The Unicorn Tamed 9: Dislocation

'Hey, Scully, you want to get together tonight?'

'No, Mulder, I feel sick... must be coming down with something. Maybe tomorrow.'

Granted, she'd been through things that made a simple stomach virus seem pleasant. But even a head cold could be miserable, if you had to face it alone... She was the love of his life; he couldn't stand to think of her facing illness alone, with no one to care for her.

And so he was on his way to her apartment, stopping only to pick up a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of Robitussin, thinking of his poor sick sweetheart, and how he might make her feel better.

She didn't look sick when she answered his doorbell summons. She didn't look pleased to see him, either. In fact, she seemed downright annoyed.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped, not moving from the doorway.

Caught off-guard, he could only stammer, "I-I wanted to make sure you were okay...?"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she grumbled. Nevertheless, she moved aside and let him enter her apartment.

Once inside, he presented her with the flowers, hoping that would lighten her mood. Instead, she stared at the bouquet, making no move to take them. "What's that for?"

"Just because," he said, attempting a smile; it faltered weakly on his face, then dissolved. "Scully, what's wrong?"

"What's wrong," she growled, "is that I told you not to come over; and yet, here you are."

"But..." This wasn't going right at all. "You said that you were sick... and I thought I could take care of you..."

"I lied, all right?" She stormed away from him. "I see you every moment of every day, and I wanted to have some time away from you!"

"Well, then, why didn't you say so?" he asked reasonably.

"I did! You didn't listen!" A long, heavy sigh. "'Not tonight, Mulder.' 'Maybe tomorrow, Mulder.' But you don't listen. You never listen.""I want to be with you; what's wrong with that? What's wrong with wanting us to be together?"

"Not every minute of every day, damn it! Don't you ever stop needing me? Can't you give me even a few hours to breathe?"

Her words stung, as abrasive to his soul as sandpaper. "Well, excuse me," he snapped, "I didn't realize that being with me was such a hardship."

"It is when I can't get rid of you! You all but follow me into the ladies' room... If I'd had any idea it would be like this, I would never have..." and her voice trailed off, as if she'd been about to say something else but had thought better of it at the last moment.

Abruptly, Mulder felt himself go cold.

"You would never have what?" he pressed.

"Leave it alone, Mulder," she said icily.

"Would never have what?" Suddenly it seemed vital to know how she'd planned to end the sentence. He grabbed her arm, tried to turn her to face him. "Would never have what, Scully?"

Infuriated, she whirled to face him, her face a mask of rage. "I would never have taken pity on you in the first place, damn it!"

This was a bad dream, it had to be. It had to be. This couldn't be Scully, saying this to him. Not Scully. She loved him.

Didn't she?

"I'm tired of this," she went on, every word a dagger in his heart, "I'm tired of your constant dependence, your endless neediness. Do you have to be underfoot all the time? Why don't you get yourself a life, and get out of mine?"

Mulder stared at her, unbelieving. "Scully?" he whispered. No. Not this. Please, God, not this...

"Just leave me alone!" And she stomped out of the living room; the bedroom door slammed shut, resounding through the apartment.

The bouquet slipped from suddenly-numb fingers to fall to the floor, unnoticed; her words echoed cruelly in his head, careening off brain tissue, hurting more with every renewed impact. Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone...

Finally, for lack of anything better to do, he made his way out of the apartment, out of the building.

Out of her life. Just like she wanted him to do.

Back in his car, he drove aimlessly, too caught up in his thoughts to know or care where he was going. Get out of my life, she says. Like she wasn't the one who pulled me into it in the first place? What does she want from me?

She wanted the conquest, spoke up the mean little voice in his head, the one always willing to trash his self- confidence and make him feel like shit. She wanted to see if she could go where no one had gone before. She wanted to play Get The Virgin. She wanted to play games with your mind, just like Phoebe... a little kinder, maybe; but essentially just the same. You were right the first time: it was nothing but pity, right from the start.

