TITLE: Always A First Time
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: ~ imitating Roger Rabbit ~ Pppppppleeeeeeeaaas Eddie? (and the
rest of you while we’re at it)
SPOILERS: Milagro
RATING: I don’t, so - whatever. It’s safe.
CLASSIFICATION: A/we’re getting’ closer to MSR
SUMMARY: It’s just more of the same . . . geez. ;-)

Disclaimer: Okay, I can see where you might think so, if you take into
account all the heavy angst & no resolution, but trust me, CC would
NEVER allow this to end the way it does.

Mulder's holding me. His arms are wrapped tightly around me, as I cling
to him.

I can't help it, I can't remember ever being this terrified.

That could not have happened, my rational side argues, even as I cling
tighter, sobbing against his shoulder. His arms tighten in turn, keeping
me close, allowing me to lose control.

I can feel the tension in his body, as he tries to keep himself from
crying as well, trying to not make this about him.

Because it's not. To him.

And whether I'd argue that with him or not isn't an issue, because I
can't, no matter if I =would.=

We stay like that, on his floor, for almost an hour. And then he
finally, slowly and gently, lifts me up, into a sitting position. His
hands slowly run over me, obviously checking for less-apparent wounds.
He probably should have done this an hour ago, but . . . he wasn't
thinking clearly an hour ago. Satisfied that I'm at least physically all
right, and now that my tears have stopped, he tips my chin and makes me
look at him.

"Are you going to be okay?" he murmurs softly. I know what he's asking.
Am I going to react to this more strongly than ever, later, once I'm
alone? Am I going to break down, once he's not there to catch me?

"I don't know," I tell him honestly, forcing myself away from his
embrace slightly. I want to lose myself in it, but I can't. He follows
me as I slide onto his couch, his arms no longer around me, but his
hands resting lightly on my shoulders.

At his slight nod, my eyes shut. "Mulder," I whisper, leaning deeper
into the cushions, allowing them to replace his touch. "Thank you."

I feel his fingers flex a couple of times against my shoulders, before
both hands fall away. Opening my eyes, I see them, resting in his lap,
curled into tight fists. "Don't," he mumbles, standing and walking
toward the window. "God Scully, don't thank me."

I have to give him a confused look. "Why not?"

"Because the last thing I want is to feel like you think that in order
for me to love you, you have to show gratitude," he answers simply, even
as his voice catches over the words.

My eyebrows furl further. "What?" I question softly, moving to stand
next to him. He turns away from me, before I even get to his side. We
dance around each other, quite literally, for a few moments, as I move
toward his face, and he turns away. Finally I take his cheeks between my
hands, and make him look at me. "Mulder, please . . . don't think that.
I don't think that. I know better." He tries to pull away from me, but I
stop him. Not this time, neither of us are walking away until we've
straightened something out.

I don't care what, just something.

"I was thanking you, because I was raised to say thank you when someone
does something for you that matters to =you.= Ahab told me that if you
say thank you, most people will tell you not to, but if you don't, most
of those same people will wonder why you didn't." Blinking a couple
times, I close my teeth over my trembling lower lip, willing myself,
begging myself not to cry.

"And I don't believe that you have to thank someone for doing what they
would do anyway," he counters. I know we're not arguing about the words,
but about so much more. "I'd rather you didn't thank me, and made it
easier on both of us, instead of making me feel downright responsible
for every breath you take."

Wow, that hurt. I know he didn't mean it to, but it did. "I sincerely
hope that you don't feel that responsible for me Mulder, because I'd
hate to put you into that position."

He blinks, once, and suddenly, the cryptic conversation is over. "But I
do, Scully," he tells me, gently taking my hands and removing them from
his face. He doesn't let go, however. "I do feel that responsible for
you. And I =want= to feel like this." His fingers tighten around mine,
as if to stress his point. "Scully, this is going to sound rather . . .
cave-man like, and I don't mean it to, but . . . I want to take care of
you. And I don't just mean out in the field, or if you've been hurt, but
all the time. And I want you to do the same for me. But more than that,
I want you to =want= to."

Whoa. I knew that, but . . . whoa. Taking a breath, something other than
me taking over for a moment, I lean up, and kiss him, once, hard on the
mouth. Before he can kiss back, however, I pull away, and gently
extricate my hands from him.

"I know you do Mulder. But I just don't think that I do." Liar. "Not
now, anyway. Or maybe I don't know how to want to. I'm not sure."

And I turn, slowly, walking toward the door.

