Pass by a Mirror

Pass by a Mirror

It wasn't a kiss. A kiss is a delicate word for a fragile thing, an act both personal and sweet. That was an ultimatum. An ultimatum aimed not just at my lips, but my soul.

A demand. And demands are easy to reject. Just ask my family. Dana Katherine Scully does not give into demands.

So easy to give in and so impossible to live with the consequences. I've worked the problem through. So has he. He's just forgotten. A temporary aberration brought on by too much stress and too much time alone.

The odd thing about six years of foreplay is that it builds more barriers than it destroys. I've fantasized about his touch a thousand times, allowed the fantasy to bring me pleasure a hundred times.

The magic of fantasy is the offer of perfection. The shadow of unshaven jaw, without the scratchy stubble of the man. The fury of passion tempered by a desire to give, yet not dimmed by fierce control.

I was never the kind of good little girl who rejected fantasy. Sins of the flesh are sins to me only if the act hurts another. My fantasies of Mulder showed me how not to hurt. Not him. Not me.

I used to watch the lightning, loved the dancing silver blades against the charcoal sky. Loved the crack of thunder as it broke then shattered and rumbled across the land. Majestic. Pure. Nature asserting dominion over man. I remember the shame of loving when I saw my best friend's family destroyed by fire.

Fantasy is the safe haven, a place to take risks and work through dangerous ideas. I can play the scene a hundred times, a thousand times, until I've extracted every consequence, found every nuance, determined the most appropriate response. I've known for a long time what I would do if Mulder kissed me.

That kind of kiss. I'm not so churlish as to reject a polite peck on the cheek at Christmas, or a soft brush of lips against my hairline offered as a blessing or a benediction on our safe return.

The important thing was to leave no doubt, no misunderstanding, no lingering hope that might continue to toy with this open sore. He would take it as final and move on. We would continue as before, the shadow that had come between us would evaporate.

How odd that a declaration of love should be a shadow.

I've been waiting for months for the right time, and a good way to tell him that I'm already his. He needs to make no changes. I do not need to hear him proclaim his need for me as he did that strange night in the hallway of his apartment. I already know his need.

He doesn't have to tell me that he loves me. I already know.

I know him and accept him as he is. Not as the lover in my fantasy who shatters my body with soft touches. Not as the husband of my dreams who cherishes me as he builds our safe haven.

He's my partner. We have work to do. No fantasy can match the reality of who we are. I've been ready for tonight. In the supposed idyll of Arcadia. In the madness of delivering a baby in Florida. Time and again, I've rehearsed my speech and regretted only that he gave me no opportunity to use it.

Until tonight. Tonight I had the chance to put things right.

And it's hard for me to believe, but I had my say, and things still aren't right. I wanted to end the pain. Yet, the image burnt into my retina is of the man I hurt.

My lips sting from their brief encounter with his. My hands ache from the tightness of the fist I formed to push him from me. My heart shatters and reforms in every too fast beat as I relive the moments.

When I close my eyes, I can see him backing away. His eyes at first wild with panic then becoming suddenly dead with fear. I had frightened him. How? I said nothing to make him fear me.

I told him that I loved him as a friend, a good companion and that was enough. I told him that I wasn't looking for a more intimate relationship. I kept the words easy to see, didn't let my emotions get in the way of my explanations. I don't want to lose him. I made that clear.

Yet, somehow, fear came. Frustration, I could understand, sexual or emotional, God knows, even I.... Maybe even a little indignation at my refusal. Embarrassment too, I guess, though he has no reason to feel embarrassed. He looked at me only as a man might look at a woman.

But fear came. Why would there be fear now that I've told him that he is enough, he need make no changes, that we are enough?

I can understand why he might have been fearful of my casual talk about stopping the car and living a normal life; or my drift into near intimacy with a stranger, a neighbor of his. But to fear the status quo?

He can't fear that.

Maybe for all my clarity he misunderstood. Maybe my preparation was wasted. Maybe he thought I was going to walk away.

The phone rings. Him. A chance to set things straight.

Come on Dana Katherine, say something. Just clear your throat and say hello.

