Mulder throws back his head and laughs.  Again.  Man, if I'd known
the idea of marriage was so entertaining for him, I'd have used it as
fodder a long time ago.  "Scully, if you were my wife, I would do
whatever it took to make you happy.  Even squeeze the toothpaste
from the bottom."  He is looking away from me, out the window, as
he says it, so I cannot tell if he is teasing me or not.  In my heart, I
know he is not, which makes me feel sort of, I don't know exactly.
It's one big mix of something terrifying, that's one thing I am sure
of.

Silence looms again.  I'm confused about what has just happened.
It was all a joke.  Right?  I'm not sure what I should take seriously
and what I shouldn't.  The more I think though, and this silence is
giving me way too much time to think, the more I understand that
we've just crossed some sort of line, some sort of round-about,
back-door, indirect admission of something important.  What it is,
I'm not sure, but something.  Something crucial.  Something that
could dent the perfectly constructed armor we have built around
ourselves to protect us from this exact moment.  Whatever it is.

I sit without moving for a while, staring at the buttons on my shirt.
The silence seems uncomfortable.  It is a type of silence I am not
used to, not with Mulder.  The beanstalk grows higher.  He finally
speaks, shifting around in his seat to face me.

"Do you want to get married, Scully?"  The question catches me off
guard; it's too personal.  I feel unbalanced, wobbly, even though I
am sitting down.  Just turn it into a joke, I tell myself.  That's the
safety net.  Don't fly without that net, whatever you do.

"Is that a proposal, Mulder?"  He doesn't smile, doesn't leer.  In
fact, he is looking at me quite seriously.  Too seriously.  "If so, you
should at least get down on one knee."  Net in place.  He can do
whatever he wants with the question now.

"I'm serious, Scully.  You and I never talk about stuff like this.  Is
marriage something you want in your life?  Are you looking for Mr.
Right?"

Figures Mulder would pick now to have a serious conversation.
I'm not sure I like the direction this is heading.  Mulder and I talk all
the time, but he's right--we don't talk about our personal lives.  We
don't talk about hopes, and plans, and dreams deferred.  We did
once talk about having children, back when I thought I could have
them, and even then Mulder had seemed surprised when I
expressed interest in it.  Like he doesn't think of me as a woman, or
as a "regular" woman who might want a "regular" life.  I tried to
talk about that once, when we were on our way out to Groom Lake
in the middle of the night following some insane tip, but he didn't
take me seriously.  He never does.  That's why I'm not sure I want
him to think of me that way.  Well, I do, but it's safer the way we
are.

I twist around in my seat so I can face him, as he is facing me.  He
has asked me a serious question, and even though I'm
uncomfortable with what's going on between us, I feel obligated to
answer him honestly.  Screw the safely net.  We have been swinging
on the trapeze dangerously lately.  Maybe it's time to take the leap.
A flying leap.

"Yes and no.  I mean, I always thought I would get married.  In
fact, I always assumed I'd be married by this point in my life."
Geez, make yourself sound like an old maid, a spinster.  Way to go.

"Why aren't you?"  Such a simple question, but laden with so much
complexity.  Could Mulder possibly understand?

"Honestly, my whole life is not what I expected.  I'm an FBI agent
for God's sake.  That was definitely not on my 'where I'd like to be
in 10 years' list."

He doesn't say anything, so I continue.  "I don't know, Mulder.  I
try not to think about it too much."  That's the truth.  I do try not to
think about it, but every morning when I wake up alone, its truth
comes pounding down upon me.  I am alone.  And I don't want to
be.

Mulder nods silently and looks at me.  I think I see sadness in his
eyes.  Does he feel sorry for me?  I sure as hell don't want that.

"Are you sorry you're not married, Scully?  I mean, are you sorry
you have this life?"  The question startles me.  I thought Mulder
understood.

"Of course not!" I say, realizing as my voice echoes through the car
that I said it too loudly.  The lady protesting too much and all that.
"You know I love this job.  It's my life.  I wouldn't let it be if I
didn't want it to be."

