Forever Etched

By Brandon D. Ray & Brynna
publius@avalon.net & ingos_grrl@hotmail.com



DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT:  Anywhere is fine, so long as our names stay
on it and no money changes hands.

FEEDBACK:  Go ahead; knock yourself out.

SPOILER STATEMENT:  Never Again

RATING:  PG-13

CONTENT STATEMENT:  MulderAngst.  ScullyAngst.  M/S RST, but we
wouldn't really call it MSR.  A few bad words, including the "f"
word.  Allusions to sex.

CLASSIFICATION:  VA

SUMMARY:   Post-ep for Never Again.  Mulder & Scully try to put the
pieces back together in the aftermath of the episode.

THANKS:  To Robbie, for the uberbeta!

DISCLAIMER:  In our dreams...


Forever Etched

by Brandon D. Ray & Brynna


"Why'd you do it Scully?"

I turn my head slightly to look at Mulder, who's hovering, his face
centered just over my lower back. "The tattoo?" This was not exactly
the conversation I expected to have now, cutting off any good
after-glow basking.

He nods his head once, and settles his cheek against the center of my
spine. The tip of his index finger traces the outline of the snake on
my lower back, touching every detail, then starting over again. "Yeah.
Why did you get it?"

Hmm. Why did I? There's a question I haven't wanted to explore. I must
be silent for too long, because the next thing I feel is that same
finger poking me, in the center of the circle forever etched into my
skin.  Licking my lips, I start to roll over; if we're going to have
this discussion, I want to see his face. He stops me, and holds me
firmly to the mattress. "No," he murmurs, pressing his weight more
firmly against my back. "Just talk to me. You don't have to see me to
talk to me."

Sighing, I nod - he's right. In fact, it's probably easier if I
don't.  Laying my head back on my pillow, I suck in a deep breath.
"I'm not as sure on my reasoning as I should be," I begin, deciding on
the honesty route. He deserves that, after what I'd said to him in the
office last night. Telling him not everything was about him - what a
load of shit.  Just about everything I do lately is, in fact, one
hundred percent about Mulder. And I know how much I hurt him. That
much was intentional. I'm not positive of the reasoning, but I did it
with my eyes wide open.

Just as I walked into tonight with my eyes open. Letting him into my
apartment was hard. I knew he'd come to finish the conversation we'd
aborted. But I didn't let him. I told him I didn't want to hear it,
whatever he had to say. He mumbled something about not actually
needing to talk. And he kissed me. From there to the end result is a
little fuzzy; maybe I'll have him clear it up for me later. If he
remembers.

His finger taps me a few times; I haven't finished what I was saying.
"Part of it, I think, was because of you."

I can feel him tense, as those words sink in. "Because of me?" he
repeats, turning his head and brushing the tip of his nose along my
spine, his body slowly relaxing again. "Explain," he demands softly.

"I was mad at you. Shit, I still am, Mulder." The pressure of his
finger increases slightly, as he continues to trace the tattoo, over
and over, as if trying to erase it from my flesh. "Sex isn't the be
all and end all for me, I'm afraid. I am still mad. But . . . not as
much. And Mulder, I was drunk."

"Why don't you ever get that kind of drunk with me?" he questions
idly. "And that's not a good excuse."

I have to chuckle. "I didn't say it was good," I reply, reaching a
hand back to touch his hair. "It's just . . . what happened. And how
it happened. Ed was a smooth talker, I was too drunk to think
straight, and you weren't there." That's what pissed me off. He wasn't
there. He should have been there, by my side, and he wasn't.

I'd told Ed, and even myself at the time, that it was rebellion - that
I'd wanted to break away from being a 'good girl.' What a joke. It was
a rebellion, of sorts - but one against the man who's currently
half-sprawled on top of me.

His finger leaves the pattern for a moment to trace down the cheek of
my ass, down my thigh, stopping at the back of my knee. "So, you're
saying-"  He traces his way back up, and resumes tracing the snake
again. "That if I'd been there, this wouldn't have happened?" I nod.
"Makes sense. Are you then blaming me for your stupid decision?"

My eyes open. Fast. I bite back the instant, angry retort, the 'no
Mulder, I'd only do that if it =was= one, and god knows, you make
enough you obviously don't actually know what stupid looks like.'
Sucking in a slow, steadying breath, I let my eyes shut again. "No," I
answer finally. "I'm simply answering your question, to the best of my
ability. And it would not have happened if you had come with me,
instead of going to Graceland. That's a simple fact."

The tracing continues, with the edge of his fingernail this time. The
touch causes me to shiver slightly, and I can feel him smile against
my back. "So . . . why not?"

"Because you don't =let= me be that stupid," I bite out, becoming
increasingly more upset with every exchange. "You pretty much make
sure that if one of us gets to wear the 'stupid' hat, it's you."
Rather suddenly I'm feeling as if this entire night was a mistake, yet
I can't bring myself to force him off me, and cover up, and I
certainly can't kick him out of my bed. Not now. I've wanted him here
for too long.

"Did you fuck him?" The pressure of his nail increases, almost to the
point of pain, but not quite. He stops just short of that.

