The Unicorn Tamed 11: Oscillation

Bitch.

Look at her, with those cold eyes. As if she expected him to feel guilty. As if. But that wasn't going to happen: he'd spent entirely enough of his life feeling guilty for one thing or another. Now, he was going to enjoy himself; and never mind those ice-cold eyes on the other side of the office.

For all his years of hesitancy and fear, it was surprisingly easy. Miriam and Alexis and Jill, Louanne and Tania and Karla and Shannon and Jeannine... Each of them stunningly beautiful, each of them perfectly content to take whatever part of him he was willing to give. And if the first one he called happened to be busy, it didn't matter; best of all, they were completely interchangeable, since none of them actually meant anything to him. His perfect memory helped him track which one he was with, so there was no embarrassing calling-of-the-wrong-name; and as long as there was a woman next to him in bed, it really didn't matter which of them it was.

As long as there was a woman next to him in bed, he didn't find himself missing her. Her, the bitch with the ice-cold eyes who'd broken his heart back when it was fragile and raw. Now, he was busily constructing a wall of armor around his soul: no one else would get in, not now, not ever.

Who needed love? Sex was good enough.

For the first time in his life, he had a little black book -- he'd bought one specially for the purpose, little and black, just like the stereotype -- and it was filling up rapidly. Womens' names, only ever the first name, and their phone numbers... sometimes he delighted in riffling through the pages and picking one at random, just for the sheer fun of knowing that there were so many, he couldn't choose. After a lifetime of starvation and hunger, here he was on the buffet line, indulging himself in a sumptuous feast...

And never mind the cold, accusing eyes of his erstwhile lover.

Leafing idly through his address book, he glanced up when the office door opened -- froze for the briefest moment, pinned by years of conditioning -- then shook it off, and stood to greet her. "Hello, Phoebe," he said mildly.

She was aging. Was that why she didn't seem nearly as gorgeous as she once had? Or was it just that he'd extricated himself, finally, from her spell? Whatever: it was about time.

"Hello, Fox," she purred, and he managed not to flinch. "And you, ah..."

"Dana Scully," said his partner, and her voice was steel.

"Oh, yes. I'd forgotten." Of course she hadn't. Just another of Phoebe's little games. "At any rate, I happened to be in town for a conference, and I thought we might catch a spot of dinner. Wouldn't that be lovely, Fox?"

It amazed him, how easy it was to look at her now. How simple it was to gaze at her, the woman who'd once held his heart and his balls in her hands and twisted for all she was worth, and say...

"Sorry, I have a date." He didn't have one, not yet. But he would; he'd make sure of it.

Phoebe seemed unperturbed, confident (he was sure) of her ability to wrap him around her pinky. "Oh, come now. Surely, you can reschedule it, to spend time with... an old friend?" Just enough of a pause to speak a thousand old promises in the space of the silence, designed to send his imagination soaring...

He shrugged. "Nah."

His offhand response, or perhaps the calmness with which it was spoken, seemed to surprise her. "Well," she said, after a moment. "I see. Unfortunate; I'd hoped we might be able to catch up on old times..." Another pause, to see if the fish would nibble at the bait. When he didn't, she continued smoothly. "But if you haven't the time, perhaps we can arrange something the next time I'm in town..."

"I don't think so," Mulder said.

Her eyes met his... and it was unbelievably easy to stand firm, to refuse to melt in the heat of her gaze. Her spell was broken; she couldn't touch him now. Decades, it had taken -- but finally, the spell was broken: he was free.

"Well," she said. "I suppose this is goodbye, then."

"I suppose." He sat back down at his desk, picked up a file folder and pretended to engross himself in the contents, ostentatiously dismissing her from his thoughts; and after a moment, he heard the door open and close again.

A quick glance told him that she was gone; he set aside the folder with a sigh. Reflexively, he opened his mouth to say something to Scully, to savor his triumph with the only person who could understand the magnitude of what he'd won -- and then remembered, and closed his mouth again.

Scully was staring at the closed door; he couldn't see her face, but the set of her shoulders was... odd, somehow: tense and angry.

It bothered him that he couldn't share his victory with Scully. It brought home to him how distant they'd become... We're not even friends anymore, he thought miserably. Then banished the misery sharply: he'd sworn he wouldn't let it happen. Scully had broken his heart, and he wasn't going to give her the chance to stomp on the shattered fragments.