"But you'd rather be married."  He has turned his face back to look
through the windshield, which disappoints me.  Of course, we are
supposed to be watching for Mahoney, dead or not.  I want him to
look at me; I want to know what he is really asking.

"Mulder, you can't compare the two."  For some reason, I feel like I
ought to try to make him feel better, although I'm not sure why I
even think he is bothered.  "It's not a case of having to sacrifice one
in order to have the other."  Mulder doesn't react so I change
tactics, for some reason giving into my obsessive need to assuage
his guilt.  It is a role I have learned to play, and accept, but that
doesn't always mean I like it.  "I just haven't met anyone I'd want to
marry."

That one gets a reaction out of him.  "You haven't?" he asks,
turning back toward me.  There's something palpably scary about
his words.  The tone of the question.  The question itself.  Am I
reading too much into it?  I decide not to answer him, just in case.
Why do I feel the need to leave that door open for some kind of
distant future possibility?  If it even was a door.  Maybe I'm just
inventing doors, looking for a way out.  Or in.  I'm well aware that
it's in I want, but I have no idea how to get there.  Would he even
let me in?

He accepts my silence.  "Let's face it," he continues when I don't
answer, "if you were married, if you had a life, you wouldn't want
to be doing this, be continuing these silly cases, following dead men
and monsters."

"Mulder, it's my job."  His lack of understanding about this
frustrates me.  I thought these things were understood.  I thought
we would never need to discuss them.  Maybe we should have.
Maybe I shouldn't have assumed that he knew how much I needed
him, how much I needed this work to keep me from turning into
some scientific automaton who can't see two inches past her test
tubes and Bunsen burners.

"No, Scully."  His eyes are sad again, guilty.  Damn him.  Why can't
he understand?  "Your job was to debunk my work, to discredit me.
You could have had that nailed in six weeks, hell in six days even.
You could have reported back that I was a fucking lunatic.  Job
complete.  Case closed.  You're back to Quantico or, even better, in
like Flynn with the higher-ups, promoted, running your own
division, commendations out the wazoo.   This . . ." he motions to
us sitting in the car waiting for a dead man to walk by, "was not
your job."

I don't know how to respond to that.  I'm not sure I should.  I think
silence is best, but Mulder won't let it be.  I wish he would just
leave, but I want like crazy for him to stay.  I want to finish this,
wherever it might lead.  We've never been here before.  The scary
thing is, there's no map.  Let's finish this Mulder.  Let's drag it all
out into the open, now, here, sitting in front of a dead man's house.
There sure as hell isn't any chance we'll be interrupted by the
suspect's arrival.

"Why didn't you, Scully?  I don't think I've ever understood that,
even after all this time.  I need to know why."  His tone is harsh,
angry almost.  Yep, looks like we're going to beat this out into the
open after all.  All the things we've never talked about, all the things
that have bobbed between us like bottles floating on the ocean,
containing notes full of longing and companionship but sealed
tightly shut against the elements.

"Why what?"

"Why didn't you tell them what they wanted to hear?  Why didn't
you just tell them that my work was a crock?  It wouldn't have been
a lie.  It's not very far from the truth."  I think I see unshed tears fill
his eyes.  How in the world did we get here?  Where the hell is that
map?

The frustration swells inside of me again.  Why is Mulder so damn
dense?  I check myself before speaking so my words don't sound
angry, then I reach out and touch Mulder's cheek to force him to
look at me.  I want this to sink in.  "It *would* have been a lie.
Just because I haven't always believed what you believe, doesn't
mean I thought it was a crock.  We solved cases, Mulder, legitimate
cases with legitimate solutions.  We solved cases that everyone else
thought were unsolvable or, at least, not worth the time to
investigate properly.  The X-Files aren't all about little green men.
It didn't take me very long to figure that out.  I'm *proud* of what
I've accomplished here, what we've accomplished."

Mulder gazes at me; his face is a mask but I cannot miss the
amazement and gratitude in his eyes.  It is a look I've seen before,
under similar conditions, in front of Eugene Tooms's apartment on
a late-night stakeout so many years ago.  Mulder looked at me just
like that when I told him I wouldn't put myself on the line for
anybody but him.  I have never forgotten that look, the shock, the
gratefulness.  In some ways, it's the closest I've ever come to telling
him how I feel.  I wonder if he realizes how close.  I wonder if he
realizes that I might never come that close again.

