From: Nascent II Date: Thu, 21 Apr 2011 12:36:41 -0400 Subject: Submission: Impermeable Source: direct Title - Impermeable Author - Nascent E-Mail address - nascent70@gmail.com Rating - PG-13 Category - VA Spoilers - None Keywords - None Summary - Hurt/comfort: a less comfortable take on the genre. Archive - Gossamer only --------------------------------------------------- "Impermeable" by Nascent (nascent70@gmail.com) --------------------------------------------------- Mulder knows my secret and I hate him for it. Patronized. That's how I feel. He's been stringing me along, letting me believe he believes I'm impermeable, all the while knowing it's an act, a show, a farce. I don't need that kind of love, Mulder. I don't need a pat on the head to spare my feelings. What happened to honesty? Today I killed a man, Fox Mulder. I killed a man not with my own two hands but with a single finger and the righteousness of Isaac Newton. Easier to distance yourself, isn't it, when you can blame it all on physics. Oh, sure, I was doing my job. No, I didn't make any mistakes. My aim is, as always, precise. And there was no question that I had to take the shot. Not even Kersch would question my move. The man was preparing to fire on that woman and fifteen other agents saw it. Including Mulder. He knows what it's like to kill someone. He understands that even if the guy deserved it, the guy's mother probably didn't. He knows about the tearful court hearings, about the journalists who somehow find your cell phone number even though you changed it after the last case. But most of all, he knows that things like this shouldn't have to happen. You should never have to kill someone. So I don't fault him for being sensitive. I need his support. I need him standing slightly to my left and behind me when the team leader assures me I did the right thing. I need him standing outside the door while the section chief takes my deposition. And I need him to step between me and the cameraman, bending over me while he opens the car door for me. I need him to say not one word--not one damn word--all the way back to the hotel. He did everything I needed him to do. Of course he couldn't make it all go away, but he did the best he could, and that's all I could ask. Outside the door to my room, though, that's where it all fell apart. I'm putting the key in the lock when his hand falls on my shoulder and I don't mind that, no. He turns me toward him, and I know he's going to say that he's there if I need anything. He won't use those words, of course--he'll say something like, "You did a good job," or maybe "If you get hungry later, I'll go get something." But he doesn't. Instead, he locks those soulful eyes with mine and wets his lips. His thumb is digging into my shoulder blade, rubbing. "Mulder?" I prompt, trying to be understanding, but dammit, I'm the one who shot the guy. His breath rises and his lips part like he's about to say something, but then he doesn't. Speechless, like the dead man's mother probably is right now. She hates me; I know that. There's too much inside me. It's too close to the top, bubbling just beneath the surface and I'm afraid it'll boil over soon and I don't even know what it is. Whatever it is, it's left an empty hole near the bottom of me, a hole so quiet and void that it brings physical pain. This strange polarity--pressure above and vacuum below--will collapse me in on myself if I'm not careful. I know this well, which is why my secret. "I'm going to take a shower, Mulder," I say, looking down at the floor. His hand tightens on the muscles of my shoulder and my name passes his lips as if he's choking on it: "Scully..." I look back up at him and that's when I know he knows my secret and I hate him and I can't decide whether to fall forward against his chest and wrap my arms around him or to smooth those worry lines on his face with my fist. He'd probably rejoice in either option, and that thought comes so close to breaking me that I turn away, unlock the door, and slip inside, shutting it before he can decide what to do. I bite my lower lip, dimly aware that if he was uncertain before he is sure now. Patronizing bastard. Letting me believe he believed I was impermeable. I kick off my shoes and now the tears have gathered like storm clouds, and I feel my finger on the trigger again, see the blood, the blood.... I've seen a lot of blood. Starved blood and satiated blood, blue and red. Blue when the heme group--a beautiful exercise in molecular symmetry carries no oxygen, like my lungs seem not to now. Red when endowed with the simpler mirror image of a six-valenced molecule reflected back on itself. The tears are spilling over, and I'm stumbling toward the bathroom, turning on the tap. Red blood cells are so highly specialized, so functional, that all things extraneous have been pared away. No mitochondria inhabit them; they cannot toss electrons from protein to protein across two lipids like beach balls along a human chain. Instead of the waterwheel of an ATPase turned by citric