Title: "Someone Else" 
Author:  Alicia K.
Email:  spartcus1@msn.com
Rating:  PG-13, for language and sexual 
situations
Category:  Scully/Other, Angst
Summary: Scully's turn.
Archive: Spookys, yes.  Anywhere else, please 
ask.
Disclaimer:  Scully and Mulder belong to 1013 
and Fox.  No infringement is intended.

Author's note:  This is a companion piece to 
"Black Coffee In Bed".  It would be helpful to 
have read that one first.  It can be found at  
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html

Many grateful thanks to my beta readers, Joanna 
and Mish.  You guys are truly wonderful.

XXX

She stares at the ring, turning it in her 
fingers, studying it as if it held all the 
answers.

She knows it isn't like her to feel this way, 
to act this way, but she figures she's on a 
roll and might as well continue being someone 
else for a while.  For tonight.

"Take it," he had said, pressing the gold band 
into her palm and curling her fingers around 
it.  "Take it.  It belongs to you, just like 
everything else, Scully."

He'd looked at her, begging her with his eyes 
to stay, to talk, to listen and believe.  But 
she had turned and walked out of his apartment, 
the ring clutched tightly in her hand.  He had 
called her name once, both a plea and a curse, 
but she'd stepped into the elevator and let the 
doors close on his voice.

She turns the glass in her hand, liking the way 
the condensation feels on her hot palm.  She 
wonders if she would be here now if she hadn't 
set herself up for such a hard fall.

If she'd kept herself closed off, kept herself 
private, would she be here in this bar?

If she hadn't let him kiss her at midnight on 
the false millennium, would she be holding his 
ring in her hand?

Maybe if she hadn't opened herself up to such 
vulnerability, she wouldn't be here.

Maybe if she hadn't let Mulder in so far, so 
deep, she wouldn't be here at this bar, drink 
in one hand, ring in the other.

Maybe.

There is movement beside her as a man settles 
onto a stool two seats to her left.  She 
stiffens, awaiting the inevitable attempt at 
bar conversation.  Only then does she finally 
lift the glass to her lips, letting the whiskey 
burn and soothe her throat.  She downs the two 
fingers of liquid in two swallows, then sets 
the empty glass back down on the bar 
emphatically.

The ring is still pressed firmly in her other 
hand.  Its weight is slight, and leaves no 
physical impression, but she knows she will 
always carry it with her, carry its mark upon 
her heart.

Mulder had been married.

She wonders if she would be here, had he come 
out and told her, rather than her finding out 
accidentally.

"It means nothing to me now," he'd said.  "It 
hasn't in years, Scully."

"Then why do you have it?" she had demanded. 
"Why was it hidden in your desk drawer like a 
dirty little secret?"

It wasn't bad enough that they had been called 
on to help with a case in the middle of what 
was to have been a so-called romantic evening, 
but to find this ugly thing while looking for 
his spare car keys was really the kicker.

Maybe if he hadn't locked his keys in his car 
in the first place, she wouldn't be here.  
Maybe if he hadn't offered their expertise to 
Agent Gonzalez, she wouldn't be here.  Maybe 
she shouldn't have answered her cell phone.  
Maybe she never should have let herself fall in 
love with Mulder.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda, she thinks, raising 
the glass to her lips again; she's surprised 
and disappointed when only ice clinks against 
her teeth.

"May I buy you another one of those?" the man 
beside her asks.

She turns to appraise him coolly, eyes sweeping 
over his lean form, longish brown hair, and 
warm, dark eyes.  The fact that he looks a 
little like Mulder does not escape her, and she 
gives him a crooked smile.  "Sure," she says 
with a shrug.

After leaving Mulder's apartment, she had 
driven around for almost an hour, but instead 
of calming her, it had made her even more 
determined to strike back.  

She had clutched his ring fiercely during the 
drive.  Stopped at a red light, she'd opened 
her palm to inspect it fully.  It was plain, as 
men's rings often are.  No engravings, no 
stones, no inscription on its inner circle.

Her fingers had closed around it again, and she 
slammed her hand back onto the steering wheel.  
She hadn't known what she was out to do, but 
she had driven for another few blocks and 
pulled the car into the parking lot of a small 
bar.

She'd figured she wouldn't be drinking the 
Merlot she had brought to Mulder's, so she 
might as well drink something.

Mulder must have still been mad, she'd figured, 
or pouting, because her cell hadn't rung yet.  
She hadn't heard his voice over the line, 
insisting that they talk.  She didn't even know 
if she would have answered, had it rung.

The man next to her stumbles to begin an 
awkward chit-chat.  "Haven't seen you in here 
before," he says, then visibly cringes.

