imajiru: fiction: The X-Files: The Unicorn Tamed 10: Circumscription

He wouldn't meet her eyes, and his voice when he spoke to her was cool and distant. When she'd walked into the office, she'd tried to apologize -- but he'd cut her off before she could utter more than, "Mulder, I..." and begun talking about case files and paperwork, not giving her a moment to interrupt. Then the phone had rung, and he'd turned to answer it; and she'd noticed the flowers on his desk...

There were two bouquets, both bearing prominent gift cards. The first was from someone named Alexis, thanking him for a wonderful Saturday night and hoping for more of the same. The second was from someone named Jill, stating how much she'd enjoyed Sunday, and asking him to call her, anytime.

His cell phone kept ringing; he'd answer it, then get this weird little smile on his face and turn his chair away from her, to face the far wall, his voice dropping to a low, intimate tone as he conversed with the person on the line. She didn't know who was calling -- but from the sound of his voice, she'd have bet money that it wasn't one of the Lone Gunmen. At first, she'd thought it was some kind of set-up, a way to bolster his pride and pretend that she wasn't the only woman in his life -- but the sheer frequency of the calls, and his attitude toward them, was convincing her otherwise.

The phone rang, their office phone this time; Mulder was still busy on his cellphone, so she answered it. "Hello, can I speak to William?" said the voice on the other end -- a female voice, sultry and sensuous.

She almost told the caller that it was a wrong number -- then it connected in her mind.

"He's on the other line," she informed the caller tersely. "Can I take a message?"

The blithe statement infuriated Scully -- how dare she! -- and conversely, brought her almost to the point of tears. She managed to scribble down the message on a piece of paper, letting 'William' know that Miriam was calling to confirm their date for Tuesday night, shoved the paper across the desk at his turned back -- then snatched up her purse and stalked out of the office.

She stayed in a stall in the ladies' room until she was sure she had her temper and her tears under control, then emerged -- but she couldn't go back to that office. Not now. Not when it meant witnessing his endless phone calls, and being his goddamn secretary, taking messages from the women he was fucking...

Her feet took her to the park, to the same bench where she'd listened to him talk about his tortured past and held him as he'd cried, so long ago -- she sat there, staring at nothing, hoping against hope that she'd hear the sound of his footsteps approaching, that he'd miss her and come looking for her...

I just wanted a little space! Was that such a bad thing? Of course, she'd yelled at him -- it was an argument, a normal argument, like any other couple might have... But he wasn't any other man. He was Mulder, more accustomed to rejection than anyone else she'd ever known.

He won't even let me apologize. He didn't even give me a chance... She'd called him on Friday night, when her temper had cooled -- and again, on Saturday -- and three times on Sunday -- and each time, had only gotten his answering machine. Now she knew why: he'd been out tomcatting for all he was worth.

Maybe it was all a set-up, designed to do exactly what it had done: to make her angry, to make her feel hurt, to make her sorry she'd flung such hateful words at him. Yes, that was it -- it had to be; Mulder wouldn't just go out looking for a cheap fuck. Not so soon after their argument, not without trying first to heal the rift between them. He loved her; he knew she loved him. He wouldn't run off and sleep with the first woman he found. He wouldn't.

She rose from the bench then, and headed back toward the office, composing in her mind the speech that she would deliver upon her return. She would tell him how sorry she was, and how upset by his apparent liaisons with other women -- not letting him know, of course, that she was wise to the scheme; better to leave him with that measure of satisfaction. She would apologize, and tell him that she loved him; and maybe she'd let herself cry in his arms, as she'd wanted to do all morning.

Scully walked briskly through the halls, opened the basement office door -- and stopped dead in her tracks.

There was a woman sitting on the edge of Mulder's desk, a curly-haired brunette with long legs; he was standing very close to her, holding her hands in his and whispering something into her ear. She laughed, a light feminine giggle -- then they both became aware that they weren't alone, and turned to face her as one.

"Oh, am I interrupting something?" Scully said, in her best nonchalant voice, as her heart sank into her shoes. It wasn't a set-up.

"Uh," Mulder said, flustered for the briefest moment and then covering it with the same cool facade he'd worn earlier. "Jill, this is Agent Dana Scully, my partner. Agent Scully, this is Jill."

Agent Scully. It hurt, that he was so distant. It hurt that he was standing skin-close to this strange woman, as if she were his partner and Scully the stranger. It hurt, all of it hurt, a deep aching pain that seized her heart and squeezed all the blood out of it in an instant, leaving her bereft.