acid, they rely on substrate-level phosphorylation; their energy factory is pared down for efficiency's sake. So they can devote everything to carrying the heavy burden of oxygen to every tissue, never complaining. I can't be that way, though I used to think Mulder believed I could. Blood. I step into the shower, knowing not even the purest water could wash away the blood because there is more of it than I can see. I can feel it, trapped beneath my fingernails, clumping in my hair like chewing gum, and I know from experience that water and soap won't wash it. It will accumulate, making me dirtier and dirtier. I am crouched now on the smooth white tile (and if Mulder knew--fuck him, does he listen to the water from the other side of the wall and imagine this, my secret?), rocking and chewing at my lower lip while the water makes my hair cling to my cheeks and my mind's eye rewinds the zipping of the body bag. Zipping, unzipping, zipping, unzipping. Whenever it closes I hear the piercing scream of someone's mother, far louder than the water raining down upon me. The drops collect on the skin of my thighs until they're so large they slide down my skin--what a delicate balance of forces is there: surface tension governed by molecular attractions combating gravity governed by mass. Gravity always wins but only because more water falls. For a moment there's balance, perfect balance, a system poised to fall that, were another drop not added, never would. Until tonight, I thought Mulder believed I'd never fall--he encouraged me to believe he believed that. Believe in a lie. Crying here in the shower like an adolescent, like I always have because I thought it was safe, I'm not balanced. Gravity has had its way with me. Don't you worry, then, Mulder, that I won't be able to hold myself together, like the droplet? If you've imagined this, imagined me cowering, hiding from the world, how can you trust me at your back? Is it because of my deadly aim? I killed a man today. The water's turning cold now and my skin is changing from red to blue but I don't care. I'm still seeing the body bag close, closing off the accusing gaze of the dead man and his mother--wife, sister, brother, whatever--from my view. Separating me from him/them with a membrane meant to be impermeable. But in truth, the membrane is supposed to surround me. I'm supposed to be separated from the world, I am supposed to be the impartial force of justice. I am supposed to be the strength, the one who makes children sleep safely at night like my dad did for all of us, keeping the forces of violence at bay with the authority of his brass badge and the blue-and-red checkered precision of the medals on his breast. His membrane was so perfect I never knew it existed until he was dead, and even then I believed it was impermeable. Crying here in the shower, though, I wonder if it, like mine, was actually semi-permeable, a perverse if not reverse osmotic membrane. If it permitted the passage of ions if not solution--that is, of highly charged particles without the soothing balm of the larger vessel surrounding them. Charged particles flow from the dead into me, charging me with responsibility and pain and nagging, endless self-doubt--did I do the right thing? Of course I did the right thing. The man was a murderer. _But was his mother?_ I know it was right, I don't know it was right; I hate this confusion. In other times of such doubt, I've reassured myself with Mulder's faith in me, in my impermeability. If he sees it thus, thus it might truly be. But he was lying, he knew all along, he-- Tapping at the bathroom door. "Scully?" What the hell is he doing? Who does he think he is? My teeth are chattering, can't he see that? "Scully, are you okay?" To tell the truth, I want him to see, and so I don't answer, and I hate us both for that. I killed a man today. ************************ I've known Scully's secret for a long time. When we get back to the hotel after a long, grueling day I hear her shower start. Maybe it's after autopsying a kid, or a victim of sexual assault. Maybe it's after she almost died, or I did. Today it's because someone died by her hand. It took a year or two to dawn on me fully, to learn when to listen for it. At first, I didn't notice at all, but after awhile I realized that the showers were far too long. Hours, at times. I don't know if she does it when we don't have adjoining rooms, obviously; that is, I don't know if she chooses the shower only to keep me from hearing her. Maybe. Or maybe it's something she learned in medical school, when the roommate was too close yet the burdens still heavy. It's certainly a trick I exercised once or twice in college. More than that, probably. It frustrates me, though, that a pillar of our strength together is founded on her hideaway. After all these years, after I've seen the best and the worst of Dana Scully, you'd think she could share her pain without fear. I certainly have. It unbalances us, always being on the same end of the comforting arm. I didn't want her