From: "dana k." Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 03:55:51 -0700 Subject: free will and testament Title: Free Will and Testament Author: Barbara "Indigo" Brush Classification: VA Rated: NC-17 for strong language and adult themes Spoilers: Season 6 Keywords: Scully Summary: Withheld Responses to: sacindi@moose-mail.com Disclaimer: None of the characters belongs to me, but Scully would be a much happier person if she did. All the misogynistic weasels associated with 1013 can blow me... no, on second thought, they can't. Dedication: To every project Gillian Anderson has ever done or ever will do, *other* than TXF. WARNING: This came out of my being intensely pissed off and disillusioned; it's depressing as hell, and it's probably not what those of you who know me would have ever expected me to write. Just so you'll know, Mulder is not a nice guy in this one. If that's a problem for you, I can certainly respect that, but bail now. All content-based flames will be swiftly and cheerfully deleted. Preface: In the beginning were the hard-core shippers, of whom I was one. I wanted to believe, and believe I did. I slo-mo'd the ship-scenes, voraciously read and occasionally wrote the ship-fic, waved the ship-flag, argued long and loudly with non's, had 'ship dreams of every imaginable variety and then some. I adored the 'ship *almost* as passionately as I adored Dr. Dana K. Scully herself. The "almost" became key when I realized that the advancement of the 'ship and the advancement of the woman had become diametrically opposed. As much as it pains me to abandon a dream, there is no way in hell, when push comes to shove, that I'm not going to wind up kicking and screaming on the side of the woman. In the words of the once and not-so-future Mulder, "Scully... RUN!" *********** "Dana, in good conscience I feel I should point out that the Bureau's policy doesn't require that you talk with me as part of your exit interview." Karen Koseff leans back in her chair and smiles slightly. "Not that I want to discourage you, but on the rare occasion that I've seen you in the past, you've expressed some reluctance, and before we proceed, I want to be sure that this decision is fully informed and made entirely of your own accord." Well, good -- at least somebody's concerned about that, I think with more than a trace of bitterness. "Thanks," I tell her, and mean it. "It is my choice. My letter of resignation simply states that I've decided to practice medicine full time. I want to go on record somewhere with an account of the real reasons I'm leaving." Karen looks directly at me and nods almost imperceptibly, but says nothing, just waits for me. What a strange sensation, this expectant silence, this permission -- encouragement, even -- to fill it with my own thoughts, my own words, knowing that they will be heard, uninterrupted, acknowledged, honored. It's been so long since anyone has offered me such an opportunity that I begin to doubt that I even know how to respond to it. I look back at her evenly, half-hoping and half-fearing that she'll prompt me further. She doesn't. I breathe. "Leaving the Bureau," I say, "and leaving my partner are not the same thing. I could have done one without doing the other." I pause, waiting to see if she understands what I mean. "But you've chosen to do both." Karen underscores the point for me when she recognizes my tacit invitation to do exactly that. I bob my head in confirmation. "Let's start with the first one, then," she suggests. "Why leave the Bureau?" The bratty kid in me wants to snap, "You're a woman, you figure it out," but I don't. She's asking not because she doesn't know, but because, of course, what's important here is that I articulate it. "When I came here," I begin, "I said it was because I wanted to make a difference. I meant that. Not just in the obvious sense of bringing criminals to justice," my tongue flickers over my teeth at the irony, "but in that it's a boys' club. I felt that simply by being here, by doing a good job, I could start to change that. I had something to prove. To myself, to my parents, to the institution. And you know what, Karen?" My voice rises a decibel or two, and my spine stiffens reflexively. "I'm tired of it. I don't have anything to prove to myself anymore, and nobody else is listening anyway. I'm sick to death of pounding my head against this same brick wall, over and over, and ending up with nothing to show for it but a bloody nose --" it's an unintentional reference, but my vision locks with hers and I know she's caught it, too -- "and an unbefuckinglievable headache." It feels good to say it like that, empowering, and I sit comfortably in the echo for a moment. If Karen is surprised, she doesn't show it; but I don't think she is. If anyone should be aware of my range, my depth, my apparent contradictions, she should be. Well, no -- if anyone *should* be aware, given the extent of our shared experience, it's Mulder. But he's not. I'd credit Karen's degree in psychology, but Mulder's got that background, too. So maybe it's the testosterone poisoning. Maybe it's an X-File. Maybe I'm past the point of giving a rat's ass. Bingo. "And your partner," Karen continues, so that I'm startled into wondering if there's something to this telepathy thing after all. "You said that was different." "I want a clean break," I mumble, stalling. It's not a lie, but it doesn't have much to do with the truth. The Truth. Ha. Now that's funny. "Maybe it's not that different, actually," I reconsider. I'm still sidestepping, but I'm getting warmer. And it's okay. Karen is patient. She's not going to press me, rush me, launch into her own interpretation of the situation as if I'd never spoken, second-guess my motivations, ask me if I'm PMS-ing, ask me if I need to go home and lie down, pick up the phone and start talking to somebody else, get up and walk out and slam the door behind him. Behind her. Shit. Where was I? "Mulder's not the only one with an investment in the truth," I tell her. "He lost a sister; I lost a sister. He lost his father. I've lost mine, too. He's put a lot into the work. I'm not saying he hasn't. But he was never kidnapped and stuffed in a trunk; he never had his body cut open and experimented on and scraped out and his memories erased. He wasn't given brain cancer. He wasn't given a child of his own just so he could watch her die." I slam my hands against the armrests of the chair in exasperation. "This isn't even what I'm trying to say," I groan nonsensically. "It's not that I'm trying to make it some kind of twisted competition about who's suffered the most. That's not the point. And it's not that I want a pity party. And it's not that I want him to feel guilty, although that's the only way he'd know how to take it." I roll my eyes. "It's just that I. Have. Invested. Too. And how the hell much do