The Unicorn Tamed 2: Disclosure

Mulder, a virgin. Mulder.

God.

She kept trying not to think about it, to forget about it as he'd all but begged her to do -- but the thought kept creeping, unbidden, into her mind. Mulder, a virgin.

Unbelievable.

In retrospect, so many things made sense now -- most notably, the collection of tapes that 'weren't his' -- but that didn't explain the underlying situation. How was it that a man who looked like him could possibly suffer from a "lack of opportunity"? And what about Phoebe, his British 'fire', where did she figure into this? So many questions... But he'd made it plain that it wasn't something he cared to discuss, and she didn't want to violate his fragile trust by pushing the point; and so her curiosity remained, unabated.

And those were the more innocuous thoughts racing through her head.

She'd seen him naked, on a number of occasions, and had often fantasized about what he might be like as a lover -- not a fact that she was proud of, but perhaps inevitable. Now, though... now, if anything, the thought was more tantalizing than ever. To not only be with him, but to be the first...

Even the barest whisper-touch of that thought against her consciousness was enough to cause a rush of heat and moisture to her lower regions, and a swift tingle of desire that fluttered throughout her nervous system.

And with uncanny timing, that was when he walked through the door; the sight of him, so close on the heels of her fevered imaginings, caused a vivid blush to suffuse her face.

"Morning, Scully," he said, in a perfectly normal voice.

"Uhhh, hi, Mulder," she stammered awkwardly.

He stopped short, took in her scarlet face and evident discomfort, and all the animation seemed to drain from him in a rush. "Damn it," he muttered, "I knew it, I knew this would happen."

"Mulder," she rushed to explain -- then fell silent, because what on earth could she say?

"Damn," he whispered again, turned sharply, and strode out the door as swiftly as he'd arrived.

There was no other option, really; she got up and followed him.

He was moving fast, that long-legged stride of his, coupled with his evident desire to get the hell out of there. "Mulder," she called out after him, and though he didn't pause, didn't look back, it seemed to her that he slowed up just a bit; so that by the time they'd reached the exit, they were walking side by side.

"I'm fairly sure our office is bugged, at least intermittently," he remarked in passing, as they moved down the street at a more normal pace. As if she weren't already well aware of his opinion on the matter; she thought that perhaps he meant the statement as an explanation of why he'd left so abruptly.

What amazed her was that he was walking beside her at all, that he hadn't done his utmost to leave her behind; after his reaction the night before, she'd expected to have to chase after him... Maybe it was a relief for him, after so long, to not have to hold the secret so tightly. To have someone know him well enough that the subterfuge wasn't necessary.

After a time, they ended up at a park bench, sitting next to each other, neither quite looking at the other. "Mulder, I didn't mean..." she hastened to say, then realized anew that there was no explanation she could follow it with. I wasn't feeling uneasy about your 'condition', I was just considering taking advantage of it... Oh, no, that wouldn't go over well.

"It's all right," he said, neutral-voiced, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. "I should have realized you'd be uncomfortable with the knowledge."

"That's not it." Now that she had him talking, she figured, why not see if she could get him to open up about it? Worth a try, she decided. "I just don't understand," she said, very softly, very gently. "You say that it's not by choice, but... you're a very handsome man..." Very handsome, echoed a silent little voice from somewhere below her navel. "I don't understand how you could have failed to find the opportunity..."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." His voice was dejected, so downcast that she wanted to embrace him, but knew instinctively that he wouldn't allow it. Instead, she settled for sliding her hand into his, was rewarded by an ever-so-slight lifting of the despair in his tone as his fingers curled around her hand. "In high school, I was your typical misfit: no one liked me, especially not the girls. College was about the same, until Phoebe..." and it seemed to her that he almost cringed as he spoke the name. "She messed up my head so completely that I didn't even consider trying to get together with anyone for years afterwards; then I went through the hypnotic regression, and got so caught up in my search for the truth about Samantha that everything else fell by the wayside." His hand twitched in hers. "And here I am," he said unhappily, "a thirty-six year old virgin; and unless I buy a quick lay from some streetwalker, I'll probably die that way."

She wanted to hug him more now than ever, and knew better than to try. "Phoebe," she said tentatively, letting the single word hang between them.