"God, Scully," he does not break the eye contact between us.  I can
see how much this hurts him.  "I just don't ever want you to regret
spending years of your career, of your life, doing this."

Jesus, have we come this far in our partnership only to be back at
our insecure beginnings, when trust was something we approached
with caution and wariness?  "I don't regret any of it Mulder.  I told
you that once before and I meant it.  If I wanted out, I would have
gotten out, a long time ago.  You need me Mulder.  No one else
would put up with you."

He smiles at me, tilting his head slightly as if inspecting me.  "Yes, I
do.  I do need you, Scully.  You're the only one who understands
me."  Mulder is truly pitiful sometimes, so wrapped up in his
perceived lack of self-worth that it makes me want to slap some
sense into him.  I decide to tease him instead.  This conversation is
already far too serious.

"I wouldn't say I understand you," I suggest, "just that I'm the only
one who tolerates you!"

Mulder grins and laughs silently, then quickly becomes serious
again.  What has gotten into him tonight?  "I'm not even sure I
understand myself half the time, Scully.  Most of the time I think
the world is right--I *am* crazy."

"For God's sake, Mulder, you're not crazy.  You're just passionate,
and focused, and committed to your beliefs.  There aren't very many
people in the world who are true to their beliefs like you are.  I
admire that."

"Oh Scully, don't do that."  Mulder looks uncomfortable at my
words, almost guilty.  Why does he feel so unworthy of admiration?
"You, you're the one worth admiring.  You're one complete
package."

Damn it, his words touch me.  I hate the way he can do that to me,
and it's always inevitably right about the time I'm ready to slug him.
A lump of emotion rises in my throat, and I feel a strong desire to
end this now.  Before it gets the best of me.  "Mulder, don't be
ridiculous.  I'm not perfect and you know it."

"Perfect enough," he mumbles.  I try to catch his eye, but he stares
straight ahead.  I cannot for the life of me figure out what has made
him so sentimental tonight, so seriously paying me the compliments
he usually disguises in jokes.

"Okay," I agree, just to relieve the tension and the sentimentality
with which I feel so uncomfortable, "so we've established that we're
the presidents of each other's fan clubs.  That's probably good,
because I doubt there are any other members, especially among our
colleagues."  Keep the tone light, I remind myself.  We're better off
joking about our reputations than talking seriously about our
partnership.  Or maybe it's just that *I'm* better off that way.  I can
feel myself bending, giving in.  To what, I'm not sure, but it's
something I've been fighting since the day I first walked into
Mulder's basement office.  And it scares the crap out of me.

"I'm sorry."

What the hell is he apologizing for?  Really, sometimes Mulder's
guilt becomes a burden even on me.

"Cut it out, Mulder.  Quit feeling like it's your fault I work in the
basement and have the least desired partner in the entire Federal
Bureau of Investigation.  I like my job, I like my partner, end of
story."  End of story?  Hardly.  It's so much more complex than
that.  Sometimes it seems more complex than all the answers for
which we've spent the last six years looking.

Mulder grins, but it's in a self-deprecating kind of way.  I know my
words have done little to make him feel better.  After all we've been
through, after all the words that have passed between us, after
coming so close to crossing the uncrossable line, he still doesn't
believe that I am here now entirely of my own accord.

Mulder turns back toward me, "Well, anyway, I'm sure you have
plenty of admirers among our colleagues.  Skinner for one," he
says, his tone metamorphosing, much to my relief, from the serious
one that has characterized most of our conversation tonight.

"Skinner respects both of us."

"Uh uh."  Mulder shakes his head forcefully.  "Skinner respects
you.  He tolerates me.  In fact, it wouldn't surprise me at all if
Skinner had a little thing for you."  Mulder flashes me his trademark
"I'm about to give you hell" smile, then continues.  "I've seen the
way he looks at you.  When he talks to you, his eyes get all warm
and soft--well, as soft as he could probably get with that hard-assed
attitude of his.  He never looks at me like that, thank God, or I'd
have to kill him!"  Mulder's grin borders on a leer, so I know he is
just giving me a hard time.  Back to his usual self.

