From: "Nancy V" To: x-files-fanfic@chaos.taylored.com Subject: Before the Demons (1/1) by Nancy V Content-Type: text/plain Date: Tue, 27 May 1997 06:20:59 PDT Thanks for posting and archiving! Disclaimer: I receive no financial gain from writing these works of fiction, flight, and fancy. Characters are not my property, and I don't own the alphabet, either. Rating: G Classification: SA, with Deep Friendship(non-shippers are safe) Summary: In "Demons", the last thing Mulder remembers before he wakes up bloody in Providence was a phone conversation he had with Scully the night before. He doesn't remember what happened after she called... SPOILER WARNINGS: Demons, Elegy, most of the fourth season (excluding Gethsemane). Keywords: Mulder/Scully Deep Friendship. Author's Note: Not completely angsty, but not a rose-filled sunfest by any stretch. I'm tryingtryingtrying to write some MSR but it always turns into this stuff instead! I think I have a mental block against writing a kissing scene... Before the Demons (1/1) by Nancy V 5/27/97 ------------------------------------- He knew it was time to clean his apartment. The phone rang, and rang, and he couldn't find the damn thing. I'm here, he muttered as he kicked aside clothing and pizza boxes. He found the answering machine and followed the attached cord to the phone. Luckily, the cordless was sitting in the cradle. Hello? Oh...Mulder, it's me. Hi Scully. I thought you weren't there. I was ready to leave a message. You can do that instead, if you want. To his surprise, she did. I just ordered a pizza, and I know I won't be able to finish it myself. So, if you haven't had dinner yet, come on over. He heard the receiver being placed gently back in the cradle. He stood there for a long minute with the phone still pressed to his ear. Why didn't she want to talk to me? Or does she want to talk to me in person? It's not about the cancer, he convinced himself as he walked out the door. He felt muddled, like a barrier separated him from the rest of the world. Slow. Wooden. Like nothing he did or could do really mattered. He'd wondered more than once if he shouldn't see a psychiatrist. Odd thought, considering he was trained in psychology himself. But everyone knew shrinks were a little off themselves. Otherwise, why the attraction? If he were simply depressed, he could handle that. He might even take some medication. What worried him, and kept him from seeing anyone, was the thought that his problem was larger than depression. That it might get him kicked off the X-files, out of the FBI, even. He couldn't imagine that. Just like he couldn't imagine that Scully actually had a life- threatening tumor. Oh, he'd seen the x-rays, heard about the tests and the prognosis. But that didn't mean he believed it. After all, she'd seen that UFO photo he'd bought in that diner in Idaho, and she'd seen those dancing lights, not to mention all the other evidence they'd come across of extraterrestrial life. Yet she still insisted on entertaining alternate hypotheses. Of course, that was one of the things he liked most about her. She seemed like the stoic science type, but in actuality she had quite an open mind. Not so open to his theories, but he didn't need a goddamn cheering section for a partner. He needed someone who'd make him prove himself. What was she going to tell him? More importantly, was he up for it in this condition? He felt lethargic and detached, and worried that whatever she had to say to him, he wouldn't know how to respond. He'd make a joke or run out the door or punch something. The three big male responses to serious conversation, he thought wryly to himself. He knocked softly on the door. It's open! Gee Scully, I could be some demented pizza delivery guy, he said as he opened the door. Scully stood in the kitchen, pizza box open on the counter, a very large piece (with pepperoni, he noted approvingly) dwarfing the hand that held it. He sucked in his breath. He never saw her like this anymore, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, hair tousled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in her apartment . . . besides the Eddie vanBlundht episode, anyhow. I knew you weren't, she said. Though I can't be sure about the demented part. He made a face at her, she laughed, and he wondered what he'd been worried about. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Half an hour later, with most of the pizza and a couple of beers gone, he stretched out on the floor of her living room and sighed. You sure know how to treat a guy, Scully. He waited for a witty rejoinder to come from the corner of the couch, but got only silence. He propped himself up on one elbow. Scully was curled there, arms around her knees, staring off into space. He wasn't sure she'd even heard him. Scully? I'm not sure that I do, she said, and it took him a moment to understand what she was saying. Why dyou say that? She shrugged, and stretched, and looked at him. He knew somehow that she was gauging him, balancing the pros and cons of actually Talking To Him versus laughing it all off and getting him to go home so she could write in her journal instead. Her journal...did she still keep that journal? I just think we have different thoughts on relationships, Mulder. You don't seem to wish that you had one. You don't miss it. And you do. Sometimes, yes, I do. But Scully, there are plenty of men . . . Trust me Mulder, I know. I've gone out on blind dates with them. They talk about themselves to no end until I want to scream. They have no sense of humor. And they don't believe in dessert. Is this my cue to go to the freezer? He got up as if to do just that, but settled himself at the other end of the couch instead. To Scully's credit, she smiled. Smiled and looked at him, searched his face for something, seemed to find it, and continued. It just seems like there's no easy way to meet people. Mulder thought of the ways *he* had to meet people. They were very easy. But he knew that's not what Scully meant. Maybe Skinner has some ex-Marine friends he could set you up with, he said, kicking himself. But what else to say? Well, Scully, there's me, but I'm depressed and broken inside and wouldn't be much fun in a relationship. You know what a blast I am to have as a partner -- high- maintenance, intolerant, driven, and practically possessed. Can't say I'd be all that different as a boyfriend. Can't even think of the last time I thought of myself as a boyfriend. She smiled again, but sadly. Sometimes I worry that it's me, that there's something I missed about relationships. I've been dating for half my life, and there've been so few times it's actually worked . . . Your standards are just high. Maybe too high. No, you have to keep them high, Scully. Weed out the riffraff. There's a long list of riffraff, Mulder. Oh, so