My head shakes instantly. "No," I whisper. Taking a breath, I quell my
anger once again. "And do you honestly think that I care so little
about you that if I had, I would have allowed what happened tonight to
happen?

His cheek presses more firmly into my back, and he's silent for a full
minute. His head shakes, but the movement is so slow, deliberate, that
it almost feels as though he's simply caressing my skin with his. "Did
you want to?"

And I don't stop myself from nodding. "Yes." And I gasp slightly as
his fingernail finally crosses that line of pain. "But I didn't want
him; I wanted to hurt you," I finish, and almost instantly, his touch
becomes the same light brushing that it started out as. "So, we've
established that I was stupid, that I was reacting mostly out of
anger, and that it hurt both of us. You want to fill in the blanks on
your end?"

His lips press against my back for a moment. "I'm upset. I'm hurt;
that you feel that had to hurt me. I'm confused as to why you felt you
had to hurt me." He sighs, and slides his other arm under my stomach,
pulling me closer, as if against the chance I might try to leave.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper. His arm tightens.

After a moment, he continues as if I hadn't spoken. "I feel betrayed,
by your actions, by your thoughts -" he lays his entire palm over the
tattoo.  "By this. I don't accept it. It's your body; you're allowed
to do anything you want to it. But damn it, you're not allowed to use
it against me."

Tears begin to form behind my eyes, and I swallow them back. "I guess
I didn't think that I was. Part of it was Ed. He was a smooth talker
Mulder - and the idea of a tattoo intrigued me. I don't want to sound
like I'm blaming him; I did this on my own. And I'm not entirely proud
of it." My fingers curl tightly around the edge of the pillow under my
head, as I try to think of how to explain this, when I don't fully
understand it myself.  "The line between pleasure and pain is very
thin. I should know, I straddle it every day I spend with you. And
that night, I needed to cross it. One way or the other. And as much as
fucking him would have let it be pleasure, and it would have been
striking back against you, against every woman you fuck, or almost
fuck, against your porn, and your damned innuendo - it wasn't what I
wanted as an end result. It wasn't . . . what would have helped me."

"And so an ink-filled needle worked better?" he asks, genuine
confusion in his tone.

"In it's simplest form, yes. No matter what happens between us, from
here on in - I can look at this tattoo, and remember that even when
things seem to be unfixable between us, they aren't. I know it doesn't
make sense, but . . . I've got a permanent reminder that we can
survive." Finally gathering up the strength to move his weight from my
body, I turn over, and lay a hand on his cheek. "It's not for you to
understand, or to permit. Or even to like. It's just for you to
accept."

I watch his eyes shut, as he leans into my touch just enough for me to
catch.  He's struggling with his thoughts; I can tell.  I have no idea
what conclusion he will reach -- and that uncertainty is abruptly
terrifying.  Have I hurt him that much?  Finally, his eyes open again.

"I don't know if I can do that, Scully," he says soberly.  "I want to;
you have to believe me.  But I can't let you have this all on your own
terms."  He hesitates, and my heart stops beating as he once again
considers his own words.  Finally:  "But I can accept you.  That much
I *can* promise."

I sigh, and nod, and I resist the urge to hug him to me.  And I say,
"I guess that will have to be good enough."

#          #          #

And now she's asleep.

I suppose I should feel flattered.  I mean, what greater compliment
can a woman give, than to be the first one to fall asleep after sex?
It means I didn't just satisfy her -- I wore her out.  I exhausted
her.  My ego should be doing handsprings along about now.

But it's not.

Because of course I *didn't* wear her out.  The fact of the matter is
that she was exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster ride she's been
on the past few days -- including my own no-doubt-unexpected
appearance on her doorstep a couple of hours ago.

And I'm sure it *was* unexpected.  Dana Scully is the undisputed world
champion compartmentalizer, and I am *positive* that it never once
entered her head that I might show up tonight.  She made it abundantly
clear in our office that she just wanted to put it all in a box and
shove it to the back of the highest shelf in the closet, and never
think about it again.  She plainly expected me to follow this script,
and I could see from the brief flicker of shocked dismay on her face
when she opened her door earlier this evening that she wasn't sure
what to do with me when I didn't.

Well, surprise.  Not everything is about her.

Of course, she still doesn't really understand what my needs are.
When I first arrived this evening she wouldn't let me talk about it,
and even just now, when I tried to force the issue, she managed to
deflect the discussion just enough so that I couldn't get said the
things I really wanted to say.

The things I really *needed* to say.

Take Jerse.  Despite the fact that I asked her, I don't really give a
damn whether she slept with him or not.  No -- that's not really
true.  I *do* care about that -- I care about it a lot.  And in the
bleak honesty of this moment, I have to admit that one reason I came
over here tonight was to erase whatever mark that son of a bitch may
have left on the woman who I have long since come to think of as my
territory.

But no matter what they may have done that night in Philadelphia --
and despite my partner's somewhat glib assurances, I'm still not sure
I've heard the truth -- that really isn't the big issue, at least to
me.  As much as it makes me sick to my stomach to imagine Scully in
the arms of another man -- especially a sleazeball like Jerse -- that
isn't what really matters.