I feign annoyance, willing to play along if it means he will quit
berating himself.  "That's absurd."

"I'm a man, Scully.  I know these things.  Skinner has the hots for
you."

I really want to laugh, but I never give Mulder that satisfaction
when he's ragging on me.  I simply roll my eyes and decide to turn
the tables.  "Well, what about that blonde push-up-bra woman
down in the fingerprint lab?  Leslie?  The way she throws herself at
you?"

"She does not!" he objects.

"Are you kidding me?  The only way she could be more obvious is
to start taking off her clothes.  Please.  The woman is desperate for
you.  And don't even pretend like you haven't noticed."

"Really, I haven't.  You think she's interested in me?" he asks
seriously, looking suddenly quite absorbed in what I have to say.
Oh, great, just go ahead and tell him that he's got an easy lay right
under his nose.  Smooth move.  The fact that I even care is what
should worry me.  It doesn't.  I'm used to it.  I've cared for a long
time.

"I think she's interested in anything with a Y chromosome and a
decent paycheck," I shoot back, figuring I can make sure Leslie isn't
quite so attractive as she appears.

Mulder smiles a knowing grin at me and nods, like he's well aware
of exactly what I am doing, which I suspect he is, but I'll never let
him know that.  "Well," he says as if to reassure me, "she's not
really my type anyway."

Okay, that's interesting, and definitely worth pursuing.  Mulder,
perpetually reluctant to talk about women, now suddenly willing?
This is an opportunity I will not fail to seize upon.

"I didn't realize you had a type, Mulder.  I mean besides two-
dimensional and photogenic in multiple positions."

"Ooooo, low blow, Scully.  Hey, I like real women just fine, thank
you."

"When was the last time you even *had* a real woman, Mulder?"

Shit.  As soon as the words are out of my mouth I want to kill
myself.  Mulder's head snaps around to look at me.  His eyes show
surprise, but underneath I see the hurt and accusation.  God, that
was downright cruel, and definitely the wrong way to go about
getting the information that I really want to know: when *was* the
last time he had a real woman?

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  I didn't mean it that way."  I reach out to touch
his hand and am relieved when the iciness I sense from him begins
to thaw.  Have I blown it?  Will he still talk to me?  Might as well
try.  "So what is your type of woman?"  Geez, talk about pushing.

He contemplates for a moment, as if it is the answer to the universe,
and I realize he is actually going to tell me.  The words come out
slowly, as if he is thinking carefully about each choice.  "Intelligent.
Strong.  Able to stand up for herself.  Someone who laughs at my
jokes."  He pauses, then the last few come out quickly.  "Red hair,
scientist, preferably in some kind of law enforcement."  Very funny,
Mulder.  At least he seems to have forgiven me my unfortunate
words.

"Sounds familiar."

"Who, you?"  He raises his eyebrows in surprise.  "No way.  You
don't laugh at my jokes."

"Oh, so I don't fit the profile of Mulder's perfect woman?" I tease,
sort of.

"Not unless you grow a better sense of humor for lame jokes."  His
eyes sparkle at me in that totally irresistible way that I hate, dread,
and love all at the same time.

"It'll never happen.  Lame is lame."

"Must be fate then," he says in a way that makes my heart lurch
with the memory of those words.

"Guess so."

"Iced tea?" he asks suddenly, motioning to the cooler resting in the
back seat.  We both smile, catch each other's eye.  So I am not the
only one for whom this feels familiar.  I decide to throw caution to
the wind and reach back, open the cooler, and grab a can.  Then I
toss one to Mulder.  "Ah, could be love," he says as he clinks his
can to mine in a toast.  Dear God, he's charming me to death.