Picking up his phone book, he debated for a moment and then called Lucy, a tall stunning blonde -- she was almost always free; and she'd be happy to celebrate with him. Even though she'd have no idea what was being celebrated...

The following morning, he walked into the office, stifling a yawn -- Lucy was astonishingly creative, and they'd been up until dawn. "Good morning, Agent Scully," he said to his partner, with the stark formality that had become routine.

As he seated himself at his desk, she looked up from the form she was filling out -- one glance, and formality went straight out the window. "What happened to you?"

One finger involuntarily rose to touch the shadow of the black eye that she hadn't quite been able to mask with makeup. "I walked into a door," she said briefly.

He would have argued, if there had been time -- but the phone rang; he picked it up, listened to the voice on the other end. "Skinner wants to see us in his office," he said, and listlessly his partner shrugged.

The meeting was brief, and illuminating. As they entered the outer office, Phoebe was just leaving -- she shot Scully a venomous glare and stalked out, but in that brief moment, Mulder had time to notice the bruises. It seemed that they covered every square inch of her flesh, arms and legs and face... and was her hair just messy, or had chunks of it really been pulled out? "A.D. Skinner will see you now," the secretary told them, and they entered the inner sanctum.

Skinner wasted no time, got straight to the point. "I understand that there was a bit of an incident last night, Agent Scully," he said, watching them both for a reaction. "Ms. Phoebe Green alleges that you ambushed her outside her hotel and proceeded to -- in her words -- 'beat the crap' out of her. Is this true?"

She... The world was spinning wildly, and nothing made sense. She beat up Phoebe... It shouldn't have been surprising; he'd heard Scully make that very vow. But that was before, when they were lovers... when he'd thought she loved him. She didn't love him now, he knew that, so why...

"Scully was with me," he heard himself say. "We were going over some paperwork; she was with me all evening."

"Is that true, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked her.

Scully hesitated, very briefly. "Are you calling Agent Mulder a liar, sir?" she said smoothly.

Skinner sighed. "Get out of here, both of you."

They walked toward the elevator together, side by side. "Scully," Mulder murmured, not knowing what exactly he was going to say, knowing that he needed to say something, "I..."

"I need to check on some things," she cut him off bluntly. "I'll see you later," walked past him and was gone.

He watched her go, feeling the world still spinning around him; it continued to whirl crazily as he found his way back to his office alone. She doesn't love me. I know that now; she never loved me.

But why would she...?

It's like... my best friend just beat up the school bully for me, and suddenly he was very close to tears.

She didn't come back to the office -- he waited for hours, but she never showed; at noon, he gave up and went to meet with one of his lunch-break women. Felicia chided him several times for not paying attention; he tried his best, but came away from the luncheon date with the feeling she wouldn't be granting him another. At that moment, it didn't seem like any great loss.

He walked slowly back to work, in no hurry to get there, still puzzling over his contradictory feelings. He was over her -- he was determined to be over her -- why did it affect him so, that she'd exacted retribution against Phoebe on his behalf? Memory struck: sitting on a ferris wheel at sunset, breathless with wanting Scully and utterly intoxicated with the thought that it might actually happen, speaking the words: It's nice to have someone to hate her with. Scully had understood. He'd let her know his heart, and she'd understood -- right up until the time she'd stomped it into the ground.

Was it possible that she hadn't meant to?

But then... did it matter whether she'd meant to or not?

Loving Phoebe had destroyed him. Loving Scully had cured him -- and shattered him all over again. It was the love that was the problem: the opening up of oneself to let another person in. To do so was the ultimate folly, inviting that visitor to do whatever damage she pleased... Too dangerous. Too frightening.

Never again.

Yet even as he strengthened his resolve, he was aware of something within him, some tiny voice, that ached and cried for Scully...

So caught up in his thoughts was he that he never saw the car that jumped the sidewalk, mowing down passersby in its course toward the plate-glass window of the clothing boutique -- he only felt the impact, a force too swift and stunning to impart pain; surprise lit his mind from within -- What the...? -- as he fell into darkness.

The moment he awoke, he knew he was in a hospital room. Something about the smell, the glare of all the whiteness, and most importantly, the awareness of pain not-quite-felt, struggling to surface from beneath a numbing blanket of medication...

He turned his head, and there she was: asleep with her head pillowed on folded arms on the edge of his bed, auburn hair spilling over the sheets.

"Scully," he said -- tried to say; it came out as a croak.

Her head lifted: tired, bloodshot eyes, face streaked from the trails of long-dried tears. "Mulder," she murmured.

