TITLE: Time And Again
AUTHOR: Brynna
EMAIL ADDRESS: ingos_grrl@hotmail.com
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: anywhere you deem it worthy. If you’ve got a
second, I wouldn’t mind a note tho; I like to visit my ‘kids.’
FEEDBACK: I will beg . . . you don’t want to see me do that, do you?
SPOILERS: Trevor
RATING:
CLASSIFICATION: A/something that once was, and will be again, MSR
SUMMARY: Scully continues to beat herself up . . .

Disclaimer: Umm . . . if they were mine, why would I be writing fanfic?
I’d be writing EPISODES . . .

It's been weeks.

Almost two months since California.  And two weeks since I walked out on
him.  Two weeks since I went from swearing to myself, and him, that I
wouldn't leave him while he was dealing with a nightmare to doing just
that.

I took the next day off work.  I couldn't face him, not after that.

Turns out he did the same thing.  I got a call from Skinner at noon.  He
wanted to know if something had happened to agent Mulder.  Because,
after all, Mulder has to be forced to take the day off, he doesn't do it
voluntarily.

Like I'm supposed to know what Mulder does when I'm not around?

Then again, I am.  I'm the only one who's supposed to.

The last couple of weeks have been tense. Yeah, tense is a good word.

Mulder hasn't so much as brought me back a cop of coffee when he's gone
out for lunch.

He hasn't called me in the middle of the night.  He hasn't sent me funny
email, or taken the time to mess up my hair.  He doesn't even rest his
hand at the small of my back when escorting me through a door anymore.

He gets the look on his face, like it's painful to touch me.

God knows, it hurts like hell when he touches me.  I can feel his hand
burning into my skin. I wonder at times if this is what it feels like to
be branded.

Can everyone look at me, see that I've been marked by Fox Mulder?  Can
they see the places that his fingers, or his lips have touched me; where
they've burned my skin, forever leaving their mark?  Where I can still
feel them, even if I can barely remember the last time he actually
touched some of those places?

I can still remember, like it happened five minutes ago, exactly how it
felt when he first touched me.

The first time he truly touched me, we were in a motel room in Oregon.
I was so afraid of those damned mosquito bites.  I threw myself into his
arms, the action somewhere between the terrified child and a desperate,
longing woman.

I have to admit, I was torn between flattered and disappointed that all
he did was hold me back.

I can still feel his hand as it clasped onto my shoulder, in the storage
locker in the Arctic.  Looking back now, I can see clearly every moment
that lead either to the first time, or the last.

I can also see, in slow, progressive stages, where he was falling in
love with me.  I must be one of the most blind women on the planet.  It
was so obvious.

And I don't just mean in bed.  Although that was . . . obvious as well.
My God, he told me that he really liked oral sex, but that he couldn't
let himself go down on me.  I look back at that now, and I can't believe
that I was that stupid.  He couldn't let himself get that close; it was
too much.

But putting that all aside for a moment, there were all the things he
did out in the open, in front of everyone.  Like after Pfaster, the way
he held me in the entryway of the house. I mean, sure, I was terrified,
but that's not the important thing.  Or it is, but it's secondary.  It
was just another one of those times that if I had been paying attention,
instead of running scared, from him and myself, we probably wouldn't be
in this situation now.  I don't know where we would be, but it wouldn't
be here.

We wouldn't be in opposite rooms in a motel in the middle of nowhere
Mississippi, probably both staring at the door connecting our rooms, and
refusing to speak to one another.

I saw his face tonight, after we were all okay, and Pinker was dead.
There was about half a second of obvious MulderPanic, before he put it
away again, and became the cool, calm G-man that he's supposed to be.

Mostly, I think the look was because of the way I was clutching Trevor's
hand. I didn't want to let that little boy go, for a moment there. It
was almost . . .

God, it was almost like he was Emily for a moment. I was trying to
protect him so fiercely. Like I couldn't do for her.

And I think Mulder saw that.

 There was only one time I truly let myself fantasize about Mulder.

And it wasn't even a good sexual fantasy, damn it.

It was after Emily - after I'd lost her, after the truths he'd withheld
had come to light, after I'd slipped into the bed he was sleeping in at
Bill's, and after he’d kicked me out the next morning.

I had curled myself up around a pillow, and fallen asleep. So I guess
that makes this a dream, not a fantasy. Anyway, no matter. It was dark,
wherever I was, then a match was struck, lighting a single candle.

I felt a hand gently wrap around my waist, and a voice; his voice,
whisper in my ear. "It's okay, just a power outage."

And the hand, I knew then to be his hand, guided me down a long, dark
hallway. It felt long, anyway, but considering the darkness, and that it
was a dream, it probably wasn't.

But I'm analyzing too much. I need to stop that. Now, where was I? Oh,
right, long, dark hallway.

He stopped, next to a door, and in the candlelight, I could see him nod
at me. "You open it, you're the only one who never wakes her when you
enter the room."

Mulder doesn't talk like that, I know, but . . . dream, remember?

So I did what he told me to, I opened the door. And inside was a
nursery, with a beautiful baby girl sleeping in a crib. She stirred
slightly, but didn't wake up, and he walked past me, setting the candle
on the dresser next to me. And then he picked up this perfect, angelic
little baby, and cradled her in his arms, just like he had done with
Emily. But, perhaps, even more tenderly. And he carried her to my side,
and . . . transferred her to my arms. "I think she'd rather see mom than
dad when she wakes up," he whispered into my ear, picking the candle
back up and gently escorting me from the room.