to hide tonight. I didn't care if she talked to me or not, didn't care if she let me touch her or not. I just didn't want her to run away. It would be something. But she did, and now I can hear the shower running. It's been running for over an hour. She was like an eagle sweeping down out of the heavens today, killing that man with a single, deadly precise shot no one else could have made and then returning to her perch to answer their questions with a noble head held high. And now, just like the eagle, she doesn't want to be handled. I can respect that. I always have. But it's different today. I saw something in her eyes. When I said her name, uncertain how to stop her retreat, she looked skittish, frightened. Understandable, for a predator threatened with captivity. But the shower keeps running, and I pace here in my room, listening to the pipes and wondering if they're telling me something different. What if this time is different? Visions of razorblades dance in my head. She's been through hell and back, my partner, seen things that would have driven a lesser person to things far worse than razorblades.... Sometimes when I listen to the water I try to imagine her pain--standing in the shower with her head against the wall. Maybe huddled on the floor. It's the least I can do, the closest I can come to sharing her pain. What if I'm wrong today? The water must be cold by now. _You're just looking for an excuse, Mulder._ Maybe I am, but the risk far outweighs the invasion. Knocking is nothing. I open the connecting door and in four strides am before the closed bathroom door, white and unrevealing. Behind it, the water keeps roaring. This is stupid. Unfair to Scully. I start back for my own room, but just before I reach the door resolution consumes me and I go back. Tap on the door. "Scully?" I call. No answer. "Scully, are you okay?" As I wait, my heart crawls slowly up my throat and butterflies dance in my belly. "Scully?" I say again, louder. I can't wait any longer. _I'm sorry, Scully, but--_ "I'm coming in, Scully," I announce, and she doesn't protest, so I push open the door, which is of course unlocked. Unlocked means safe, but by now I'm not thinking so clearly. Remnants of steam long dissipated streak the mirror, and the sink is arrayed with her toiletries. "Scully?" I say, one more time, and then pull aside the plastic curtain. Only after I see her, shivering but alive, knees covering her breasts, arms wrapped around her ankles, huddled like a child on the plastic tub floor--only then do I realize what a truly dangerous thing I have done. In the haste of my bloody-razored visions I forgot to subtract myself from Scully, forgot that the difference can sometimes be greater than the sum. Scully found me in this same position once and I lost nothing for her kindness; I don't have that kind of pride to lose. But she does. Scully's always had much higher standards for herself than she has for me, and to be perfectly honest, so have I. I turn off the water just as she did, reach for an inadequate towel to drape around her shoulders. I move gingerly, aware that any misstep could land her resignation letter on my desk in two days' time. I shouldn't have come in--the razor dream was just another example of my poor memory for the difference....This was a very bad idea. She clutches the towel about her, but doesn't look up at me and I realize I'm holding my breath, wondering whether she'll collapse into sobs or yank off the shower head and skewer me with it. I'm trying to decide what to do in either event when she simply stands up and steps out of the tub, brushes past me into the main room without a word. I let out my breath on a long sigh and fall onto the toilet seat, head in hands. I have no idea what to do now. She'll never forgive me for having seen her like that. Knowing this makes me angry. How the hell am I to suppose she regards me? Why does Scully always get the moral high ground--either as my comforter or as She Who Needs Nothing? Maybe her unshakable loyalty to me and my pain is just the way she plays out some perturbed fantasy of sanctity, the perfect Catholic girl, the perfect Admiral's daughter. Her loyalty, her secret--they both come down to the same thing. There's no right thing I can do. Fuck her. Thus resolved, I stand and stride back into the bedroom, ready to confront my partner's tears with a ducked head and a quick exit. Ah, courage. But she's not crying anymore, and thank God she's not naked either. She's sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard, wearing jeans and a tight black sweater. Her hair is uncombed, still framing her face with wet tendrils, and her feet are bare. For a moment all I can think is that she is beautiful, then I shake my head, cursing myself for frivolity at a time like this. She doesn't look at me. "I'm sorry," I mumble, knowing by the angle of her head that I'm not supposed to leave yet. I step closer to her, sit down on the other bed. She snorts away my apology. "Aren't you supposed to hug me and tell me