"What're you doing here?" Of course she was there; she was always there. But why? That was the part he still couldn't comprehend.

She made a sound -- not quite a sigh; closer to a sob. "Where else would I be?"

"Thought you wanted time to yourself," he said tiredly. His head itched -- with the arm that wasn't strapped down and stuck with an IV, he tried to scratch it, but the bandages got in the way.

"Mulder, you..." Scully drew a deep, shaky breath. "You don't understand. You never understood."

"Of course not; I don't understand anything. I'm just some big stupid guy who chases aliens." The meds were wearing off, and his head hurt. A lot.

"No, you're just some big stupid guy who chases anything with a cunt," she snapped back, and the sharpness of her tone, combined with the unusual use of profanity, drew his attention to her face.

It was a mask of fury, barely leashed -- and there were tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I loved you," she went on, and her tone of voice made it a curse. "I loved you, and I gave you everything I could, everything I thought you needed. And you... you just couldn't wait for the first excuse to dump me and screw around, could you? That's all you wanted: to fuck your way through D.C...."

"Aren't you twisting the facts a little?" he interrupted acidly. "You were the one who told me to get out of your life..."

"It was one argument! No sane person breaks off a perfectly good relationship because of one argument...!"

"You told me to get out, I got out. You told me to get a life, I got a life. Now you're saying that I didn't understand; tell me, Scully, what part of 'fuck you' did I fail to comprehend?" There was a pounding pain in his skull, just behind his right eye; every word he spoke made it worse, every word she shouted turned the pain into bright agony.

"All I wanted was a little space! Why can't you..." She broke off her reply, as the door opened.

A nurse came in, with a hypodermic needle -- relief! -- she took in the scenario, and frowned. "Time for your medication, Mister Mulder," she said to him; and to her: "I'm sure you'll agree, Doctor Scully, that considering the extent of his injuries, a sustained conversation isn't medically advisable at this time."

He had the satisfaction of watching Scully's face flush scarlet. "Of course," she muttered, and moved away from the bed to give the nurse room to work.

The woman checked the various tubes running into and out of him with brisk efficiency, administered the shot; almost at once, he could feel the blissful numbness sweeping over him, eliminating the throbbing pain. "What're you doing tonight, beautiful?" he asked her hazily.

His nurse -- a large black woman who could not, by any stretch of the imagination, been called beautiful -- emitted a hearty laugh. "Making sure you don't pop any stitches," she said, "and then going home to my husband and three kids. Now, you just get your rest." Turning, pointing a stubby finger at Scully. "And you, let him rest. Visiting hours were over ages ago; it's time for you to leave..."

There was an argument, then, but he missed it; the painkiller dragged him under, into a deep dreamless sleep.

When next he awoke, a hand was holding his -- strong and soft and sweet, a familiar sensation...

"Scully?" he murmured.

"How do you feel, Will?" and he opened his eyes to a stranger's face.

It took him a moment to dredge her name from memory. "Lisa," he said, finally. "Thanks for coming."

"I had to stand in line," she told him, with a grin to let him know that she took no offense. "Juliana said to tell you that she hopes you feel better soon, and Amanda left flowers -- and this is from me," and she bent over him, planted a warm kiss on his lips.

He endured it, rather than enjoying it -- her kisses meant nothing to him, no more than any of his other women. It was a promise, of sexual favors to be granted in the future, and so he smiled at her as she pulled away; she smiled back, and he was aware that he'd managed to maneuver the situation to his advantage. Poor sick 'William' would have no shortage of ladies willing to play nursemaid during his recovery...

My god, he thought, in a moment's stunned realization, I've become Phoebe.

Before he could reflect on this latest, distressing revelation, the door swung open... "Excuse me," said Scully, "I didn't know you were... busy."

Her face had been washed, makeup and facade retouched to impeccable stillness, displaying no sign of her earlier anger or tears. Lisa turned, surveyed her, frowned. "Wait your turn," she advised, "I'm with him now."

There was no way, he knew, that Scully was going to put up with that; silently, he waited for his partner to assert herself, to let the other woman know who belonged there and who didn't, to put Lisa firmly in her place...

"My apologies," said Scully, with a faint smile, and closed the door behind herself as she left.

Startled, he stared at the closed door. She just... left... The impact of it hit him like a hammer; he felt... he felt... he didn't know what he felt, but it was like being cast adrift in an endless sea, with no anchor to hold him in place, no lighthouse to guide him to shore.