We lapse into silence again, this time a more comfortable one, the
kind with which Mulder and I are more than familiar.  The truth is, I
suddenly like this conversation.  I like the possibilities.  I like the
fact that maybe I will finally get a chance to learn more about
Mulder.  As much as I know him, I often think I don't really know
him at all.  Not really.  Not the real, deep-down Mulder that exists
outside of me, outside of us.

"Do you want to get married, Mulder?" I ask, staring at Mahoney's
house.

"Is that a proposal, Scully?  If so, you should at least get down on
one knee," he proclaims, echoing my earlier joke.  I ignore it.  As
usual.

"You asked me, now I'm asking you.  Do you want to get married
someday?"

"I told you Scully, I don't think any woman would want to marry
me."  I know Mulder's trick of avoiding a question.  I won't let him
get away with it tonight.

"That's not what I asked.  I asked if you *want* to get married."

He hesitates a moment, as if trying to think of the honest answer.
His words come out carefully.  "I think I would like to be married,
but it's not something I've really thought was possible in my life,
given my commitments elsewhere."

"But you'd like to get married?" I push.  I can't help it.  I have no
idea, actually, what Mulder wants out of life--beyond the truth and
finding his sister that is.  How could I not know, after all the years
we've been together?  After all the hours we've spent on stakeouts
just like this one?  How could we never have discussed this?  I
wonder if Mulder wonders the same thing.

"Okay, yes.  I would like to get married.  I would like to have
someone who loves me, and who will let me love her.  Doesn't
everybody want that?"  Yes, I suppose everybody does.  I nod my
encouragement and take a swig of tea to avoid having to answer
him.  Something about his voice signals me that he is covering up
what he really wants to say.  He is hiding the truth.

"We're pretty pathetic, aren't we Mulder?  No life to speak of on
either of our parts."

"Yeah, not to mention we're sitting out here waiting for a dead man
to come home."  I smile at him and he returns it.  At least he's
aware of how absurd our lives can be sometimes.  I'm not sure
anyone else could ever understand.

"And drinking iced tea," I add, flashing him my best smile, then
kicking myself for what ultimately could be classified as flirting with
my partner.

Mulder seems not to have noticed, however, for hardly a few
seconds pass before he starts grilling me again.  "You say you'd like
to get married Scully, but how come you never do anything about
it?"  He gives me a look of genuine interest and concern.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you don't exactly search out men to date, or make yourself
available to meeting people.  I know why I don't do it, because I
can't offer any kind of commitment, but I don't see any reason why
you don't.  You should have men throwing themselves at you."

Mulder's words hit close to home.  It's something I have often
asked myself.  Although I've never been very comfortable with the
whole dating scene, I know I could be attracting men if I wanted to.
There are plenty of single men at work with whom I could at least
go to dinner or a movie every now and then.  Why do I avoid it?
Why do I allow myself to give off the impression of being cold and
uninterested?  I'm well aware that I do it, and that I do it purposely.

"I don't know, Mulder.  I guess as much as I'd like to have a
relationship, I don't want to be bothered with all the formalities of
getting there.  I just don't seem to have much interest these days in
getting to know someone and going through all that."

"That's a justification, Scully."  There is a challenge in his voice.
"Be honest with yourself.  Why are you avoiding a relationship?"

"Who says I'm avoiding a relationship?"

"Scully!" he sounds annoyed with me, as well he should.  I'm
hedging and he knows it.  "You just said you couldn't be bothered
with the formalities.  That's avoiding a relationship.  If you don't
want one, that's fine, but you say you do.  You deserve to be happy.
I'd like to see you with someone who makes you happy."

You make me happy, Mulder.  Luckily, those words are only in my
head and not escaping across my lips.  I know the answer to his
question.  I've known the answer for a long time, although this is
one of those rare moments when its clarity hits me square in the
face.  Like a brick wall.  A really solid, gigantic, unforgiving brick
wall.

I don't seek out relationships with men because I would have to
give up the relationship I have with Mulder.  Sure, technically we're
just partners and great friends.  In reality, it's more than that.
Finding someone else would mean that Mulder and I really *are*
just partners and great friends, and that's not good enough for me.
I want to be with Mulder.  Whatever that means.  Or doesn't mean.
No Leslie with her boobs pushed up to high heaven is going to
break up what we have.  Whatever it is.  Or isn't.

