Title: This Is What I'd Say to You
Author: Toniann
E-Mail: ts19@cornell.edu 
Rating: PG
Category: SRA
Spoilers: small one for FTF
Keywords: M/S UST, angst, Scully POV, MSR
Summary: Scully gives Mulder the nudge he needs.

Author's Notes:  The title of this story is from the song "You
Were Meant For Me", from "Singin' in the Rain". This is a
companion piece to one I posted previously, "If I Should Dare",
which was told from Mulder's POV. You can read either piece
independently, but I hope you'd like to see where this story
began. 

Acknowledgements: Great big thanks to Brandon Ray, for suggesting
I tell this tale from Scully's POV, which is where I'm most
comfortable anyway. <g> And thank you to Shawne, a terrific
beta-reader, who keeps encouraging me so well.
Archive: Yes, please do so, just let me know where.
Feedback: You bet.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully may be meant for each other, but
they don't belong to me-- they are, instead, property of CC and
the 1013 crew.
_____________________________________________________________________

If I should dare to think you'd care
this is what I'd say to you:
You were meant for me
and I was meant for you.
--from "Singin' in the Rain"

All he ever needed to do was ask.

Really. Although I am not, perhaps, what you would describe as
"forthcoming" regarding my emotions, all Mulder had to do was
ask. I've never lied to him. I've never given him anything but
the truth, sometimes whether he wanted it or not. So if he wanted
to know how I felt about him, all he needed to do was ask. Since
he wasn't asking, I assumed he either already knew, or didn't
want to know. As it turns out, he thought he knew, but he knew
wrong. And he could've spared himself quite a bit of anxiety if
he'd just asked sooner. But at least he did finally get around to
it. With a bit of help from me, of course.

He was late to the office that morning. That's not common;
usually he's there before I am, already hard at work, and I
sometimes wonder just how implausible it is to think that he
hasn't actually been home from the night before. He has, I know,
a change of clothes hanging in the closet. Just in case. I also
sometimes wonder why he maintains a separate apartment at all,
but maybe the fish are happier there. Starving and neglected, but
happier.

Anyhow, as I was saying, I got there first that morning, and
therefore I was the one to receive Detective Harris' phone call.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

"Scully."

"Agent Scully, I'm not sure you'll remember me-- Detective Steven
Harris, with the local PD? We last spoke regarding the Baines
case?"

I have a vague memory of this man. My age, very clean-cut,
polite. Very much like one of those Navy guys Bill would be more
than happy to set me up with, at the drop of a hat. In fact, who
knows, maybe Bill knows this guy, and gave him my number.
Possibly, Bill may have even, long ago, arranged for him to get a
job out here in the DC area. Wait, that's a bit too paranoid. Not
everything's an X-file, I really do have to remember that. No,
I've met Harris, a couple of times, on a case or two. He
seemed... interested. Okay, yes, I remember him. "Detective
Harris, of course I remember you. How can I help you?"

The long and short of it is, Harris wants us to come down to the
station so he can ask our advice about a pending investigation.
He described serial homicides, seemingly cult related. The police
don't have a lot to go on; they were hoping for a fresh point of
view, and Harris thought of me.

Isn't that sweet?

Because, there really is no particular reason for Harris to be
calling us in on this case. I'm sure the coroner has done his job
and the bodies have been autopsied and studied with precision.
Although, on a grand enough scale, the presence of cult
activities may warrant federal attention, this isn't the way to
go about getting it. And there's nothing present, as of now, to
make this an X-file. Not to mention, I don't think Harris likes
Mulder very much. Which is not, you know, entirely unusual.
However, I don't think it's Mulder's company he's seeking out, if
you know what I mean. No, Harris clearly has another reason for
calling us in, and I think we all know what it is.

I don't mean to sound egotistical, here; please, with my social
life? Don't blink at any point over the past five years, or
you'll miss it. But if memory serves at all, I still know what a
pass looks like. And this is heading in that direction.

