SUMMARY - Sometimes riding in a circle is the only way to see straight.
Post Redux II, Scully POV, pointless angsty fluff
1/1
Even without looking up I know that Mulder is watching me. I pointedly ignore him and turn my head away from him slightly as I continue to argue with the familiar voice in my ear who, I know by her tone, is disappointed by the answer I just gave her.
“I’m sorry Mom. Maybe another time ok?”
She makes that sound I have heard a thousand times. Right from my early childhood, when I did anything that frustrated, disappointed or angered her, she would make that sound. I suspect this time I have admirably succeeded in doing all three and I’m not remotely surprised to hear the sharp ‘Ppppppffffff’ at my response.
In fact recently, every time we’ve spoken about anything, she’s made that sound; whether it be the state of my continued health, her assertion that I’m not putting the weight the cancer stole from me back on quickly enough or the fact that I have returned to work far earlier than she hoped I would has elicited the same response. I know it stems from her concern for me but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
“Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you after work.”
I cut the call off abruptly, and actually toss the phone on to the desk. It skitters across the smooth surface, teetering on the edge for a second, before gravity takes over and it falls to the floor.
I hear myself make the same sound my Mom just made.
“You ok Scully?”
“I’m fine Mulder.”
“Only you seem a little pissed off right now..”
“I’m fine..”
I attempt to retrieve the phone without leaving my seat, I think maybe if I don’t stand up, Mulder will lose interest and return to doing whatever the hell he does all day when we don’t have an active case. I swear that half the time he doesn’t really do anything, which is never good for a mind as electric as his. Mulder is only happy when he’s bouncing theories around his not-inconsiderable grey matter. And when he gets bored, when he has no enigmas to unravel, he usually turns his ponderings toward his greatest enigma of all.
Me
He’s watched me a lot the last few weeks.
And I hate it.
I thought once my Cancer had gone in to remission that things would return to normal between us. That we would slip effortlessly back in to the easy relationship we had once shared.
But we hadn’t.
He doesn’t argue with me anymore. Treating me like fragile china that might shatter at any moment lest he say something that might upset me. A new and unimproved version of Fox Mulder, who has become so afraid of losing me that he’s forgotten how to be my partner.
I sometimes find myself actually baiting him, just to provoke some kind of rise from him. But he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to react.
My fingers almost, almost make contact with the edge of the phone. But not quite, and not for the first time in my life I curse whatever genetic joke was played on me that rendered me so damn short. Every one of my siblings has at least three inches on me. Even Melissa had stood at a respectable five-six although over the years I’ve learned to compensate with towering three inch heels that will probably one day lead to fallen arches and curvature of the spine, but sadly, there is no magical remedy that will lengthen my arms.
Mulder wastes no time in riding to my rescue again. Even something as inconsequential as a dropped phone and he’s there. Ready to save me in whatever small way he can.
Dammit Mulder.
He hands me the phone, much like the way a devoted dog would hand slippers to its master.
“Here.”
“Thanks” and I give him a tight lipped smile that I know doesn’t quite reach my eyes.
His expression droops a little.
“So who was that on the phone?”
And the sarcasm comes bubbling up before I can stop myself.
“Oh well, let’s see Mulder. Maybe the fact that I called her Mom could mean that maybe it was...um...my Mom?”
“Are you implying that I was listening in on your private conversation Agent Scully?”
But his attempt at humour falls a little short. Because lately, all he seems to have done is listen in on me. Whether it’s my voice, my actions or my emotions. He’s there listening.
All the time.
It’s exhausting.
And I’m sick of it.
“If you must know she wanted me to go to the fair at Volta Park. My Aunt Lucy is over visiting with her grandchildren. Mom thought it might be nice.”
“And I’m surmising that you didn’t huh?
I fiddle with the back of the phone. It has opened just a crack and needs snapping back in to place.
“I hate fairs Mulder”.
He reaches one long arm forward and goes to take the phone from me. Just for a second I consider holding on to it, but then sigh because frankly, it’s easier to just let him have it.
“No one hates fairs Scully.”
Snap
“There you go. Good as new.”
I snatch the phone back from him.
“I do. Carousels make me sick, cotton candy keeps me awake all night and the food outlets are usually unsanitary and crawling with cockroaches.”
It’s not strictly true of course. I love fairs. Or at least I used to. Before my journey in to adulthood stole much of my spontaneity away.
Entering in to the archaic, testosterone-rich world of the Bureau that, enlightened age or not, was still largely dismissive of female agents hadn’t helped and the final nail in my coffin – interesting choice of words there Dana – had been my Cancer. My days of innocent youthful pleasures were pretty much gone for good.