"There've been some possibilities," I suggest, knowing it's a lie, but
just needing to talk about something besides what's running through
my head.

"Oh, right, let's review."  Mulder's voice drips with sarcasm.  God,
I'm in for a time of it now.  He continues, "There was that guy who
thought his tattoo talked to him.  What was his name again?"

"Ed," I reply, even though I have no doubt Mulder knows that
already.

"Yeah, Ed.  Tell me about that, Scully.  I don't mean to be nosy, but
what was it about him?"

Should I lie?  Should I exaggerate?  Should I make it sound better
than it was?  No point.  I'm sure Mulder has memorized the X-File
anyway.

"I don't know.  He was good looking, and passionate, and there
was just something about him.  Something that dared me to take a
chance, to try something new."

"He was passionate?" Mulder asks.  I wonder why he's chosen to
dwell on that particular adjective.

"Yeah, I mean he just had this look about him--brooding, dark,
mysterious."

"Like me?" Mulder asks with a slight smile.  I manage not to laugh.
Mulder may be brooding, but he's no Heathcliff.  Of course, I'm
hardly a Cathy, so it doesn't really matter.  Oh forget the literary
metaphors, just answer the question.

"No, something different, more dangerous."

"So you went home with him even though you thought he was
dangerous?"  Mulder looks at me searchingly.  I realize that he
cannot understand this behavior, at least not from me.  Hell, even I
can't understand why I did it.

"No, not dangerous like a threat, more like dangerous in terms of
what I could feel, or do.  I don't know how to explain it."

Mulder is silent.  It's starting to become a regular thing.  Then, from
out of the night sky, he plops it down right in my lap.  "Did you
sleep with him?"

I look at him, but he is once again looking off into the distance.  I
wonder how long Mulder has wanted to ask that question.  The
truth is, I want him to wonder, I want him to be jealous.

"No."

Damn that Catholic guilt, I can't even lie.  Why is it I feel so
compelled to tell the truth?  I could have at least been cryptic.  A
"maybe, maybe not," or a "that's none of your damn business," or
even just a mysterious look would have been more interesting than
my confession of lack of sin.

Mulder, however, looks astonished, and I realize he has always
assumed that I did.  "Why not?  Given that he was so 'passionate'
and all?"  I can hear through Mulder's sarcasm that he is disturbed
by this conversation, yet he keeps pressing.  Is it jealousy, lack of
understanding, some kind of perverse voyeuristic need to know?  I
hope for the first, but knowing Mulder, it's probably the latter.

"I guess because I'd just met him.  I mean, even though I was
feeling sort of wild and daring that night, sleeping with a total
stranger really isn't my cup of tea."  Oh, great, just go ahead and be
honest about the goody-goody you really are.  Not like he didn't
already know, but there's no point in making it irrefutable.

"But you would have, if you'd spent more time together?  If his
tattoo hadn't been having conversations with him?"  Mulder has
pulled his arms up and crossed them across his chest, signaling me
that as much as he wants an honest answer, he's afraid of what he's
asking.  He's closing off to me, anticipating my response.

I raise my can of tea to my lips to stall for a moment but realize it's
already empty.  "Yes.  Maybe.  Probably.  I don't know.  Those
'what if' questions aren't really answerable, Mulder.  I *wanted* to
sleep with him if that's what you're asking me."  Might as well lay
the cards on the table.  He asked.

"Oh," says Mulder quietly.  I can't believe we're having this
discussion at all.  How has it has come to this point--me talking to
Mulder about my love life, or lack of it?

Then Mulder ups the ante.  In a big way.

"And what about Eddie Van Blundht?"  Danger signals go off in my
head.

"What about him?"  I decide to play innocent.  Maybe he'll just let it
drop?  Not a chance.

"Well, since we're talking about the relationships you've had
recently."

"I'd hardly call that a relationship, Mulder."  I have a sinking feeling
Mulder has led the conversation this direction on purpose.  It's too
big a jump in logic, even for him.  All the years we've spent not
talking about this, and now, suddenly, we are.