it's all right and I have a right to be upset?" Her voice drips sarcasm like acid on my blood vessels, but they've built up acid resistance over the years. I wet my lips, knowing I'm still on treacherous footing. I don't know which vision is more frightening--the one with the razors or the one of the resignation letter. "Is that what you want me to do?" "No." She says it like she means it. Maybe she does mean it, but I suddenly know the only way to save my soul here. I stand up and move over to where she's sitting on the bed, lower myself beside her and very slowly, wrap my arms around her, giving her every opportunity to shove me away. She doesn't. "It's all right, Scully," I breathe into her damp hair. "You have every right to be upset." See? Now it's my fault. Her shoulders shake with a sour laugh at my inadequacy. Nonetheless, I tighten my arms around her, turning her toward me so that her side is resting against mine. With one hand I tip her cheek against my sternum and twine my fingers in her hair; she doesn't resist. She feels so good I can't remember why I was angry at her and if someone reminded me I'm doing this for appeasement I'd laugh in their faces that a sacrifice could be such a good thing. My hand travels over her shoulder and down her right arm, finding her hand and tracing her fingers. This finger, this small, delicate finger here, killed a man today. I rub my thumb up and down its length, trying to wash away the stain of blood. She doesn't respond. Don't you understand, Scully? I have always loved the victim who does not beg for sympathy, who doesn't wear her victimhood on her back like a cross for all the world to see--perhaps because I wish I could do the same. I admire that. But that doesn't mean I don't sympathize. I've never believed for a moment that those who walk through fire don't feel the burns--why do you think I should love iron skin? Scully is my flagship, a powerful, multi-masted galleon whose spiderweb-like trappings of net and rope are as strong as they are delicate. Her wooden hull is scarred but well-polished, and I wouldn't have it any other way. She's no ironclad, though everyone believes her to be and that's how she likes it. I've seen ironclad, Scully, you don't want that. Iron men have walked through fire and emerged so callused they have no regard for human life. They are the serial killers, the purveyors of monstrosity, the powerful nameless men whom we chase. They are the man you killed today. It's right that you should be upset. You've been burned. I admire how you hide your scars, but I don't understand your shame for their existence. There are tears in my own eyes now, and I can't tell if they're for my partner or for the fires I've walked through. I drop my cheek into her hair. I shouldn't have gone into the bathroom. I shouldn't have. Before, when I heard the shower run like that I had only my imagination and now I have a memory. My breath hitches and she must sense it, because she draws back from me and looks up to confirm her suspicion. Her eyes are no longer blank or sullen, but earnest as she recognizes my tears. "What's wrong?" I offer her the upper hand again, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, and tell her the truth. "Lots of things. Lots of things are wrong." "Oh," she says, blinking. "I thought maybe you were just trying to make me feel like I was in the 'in' crowd." I rub her back, chuckling with my hand. "Would it work if I did?" She looks down and doesn't say anything for a long time, and I'm starting to curse myself for saying the wrong thing again--she wants us already to pretend nothing happened. But finally she speaks. "It's not a big deal," she says, pulling away a little more. "I don't want you to worry. Sometimes I just...." She doesn't know how to explain it. "I know," I assure her, tugging her back against me and pressing my head against her hair, hoping she'll believe I'm doing this because _I_ need to. "Me too." At last, she slips her arms around my waist and relaxes, completing the embrace. We sit this way for a long time. "You're going to hate me in the morning," I say at last. I'm uncertain who has won this strange battle but I very much want to know. I feel her arms tighten around me and the rush of warmth in my belly almost makes me miss the fact that she doesn't deny my words. When a love is as hungry as mine, the banquet laid out can blind me to the starvation of its preparer. When I realize she didn't argue, it occurs to me my words probably made it worse, and so I use the last weapon in my arsenal--I plant a long, fervent kiss on her brow, hoping to appease her with a feast of her own. Trying to assure her without dangerous words that she is not diminished in my eyes. After all, I knew her secret all along. She'll forgive me for that. Maybe not in the morning, but certainly after a month of mornings. She'll forgive me for loving her because she's everything I admire. The real question is whether she'll ever forgive herself. ************************ posted: Spring, 1999