His hand twitched again; he expelled a long, angry breath. "Phoebe," he echoed. "She was the first woman who ever paid attention to me, and I was hopelessly in lust with her. For the longest time, I was sure that she was the woman of my dreams. I made the mistake of telling her that I'd never..." and his voice trailed off, as if he couldn't bear to say the words aloud. "And she played me like a fish on a line. She... she said that I needed to be taught, by an experienced woman like herself; and that she wanted to be my first. When the time was right. When I was ready. So I took her out, wherever she wanted to go. I held down two side jobs, just so I could afford her expensive tastes. And on a good night -- maybe once a fortnight, if I was obedient enough and very, very lucky, she might let me touch her." The bitterness lurking in that level voice was heartbreaking. "I thought... I thought she loved me. I thought that she was trying to help me, that she wanted what was best for me. I thought she was waiting so that it would be special. And then I overheard her talking to her friends one day..." His voice was so calm, so even; only someone who knew him as well as Scully could have heard the anguish in it. "She was boasting about her little boy-toy from the colonies, her pet virgin, and how she had him by the balls; how he'd get on his knees and kiss her sweaty feet just for the slightest glimpse of a little skin, how he'd do anything she wanted 'cause he thought he was going to get some. And how she'd been considering letting him, but then decided not to, because it was so much more entertaining to keep him hanging, and watch him squirm." And still his voice was placid and steady, but there were tears rolling down his face: silent tears in a slow stream.

"I confronted her about it," he continued, his voice beginning to roughen with the repressed emotion, "and she denied it. She said she hadn't meant any of it, that she'd just wanted to impress her friends." His voice dropped abruptly, to a whisper. "And I believed her," spoken with a self-loathing that was terrible to hear. "I believed her, and I stayed with her and let her play me for two more years," his voice breaking on the last word, facade held in place by the slenderest of threads.

He was so vulnerable, in so much pain... Scully couldn't bear it any more; she reached out and slid her arms around him.

And to her utter amazement, he not only allowed it but welcomed it: reaching back, burying his face in her hair, clinging to her as if she could assuage that long-ago and so-vivid hurt.

Smoothing her hands along his back in what she hoped was a comforting gesture, she thought, Maybe I can.

"The bitch," she muttered darkly. "I wish you'd told me sooner, Mulder. I would've kicked her ass across the Potomac while I had the chance."

She felt his body shake with something that was almost a laugh. "I'd have paid money to see that," he said, voice muffled by her hair.

"I'd have done it for free," she responded.

"I know you would. Thank you," and the last two words held such sincere gratitude that she felt tears spring to her eyes.

"Mulder..." She sighed. "You know, you're not the first thirty-six-year-old virgin in recorded history."

"Oh, yeah? Name three others. Even Jesus only made it to thirty-three."

And she was silent, unable to come up with a reply.

"It's not even that, it's... I'm such a misfit, Scully. I always have been. I'm the weird one, the strange one, the one with the sister who went away and never came back. The one in grade school who cried when the school bully came after him. I've never been normal, I don't even have the slightest idea how to go about being normal, and this... this is just the last straw, you know? I feel as if I don't even live in the same world as everyone else half the time, and this just makes it worse." Again, that calm voice, laced with only the tiniest hint of his inner anguish: a voice all the more heartbreaking for its apparent acceptance.

"For what it's worth," she told him, "I like who you are. Even when you annoy the hell out of me... I like you a lot, Mulder."

She could feel him smile. "I feel the same way about you. And thanks. But... that doesn't change the way I feel about myself, unfortunately." He drew a deep, deep breath. "Anyway. Now you know the whole story," his voice trying to be matter-of-fact, to restore the status-quo. There was a small twitch of movement, silent signal for her to release him -- but she didn't let go. It wasn't time for that, not yet; no matter how ready he might have been to pretend that it had never happened.

"Your self-image needs a radical overhaul," she remarked, giving him enough room to pull back, gain some breathing space, without completely allowing him to escape from her embrace.

"Heh. Tell me something I don't know. Why do you think I took up psychology in the first place?" For a moment he seemed uncomfortable with their continuing closeness -- then she felt him relax, though it seemed to require a conscious effort for him to do so. As if he liked being close to her, wanted to be close to her, but wasn't sure quite how to handle it.

Which was actually quite consistent with the situation at hand.

"And it didn't help, I take it?" Silly question, more rhetorical than anything else: she knew him well enough to know the answer.