you have a good boy list and a bad boy list? She grinned, he could have sworn it. It took a moment, but she actually grinned. That's a girl topic, you know. He was thinking of Ed Jerse. Scully had never said much about him, what did or didn't happen with him. Or with anyone she'd ever dated, come to think of it. Hey Scully? Yes. Which list am I on? He asked almost jokingly, giving her an out. She could believe he was joking and ignore him, or she could give him a straight answer... Which would you rather be on? Oh, no, Scully, that's not fair. Don't placate the spooky kid. She grinned again. Was it the beer? The lighting? Did she have a facial tic he'd never noticed before? Sometimes the good boy list, Mulder, and sometimes the bad boy list. The lefthand corner of his mouth turned down. Cheap way out. Well, I never said there was anything wrong with being a *bad* boy... He pretended to look shocked. Scully, is there a side of you I've never seen here? Unfortunately, he'd unknowingly reminded her of vanBlundht and her words to him, and she looked uncomfortable and asked if he'd like another beer. Oops. I said something dumb, didn't I. No, Mulder, it's just that it's getting late and -- Scully, what is *with* you? You call me and invite me over, only you don't actually want to talk to me, you'd rather talk to my machine. When I get here, we have good food, good spirits, and start to have good conversation when suddenly at (he checked his watch) ten-oh-four pm you decide it's late and try to kick me out, after I said something I thought was completely innocuous. Scully flopped back onto the couch and stared at a spot on the wall across the room. Since when do you use words like innocuous, she muttered. I went to Oxford, Scully. I know other four-syllable words. Phenomenon. Ridiculous. Emotional. Pedagogy, conventional, viscosity. Et cetera. Do you really remember everything that's ever happened to you, Mulder? (Then quickly -- ) Mostly, yeah. The clearest times are when I concentrated while it was happening because I wanted to remember every detail. Like when? He squirmed on the couch. You can guess them, Scully. Ohhh, no, that's not fair. Well, times when I thought I was seeing proof of extraterrestrial life. Those lights we saw at that Air Force base -- I still remember that. But how is your memory different from mine? He took a deep breath. You wore brown during that case, Scully. Three different brown suits. The first one had a skirt and a white blouse -- that's when we were in the bar and I met Deep Throat. The second was a pantsuit -- good thing about that, because we had to run from that helicopter. The third one was an earthier brown, not silk, I don't think. Oh, and then that light blue shirt you had on when you came and rescued me after the military folks captured me. And you were wearing some sort of perfume that smelled like vanilla with a little bit of cinnamon thrown in. She stared, open-mouthed. I could also draw for you the exact pattern the lights flew in over the thirty-four minutes I was watching them, but I didn't think that would impress you quite as much. Do you mean you can remember everything I've worn since I became your partner? Noooo, not everything. Almost everything. And this is because you concentrated on it? No, it's just because I can remember it. I remember the last time I wore a non-tacky tie, too, if you're interested. I didn't know you could recall things from that many years in the past. Yeah. I had that one coming. I'm sorry, it just fascinates me that all those memories are in your head. Yeah well, some of them I'd rather not have in there, and some of them seem to have been blocked or maybe stolen. But on the whole, I appreciate the gift. Do you really consider it a gift? What do you mean? I mean, some people see their abilities as being a simple combination of nature and nurture, and others see them as a gift from God, or some higher power. You know how I feel about God. So it's not a gift. Just good wiring, Scully. She looked at him across the couch. He was wearing jeans and an untucked dress shirt, and black socks (probably left over from the workday). He'd left his shoes at the door. One arm rested on his thigh; the other was stretched along the back of the couch, as if beckoning to her. I wanted you to come over so I could apologize about the Harold Spuller case, seeing the girl and not telling you. He tried very hard to remember his attitude when he'd first found out she'd kept things from him. He had been upset she was hiding things, hindering the case, not trusting him ... It was hard to feel that way now. She looked even smaller, if that was possible, scrunched up against the arm of the couch, wearing jeans and a white sweatshirt, tan socks, the cross hanging down around her neck, hair in a ponytail. He'd yelled at her and implied she was working against him, and she'd invited him over for pizza and beer. And sometimes he was on the good boy list. Whatever that meant. Probably just that she wasn't furious at him during those times. Scully, forget it. It's okay. I'm just worried that you don't trust me now. He moved, then, along the couch, keeping his arm outstretched until it touched her shoulder and his knee was touching hers. I shouldn't have been so paranoid, Scully. I get wrapped up in these things, you know that. I never meant to upset you. He reached around, tugged gently on her ponytail. Of course I trust you. She kept her hands in her lap and looked up at him, and something shifted inside him. My heart, he thought. Is something wrong with me? No, no, nothing's wrong. It's just breaking a little, is all. Because there's this beautiful woman looking at me, who trusts me, and I trust her, and she's trying to tell me something without speaking, and I'm not really sure what it is, and even if I were sure, I don't know what I could possibly do about it because she's dying, sitting right here in front of me.... Before he could think he shifted closer, and gathered her in towards him, hoping that the combination of dim light and close contact could ease out whatever it was she had stuck in her throat, could bring to the surface whatever splinter of doubt was floating around inside her. I'm so scared, he thought he heard, but it could have been the soft scrape of her cheek on his shirt, the movement of her shoulder against his chest. He held her closer. I'm so scared, and this time it was definitely her. I wish I could do something, Scully. You can. You are. He felt her arms go around him and that shift in his chest, once again, and then the tears started in the back of his throat where they always did and dropped silently into her hair... And he thought.... Please let me remember this. END ----------------------------- constructive comments and criticism welcomed Nancy V ourhouse@toad.net