She nodded briefly at the woman, the barest acknowledgement dictated by courtesy. "I just came to tell you that I'm taking the rest of the day off," she said, "Agent Mulder," and beat a hasty retreat.

Once outside the door, the tears started. She held them back as best she could, while making her way through the building and out to the parking garage; but as soon as she was safely in her car, she couldn't prevent their course any longer. The tears streamed down her face as she exited the garage, as she navigated the snarls of Washington traffic, too distraught to curse at the drivers who cut her off, too miserable to care that her eye makeup was surely streaking down her face.

So this was all I meant to him. He loved me so much that he couldn't wait for the first chance to try out his newfound prowess... I understood his pain and fear, I understood and understood and understood, and he couldn't even try to understand me... Thanks a lot, Mulder. Thanks steaming loads.

Her apartment was a sanctuary -- but even there, she couldn't be free of him; the place reeked of Mulder. The couch, where they'd lain together that first night and since. The damned bouquet he'd dropped on her floor when he'd fled, sitting in the vase on the table where she'd placed it in an act of contrition, later that night when her anger had faded...

She strode across the room, picked up the vase and hurled it at the wall; glass shattered, littering her floor with water and shards and flowers.

Slowly, she walked over to the wreckage, stooped and picked up a single rose, clutched it to her chest. It's all I have left of him now...

And then she shattered, into a corresponding wreckage of racking sobs and blinding tears.

The morning wasn't any better. She phoned in sick, hoping against hope that he would stop by her apartment to see what was wrong, knowing that he wouldn't.

She took the next day off, too, and the next; and on the evening of the third day -- not a visit, not even a phone call, but an e-mail dropping into her box.

Agent Scully: I don't know how long you're going to keep this up, but it's becoming damned inconvenient. Skinner has been asking where you are, and your mother called twice, and I'm not going to keep lying for you. I have better things to do with my time. If you can't handle the situation like a professional adult, then say so: but in the meantime, I expect you to show up for work and do your job.

F. Mulder, Special Agent Department Head, X-Files Division

He went out of his way to be as nasty as possible, she recognized; and that knowledge depressed her even more.

For a while, she pondered how she might handle the situation; finally, after some hesitation, she picked up the phone and hit the familiar speed-dial number. Three rings, four, five; and finally, "Mulder."

"Mulder," she echoed softly, struggling to get the words past the lump in her throat. "We need to talk."

"Then we have nothing to talk about," he said curtly. In the background, she heard a faint noise -- a woman's voice, speaking words she couldn't discern. "I'm busy right now. I'll see you at the office tomorrow." And then the click of the receiver being disconnected, cutting her off effectively before she could say a single word in response.

She stared at the phone in her hand, feeling mingled anger and hurt -- the anger won, but it was a hard struggle. She was grateful, though; anger was better than tears, and she'd done entirely too much crying over Mulder. He wasn't crying over her, that was for certain... he'd found better things to do with his time.

The following morning, she rose extra-early; she took a long bubble bath and spent more than the usual time on her hair and makeup, making sure she looked just right. She selected one of her favorite outfits, a suit that managed to be wholly feminine and wholly professional at once. When she looked in the mirror, she liked the image that looked back at her: a competent, attractive woman, the sort who didn't let a man, any man, disrupt her existence.

Too bad she didn't feel that way... But looking the part was the first step toward making the image real.

She walked into the office as if she owned the place, got there before Mulder as per usual; rummaged around in the stacks of paperwork on his desk and found the latest, perused the files carefully, bringing herself up to speed. By the time he entered, she was absorbed in her work -- to all outward appearances, at least.

"Good morning, Agent Scully," delivered in an abrupt, cool tone. "I trust you've recovered from your unspecified ailment?"

Scully looked up at him, into his eyes, utilizing every ounce of self-possession she had to level him with a razor- sharp glare. "I've recovered," she said aloud, leaving it to her eyes to deliver the real message: Fuck you.

She watched his cold, set face to see the effect: for a moment, he seemed taken aback, and the mask almost slipped -- then he met ice with ice, his expression sealing over into something utterly impenetrable. "Fine," he said. "I see you've been catching up with our work."

"Good. Finish your reading, and we'll discuss the case." And seated himself at his desk, as if this were the usual course of events between them, as if nothing was the least bit amiss.

Stifling a sigh before it could become audible, she returned her attention to the file; and when he picked up the phone, dialed a number and began speaking to someone in a low, intimate tone, she pretended not to notice, not to care.