"All I learned was how screwed up I am." A small self- deprecating chuckle punctuated that statement. "Which was actually something of a relief; once I figured out that I was psychologically warped beyond redemption, I could stop being afraid of my own liabilities and work around them."

Scully shook her head, dismayed. Beyond redemption. It bothered her that he should describe himself that way. "You're a good man, Mulder," she insisted. "A little strange, maybe, but that just makes you interesting."

"You've been working with me too long," he demurred -- but she saw the small hint of a smile tugging at his lips, the infinitesimal lightening of his gloom.

So, she thought, it is possible to bring him out of this, not allowing herself to contemplate her reasons for wanting to do so. He deserves better than to feel this way about himself; he's my friend, were her justifications -- and her other, deeper desires, she left safely buried within the layers of her subconscious.

"You're making excuses," she countered. "I think you're afraid to believe that you might not be as much of a loser as you like to think you are."

She expected him to dismiss this out of hand, but instead he thought about it for several moments. "You may be right," he said finally. "After all, it's easier to believe that I'm hopeless than to think that there's a way out, and I'm too stupid to find it..."

"If there's one thing you're not, it's stupid," she disputed, letting her arms slip away from his waist, releasing him -- and now he seemed reluctant to relinquish the closeness, but followed her lead.

"So what's the secret, Doctor Scully?" he inquired, and though his tone was teasing, the underlying current was far more serious.

"Well, for one thing, you need to get out more," she told him, lingering briefly on the consideration of how long it had been since she'd followed her own advice: Mulder and his X-Files had long since consumed her own life, with her willing consent. "You need to spend some time in the real world, the one outside the Bureau and the paranormal and the conspiracies."

"It's been so long, I'm not sure I know how," he muttered - - then met her eyes with a direct gaze. "What do you suggest?"

His eyes... god. How was it that he could melt her, with just a look? And now she knew, as she'd only suspected before, that he genuinely had no idea that he was doing it -- that he had no idea of just how attractive he was, of how seductive he could be. What would he do, she wondered, if he knew?

She hesitated briefly, for it was against all the written and unwritten codes of conduct that governed their lives as federal agents -- but then again, they'd left Bureau protocol behind so long ago that it hardly mattered anymore. "There's a bar I know," she mentioned, "they mix good drinks, they serve decent food, it's something of a singles hangout..."

"And you think I should go there." Doubtful, his voice -- and fearful, too; though only to a trained ear like her own.

I, she thought glumly, how obtuse can he be? Or was it that he was so used to being alone that he hadn't even grasped the implicit invitation in her statement?

"We could go there," she responded, placing the slightest hint of emphasis on the first word -- and didn't miss the immediate look of relief that swept over his face. "Tonight?"

"Sure," he said; then, "Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Scully?" again in that teasing voice -- making light of the situation, lessening the chance that her rejection of the notion might harm him, she thought.

And in the space of an instant, her mind raced, considering how she might respond to his jest so that he wouldn't take it as a rebuff. "Just making sure you don't spend your whole weekend in the basement," she told him.

It seemed to be the right answer, for he smiled; and his mood seemed considerably improved as they walked back to the office together, side by side.

This was a bad idea.

The dark musing sped through her mind, drawing her attention away from the earnest young man who was trying ever so hard to captivate and entrance her with his wit... She sighed and forced herself to pay attention to her admirer: he seemed nice enough, was reasonably good looking in an innocuous sort of way, and since he'd bought her a top-level drink, she thought she owed him at least a chance at making a play for her.

Across the room, by the bar, Mulder's attention was similarly occupied, with an admirer of his own.

She was blonde, the woman: a natural blonde, in Scully's estimation, hair a soft collection of ash and gold tones. Her features were pert and pretty, her figure slender and trim, her attire subdued and businesslike -- not the brash, brassy look of a bar-fly, but the demeanor of someone more genuine, more real. The type of woman who might be good for her partner.

Scully sighed, forced herself to look away, wondering why it should bother her so.

Her fantasies were, after all, merely fantasies -- and wasn't this what she'd wanted for Mulder? the chance to socialize, maybe meet someone he might connect with? Positive reinforcement, to help lessen the iron-grip of his terrible self-image?

I want him to want me, came the thought, seething with jealousy.