I'm not interested. Let me make that very clear: I am not, in any
way, interested in Harris. But that doesn't mean I'm then
obligated to be rude to the man. He's paying me a compliment and,
not for nothing, but those have a tendency to get a little scarce
down here at Spooky Central. Just as he has no real reason to
call me in on this, I have no real reason to refuse. We're not on
a case, we're not backed up with paperwork, it's a nice day out,
and it won't take long.

Which is what I tell Mulder when he strolls in, telling me that
he's actually not late, since he's been downstairs in Archives
looking through old files. Since six AM. And my social life is
bad. Still, he agrees, readily enough, and I suspect he's a
little bored today or else I would've gotten more of a fight.

Mulder drives. Contrary to popular opinion, I don't really care
which one of us drives, nine times out of ten. That tenth time,
okay, I'll admit it, I do mind. This time, no. I'd rather enjoy
the nice weather and read the paper. But I'm feeling a little
chatty, so I share a few tidbits with him along the way.
Basketball scores (for the millionth time, I wish Mulder was a
hockey fan instead), news items, an article about the Loch Ness
monster. For some reason, Mulder enjoys that. I can't imagine
why, since he reads the paper himself, at some point during the
day. Still, I aim to please.

At the station, as soon as I spot Detective Harris, I begin to
wonder if coming here was such a great idea after all. He's
basically as I remember him-- a fair-haired boy, JFK clone.
Charming, attractive, and dull. On top of everything else, lest
we forget, he doesn't like Mulder.

Speaking of Mulder, he's barely managing to conceal his eagerness
to have this errand over and done with. "So, you want us to take
a look at some case files?" he asks.

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

I restrain myself from sighing. Talk about transparent. Mulder's
no help, though, and actually suggests that I head off to the lab
with the Boy Wonder here, while he reads the case files. Thanks.
On the other hand, if we split this up, we'll be done sooner. As
long as Mulder doesn't get into any trouble while I'm gone, that
is.

I follow Harris through the precinct station, half an ear on his
attempts at conversation. When we reach the lab, I quickly scan
the reports he offers for my inspection, needing only a few
moments to decide there's little or nothing I can add to what was
a perfectly thorough autopsy. Still, I give Harris a brief nod
and move off to a nearby desk, as if to inspect them further--
really, I just don't feel like giving him an opening to chitchat.

Once there, though, I mentally scold myself for my attitude.
There's nothing wrong with Harris. He's a nice guy. He's
good-looking. He has a good job and, what's more, one close
enough to mine that he would appreciate and understand some of
the special circumstances it creates in a social life. (I smother
a self-derogatory snort; a social life, like I'd recognize one if
it fell on my head.) He's the kind of guy I should date. The kind
of guy, if a friend told you she'd met him, you'd tell her, "He
sounds great", and you'd mean it. The kind of guy who would,
maybe a year later, stand at the altar with said friend, looking
properly handsome in his tux. The kind of guy who would be nice
to come home to at the end of the day, who would fish with your
brothers and bring your mother lilies on Easter, who would rub
your tired feet and take you to silly movies. The kind of guy who
would make a great father to the children he'd urge you to adopt,
and who would look just as handsome at your fiftieth wedding
anniversary, as you dance to something appropriate like "Misty"
or "As Time Goes By".

But there are two kinds of guys in this world. The kind you
should marry, and the kind that make your heart race. The kind
that are best described as Mr. Right, and the kind who would best
be called Mr. Break Your Heart. The kind you admire for the
all-around great guy he is, and the kind you adore for everything
he isn't. The kind you love very much, and the kind you can't
live without. The kind who, in bed, is tenderly attentive to your
needs, and the kind who, frankly, can make you go out of your
head by just looking at you across a crowded room.

Detective Harris is behind Door #1.

But hiding behind Door #2? In case you haven't guessed, there's
Mulder.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

I tell Harris there's nothing I can add to the coroner's report;
he hardly seems surprised, and we head back up to his office.

"Sorry we couldn't be of more help, Detective Harris."

"Please, call me Steve."

Sure, fine, whatever. "Steve."