Any other time, she would have ignored him or 
fixed him with a withering look, but tonight 
she responds.  "No, I usually don't hit the 
bars after work."

"You must have had a crappy day."

She flips the ring between her fingers, 
watching the dim light glint off of it.  She 
turns to him, balancing her fresh drink on her 
leg. "Why do you say that?"

"Because you aren't really giving off that 
'happy hour' vibe."

A happy hour vibe.  She wonders if she's ever 
given off a happy hour vibe.  "You know," she 
says thoughtfully, "I haven't had a happy hour 
in quite some time.  I'd kill for even a happy 
minute."

She stares down into her drink, pondering the 
circumstances of fate that had led her here, 
rather than engaging in some happy minutes with 
Mulder right now.

She wants to strike back at him.  Craning her 
neck slightly to the right, she peers at the 
guy's left hand: no ring.

He's looking at her when she meets his gaze 
again, and they share a smile as she realizes 
that he's just done the same thing.

"I'm Mike," he says, extending a hand.

She stares at his hand for a moment, wondering 
if this is the bridge she should cross.  She 
takes his hand.  "Dana."

Drinks and talk follow, and she feels her 
inhibitions loosening with the liquor and with 
the looks he sends her way.

She likes the way he's looking at her: like he 
can't believe his unbelievable luck, that she 
had just fallen into his lap.  Every woman 
deserved to be looked at like that.  Mulder 
just looked at her like he was afraid of her, 
especially since they'd embarked on this new 
journey.

They'd agreed to be more open with each other; 
they would have to be, if they wanted it to 
work.  But it seemed to Scully that the thought 
of her opening up terrified him.  He had 
listened attentively when she told him how it 
had felt to watch her daughter die, what it had 
been like to receive the last rites. She had 
even told him about her first boyfriend and 
their disastrous prom date.

Aside from telling her a little about Phoebe 
and letting her know that he did indeed love 
her, he hadn't shared much else.

And now that his elephant is out in the open, 
lumbering around the room, she feels foolish.  
How dare he hurt her like this?  He knew how 
difficult it was for her to open herself to him 
and had repaid her honesty by delivering a hard 
kick to her soft, exposed underbelly.

She finishes a third drink and makes a 
decision.  If she can't fuck Mulder the 
traditional way, she's going to fuck him this 
way.  He's not the only one who can have 
secrets, she thinks.  And if he should find 
out, then let him hurt the way that I'm 
hurting.

"Dana," Mike begins, then clears his throat 
nervously, "would you like to come home with 
me?"

"Mike, are you propositioning me?"

"Not if you're an undercover cop posing as a 
hooker," he blurts.

She struggles not to smile.  "If I were a 
little more sober, I'd kick your ass for that."  
She turns to pick up her small purse, and 
realizes that Mulder's ring is still clutched 
in her palm; she had forgotten it was there.

Opening her fingers, she sees that it has left 
a darkened impression in her skin.  She knows 
that the image will stay with her longer than 
the physical mark.  

Rising from the stool, she tosses the band onto 
the bar, where it slides over the surface and 
clanks against her empty glass.  

She turns to Mike, who is staring at the ring 
and blinking furiously.  "Let's go," she says.

His apartment is nearly empty, boxed and ready 
to go.  She refuses to think of another writer 
she once knew with a barren apartment, and 
instead turns her head away from his kiss.  She 
ignores his confused expression and takes his 
hand, heading down the hallway to where the 
bedroom must be.

She stands in the middle of his bedroom and 
undresses quickly as he watches, looking as 
though he wants to tell her something.  She 
knows she can't let that happen. Whatever he 
has to say can wait, or better yet, not be said 
at all.

Feeling bad for pushing him away before, she 
pulls him down to her mouth and kisses him 
fully, letting him taste her and fill her mouth 
with his tongue.  He reaches for her bared 
breasts, but she swats his hands away and 
begins to undress him.

Have to do this quickly, she thinks.  Have to 
do this before I change my mind, before I stop 
to think, before I bring Mulder into this 
bedroom, too.

But she knows that Mulder is already there, 
watching with hurt, accusing eyes.  He's 
sitting on the floor against the wall, arms 
folded over his chest as he watches her give 
herself to a stranger.

Mike goes to find a condom, and she tosses off 
a silent 'fuck you' to invisible Mulder before 
stretching out on the bed, ready.

He cries her name when he comes, and then falls 
asleep beside her.  Although she is drowsy 
after her own sharp orgasm, she gets out of 
bed, dragging the sheet with her.  She stands 
by the window, wrapping it around her naked 
body, and shoots the invisible Mulder in the 
corner a defiant glare.

<Happy, Scully?> 

"No," she whispers.