"You were about to kiss him."

"I thought he was you."

"Oh, so you were about to kiss me?"  And now I know why we, by
mutual silent agreement, have never discussed the incident.  The
warning bells grow louder, clanging inside my head.

"Yes, I guess I was."  So much for the warning bells.  Might as well
be deaf for all I just listened to them.

Mulder is closed-lipped again, arms crossed tightly in front of him,
his eyes studying the front windshield, the steering wheel.  God, are
we in trouble or what?

"What was it about him, about what he said or did, that made you
want to kiss me?"  The question is asked softly, so softly I almost
can't hear it.  It wouldn't matter anyway because I am well aware of
what Mulder wants to know.  I also know the answer to this
question is a crucial one.  The truth is, even though it was Van
Blundht who made the moves, I believed it was Mulder, and I
would have let it happen.  Willingly, no questions asked.  Hell, I
would have made damn sure he finished what he started, even if
that meant handcuffing him to the coffee table.  I'll never tell that to
Mulder though.  I'm terrified of what he would think of me, of what
it would do to our partnership, if he knew that one kiss from him
would send me running for the bedroom, willing to sacrifice all that
we've built so far for a quick roll in the hay.  Although, I have no
doubt, it would be one unbelievable, unworldly, incredible roll in
the metaphoric hay.  Not that I've actually thought about it or
anything.

Mulder is waiting for my answer.  "Well, it was just different, you
know?  I think I knew instinctively that something was different
between us.  I just didn't realize *how* it was different.  He
brought over a bottle of wine and we just sat and talked in a way
you and I have never done before."

"Like we're doing now?" Mulder interrupts.  TouchÈ.

"Yes," I say, surprised at my honesty and the implications of it.  "I
mean, you . . . he . . ."  For God's sake, keep them straight!  "He
got me to talk about the twelfth grade love of my life, and my life's
plans, and my prom horror stories.  It was just different.  We never
talked like that before."

Mulder nods, his brow is furrowed in contemplation.  "I'm sorry for
bringing it up.  I imagine it's pretty disturbing to think about."  I
can't tell if he's seriously sympathetic or making a joke at his own
expense.  I say nothing.  It is a touchy subject, one that could get
me into deep trouble.  The best thing to do is change the subject.
Now.

"So, Mulder, now that we've reviewed my extensive list of recent
boyfriends, let's talk about you."  Mulder looks at me, wincing.  He
doesn't seem in a hurry to leave, however, so I figure he's willing to
serve his time.  "Tell me about Diana."  Okay, that was blunt but
who the hell cares?  He's been avoiding telling me about her, and I
haven't had the guts to ask.  Now the opportunity is here and there's
no way I'm going to let it pass.

Mulder stares at me, his lips working over some kind of answer
though he seems unable to actually construct one.  "I loved her," he
finally says, his voice soft and quivering as he looks away from me.
"I loved her beyond reason," he adds.  My stomach knots at the
sentiment.  Mulder so open and emotional about a woman?  Not
something I'm used to.  Not something I want to be used to.

"What happened?" I ask, trying to sound sympathetic even though I
think the woman is the bitch of the century.

Mulder shrugs and stares out the windshield.  "She left me.  She
took a better position and left me and the X-Files."  His words
bring back our recent near-split after we were taken off the X-Files,
when I told him that I was quitting, his frantic attempt to get me to
stay.  How much of his need was to avoid a repeat of Diana?  How
much did I remind him of her, willing to leave him behind?  It
wasn't the same thing.  I try to convince myself it wasn't.  I wouldn't
leave him like that, not to advance my career.

Mulder tosses his now-empty iced tea can onto the pile already
built.  He looks distracted, thoughtful.  I don't like that.  You don't
still love her, do you Mulder?  He continues speaking without my
prompting, as if he wants to come clean, to tell me everything.  "It
hurt when she left, more than I expected, but I threw myself into
the X-Files and got over it."  He turns to look at me and I'm sure I
see tears glistening.  Damn that woman.  What the hell did she do
to him?

