Title: Hurting Heart Author: Vickie Moseley Spoiler: Milagro Summary: Scully examines her heart after things have calmed down. Category: V A UST (with a capital U) Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: I don't, they do, I won't, don't sue Archives: Yes If you like it, if you hate it, let me know. I'm of a mixed opinion myself :) Hurting Heart by Vickie Moseley vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com I hate that Mulder knows me so well. It bothers me that lately, the only way I can see myself is in his eyes. I want to know the person in the mirror. I want to know her motivations, her reactions, her hopes, her dreams. I've often told him that it's not just about him. That _I_ have a place in this partnership. That I'm not the Sancho to his Don Quixote, that I'm not BooBoo to his Yogi Bear. I am myself. I have my reasons for staying beside him and it's not that I can't make it on my own. I could be somewhere else, doing whatever I please. I'm not a masochistic co-dependent she-bitch who only sees herself through the tortures her sadistic other half puts her through. But lately, that's how it's felt. I shouldn't have snapped about the autopsy yesterday. He did me a favor. Mulder knew that I would want to see the body, knew that I would jump at the chance to conduct the autopsy myself and not just watch over the shoulder of some one else. He knows my ego. He knows that I'm a perfectionist and it grates on me for _days_ when someone does things that I feel are unnecessary, or overlooks things that I feel are essential. And he knows that often, I end up going back and opening the body up a second time, which is _never_ a pleasant experience, just to 'do the job right'. But hearing the words out of his mouth, that he had made all the arrangements, did I take it as it was meant, as a gift, a favor? No, I saw it as control. Mulder, once again handing out the assignments, making all the decisions for both of us. It's a male thing, I'm sure of it. Probably science will find out some day that testosterone plays an important part in the body by increasing the drive of the male to make decisions for the family. And never ask for directions. He does ask for my input. He asks all the time. Three o'clock, four o'clock, five-thirty in the morning, he's on the phone, calling me. 'Scully, did you have a chance to look at that file? Whaddya think?' 'Scully, did you get the tox screen, how far off was I?' 'Scully, I'm in a motel in Providence, Rhode Island . . . and I don't think it's my blood.' Even then, though, it's his part to initiate the inquiry, and my part to wait until he does. Not that I've ever considered reading a file and _not_ calling him immediately. I've done that, too. But lately, I just feel so . . . Confused. Confused and frustrated. Padgett had me so right. He wrote me just as I want to see myself in the mirror. I want to be wild, I want to be out of control. I pray each morning that there won't be a case to take us within a million miles of Philadelphia or a tattoo parlor. It's an itch. It will go away. I know that. I just don't handle it well. Missy was all itches. All scratching, in public. She wanted to see the Pacific again, had friends who lived on the beach. One morning my first year at med school, she woke me up after a study session that broke at 3 in the morning to ask me to drive her to the airport. I didn't hear from her for over a year. I saw the pain her actions caused. My parents fought, like all married couples. Their worst fights were over Missy. Mom would blame Dad for being too strict, Dad would blame Mom for being too soft. They would scream and say horrible things to each other. The house would be a minefield for the longest time. God forbid the argument took place before Dad went out to sea, because Mom would be the Wicked Witch of the West for days afterward. I don't ever want to fight like that. But I can well imagine the passion it invokes. Mulder and I don't fight like that. Oh, the passion is there. There are times that I'd gladly rip his head off and stuff his arms down the hole. I can lie away at night and imagine performing a nice Y incision right down his chest and listening to him scream all the way through it. I would _never_ do those things, of course. If Mulder stubs his toe getting out of the Bureau pool, I'm all over his with band aids, triple antibiotic ointment and sympathy. Because I know if I leave him to his own devices, that stubbed toe will end up in blood poisoning. He cares nothing for himself. I suppose it could be said that I know Mulder better than he knows himself. I see him as he could never imagine himself to be. He thinks he's a coward for not forcing me away from him. He thinks that he's a loser because he brings death and destruction wherever he goes. He thinks he's a failure because the side of evil seems to be thriving even though he puts all his energy and all his strength against it. I know he is none of those things. I know. I've seen him stand against unbeatable odds and never give thought to flight or safety. I've seen him bring life, to victims, to strangers . . . to me. I've seen the face of evil cringe at the sight of my partner. That is the man I stand beside. That is the power of our partnership. His heart, my mind. Together, we are unbeatable. So why is it so hard for me. This has nothing to do with Mulder. Although he is the unfortunate recipient of my turmoil, he is not the center of the maelstrom. He is merely the catalyst, the reacting agent. It's his presence in my life that has caused my own internal war to be waged. I love him. That's so easy to admit that it's almost laughable that