So much for resolution.

~~~~

I thought that maybe a walk would clear my head.

Nope.

I thought that a drink might make me calmer.

Uh-uh

So, I'm sitting on the floor of my apartment now, drunk, and no closer
to a resolution than I was when I left his place.

I wonder what Mulder's doing. Knowing him, he could simply be standing
in the exact spot he was when I walked out almost five hours ago.

It's not really like him to remain in one spot, however, so . . . I just
don't know.

I realize something, as I take another drink from the bottle in my hand.
I’m sure that sober, I knew this, but alcohol makes me very . . .
uninhibited. It certainly makes me stop censoring my thoughts from
myself.

God, my feet hurt.  I walked all the way from his place to mine, and I
haven't done that much walking since the night I thought he was dead and
I walked to my mother's place.  I curl up more, almost around the bottle
in my hands, and I let my eyes drift shut. I’m so tired. At this precise
moment in time, I want to just sleep, and sleep, and sleep forever

But before I can think about moving enough to even lie down on my floor,
there’s a knock on the door. “Scully?”

Great.

“Scully I know you’re in there. I’ll use my key, if I have to . . .”

Why did I ever give him that damned thing?

“Go away Mulder.” Please go away. Leave me to my misery, and for gods
sake, don’t come in here, I don’t want you to see me like this.

My door swings open slowly. Of course. “Scully.” He looks down at me as
if he hasn’t heard me at all, and then kneels at my side, gently prying
the bottle I’d been clutching like a security blanket from my hands.
“Scully,” he repeats again, and I realize he’s trying to make me look at
him.

“What?” I snap, turning my head in his general direction, still staring
out the window.

“We need to talk.”

No shit.

“Things can’t go on like this, Scully.” Leaning over, he grasps my chin
and makes me look at him. “If I have to lose you from my personal life,
I will have to learn to live with that. But damn it Scully, I can’t lose
my partner. And you haven’t been there, =really= been there, in weeks.
Longer.” With some effort, my eyes flick from the window, where they’d
remained focused, to his face. “Please,” he begs quietly. “Help me . . .
fix this.”

“Did you know that it’s a hell of a lot harder to get orange juice
=into= a bottle of vodka than you let on?” Reaching over, I snatch the
bottle back, and take another long drink. “Do you want to know why I’ve
been acting like such a psycho lately Mulder?” He doesn’t answer. I
didn’t expect him to. “I lost myself. I, as an individual, was
sacrificed to the greater good of ‘us.’ Of ‘we.’” Standing, stumbling
slightly, I stare down at him, swaying a bit. “I was always afraid of
getting into a relationship because of that exact thing happening. I
know too many people who once they were in love, and had a partner in
their life, they were no longer an indivdual. And I swore to myself I’d
never do that.” I barely even hear my words slurring, as I take another
swig from the bottle, steeling myself, telling him things that I’d never
said out loud.

“I look into my mirror every morning, and I’m always a little further
gone. Now, I don’t even see me anymore.” Taking a single step toward the
window, I trip slightly over my own feet, and fall down to the floor,
the bottle hitting next to me. I scramble to grab it, still losing most
of the alcohol before I get it back in an upright position. “Damn.”
Turning, I glare at him. “Do you know who I see every morning now
Mulder?”

Again, he doesn’t answer me, and his silence just pisses me off. “I see
you!” I hear myself scream, as my hand lifts, the bottle being thrown in
his direction. Good thing I’ve got lousy aim at the moment because he
doesn't even try to duck out of the way. The glass shatters against the
wall. “I see you,” I repeat, much more quietly, the word becoming a sob.

“And this is bad?” I look at him; he’s serious.

Wrapping my arms around my knees, I lean my cheek against my arms. “I
swore to mesel . . . =my=self that I would =never= let me get lo . . .
lossst.” That’s a hard word when I’m this drunk. “In another,” oh man,
not even gonna try that one. “Someone.”

He’s still got that stupid, cute little dumbfounded look on his face.

“Growing up in my family,” I begin, rather quickly sobering up, as these
thoughts fight to the surface. “I had to do everything I could to stand
out, to be me, instead of ‘one of the Scully’s.’ I was too many
different people at once. Daddy’s little girl, Mom’s sweet little
church-going angel. The wild child, when I was away from them, so that I
stood out, yet fit in, with my brothers. But I wasn’t just Dana.” I
don’t feel the tears forming in my eyes, but the look on his face tells
me that I’m crying. “You never call me Dana,” I mumble, switching
directions, leaving it up to him to follow me. “Only when you have to.
Usually when you’re talking to someone else. I didn’t get asked if I
wanted to be ‘Scully’ forever. I knew it was how it worked at the
Bureau, but I’m just Scully now. The only people who call me Dana are my
family. And my mother’s priest. Why?”

He remains where he is, not moving, just watching me. “Do you want me to
call you Dana?” he asks softly.

“Jesus Mulder,” I answer sharply. “This isn’t about what you call me.
It’s about who I am. I’m =not= Dana anymore. Don’t you get it? That’s
what scares me.” Oh Christ, I didn’t want to admit that to him.

His eyes clear, quickly, at the revelation, as I knew they would. He
does just what I’d expect a good Mulder to do -  read between the lines,
to what I’m not saying. “I scare you,” he deduces softly, almost to
himself.

“What you want us to be, scares me,” I clarify, completely sober now.
Who needs coffee? “What you do to me, scares me. When you’re just being
Fox Mulder, FBI agent, you don’t scare me. I rather like him. But when
you’re . . .” I don’t even know how to explain it. Read my mind, like
usual, Mulder. Figure this one out for me. “When you’re trying to be my
lover, and the man who =loves= me, you absolutely terrify me.

“Why?”

“Shit Mulder, don’t play shrink.”

He sighs, and shakes his head. “I wasn’t. I don’t understand, and I’m
trying to.”

I feel a sob rising, and I try to stop it. “I don’t either,” I tell him,
my voice cracking. “There’s a reason that everyone thinks I’m made of
ice Mulder. I tried to project that image. I wanted to be cold, and
hard, because to make it, to do what I wanted to do, in a ‘man’s world’
I had to be. And that was fine, until you were thrust into my life. And
you were so damned passionate about what you believed, you started
bringing that out in me. And I fought it. Hard. Sometimes, I even won.
But not as often as I would have liked.

“And now, I’m afraid that I don’t know how to be . . . detached anymore.
That was my lifeline Mulder.” I have to laugh at that, even as the sound
is strangled. “Being able to not let things affect me kept me alive, it
kept me sane. And I feel like I’m losing it. All of it.”

He doesn’t say anything. I think that makes it easier.

I force myself up again, and I look down at him. His eyes are focused at
about my knees. “I . . .” Okay, this one’s harder. “I love you Mulder.
But I don’t even know how to do that right.”

He doesn’t blink. Barely breathes. Still doesn’t speak. So I walk out of
my apartment, outside. It’s raining, but I don’t notice it.

I don’t feel much of anything right now.