"Do you want her back now?"

Mulder looks shocked at my question.  I'm actually shocked I asked
it.  It's the first time that I've ever acknowledged to myself that I've
had that fear, though it's been there since the moment I realized
who she really was to him.  Mulder reaches out and takes my hand,
then rests our joined hands on his knee.

"I'm over her, Scully.  I swear to you I'm way over her."

I nod simply, believing him, or at least wanting to.  He hasn't done a
very good job of convincing me of that through his recent actions,
but I have no real reason not to believe his words.  Although there
are a million other questions I want to ask him about her, want to
know, I decide now is not the time.  He's been more honest with me
than he had to.  I should respect that.  I shift gears, but just slightly.

"So, who else have you been involved with?"  Mulder's the one on
the spot now and not me, so I might as well keep it going.  Of
course, he's never been about to kiss someone who looks just like
me, so really how bad can it be?

Mulder pauses a long time.  Okay, so it could be very bad.  Is he
pausing because he has to count them?  Exactly how many lovers
has he had anyway?  I don't think I want to know, which only
serves to remind me that my feelings for him have never been
entirely platonic.  In truth, the thought of having to review a list of
Mulder's lovers makes me nauseous.

He seems to have read my mind, for he cuts to the chase.  "I have
only been in love with three women in my life," he says matter-of-
factly, as if he's announcing what he had for dinner last night.  I
know that's different than how many lovers he's had, but this
opening is good enough to keep us off that topic.  And infinitely
more fascinating.

"Three?"  That bothers me.  I know about Phoebe and Diana, but
who else could there be?  I curse the green monster who is standing
in front of me laughing his head off.  I have no right to be jealous.
It had to have been before me.  Then, I feel stupid for needing to
absolve him that way.  Before me?  Like it matters?  Actually, it
does matter.  It matters a lot.  "So, who's the third?"

"What?"  It takes him a second to focus back on me, then he lets go
of my hand.  I have drawn him out of some kind of reverie.  No
doubt he's thinking about that woman, the third woman.  Great.

"I asked about the third.  You said there were three women you've
been in love with.  Phoebe, Diana, and who else?"  My stomach
churns in anxiety, and I can tell I'm not going to like the answer.
Whoever she is, she sure as hell has distracted him.

Mulder turns to look directly at me and I am stunned by the sudden
power of his eyes boring through mine.  He is searching for
something in my eyes, rummaging deep.  I realize he is trying to
warn me of something, something too personal to share.  I panic.
I've pushed too far.  Then, he turns away from me and the
electricity between us vanishes.  At that exact moment I figure it
out, and I clamp my mouth shut to prevent the rising gasp from
escaping.

"It's not important," he says as he turns toward the door.  "I really
better go get some sleep."  He pulls on the handle, then unfolds his
legs out the door.  He turns back to me, all business, "Call me if
you see anything suspicious.  You only have to stay until the sun
comes up."

"Fine, whatever."  It is all I can say.  I'm not sure I have even
registered anything he is telling me.  I am afraid.  I am afraid that I
have misinterpreted what has just happened, but I know I haven't.
My body tightens in fear anyway.
 
The slam of the car door thunders through my head, chasing the
lingering echoes of Mulder's revelation straight from my brain and
into my heart.

My chest pounds with it, a truth that shouldn't be surprising but is.
A truth I think I have always known, yet of which I have never been
so painfully aware.  The ache of it is startling and bittersweet.  I
hear Mulder peel out from the curb with a screech of tires.  I can't
believe he's left me here.  I can't believe he did that to me and then
just left me here.

The situation only worsens when I suddenly see a flash of light
come from the front window of Ivan Mahoney's house.  I'll be
damned, the dead man has come home.
 

~~~~~~~~

END
 

Yep, it's finished.  I've been trying to add more to the story for
months out of some sort of feeling of obligation, with no success.
My incredible beta reader, Sue, helped me realize what I already
knew instinctively.  The story was always meant to end right here.
I may someday add to it, but only if the "right" sequel comes to me.

Feedback anyway?  sbarringer@usa.net