What really matters are the lies.

Yeah, the lies.  Not everything is about me?  Well, at least she's
acknowledged that one, albeit it took her long enough to get around to
it.  But that doesn't make it hurt any less -- the fact that she was
able to sit there in our office -- not *my* office, *our* office --
and calmly say that to me, as if it were the most true and obvious
thing in the world.  And even tonight, when she finally admitted her
duplicity, she simply dumped it into the conversation in an offhand
way, as if it were something of no real importance.

Maybe to her it isn't.

No, I can't really believe that.  No matter how hurt and angry and
bitter I may be feeling at the moment, I know that Dana Scully values
honesty above almost all other virtues.  If I know anything about this
woman at all, I know that the lies she's told this week have been
eating at her and wearing her down, whether she's consciously aware of
it or not.  That's almost certainly why she fell asleep so quickly and
easily after our little talk -- because it's so emotionally taxing
right now for her to be around me.

Or to be around herself.

I turn restlessly in bed, so that now I'm lying on my side, facing
her.  She has her back to me again, of course, which is yet more proof
-- if any is needed -- that she's not coping with this at all well.
For just a brief instant I'm tempted to reach out and wrap my arms
around her, as I did when we were talking a little while ago -- but
then I think better of it.  She wouldn't take it as an offer of
comfort -- not tonight.  Tonight, given all the things we've both
said, I'm sure she would see it as a further effort to control her.

And maybe she would even be right.

And now that I've inventoried her shortcomings, I'm also forced to
admit that I haven't exactly covered myself in glory this week,
either.

The whole miserable business came about in the first place because of
my own self-absorption, I remind myself.  Hell, let's call a spade a
spade -- I was selfish and dishonest.  I told Scully that Skinner was
forcing me to take a vacation, but we both knew that was a lie.  Under
the regs, federal employees cannot be forced to use vacation time.
The most Skinner could have done was to require me to go on desk duty
for awhile -- or if he really wanted to press the issue, he could have
ordered a fitness for duty exam, and possibly put me on mandatory sick
leave.

Much of what I told her was bullshit, and we both knew it even as I
was uttering the words.  The fact of the matter is that when Skinner
strongly *suggested* that I take a few days off, I leapt at the
chance.  Scully had been acting strange and restless for the last few
days, but whenever I tried to talk to her about it she'd brushed me
off, and I was getting pretty fed up.  Better to put some distance
between us, I thought, and give her a chance to cool down and deal
with whatever was bothering her.

Big mistake.

Another big mistake was when I refused even to tell her where I was
going or how long I'd be gone.  I should have recognized her inquiry
for what it was -- an attempt to reach out, and reestablish contact.

But I didn't.  She'd been pushing me away all week, and when she
suddenly turned around and tried to grab on, instead of offering the
support she clearly wanted I pushed *her* away.  Turnabout's fair
play, after all.  I remember thinking those very words, and feeling a
little smug about having given her a dose of her own medicine.

I am such a shit, sometimes.

And so I went off to Graceland and had a miserable time, and she went
off to Philadelphia and had an even more miserable time, apparently.
The end result of all this misery is that now we're lying in bed
together.  I suppose I should be happy about that; god knows I've been
wanting this for a long time.  But the circumstances are far from
ideal -- in fact, I'm not sure this has actually been a good thing.
By coming over here and not-quite-forcing myself on Scully, I may in
the long run have made things a whole lot worse.

Scully stirs slightly in her sleep, and the covers slip down a little
farther.  I let my gaze drift down her back, and finally, reluctantly,
my eyes fall once again on the tattoo.

God, I hate that fucking thing.  Scully said a little while ago that
she thinks of it as a symbol of our ability to survive, but I'm not at
all sure she's right.  To me it's ugly and garish, and stands for
everything that's wrong between the two of us.  It represents all the
pain we've inflicted on each other, and I quite frankly don't need the
reminder.

Earlier, when we were talking, I kept running my fingers over it,
trying to come to terms with its existence, but it just wasn't
working.

But I couldn't just stop; no, that would have been too easy.  Instead
I had to test the boundaries, and see if she really meant what she
said, about the line between pain and pleasure being a thin one for
her.  From the reaction I got when I dug my nail into her flesh, I
guess I got my answer -- as if the events in Philadelphia weren't
enough to prove it to me already.

So at least that much of what Scully said is true.  I've verified it,
god help me.  And there's one other thing she said which is also
absolutely true:  the tattoo exists.  It's real.  It's going to serve
as a constant reminder to me of just how precarious my relationship
with my partner is, and I'm just going to have to deal with that.  I
don't know if I'm ever going to be able to adjust to these realities,
although I promised Scully that I'd try.

But trying is not the same thing as succeeding, and I can't help but
feel that by insisting that the tattoo is a positive thing, Scully has
put one more brick on the wall we've built between us.  Maybe it's
positive for her -- but not for me.  And I don't think she really
understands that.

I also can't help feeling that this relationship is going to get much,
much worse before it has a chance to get better.



Fini

--
Personifiers of the world unite!  You have nothing to lose but Mr.
Dignity!
===================================
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