I have to give before anybody recognizes that? before it stops being MULDER's quest, MULDER's truth? MULDER's office? MULDER's desk? before anybody recognizes me as the equal partner and not as the loyal sidekick?" Poor Karen -- I'm shouting at her, and I can feel the flush in my face. My hands are sweating. I'm monumentally pissed. And goddamn it, I'm entitled. We sit for a moment and I study my left thumbnail while that settles, and when I lift my head to see Karen offering me a supportive look, I continue. "We've been over it. I've tried to get him to see it. But he doesn't. Nothing comes of it, nothing happens." "Something happened this time, though," Karen quietly observes. "You're leaving, after..." "Six years," I finish, although I know she knows this detail. My stomach clenches and my hands are still sweating. I pull a tissue out of my briefcase and twist it between my fingers. I look at Karen. She is leaning toward me just a little, offering her presence. I am aware I must look small and terrified. "What happened?" she asks, her voice so low and unobtrusive that I know she is not trying to pressure me, just assure me that it's safe to talk about it. I am not going to chicken out. I've come this far. After everything, it would be the supreme irony to back down from this, here, now. I take a couple of deep breaths in a row and wad the tissue in my hands. "I knew all along," I say, "that if we slept together, it would affect our partnership." I glance at Karen quickly, but there is no judgment in her expression, simply acknowledgement. I am grateful for the time she gives me to order my thoughts, my language. I haven't really figured out how to address this part; in fact, until now, I hadn't even been certain whether I would go into it at all. "I don't really want to get into the whole circumstance," I admit. She nods. "But just a couple of weeks ago, we decided to... we were..." I gesture with my right hand. "...in my apartment," I falter. She gives me a comprehending half-smile, and I let out a long breath, steady myself. "He was... touching me, and... I had never, um, reached... climax... in that way before." I feel ridiculous, the way my heart is pounding and my skin is flushing furiously as I struggle with the unfamiliar phrases. I am not a child. I am not a prude. I am a physician, for crying out loud. I can talk about this like an adult, with an adult. "But he found something right, he found just the right... place, and I told him. I told him I was close." I actually look at Karen, then down at my hands again. "I said, 'There. That's *it.* Just there, just that way, just don't stop that.' Then he stopped." My throat catches, and I want to sink into the floor, but I don't. I wait, I go on. "He wanted me to ask him in a certain way, he wanted me to say... certain things. I felt embarrassed. Awkward. I just wanted... I asked him why. Why did he want me to do that? He grabbed my wrists and held them. He said, 'Control, Scully. You always want to have control. I want you to let it go. Let go, say it, and I'll give you what you want.' Like a dare. Like this ultimatum. Like, do it his way, on his terms." I am afraid if I stop now, I won't be able to start again, but I don't have much choice; my voice won't work. I swipe at my face with the mangled tissue. There's a desk between Karen and me. She doesn't do anything; she doesn't reach across for my hand or come around and sit next to me. She doesn't tell me it's okay or ask me to look at her or anything. Bless her. Precisely because she does not invade my space, I am able to recover my power of speech. "I couldn't," I say to my knees. "He must have known how hard it was even for me to say to him what I did. He must have known that in a minute more I would have lost control anyway. That I knew it, that I was asking for that, that I would have given it to him. But I wanted -- I needed to choose it. I would have chosen it, to make it a gift. But for him to demand it, to take it from me like that... like it was just a game, to him... I couldn't do it. I couldn't help it -- I just shut down. I moved away, and I got up, I went in the bathroom. After a few minutes he came in after me, he touched my shoulder, shook his head, he said my name I think. But I couldn't look at him, and he went out again and put his things on and left and I couldn't move, I just stood there holding onto the bathroom sink." I try not to blink at all as I look up at Karen. She looks back at me with compassion. "I always knew there was a danger that if we crossed that line, it could make things difficult for us. At work, I mean. So... um, I'm leaving," I finish lamely. "So your decision to leave has to do with the sexual relation- ship," Karen says after a minute. It's another leading question; she knows that's not it. "No," I respond quietly. "It isn't about sex at all, really. It's about trust." I can tell from her face that she is not a bit surprised by this. "We give lip service to respect. We talk about trust. He even told me once that he loved me. But he doesn't really know. Doesn't know me, doesn't know how to be respectful, doesn't understand that loving me should somehow be *about* me, related to what it means to me to be loved. What happened... when... I was more vulnerable to him than I had ever been -- with him or with anyone else. I placed my deepest trust in him, and he abused that trust. When it mattered, there was no respect there. What I was willing, able to give him was of enormous value to me, but it wasn't enough for him. What I've offered him has never been enough. After that night, I couldn't deny anymore that my dignity, my... spirit... was insignificant, something he felt he could manipulate, had a right to manipulate. That's not love. That's possession. Knowing that -- knowing it on a different level from before -- how could I go back?" Karen knows a rhetorical question when she hears one. "What will you do now?" she asks, and I am relieved that my primary concern about coming here -- that she might feel obliged to play devil's advocate and suggest I reconsider my choices -- was unfounded. "Pediatrics," I answer. "It means more training, since it wasn't my field of specialization. But I've been talking with people in a couple of different programs, and they've been very welcoming." I manage a twisted half-smile. "I've seen plenty of what can happen to kids in this world. This is the best way I can think of to try to protect them and heal them as much as I can. It's important to me," I add. We both rise at the same time, and the smile she gives me is genuine and kind. She does extend her hand across the desk, now, and I reach mine out and accept the gesture without hesitation. She presses my fingers warmly before she releases them. "Take care of yourself, Dana," she says sincerely, and I assure her absolutely that I will. *end*