"Miss Scully?" The voice is the voice of a stranger.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Who? A hospital? Did he crash the car? Did he... Did he do something that I'll regret.

My heart stops trying to hammer its way out of my chest. I try to listen. It's nobody. Someone wanting to sell me insurance. As if.

I'll get no peace until I know he's home and safe. Until he understands. There is no ending here, only an assurance that he needn't begin again.

I take the drive slow, rehearsing the words. I ignore the little voice screaming in my brain that I'd rehearsed the last set of words too and maybe a little spontaneity might have helped. Maybe if I had just listened to him and responded rather than sticking to the script.

But I can't. He runs on instinct. I rely on preparation.

Deep breath. Knock on the door. No cloud of incipient tears in my eyes. Clarity. He is probably a little embarrassed, so am I. If I look distressed it'll feed back to him and get magnified in those anxious eyes of his. We'll both break down then. There'll be tears and in the adrenaline rush and the desire for comfort some new mistake might be made.

So there will be no tears. He'll see calm in my eyes and he will reflect it back to me. That's how it works, how we survive.

Deep breath. The knock on the door that tells him that I am here and ready.

I know he's there. I can hear him moving around inside the apartment. My hand is floating up, ready to knock again when I hear the click of the lock. He drags the door open.

Oh God.

He looks first at my feet. His jaw tightens and I can almost hear the gears turn as he decides to work through his discomfort. His gaze shifts slowly up my body to finally lock onto my face. His eyes are misty but dry. He looks exhausted. I will not feed his tiredness with my own.

It works, his expression levels into quiet examination. I've seem that look before. It serves him well, suitable for the interrogation of serial killers, challenging the orders of stubborn managers and for holding a conversation with his partner.

I allow him to make the first move. He could, at least, invite me in. We've had conversations out here before, but that's exactly what I don't want to repeat.

His eyes grow several degrees colder, yet there's dark fire in his words. "Well, look who's here. You've already got my head on a platter, Scully. Have you come to collect my balls, too?"

What? Where did the fear go? Maybe I misunderstood. I guess he's had a couple of hours to work it through. Angry now? Maybe that's the embarrassment. Damn it. I have things to say, but he has to let me in. Soft words will soften his brain and I need him alert. "Are you offering them, Mulder?"

He looks as if he wants to laugh, his throat tightens and he swallows hard. "Frankly, I'm not sure I have any left. I'll go check, if you'd like."

"I'd rather you just invite me in."

There is a long silence as we lock eyes and he tries to make me run. I'm too polite to push past him. I know he'll succumb, he's too polite to force me out and it will take force to push me away from my mission.

"Look, I'm really not ..."

His words trail off and he beckons me in. He doesn't move back to make it easy, just far enough to make it possible. I understand the unspoken question. I let my body brush his to show him that I have no fear, that nothing has changed, that I am as sure of him now as I was before that aborted kiss. The flicker of electricity as we meet reminds me of the danger.

I can't look at him. Not yet. I need my armor in place. I am here to set the record straight, not to fall into his arms.

I turn into his gaze and notice that his focus is off center somehow. He's not looking at my face, not even at my body. I track his eyes and realize that my jacket collar needs straightening. It can wait. No ad- libs.

He doesn't sit, he doesn't suggest that I do.

It's his turf and he can set the rules, but I can't help but feel a little aggrieved that he's using his height as a piece of psychological one-upmanship. Fine, if he wants a little control here, let him make his move.

"So what are you doing here, Scully?"

And that isn't really a move at all. It disarms me and I realize that I can't look at him as I speak. "I'm not really sure." I attempt to gauge his reaction but the cold fire in his eyes burns me and I have to study the wall behind his head instead. "I guess I wanted to see if you're okay. You were ... upset when you left."

"Yeah, well, I'm fine now."

I have things to say. I have to make him understand. What chance do I have of making it sound real if I can't even look at him. So much ice in his eyes. He really ought to have a gun in his hands when he looks like that. I'd understand this fear that's melting my bones if he did.

"Mulder ..."

And he drops the weapon of his eyes. He'd only wanted to wound, maybe I should be grateful. He brushes past me and I feel the electric sparks even stronger than before and maybe my theory's wrong, it isn't the same as it was.