"And I appreciate your taking the time to look, regardless," he
adds. "I imagine you've got a thousand other things to do. God
knows it's been hectic around here."

"Really?" Oh, yeah, I'm dying to hear all about it.

"Just last week, we had a senator in here, claiming someone's
stalking him. Turns out the whole thing's a hoax, just to drum up
publicity."

I shake my head. "Sounds like a waste of your time."

"That's not the worst part. The worst part was, in the course of
protecting this guy, we catch him in a number of illegal
activities, including soliciting a prostitute." I grimace in
distaste, and Harris goes on to fill me in on some of the more
juicy details of the whole sting operation, things I would really
rather not be hearing.

"... and then he had the nerve to say we were doing the party's
dirty work, spying on him like that. I told him, Senator, looks
like you're doing the dirty work all on your own."

Oops, time for me to comment. "And what did he say to that?"

"He laughed and invited me to his next fundraiser. I guess the
old guy has a sense of humor after all."

Finally, we've reached his office. I laugh politely. "That
surprises me, Steve. I never would've guessed."

"You'd be amazed, the kind of things we see here, Dana," he says
conspiratorially, holding the door open for me. As I move past
him, he briefly touches the small of my back, and I stiffen.
That's... someone else's territory, buddy. Hands off.

And when did I tell this guy my first name? Oh, whatever, we're
out of here anyhow, I don't care. Mulder is slouched at the
table, clearly bored and with a strange look in his eyes. He
leans back, casually, and ignores Harris. "Find anything?" he
asks, and I can tell he already knows what the answer will be.

I shake my head. "Not really. You?"

"Nope." His tone says it all. This was a wild-goose chase, and we
all know it.

Because there's nothing to find, of course. Okay, so this was
officially a waste of time, I'm prepared to hear all about it on
the ride back to the office, whatever, as long as we can leave. I
shrug apologetically at Harris, remembering to be gracious. "We'd
be happy to follow up a few leads for you, if you're
short-handed."

Harris smiles as if I just awarded him the Pulitzer or something.
"No, we've got it covered. I was just hoping for something a
little more... promising."

Is there an innuendo in there somewhere? Or maybe I'm just
oversensitive, considering how often Mulder drops them in
conversation. At least his are entertaining, not that I let him
know that. Please, he doesn't need any encouragement.

Speaking of Mulder, he's definitely ready to get out of here.
Standing, he puts his suit jacket back on and hands me my coat,
addressing Harris with a phony smile. "Sorry we weren't more
help."

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

Oh God, no, I just want to leave. This is embarrassing. Mulder is
*not* going to let this slide, he'll sulk and tease and pick at
me about this puppy-dog Harris the whole ride home. I smile
coolly, ready to decline, but Mulder gets there before me.

"Thanks but no thanks, *Steve*, we'd better get back to the
office," he says, with a slight edge to his voice. Steve... I
caught that, Mulder. He's annoyed, I can tell, not that he's
hiding it well. What am I supposed to do about this guy, it's not
my fault he's hitting on me, after all.

I pause; maybe I'm not being entirely honest with myself. Why
*did* I drag us down to the station? I knew Harris was calling us
in on a pretext, I knew there was nothing to see, and what's
more, I knew that if necessary, I could've easily taken care of
this myself, without bringing Mulder into it. He would've
laughed, told me I was wasting my time, made a remark when I
returned and admitted the trip had been pointless, and that
would've been the end of it. Instead, I brought him with me, like
camouflage, so I wouldn't have to deal with Harris alone.

Oh, who am I kidding. That's not entirely true, either. I can
handle Harris just fine without Mulder. They don't, after all,
call me "Ice Queen" for nothing. I wanted him here. I... wanted
him to see. Fine, whatever, I wanted, maybe just a little, to
make him jealous. Just a little. And just, you know, to see what
he would do. Well, now I know, he's annoyed. And sulking, and...
I think a little, well, upset. I know, that's a lot to tell just
from body language, since he hasn't said much of anything either
way. But, this is Mulder we're talking about here. My Mulder.
Believe me, I know.

He doesn't like this.

He wants us out of here.

