From: "Alana" Date: Tue, 28 Sep 1999 20:19:49 -0700 Subject: Submission: Analysis Source: direct TITLE: Analysis AUTHOR: Alana T. Reeves E-MAIL ADDY: Queequeg@mindwire.org DATE: 20:13:52 9/28/99 RATING: PG (A bit of language, sorry!) CLASSIFICATION: Total UST! SPOILERS: None that I can think of. ARCHIVE: Post anywhere, lemme know though! Thanx! DISCLAIMER: The usual: I'm not inventive enough to come up with the complex characters in this story. They are the property of Ten-Thirteen Production Co., Fox, CC, and all those other people. No infringement intended. SUMMARY: Scully reflects on her feelings for Mulder. THANX: Thank you to all the people who read the story before I posted it: Danny, Margaret, Parker (in ABC order). Thanks for the constructive criticism and praise. Thank you also to all my great friends who have supported me throughout my crappy writing "career". DEDICATION: This one is for Danny. You were the first person who actually told me that my stories sucked! God bless you! Hopefully this is on the way to matching your standards. You constantly challenge me to be a better writer, sister, daughter, person, etc. And so this is part of me responding to that challenge. If I'm lucky it will be less two dimensional than the other stories. Analysis (1/1): By Alana T. Reeves Droplets of water slipped down the flawless surface of her cheek. Who cared if it was flawless? It didn't really matter, not really. Why was she crying anyway? She knew exactly why. She had finally realized that contrary to what she'd set out to be, she was just like any other woman. Her cheeks flushed in his presence. She laughed to please him. She was jealous of the "other women": the ones who felt his hand hold theirs lightly, feeling the tingle of romance; the ones who were tall and leggy; the ones who caught his attention; the ones who were "his type". She envied them, and she was finally admitting it to herself. Whenever she'd thought of trying to be like them in the past, she'd simply remind herself that they were the images she was out to avoid at all costs: the female stereotypes. They wore short cut-offs and low, strappy tank tops, and three-and-a-half-inch healed sandals. They were bimbos, the idiots of the world who paid too much attention to their hormones; the ones who had conformed; the ones who had betrayed themselves for an absolutely moronic purpose: to attract the desirable members of the male gender. She had once said, "Smart is sexy." But how much of a lie was that? A big one, she thought, as another tear ran its course down to her chin before being wiped away by a tissue already soaked with more tears just like it. It wasn't a little white lie. It was one that found itself comparable to those of a horrendous governmental conspiracy against the American public. Smart was smart, and it didn't seem to account for anything more than having old gray-haired men who sat in big offices say, "Great job on this portfolio. Excellent work, Agent Scully." That was it. All her idealistic beliefs were abandoned as her mind crossed this path of thoughts. Her belief that doing what she wanted to make her happy had just been shot to hell. She wasn't happy. She was miserable. The words echoed through her head countless times. Miserable, alone, and confused: a fatal trio. All her life she thought that being honest and independent and non-conforming would bring her some happiness. Or at least a shred of dignity that would keep her head up high. And that would give her the strength to continue, to go on, to live. But it didn't. She found herself longing for support. Someone to pass on encouragement, to help her realize she was worth something, someone who would understand her. But how would she ever find someone who would understand her? She couldn't even fully understand herself. She wanted to love and be loved, but not to have to hold tight to that as the only thing going for her. She wanted to live for who she really was, not for someone else. It was all a contradiction-wanting an arm around her, but wanting to break free and run as well. To her, she could see no happy median, nothing in between. If she continued her attempt to earn his love, she'd eventually give herself wholly, and keep no part for herself. Part of her wanted her secrets, wanted to keep that image that made fellow agents call her the Ice Queen. But she also wanted someone to know her, to ask all the questions she'd never asked herself, and to give the answers to. She wanted to scream some of them out, wanted to let out her deepest desires, to share her most amazing dreams. She stopped there. She didn't know what she wanted. All she had was a feeling of what she wanted, an idea of how she wanted to feel for the rest of her life. But there were a million and one things that came into conflict with that feeling. Still, there was that yearning that told her that there was something, possibly even someone, that would make her happy. But what? Who? Would she ever really know, or understand? Or would she forever reach out with both hands, trying to blindly feel her way through the darkness? A darkness that made her completely and utterly frustrated. That frustration which made her angry with herself. Angry that she'd ever started trying to love him, that she'd ever believed that maybe he could love her. That frustration was vivisecting her. It tore at her heart and mind, and she was fully alive to endure the pain. The pain. It was annoying and aggravating and frustrating and depressing and pathetic and every other word that described the feeling she had deep within her at that moment. It was agonizing. She just sat there and cried. She cried until she realized she was crying just to cry, so she ceased and decided to try to make sense of it all. She would lay it out, attack it like she would any other problem. She would analyze it. She felt some strong feeling or need for him. She sensed something from him. She told herself he wasn't interested. But she didn't know. Yet she had convinced herself. And yet still, she awoke in the morning, after a dream in which his arms were about her, and she could barely walk, her shoulders had gone numb. But it felt positively wonderful. She knew she had to continue being independent, it was one promise she would not break. She could not sacrifice herself wholly. She had to keep part of herself secretly locked away, even if it was just the smallest part. She had to remain true to the person she had set out to be. And no matter what she told herself regarding all of this, she knew someday it would all be just a load of bull shit. She knew that she would, and could, do anything that the situation enveloped. She could be spontaneous, and she would probably end up being so, abandoning everything to be with him. But what she would choose all rested in a place that wasn't her own. It rested in him. She could forget him, let him lead his life. Though it would be hard, she could do it. Or she could run to him, and let him hold her. Then sit and tell him everything, become his. It all depended upon what he wanted. It was all up to him. ~The End~ End Notes: Ok, my e-mail inbox is always lonely. E-mail me! I love comments, praising or flaming even! I don't care. Talk to me peoples! :-.) Thanks for reading.