His voice is all control. "I said I'm fine. Just let it go." He says the words with such intent that I can almost believe he means it, but his actions are not fine. I'm quite sure that feeding the fish was not on his mind five minutes, or even five seconds ago. He does it only to buy time. For me as well as him. I guess I should be grateful for his care.

I'm not looking for care. I want, I need him to understand. I take advantage of the fact that I can't see his face. "No, I don't think I can do that. I'm sorry if this is uncomfortable for you, but it's not easy for me, either. We both said some things we probably shouldn't have."

"And life goes on. Look, this is a really bad idea. The best thing you can do right now is go home."

Home? To what? To panicking that the next call on my phone might be some new horror story? To dreading arriving in the office on Monday morning and seeing that fear back in his eyes? Or worse, seeing that hope again, the hope that makes me suddenly rebel and strike out at him? "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Just pretend it never happened."

I can almost see the rush of blood to his brain, a tide of red fury buzzing through his body. He turns on me, his hands form into fists and for one sick moment I think this may be how it ends.

I've never heard the anguish or the anger in his voice tuned to such fever pitch. I've heard from mom, from Skinner, about his man, this other Mulder. Every word spits fire as he glares down at me. "Oh, that's rich. That's fucking precious, Scully. You sanctimonious bitch. Don't you even try to lay this at my feet."

What? How dare he try to intimidate me? He's the one who demanded change, he's the one who moved on me. How dare he try to skip out of his responsibility for this nightmare.

He towers over me, breathing hard as if preparing to run or do battle. I hesitate, I've never been afraid of him, afraid for him perhaps. But right now I see rage in his eyes, and it's displacing not only the customary gentleness, but the control.

His fists unclench and I'm relieved. His fingers lock around my upper arms and I'm furious.

"Let go of me."

His compliance is instant, I don't think he noticed what he was doing. And I guess I should be relieved by that but I'm not. It confirms my dark fears and reassures me that I'm right. Mulder is my personal Pandora's box and I'm scorched by the wisps of fire even as I move to touch the lock. Take the lid off and an explosion might follow.

He takes a step back. His body shivers and his jaw trembles a little as he fights to bring himself back into check. "Where the hell do you get off accusing me of having a selective memory? You're the one who conveniently forgets, ignores or denies things you don't have the courage to face."

As if I get the opportunity to ignore, as if I can ever forget. I've got a fucking homing beacon in my neck. "You don't know what you're talking about."

He's silent, the wheels turn and I can only hope that he remembers me, my life, my world. The reality I face, not the fantasy world he would like to construct. "Are you really that obtuse?" And I'm glad he's finding it hard to talk. Maybe he'll soon be ready to listen. His voice cracks, then softens. "Or is it just that you can't stand me but you're not sure how to break the news?"

How can he think that. He's my partner, my only hope. And he thinks that I've rejected him? Fear and embarrassment? Humiliation? And just as I start to prepare the words to tell him that he's foolish and mistaken to think that I ever wanted to hurt him or even sought to offend his masculine pride, he starts to talk.

And his words are low and dark and angry. "Would you like a list, Scully? Because I've got one. Why don't we start with a certain incident in my hallway? The one where I spilled my guts and then you saw fit to turn my words around and make what was heartfelt and honest into something abstract and impersonal. You remember that?"

I can't look at him. We took from that encounter what we needed to take and there was nothing impersonal about it. We had a lot of things to think about after that. He's never needed my reassurance before, why does he need it now?

His voice shivers with cold. "How about when I told you I loved you? Ring any bells? You didn't twist my words that time, I'll grant you that. But you did manage to mock the sincerity of them."

We reach the shadow, he dares to mention the elephant in the living room. I should have tackled him there and then. Stopped the charade before the open wound became a running sore. But I couldn't. Not then. "Mulder, you were half out of your mind on painkillers."

"That's a bullshit excuse, and you know it. You just couldn't deal with it."

"I shouldn't have to." I shouldn't. It's not fair to make the responsibility for us, fall on me. He used to play his part in maintaining the balance. Now he forces me to walk the tightrope alone. I can't look at him. I can't believe that he'd put me through this. And for what? For sex? He's coped for years, so have I. Why now?