Okay, fine, we're going. I'm sorry. I screwed up. I just...
sometimes... I just don't know what else to do, Mulder. I don't
know how else to--

"Dana, how about a raincheck?"

Oh God, Harris is still talking. I answer automatically,
shrugging into my coat. "The next time I come by the station,
I'll make sure to take you up on that."

There's an awkward silence; I don't understand what more needs to
be said. Harris coughs, looks at Mulder, and finally continues.
"Or, instead of waiting for the next cult member to show up in
our morgue, you could give me your number."

Oh no. Tell me he didn't just say that. Tell me he didn't just
say that in front of Mulder. That's going too far. Mulder may get
territorial about me, but lately, in times like this, he walks
away. He gives up, he tries to let me go. Push me away, even. He
thinks he knows what's best for me, you see. He thinks I want a
normal life, with a nice husband and a beautiful house and pets
and kids and a safe, steady career. And I won't lie to you, some
of those things I do want. I want a husband who loves me, and a
home and a family wouldn't be so bad either. And sure, you know,
it would be nice for my life to not be in constant danger, yeah,
that would be peachy keen, I'll give you that.

But what Mulder doesn't seem to get is that none of those things
mean anything to me without him. That man who loves me? It
doesn't mean very much that he does, unless he's the man I love
back. And that beautiful house, I don't give a damn about it
unless that man I love is living in it with me. I don't have a
family without that man, and my life, well, it's not worth a hill
of beans without him as a part of it. And that man isn't
Detective Harris, Mulder, damn it, and we both know it.

I can feel Mulder start to edge away and then, surprisingly, he
doesn't go anywhere. I look at him, quickly, and I'm shocked at
what I see there. Every raw emotion I've ever glimpsed, every
hint of his feelings for me, every fear he's ever voiced that I
would leave him, walk away, live my life in some other way, it's
all there. He's scared, and he's not hiding it very well. And he
doesn't leave. I can see he wants to, I can see he thinks he
should. But he can't, and that seems to torture him as well.

I have to admit, a small part of me is somewhat amused. I mean,
this is a little dramatic, don't you think? It's not like Harris
proposed marriage on bended knee, he just asked me for my number.
Hardly cause for a full panic attack. But my amusement fades when
I stop to think of how different Mulder has been around me
lately. He hasn't been hiding his feelings for me very well, if
at all. Oh, believe me, I've noticed. I've just, well, I've been
waiting for him to *do* something about them. Still, I guess it
shouldn't surprise me that he's reacting so badly to Harris'
clumsy pass. And I don't want to leave him there suffering.

So I smile, a little, and hold Mulder's gaze with my own.
Wordlessly, I say to him: it's okay. Don't worry. I'm here. I'm
staying. I don't want to leave you. I won't try to make you let
me go. And without looking away from Mulder, I give Harris his
answer. "I'm sorry, I don't think that would be a good idea."

Mulder's face lights up like the Fourth of July. I'm not kidding.
He smiles, hugely, and releases a breath he's been holding much
too long, his whole body relaxing. I don't think he's even aware
he's doing it. He can't seem to look away from me, and for my
part, I don't exactly want to take my eyes off of him. Maybe,
just maybe, coming here wasn't such a bad idea after all.

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

Whoops. I think I forgot he was there. I break eye contact with
Mulder and give Harris an impersonal smile. "Anytime, Detective
Harris."

He leaves quickly, obviously uncomfortable with the tension in
the room and obviously regretting his move. Oh well. He's a
good-looking, intelligent guy; I have a feeling his ego can stand
the slight bruising. I'm a little more concerned about the fact
that Mulder still hasn't moved or spoken. I cross the room to
stand directly in front of him, close.

"Ready to go, Mulder?" I ask. His eyes look a little glazed over,
and he still doesn't answer. He looks a little shell-shocked. I
guess I'm to blame for that. I don't exactly reveal my emotions
very often, and I think he got a glimmer of my hint just now.
Still, I reach up and touch his face briefly, trying to get him
to focus. "Mulder."