And the thought makes me sadder than I really want to admit to myself let alone Mulder.
“I love fairs”
His voice takes on a wistful tone
“The sights, the sounds, smell of hotdogs and onions, that feeling that, we can be kids again....forget everything for a couple of hours and....”
“Great. Fine. You love fairs. I get it. I’ll call my Mom and tell her to expect you at 7.....”
It comes out sounding harsher than I intended and even as I want to apologise, I am getting to my feet, unable to look at him lest I see the hurt registering on his face; afraid that I will betray my satisfaction because deep down I know he doesn’t deserve it. Not really.
“It’s gone five Mulder. I’m going home.”
He doesn’t answer as I sweep past him. For once, he has nothing to say.
X
The sharp trilling of my cel phone jerks me awake and I’m just disorientated enough to not immediately find it on the nightstand beside my bed. The small screen is illuminated though and on the second attempt, my flailing hand snatches it up.
Mulder
“Mulder? What’s wrong? Where are you?”
Late night phonecalls from him usually spell something bad. Usually that he’s been either arrested or beaten up.
“I’m fine. I’m outside. I need to show you something.”
His voice has that giddy, wired edge that I’ve come to recognise means he’s on the verge of something.
“Can’t it wait?”
I glance at the clock
“It’s almost 2 O’Clock.”
“I know. I know. But it won’t take long I promise....”
I want to say no. I truly want to say no.
I can’t. It’s the middle of the night. I will see you in the morning.
But of course I don’t say any of that.
Ten minutes later I join him in the car. He is cracking sunflower seeds between his teeth and I can feel the discarded shells digging in to my legs where he hasn’t bothered to brush them off the passenger seat.
“Whatever this is, it had better be good.”
Mulder just grins at me.
“When has it ever not been?”
And I can’t think how to answer that without hurting his feelings, so I say nothing as he starts up the car and pilots it smoothly on to the road.
“Oh, I almost forgot, there’s something in the back for you.”
“Mulder....”
I’m in no mood to play games. I don’t sleep well since the cancer. My sleeping patterns got so screwed up that I still feel exhausted at odd times of the day and wide awake by mid-evening. Tonight had been no exception.
But that look is back on his face. That look that tells me to play along with him and it’s a look haven’t seen that look for a while so when he flicks his head back in the direction of the backseat, I swivel myself around as best I can from within the confines of the seatbelt to see what he has bought for me.
What the hell?
“Cotton candy Mulder?”
He grins again,
“You see that’s what I love about you Scully. We have that connection. You know what I’m thinking..”
“Mulder, it’s right there in front of me in all it’s rancid pink glory. Where’s the connection? There’s no connection to make...”
I trail off as our short car journey comes to an end. We have barely been driving for five minutes.
We are at the park.
Why are we at the park?
Through the trees that border the recreation ground I can see coloured lights, twinkling in the distance and when Mulder opens his door, a heady scent of hotdogs fills the car. I can hear the sound of carousel music.
But it’s 2:30 in the morning. I already know that the fair shut down at just before midnight. My Mom had told me as much earlier in the day.
“Mulder, what’s going on?”
He shakes his head slightly, hazel eyes serious as he silently begs me not to question it.
How he has managed it I have no idea. But the fair, or at least a part of it, is open, seemingly just for us.
He reaches behind me and grabs the cotton candy, handing one to me before he exits the car. But I don’t move. I’m rooted to the spot. Unsure how he expects me to react. Is he doing this for me? Or for him?
Either way, I’m not ready or willing to engage.
So I remain in the car until Mulder opens the door and quite literally drags me out.
“Mulder, I told you I hate...”
But I stop. I don’t want to lie to him anymore. The thought makes tears suddenly prickle at my eyes and I blink them back angrily.
And then I feel Mulder take my hand.
“I decided tonight Scully, that it was time we got back on the carousel.”
His expression is guarded.
“Don’t you think?”
And suddenly I understand; I understand that he has also been struggling to make sense of this place we have found ourselves in with our partnership - with our friendship. So many terrifying months where we refused to acknowledge that which we both feared the most have taken their toll on us in different ways. The guilt I felt about leaving him to fight this alone and his refusal to accept what we both knew deep down would be the inevitable outcome. Emotions that we both fought so hard to keep repressed and which even now, are hard to let go of; to get back to normal.
And I can’t help myself. I stand on tiptoes and graze my lips against his cheek. It feels good to be the one to comfort him for a change. To be his equal again as I feel laughter bubbling up inside me then, feeling for the first time in months, that I am alive; standing on the edge of the trees in the early hours, knowing that maybe something wondrous just happened.