Why am I lying to myself? If this was about sex it would be easy. Maybe even enjoyable. He wants us to merge and I'm not sure I can.

I need time to think this through. He needs time to cool off before I explain again that we can't jeopardize us, for a fairytale.

Hs talks so quietly that I have to concentrate to hear him, maybe that's why he does it. "So, is that why you came here, Scully? To scold me for forcing you to acknowledge my feelings for you?"

Bastard. I'm a coward? I mock his sincerity? I'm a sanctimonious bitch? I scold him? Sure, fine, whatever. What the hell does he see in me? I almost ask him, but he starts talking again before I get the chance.

"Because if that's the case, you needn't bother. I got the message loud and clear. You'll have to excuse my current foul mood. I've never been a very gracious loser. This is no exception."

Why does he have to make it so fucking hard? Why does it have to be win or lose? "I came here, Mulder, because I was hoping we could find a way to get past this."

"This?" His voice stutters with strained laughter. "Which 'this' are you referring to? The fact that I love you, or that I broke the rules and brought it to your attention again by kissing you?"

What about the this that says we've got too much to lose? "It's not that simple."

"Sure it is, Scully. Not everything has to be complicated."

And suddenly his voice fades out and I hear his body succumb to weary resignation. I listen to the squeak of the couch as he sinks onto it. He buries his head in his hands and I have no idea what to do. Whether to run to him, or from him, or just to stand here and watch the train wreck unfold.

And I'm shocked when he talks again. Such dispassionate intensity. He sounds like he's reeling off an evidence list to a disbelieving review board. "The simple facts are these: a.) I'm in love with you and b.) that makes you uncomfortable. Whether you tell yourself it's because you don't share those feelings or you do but can't deal with them is beside the point right now."

I'm ashamed to look at him. It feels like the worst kind of voyeurism. I've always imagined that he needed privacy and space. Just like me. He takes his heart from his chest and hands it to me for inspection. I've been here before. I have no words.

"The problem as I see it, Scully, is that we've reached an impasse. It's obvious I'd like our relationship to develop into something more ... intimate. It's also obvious you don't. Like I said, the reasons don't matter. What's apparent is that we can't go back and negate what's happened. Like it or not, things will never be the same. Now we have to figure out where to go from here."

Things have to be the same. I can't lose again. I think I'd better sit down. I feel panic rise and build until every nerve ending sparks and sizzles and I concentrate on how to breathe and count my heartbeats until at last the storm subsides and the fear burns out a little. I try to look at him. I look, but I can't see. Maybe I can hear. "What are you thinking, Mulder?"

And the question isn't fair because I'm quite sure he has no idea what he's thinking. But saying it aloud can sometimes help. And that's my customary role, I let Mulder speculate and hunt for his own clarity.

Mercifully, he assumes his role too and tries to spell out his theory and a strategy for moving on. "I suppose we could try to stick to the status quo. We're both pretty good when it comes to denying certain aspects of our relationship." And just when I think I can breathe again, he adds another layer. "The thing is, I don't know if I want to do it anymore. I don't know that I should have to."

Doesn't want to? And what about me? Don't I have any say in this? I guess not, the clouds in his eyes build suddenly and he can't even bear to look at me.

Yet, he finds the strength to speak. "And the thought of spending ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day with you, five or six days a week ..." He clears his throat and I'm ashamed to witness this. "Knowing how I feel about you, and knowing you won't ..."

Why? We've been doing it for years. I've learned to live with it, so has he. Why more changes? So many things have changed in the past 6 years. Can he name any that have truly been for the better? Why risk it all in pursuit of hazardous change, when we already have something precious. What's changed in him? "Why can't you just keep on doing it, Mulder?"

Our eyes lock and his sparkle and I'm not sure whether he's going to laugh or cry. I don't think that I can handle either. I've seen that shine before. And if I could ruffle his hair and run away again now, I surely would.

I ought to run away. I ought to let him mourn this loss of something there never was, in peace. I shouldn't be here, witnessing this collapse. It adds to the dead weight of revelations. As if the kiss was not enough. I'll be forced to remember this image of the lapse as well. I ought to tell him to shut up. He should know better. He knows that once the words are said, it's real.