anyone would question it. I love him deeply, dearly, with my heart, my soul. I would never betray the love I have for him. But my love for him has nothing to do with sex. I know I will never marry. It goes way beyond the pathetic knowledge that few men would marry a woman who couldn't give them children, and I would reject anyone who thought he could. I will never marry because I am already married. To Mulder and to our cause. Even if the fight was over, even if we succeeded or failed, I would still be married to both. Mulder and the cause. A menage a trois that I could never divorce. Would never want to leave behind. No man in his right mind would marry a woman just for the sex. It's just not what marriage is about. And since I could never give my heart or soul to any man but Mulder, that leaves only my body. One night stands are great for your twenties, but by the time you hit your thirties, most people are looking for more. Is that what I saw in Padgett's eyes? The chance for a clandestine, one night stand. Oh, not with him. He was a loser with a capital L. But I could see it in his eyes, read it on the pages he wrote. Sex, in the dark, with a stranger. Someone I didn't know who didn't know me. Someone who didn't see my motives, my anxieties, my lifetime in my eyes. Sex. Dark. Hot. Tawdry, as they say in the cheap novels I sometimes glance through at the checkout stand. A part of me that not even Mulder wants to admit to seeing wants that. Just a little part, but it's there. The reason I can't think about my little excursion on the wild side, the reason it fills me with guilt and regret isn't because I didn't enjoy it. Oh, sure, I can name about one thousand things I'd rather do on a date than get shoved into a blazing furnace. But what stops me from ever, ever doing that again was the look in Mulder's eyes. Fear, yes. But I've seen that before. Fear for me, fear for himself if anything were to happen to me. That look and I are old and dear friends. Pain, yes. I hurt him with my words, as he knew I wanted to do. And the fact that I wanted to hurt him, and hadn't done in accidentally, that caused him to bleed just a little bit more. But there again, I've seen Mulder in pain so often that it doesn't hurt as much any more. I just bleed a little silently and go on. No, what I saw which really made the decision that I would never again walk on the wild side and hunt out a nice 'tawdry' one night stand is simple. I saw something I never wanted to see, never thought I would find. I saw revulsion. Repulsion. Accusation and condemnation. And I saw it as coming from my father's eyes, even though they were in Mulder's face at the time. Mulder is no saint. I know what he does in the dark of his apartment. I often think he should be writing a helpful hints column for Playboy. 'A hundred ways to remove bodily fluid stains from leather and other fabrics.' I know why he likes porn movies and I know what he does to release his tensions. But he assumes I have no tension to release. A big assumption. A very large mistake. Oh, I don't think he sees me as Mother Teresa. He knows I have a sex drive. Occasionally, he'll tease me about it. But he sees me as being a good girl. He sees me as settling down, white picket fence, husband with a salary in the six figures (in front of the decimal) and two cars in the garage. He would hate it, it would kill him to give me up to someone else, but that's what he sees as best for me. And so we work at cross purposes. I know giving any part of my heart to someone else is impossible and he thinks it's the only way for me to have a 'normal' life. We butt heads on it all the time, usually without even realizing it. He throws buck-toothed deputy sheriffs at me (even the ones who turn out to be closet vampires) and I go along with the game. But that's all it is. Because buck-tooth deputies who Mulder would deem good enough for me are too good to take as a one night stand. And he wonders why I tattooed that damned snake on my ass. It's the story of my life! With Padgett, I hoped to get something out of it. Maybe some thrills, nothing more. Reading the book was pretty hot. Especially knowing that it was me on those pages, having sex in those positions with a complete and total stranger. In the book, the stranger's face was covered by the shadow of his hood. All the better. I could lie there and see whatever face I wanted. Even Mulder's face. So it was all pretty harmless. I wasn't going to bed with Padgett, and I think the poor guy knew that from our first meeting. What was it Mulder called it? 'Two professionals exchanging information.' If it was good enough for Bitch Lady, it's good enough for me. Yes, just a harmless little diversion. Right up to the point where the fictional character took form and shape, and tried to hand me my 'passionate' heart. I really do hate it when Mulder is sooo right. But I have never wanted to see Mulder's face as much as the moment he burst through the door. He was the only one I wanted, the only person on earth. I didn't have to say a word to him, he just knew what to do. He gathered me in his arms so he wasn't looking at me while I sobbed against him. He talked to me in little nonsense words that only make sense to the two of us, drowning out the sounds of my own ragged breathing. He made me know that I was not alone, have never been alone since the first day we met. Yes, I hate that Mulder knows me so well. But I've learned long ago that I can live with it. the end. Vickie ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Never let the fear of striking out get in your way. Babe Ruth ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^