That's when I woke up.

My eyes opened, and I just stared at the wall for . . . hours. I think
an entire day went by before I moved. I now wonder if everyone just
figured I needed to be alone, or if they were scared to bother me,
because =everyone= left me alone. And then, like I do with everything
else, I studiously buried it. I was determined to ignore that dream, it
didn't mean anything, it was just a dream.

Right?

Wrong.

Well, no, right it was just a dream. But wrong because . . . well, if
meant more.

But I only see that in retrospect.

I only see a lot of things now that I’m sitting here, on this bed,
thinking hard about them.

I read somewhere, a long time ago, that hindsight is always 20/20. I
just want to know how long it takes to get that way.

More than anything that I really, looking back, want to know about -
that night, after Ed Jerse, after everything . . . what was he going to
say to me? I really want to know. But at the same time, I’m almost
afraid to find out. I was hurting, so much then. And I was so afraid.
Leonard Betts did that to me, he made me afraid.

And instead of showing the fear, because that would have made me the
weaker partner, I lashed out. I lashed out so much, and so hard, that I
would imagine Mulder didn’t know which way was up for a while.

But neither did I. And so I just reacted. And I picked insignificant
crap to react over.

I also tried, completely unsuccessfully (I didn’t know it was possible
to do something that wrong) to find someone else who could possibly . .
. be there. And provide for me what Mulder did, but maybe a little more.

And look folks, the perfect candidate - almost burns me alive.

Because of a talking tattoo.

What, do these psychos just follow me, or do I simply bring it out in
them?

That was one of the times that Mulder really let me down. It probably
was what led to the . . . events of that trip. I allowed Mulder to mean
more than he should to me, and when that was put to the test, we both
failed.

Not that there aren’t plenty of times that he didn’t let me down.

Model springs to mind. Mulder was under his control, but he actually
fought his own self-loathing and despair (yes, I know he’s the shrink,
but indulge me) to manage to save me. I knew he was strong enough to
fight, but there had to be a reason.

Why didn’t I see that then?

And I just don’t think the ‘I didn’t want to’ excuse will fly anymore.
There’s been too much.

And time and again, I’ve chosen to just . . . ignore it. If it was
staring me in the face, I didn’t see it. Because to see it was to
believe it, and belief was acceptance. And that led to want, and . .
.whatever.

Things I deprived myself of.

Looking over at that connecting door again, I can’t help but wonder what
he’s doing on the other side. Probably surfing the pay-per-view porn
channels. This =fine= establishment has plenty of those. And nothing
else. MulderHeaven.

And yet even as I try to find a reason to be unhappy with him, to blame
him, to . . . something, I can’t help but remember the night when I was
in the hospital. I was so sick, and I had finally fallen asleep. He came
into my room, curled up on the floor next to me, laid his head on my
mattress and sobbed like a small child. I was sleeping when he came in,
but his sobs had woken me, finally. I didn’t say anything to him,
because - what could I say? I just touched his hair. Didn’t even open my
eyes. And he stayed there, and cried, until he’d cried himself to sleep.
I finally went back to sleep myself, and when I woke up, he was gone.

Having that memory in my head, I’m unable to truly be upset with him for
long. That one and the one of him in the living room. He gave me what he
thought I wanted, even though he didn’t. Sure, he came, but . . . that
doesn’t mean that he enjoyed it. I had =two= orgasms, and it was
horrible the entire time. Because it was over.

And god that makes me sound like a sex addict. I’m really not; I’m just
addicted to him.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to accept another man’s touch, because
I will forever feel Mulder’s.

No one else will ever be able to reach into my soul, with they’re lips.

And no one else will ever be able to make me come, just by talking to
me.

‘You love him,’ that annoying voice that I hate in the corner of my head
pipes up.

“No I don’t,’ I argue back, out loud. “I just care about him, and I’m
feeling selfish right now, so I’m thinking about the good stuff.”

‘Liar.’

“Bitch,” I mutter to myself, glancing up at the mirror that’s across the
room from me. I thought it’d lost myself while we were in California. I
don’t think I’ve =ever= seen this person who’s staring back at me.

Am I really that . . . connected to Mulder, that this separation is
causing me to lose myself even more completely than before?

Standing up, I walk to the full-length mirror and slowly untie the robe
I’m wearing, letting it drop to the floor. I’m naked underneath, and I
slowly run my eyes over my body, trying to remember =me= again.

I can almost see where he’s touched; the prints he left on my body. But
I know that’s just me; they aren’t really there.

I just want someone to explain to me how things can feel so much like
they’re there, but they really aren’t. I can actually =feel= Mulder
touching me. Yet he’s about 25 feet away, on the other side of a closed
door.

I part my legs slightly, letting the cold air brush over me, as if
trying to erase his touch with something else. I run my hands over my
skin, and know I’m trying just that.

It doesn’t work.

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and I scramble to grab the robe,
pulling it tightly around my body. “What?” I call softly.

“I’m just going to bed Scully,” he tells me, his voice neutral. “You
should to, we have to leave at 7am.”

“Sure, Mulder,” I answer, reaching for the light switch and casting the
room into darkness. “G’nite.”

‘Nite,” I hear him mumble, and see the sliver of light from under the
door extinguish.

Sitting on the bed, clutching a pillow, I know it’ll be a long time,
certainly longer than it’ll take to get us home, before I sleep again.

Sleep is for those who deserve to rest.

And I don’t deserve anything.

Not anymore.