She swept it away, astonished and abashed by her own sudden emotion. No, that's not, it isn't; no, not that way at all, but no amount of rationalization could alter the feeling that had lodged suddenly in the pit of her mind... she became aware that her admirer's voice had changed inflection, signifying that a question had been asked; and she smiled at him, in what she hoped would be seen as a coy non-response rather than a total lack of interest in what he'd been saying.

I want to go home, she thought dismally, but the worst part was, she couldn't. She and Mulder had come to the bar in her car; she couldn't leave without him, and to drag him away now would be a cruelty. And as well, counter to everything she wanted to do for him.

Or at least, what she'd said she'd wanted.

"Hmm?" she said, becoming suddenly aware that her gentleman friend -- Bob, was it? -- had repeated the question.

The man smiled at her. "You're in another world tonight," he remarked. "I said, do you want to dance?"

Mentally, she shrugged. Why not? Might help me take my mind off... things. "Sure," she said.

Bob wasn't a half-bad dancer; at least, he didn't tromp all over her feet. Nor did his hands wander anywhere that might be considered objectionable... Good-looking, with a full head of hair; personable, or at least unoffensive. She should have been at least mildly attracted to him: why wasn't she?

Her eyes flickered to the bar, to where the answer to that question should have been standing; but he was nowhere in sight.

She stopped herself from wondering where he and his new friend might have gone, managed to keep her attention firmly focused on Bob -- the song ended, and another began; and as she racked her brains to find a polite excuse to duck out, she heard a familiar voice that sent waves of relief cascading through her. "Excuse me," it said, to Bob, "mind if I cut in?"

It was clear that Bob did mind, but Mulder left him little choice; he extended a hand to Scully, and she took it, letting him guide her away from her would-be paramour.

One arm snaked around her waist, and she mentally pushed away the thought of how much better this was... "So," she said, determined not to let her feelings get in the way, "where's your friend?"

"Huh?" For a moment, he seemed genuinely confused. "Oh. Linda? I dunno," and he shrugged a little, as if it didn't matter to him.

"You seemed to be getting along well," she probed, ruthlessly keeping her own emotions in check, not letting her inappropriate jealousy reach her voice.

"I guess," he murmured, "she gave me her number... Listen, Scully, I'm, uh, I'm gonna call a cab, okay?"

"Everything all right?" she wondered, startled.

"Yeah, I just... I want to get out of here." His eyes met hers, seeking understanding.

"So we'll go," she told him.

"No, listen, you shouldn't have to end your evening early..."

"Mulder," she said, "I want to get out of here, too," letting just a trace of her own relief show through: enough that he might know that the statement was genuine, and not some pretense masking pity.

He nodded, grinned at her; and when the song ended, they left the bar together.

The drive back was silent; she left him to his thoughts, mostly because she was too busy trying to make sense of her own. I should be happy for him, she chided herself, no matter what I feel; he needs to make connections with other people, normal people, to bring some feeling of normalcy into his own life. He needs that, and if I let him see my... jealousy... what good can that possibly do?

"This isn't going to work," he said abruptly, and she glanced sideways at him, her surprise drawing her attention away from her scrutiny of the road.

"What do you mean?"

"It just isn't." His voice was soft, quiet -- she had the feeling that it was costing him an effort to speak at all; and that only the darkness and privacy of car and road and driving was making it possible at all. "Linda... she was nice enough, but... it's like I don't even live in the same world as these people. They all know what it means to live ordinary lives, with homes and families and sane jobs, and sex as a normal part of life instead of some huge, elusive mystery... it's as if everyone else knows this secret, and I don't. And I can feel it, like a wall between us. All the people in that crowded bar, and it was as if I was there all by myself."

She was silent, absorbing that: feeling his isolation, his loneliness, as if it was her own, and aching on his behalf.

"Except for you," he added, and the warmth of that afterthought caught her heart and twined around it, underscoring the bond between them with understated eloquence.

One hand left the steering wheel, found his; and she felt his fingers curl around her hand.

"Mulder, it'll work out," she said, loath to allow him to sink back into despair.

"How?" Bitterness in that single syllable, and curiosity, and plaintive longing, as if he wanted more than anything else for her to possess an answer that he might be able to use.

"It just will." And maybe she did -- though she had no idea, as yet, how she might cause it to happen.

The road stretched out before them, dark and silent, resplendent in its unspoken mystery; and they continued along its path, together.

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