But she said she loved me! Anguish rose in his throat to choke him; tears stung at his eyes, but he refused to let them loose. He'd cried entirely too much in his life - - he'd cried in Scully's arms, so many times, believing himself to be safe there, and now...

No. He wasn't going to cry, not any more.

It took him a moment, though, to regain his composure; and when he had, he looked up, to see where his meanderings had brought him.

The light had turned green, but he was still stopped at the intersection; the street was empty, no one behind him to honk their horns and jar him from his reverie. The only signs of life were on the next block, the neon blinking of a bar sign...

What the hell, he thought tiredly, and pulled up to a parking spot nearly in front of the place.

It was Friday-night-crowded inside the bar; he edged through the miasma of smoke and people, found his way to the bar and ordered a beer. All around him, couples drank and talked and laughed... he should have been part of a couple; instead, he was alone. She brought me from despair and misery to hope and happiness, and then I find out that it was pity... For the first time, anger rose within him to join the hurt. How dare she? If she truly cared -- if she really loved me -- she wouldn't do this to me...

Inescapable logic: She doesn't love me. She never really did.

Sure.

Fine.

Whatever.

The bartender brought his beer, and he started to slide a ten-spot across the bar to pay for it, when suddenly there was a slim hand on top of his, arresting it mid-movement. "This one's on me," said a soft voice directly to his left.

Curiously, he turned his head to look.

Not as tall as Phoebe, not as short as Scully. Blonde hair in soft waves, framing her face attractively. Nice-looking woman, if he were interested.

Well, why shouldn't he be interested?

"You don't mind if I buy you a drink, I hope," she said, with an uncertain smile.

He liked that trace of uncertainty; it made him feel less like he was being reeled in, more in control of the situation. "As long as you let me buy the next round," he said with a smile, and she relaxed slightly.

"I'm Miriam," she introduced herself.

"My name's..." Mulder, he almost said, but that was the last thing he wanted to hear on this woman's lips. Nor 'Fox'... and what was left, that wouldn't be a lie? "William," he continued, the hesitation barely perceptible.

"Nice to meet you, William," Miriam said, and smiled; the curve of her lips, combined with the curve of her breast disappearing behind the plunging neckline of her blouse, combined to cause a slow chain-reaction within him. For a moment, his desire startled him -- then reassured him; it was nice to know that he could respond to another woman besides the one who had taught him how.

'Get yourself a life,' she'd said. Guess what, Scully? I'm about to take your advice.

"Nice to meet you, too," Mulder told her, meaning every word of it.

Later that night, he rested in an unfamiliar bed, catching his breath, while Miriam smoked a cigarette. Since he was a nonsmoker, she'd quite considerately taken herself and her ashtray over by the open window. Even so, wisps of smoke wafted across the room to tickle his nostrils annoyingly.

The sex had been good. Not earth-shattering fulfillment, not like with I will not think about her, I will not but good, nevertheless. From Miriam's behavior during and afterwards, he judged that his performance had been more than adequate; and he'd achieved orgasm without any problems whatsoever, without any ghosts rising in his mind to thwart his passion.

Congratulations, Scully; you cured me, he thought, feeling sardonic anger. He'd thought that it was love; he'd been wrong -- but at least he was no longer a virgin, saddled and hampered by conditioning and fear. At least he was whole, now, and ready to face the world as any other man might. Miriam had been receptive enough -- and chances were good that there would be other women who would, as well.There were a lot of women in the world, and plenty of time to get to know a substantial portion of them.

He could get along just fine without Scully.

He could.

He would.

No matter how much it hurt.

Miriam stubbed out her cigarette and came toward him, skin gleaming ivory in the dim light of streetlamps shining through the window. "How do you feel about another round?" she asked.

Even from a distance, he could smell the cigarette smoke permeating her skin, her hair; knew that he would taste the nauseating flavor of it on her tongue. But that didn't stop him from smiling, reaching out for her, even as another part of him stood back and watched in disapproval.

Love was a dream, a cruel lie. But now there was sex, instead.

It would have to do.

He pulled her down atop him, and tried to lose himself in the pleasures of her flesh.

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