"Scully?" he parrots back, still with nothing else to say.

Oh Mulder, come on. I took a step forward here. I realize I'm
asking you to take a big leap in return, but that's who we are. I
step cautiously, you dive in. I did my part, now you do yours.
But I begin to wonder if, in fact, he ever will.

"How long are you planning on making me wait?" I ask him, softly.
His breath hitches and his eyes widen and I wait, patiently, but
there's still no response. I sigh a little, and throw in the
towel. This isn't our day, obviously. Maybe it never will be.
"Okay, let's go," I tell him, and he follows me out of the
station and into the parking lot, on autopilot.

I feel oddly disappointed, and yet I know I don't really have the
right to be. I'm only tossing Mulder the tiniest of bones here.
He has been embarrassingly obvious regarding the way he feels
about me, ever since we got back from Antarctica. No, before
that, in his hallway, to be fair. He has told me, in words, how
he loves me. He has shown me, in actions, that he needs me. And I
haven't done much to return the favor. Except, I've stayed. I'm
here. And I've told him that I want to be here. And just now, I
showed him that I don't want anyone else. I know that most of my
moves have been small ones. That my subtle affirmations do not,
truly, compare to his more dramatic gestures and declarations.
But it's who I am. It's who he loves. And he should know, if he
does in fact love who I am, what it means for me to do these
things. He should know. Or, if he doesn't, he should ask. What he
shouldn't do is assume defeat without even waging the war.

Mulder unlocks my door and I climb in, trying to shake this
feeling of failure. It's okay. We haven't lost anything. We are
still what we were this morning, and what we are is something
good. Something wonderful. And, I think with a burst of optimism,
they say it ain't over 'til the fat lady sings. Well, I don't
hear the fat lady quite yet and, to quote yet another movie,
tomorrow is another day.

We're driving back to the office through mid-day traffic, and it
really is a beautiful day. I lean back in my seat and close my
eyes, relaxed and, oddly, invigorated by all that passed between
us this morning. I have faith in us, Mulder, I think. We'll get
there, sooner or later. Just not today.

"I didn't know you were waiting, Scully."

I turn to look at him slowly, surprised by what he has just
unceremoniously blurted out. He is, of course, watching the road,
and I study his profile, needing a moment to process this new
response of his. He's nervous. He's purposely not looking at me.
He hasn't stopped thinking about what happened back there, in
Harris' office. But he's waiting to see what I say in response. I
opt for enigmatic, but encouraging. "You learn something new
every day, Agent Mulder."

He looks confused, but slightly less worried than before.  I
close my eyes once more, and give him time to think about what I
said. His brain is starting to accept that I'm not rebuffing him,
for once. That I'm telling him it's okay, it's more than okay,
it's what I want. That I have, yes, been waiting. That I will,
however, continue to wait unless he rises to what is, admittedly,
a challenge. Maybe it's not very fair of me, but it's what I have
to offer. I'm here. I'm waiting. But Mulder has to take that last
leap. He does it every day of his life, in our work, in his quest
for the truth. I need him to put that same faith in me. In us. I
need him to stop hiding behind innuendo and jokes and safe
situations. I need him to throw caution to the winds, and ask.

"How far are we from your place, Scully?" he says, finally.

I open my eyes and look around to see where we are. "Maybe about
ten minutes. Why?"

"Think you can wait that much longer?"

I can't help it; I scan his face quickly, to make sure, but he's
not joking. He means it, and what's more, he's in agony over
there, waiting for my answer. And in that moment, in that car,
with the sun slanting through the windows and the world frantic
and busy all around us, I feel a wave of love for him, stronger
than anything I've ever felt before. This man, he loves me. This
man, he is willing to risk everything for me. His life. His
heart. His work. His faith.

I slide across the seat, moving slightly closer to him. He
doesn't notice, because his eyes are glued to the road. Quietly,
then, I place one hand on his neck, snaking beneath the collar of
his shirt, and caress the skin there, briefly. Leaning close, I
place my lips near his ear, and I answer.

"Hurry."

Because, you see, all he had to do was ask.

END