"Well, now that we're alone..." Lisa smiled at him warmly, and in her pearly-white teeth Mulder suddenly envisioned sharks, circling, waiting to snap at him and pull him under.

He shuddered, covered it by saying that he was cold, let Lisa pull the covers up over him and cluck over him soothingly -- she was solicitous, soothing, all the things a wounded man might want in the woman by his bedside -- and none of it mattered.

She left after awhile, so that he could 'get some rest', and he waited... doctors came in to explain what was wrong with him, and tell him that he was doing well, considering... nurses came in to change his bandages, fill some bags and empty others, and monitor his progress... women came and left in a steady stream, all the names in his little black book... and still he waited, not knowing what exactly he was waiting for...

After the sun had set, changing the windowpanes from day- lit to night-dark, it came to him that he was waiting for Scully.

And still she didn't show up.

Voices spoke to him inside his head, in a plethora of tones: You knew she wouldn't come, she doesn't love you, it was only ever pity / love, it was love, she said she loved you, and you pushed her away, you were so eager to show off your manhood that you / did what was right and necessary; she pushed you away, and you found yourself a better way / all the faces and bodies and none of them mean anything to you, only her / she HURT you, she's the only one left who can hurt you, you're better off without her / all alone without her / love her / need her / hate needing her / don't want to need anyone else / what am I doing? What do I do next?

Questions and questions and no answers; and finally he fell into a restless sleep.

He awoke to the blackness of no lights, nothing but night- darkness, and the certain knowledge that he wasn't alone.

Scully.

"You came back," he said aloud, to the darkness.

A soft voice floated back to him. "Where else would I be?"

He thought about that for a moment. "You weren't here before."

The voice, when it returned, was shadowed with the faintest tinge of hurt. "You were busy."

Right: the women waiting, in line (so to speak) outside his door. "I guess I was," he agreed.

Silence spread; he felt compelled to break it. "I don't need you," he said, hearing his voice echo in the fathomless chasm that separated them. "I can do just fine without you."

A moment's pause; then, "I guess you can," she agreed.

But I can't.

"I loved you," Scully said, from the other side of the Great Divide. "I still love you. I suppose... I thought that might still matter to you."

Nothing else matters.

"But we're too far from that now, aren't we? Too much has changed for us... for you." She was silent for a moment, then continued. "I have to admit, as much as I despise you for the way you've chosen to live your life... I'm glad that you have the ability to live whatever way you want. If I've left you with nothing else, at least I've given you that."

Left me. She's leaving me. This is it, then.

"There's no future for us, is there? Just more of the same. It's all downhill from here." He heard her draw breath, as if it was an effort for her to do so. "I guess it's time to say goodbye."

You knew this would happen. You've always known. It's what you expected, isn't it? People always leave...

...especially if you shut them out of your heart and life and take up with others...

A brief touch, fingertips brushing against the back of his hand; then the creaking of the chair as she rose, the soft footfalls as she headed toward the door.

In another heartbeat, she would open the door and step through it, and then she would be gone. Reassignment? Probably; Scully wasn't one to do things halfway. What would it be like, to work with another agent? To face the mysteries of the X-Files alone again? A fresh start, a new beginning: erasing her number from his telephone speed- dial, erasing her face from his heart. The first would require a bit of reprogramming; would the latter ever happen? Not likely.

The door opened, and the light from the hallway spilled into the room, silhouetting her figure as she turned back to look at him one last time. One last time. No more midnight conversations, no more chasing rainbows together, no more of the strange trembling intimacy that had lived between them for far longer than they'd been lovers.

Over. It was all over. One more moment, and it would all be over, with no chance to ever make it right.

Now the door was closing, taking the light with it, leaving him in the darkness. Another moment, and she would be gone...

"Scully," he whispered.

The light still shone through the doorway, a brief reprieve...

"Don't go..." Would she listen? Would she care? Or was it true, that the chasm between them was too great to allow any bridging of the gap?

Was it really too late?

The sound of the door closing felt like the slamming-shut of a coffin, sealing his doom; and again he was surrounded by darkness.

And then, footsteps in the dark.

And then, a hand slipping into his, holding it.

And then, a soft voice illuminating the darkness. "I'm here."

Nothing else matters.

He closed his eyes, felt tears leaking out from beneath the lids; his hand tightened around hers and held it, refusing to let go.

The darkness was total, encompassing him utterly.

But he wasn't alone.

| imajiru | fiction | astrology | email |