She goes over to Mike's discarded jeans and 
pulls out his cigarettes and lighter.  
Returning to the window, she opens it a few 
inches to let the smoke out.  She knows it's 
presumptuous and rude to assume she can smoke 
in his bedroom, but she does so anyway.

When the cigarette is almost gone, she wonders 
if she should leave while Mike is still asleep, 
but then he stirs behind her.  "Hey," he says.

She gives him a small smile of acknowledgement.  
"Hey."

He offers her coffee, and she dresses while 
he's in the kitchen. He looks briefly 
disappointed when he returns, but then he 
smiles and hands her a steaming mug with a 
Superman logo on it.

They sit on the bed and talk of Chicago and 
divorce, and when he says her name, she has to 
stop him.  He now looks at her like a man with 
an infatuation, which makes her feel strange 
and sad.

"Don't, Mike," she says gently, and leans in to 
give him a small kiss.

Her cell phone rings, she spills her coffee and 
swears, and one moment of strangeness is 
exchanged for another.  The sharp trill jolts 
her back to her real life for a moment, and she 
pushes the button automatically. "Scully," she 
snaps.

And it's the hospital, calling because Mulder 
has a broken wrist and a concussion.  Duty and 
a sick sense of devotion overshadow everything 
she'd felt that day, and she knows she must go.  
No matter what they've done to each other, she 
has to be at his side, and the thought angers 
her.

She drops her chin to her chest and pinches her 
lips together, fighting back the frustration.  
"I have to go."

She lets him drive her to the hospital, and as 
much as she wants to leap out of the car and 
avoid this awkward situation, she waits for 
just a moment.  "I'm sorry," she says wearily, 
eyes drifting closed in the darkness of the 
car, outside the emergency entrance.

"I hope everything's okay," he tells her, and 
she dreads what will come next.  "Can I see you 
again?"

You can't see me, she thinks, turning to fumble 
with the door handle.  You can't see me because 
I have nothing to give you - nothing that 
doesn't already belong to someone else.  "I'm 
sorry."  And she flees the smothering warmth of 
the car, running away from her second mistake 
and toward her first.

A nurse leads her to Mulder, who is awake and 
looking embarrassed at being caught unawares by 
the suspect.  A bandage covers his forehead, 
and his left arm is in a cast.  He looks up 
when she enters the room, and she stops only a 
few feet in.

She feels awkward and silly, standing there, 
holding her purse, her hair mussed.   She 
wonders if she looks like she just woke up, or 
if she looks like she's just been fucked; she 
hopes it's not the latter.

She lets him stare at her and tries to think of 
something to say.  She realizes now that she 
needn't have run down here so quickly.  I 
wonder, she thinks, fiddling with a button on 
her leather coat, if he thinks I rushed down 
here to make amends, to take him home and fall 
into his arms.

Raising her eyes again, she approaches the bed 
and instinctively runs her fingers through his 
hair; it's as if she's checking for any 
injuries the doctors may have missed. It's an 
absurd gesture, and she starts to pull her hand 
back.

Mulder grabs her wrist and looks at her, his 
eyes hard and hurt.  She puzzles over this for 
the briefest of moments, then realizes that she 
smells like sex and cigarettes.

"Aren't you going to invite him in, Scully?"  
His voice is chilly and flat, and she imagines 
that she can read an underlying world of 
emotions beneath the surface.

She doesn't blush or look away, but her eyes 
fill with stinging tears.  She wants him to 
take her unwavering as an admission, and by the 
way he drops her hand and turns away, she knows 
he's taken it as such.  

"Well, at least this time you stayed in town 
instead of jetting off to Philadelphia."

She flinches and steps away to drop into the 
chair at his bedside, pushing her hands through 
her tangled hair.  "This is so fucked up."

"What is?" he snaps unnecessarily, facing her 
again.

She drops her hands and glares at him.  "Us, 
Mulder.  We are."

He closes his eyes.  She wonders if he's 
disappointed with her apparent lack of remorse 
or guilt; she feels both, but she'd rather die 
than give him the satisfaction.  "Yeah, so I 
was married, and you like to go out and have 
one night stands."

"Fuck you, Mulder," she says in a low voice, 
right hand gripping her purse strap like she 
had clutched his ring earlier; she remembers 
that the ring is still at the bar and hopes 
with a pang of smugness that it's been tossed 
into the trash.

He turns his head away again.  "You don't want 
to fuck me, Scully.  You'd have to face me the 
next morning."

She leaves him then, slamming the door hard 
enough to rattle the pane of glass within the 
wood.

XXX

Still with me?  There will be a third and final 
story to this series.

Feedback lovingly embraced at spartcus1@msn.com