It's almost inevitable that he will give the wrong reply, and he does. "Not anymore, I can't."

Damn him. My eyes fall to study the floor and I wish I could will myself invisible.

"If I could stop loving you, Scully, I would." He snaps his fingers and my heart jumps. " ... Just like that. But it doesn't work that way. And until I can get a handle on this thing ... I think it'd be best to take a break. Spend some time away from one another."

I really have no words for him. Nothing that I rehearsed can set this right. Why doesn't he just shut up? Doesn't he know that saying it makes it real. Even this miserable long silence is preferable to more words. Why did I come here? Why didn't I run? What kind of sadist am I that I can watch him unravel before my eyes? What kind of masochist am I that I can't stop myself from looking?

I should try and get him back to the point, remind him of what we have to lose. "And the work?"

He shakes his head, just the slightest shift in his posture. I can see the cogs spinning in his brain and my muscles tense, knowing that for an instant he's considering launching another assault.

He backs away from all out war, shifts his words to razor effect. Quietly professional. "We've got enough of a backlog that we could work independently for the better part of a month. If not longer."

So precise, so impersonal. Fine, let's stick to the facts. "What about field work?"

He slumps into the couch and rubs at his eyes. "Skinner would probably appreciate the reduced expenses. If we get called out, we'll deal with it. We're experts at that."

He's got it all worked out, as if I'm not involved. "It's my work too, Mulder."

He blinks, apparently confused. He hesitates and I see his throat tighten. Some fresh insult that he decides to swallow, perhaps? Or worse, maybe he's genuinely surprised to hear my words and I'm suddenly glad that I gave him the reminder.

"I'm aware of that, Scully. I'm not suggesting you leave the X-Files."

He's telling the truth, he wants my work. It's me that he doesn't want. I stand and twist to face him. "No, just that I leave you." And I know that in that ill measured remark I've said so little, yet I've said too much.

I see him flinch at the words, before suddenly stiffening into icy calm. "Actually, Scully, in this case it's the other way around."

I've never wanted to leave him. Never. Even in the worst moments, I've never. I'd never leave him. I'm in the same place I always am. At his side. Watching his back. He's the one who's suddenly saying that having me in his bed is a condition of service. Who the fuck does he think he's talking to?

I gather up my pride and prepare to walk. "Well, I guess that pretty much ends this conversation."

And I'm on my way, all I have to do is open the door and it's over. To have it end in a ultimatum. Did he intend it to be an ultimatum? "Am I allowed to communicate with you, or is that also prohibited?"

I try to check his eyes for a response, but he responds by demanding my attention. He talks so quietly I can scarcely hear him over the rush of blood through my ears. "I'll always be here for you ... if you need me."

Need him? I've always needed him, his fire, his inspiration. I need so much from him. We complete and complement each other. Don't we?

I've got nothing more to say. Nothing that wouldn't destroy me, or him, or us. I've got to go.

He stops me again. "What are you so afraid of, Scully?"

I feel the shattering force of gravity and can't move. Can't talk. Can't think.

Why? Why does he put me through this charade? He's supposed to be Spooky. Why can't he profile his way out of this? He's seen inside the hearts of killers; he walks into the minds of mad men. I'm asking for nothing. Just a tiny grain of that empathy and insight he so freely offers to strangers.

Or is that exactly what he did tonight? Did he know me and yet not care? Could he be so desperate that he'd gamble it all on one throw of the dice? Win or lose. Maybe he truly doesn't understand, I have things to lose here too. A chance to spell it out then. My last throw of the dice.

"I don't deal with loss very well, Mulder. In that, at least, we're alike. But I'm not you, and I don't think I could stand the pain if we took the chance and screwed it up."

It's time for me to go. There's nothing more I can say.

I hear him whisper something. I think he said, "thank you." And now I have to get out of here because the sting of tears burns so bright behind my eyes that I have to get through that door. Now.

"Scully?"

No. I have to go. I have to go.

His voice almost breaks me. "Could it hurt any worse than this?"

I have to go. He's too raw. I'm... I hate this. I can't be here.