From: GRACE REGULLANO Date: Wed, 06 Oct 1999 23:50:05 -0700 Subject: Life Philosophies Source: xff TITLE: Life Philosophies AUTHOR: Grace FEEDBACK: yes, please, to ebrulf@home.com I solicit it like the shameless hussy that I am. CATEGORY: V. RATING: G to PG SPOILERS: The Diana Fowley thing. Notes about timing at the end. ARCHIVING: Gossamer, yes; everyone else, yes, but I'd appreciate a note and an address so that I can visit. DISCLAIMER: Don't own them. Never will. CC can have them anyway, well, Mulder at least. I get to keep Scully, although maybe if he plays his cards right, I'll keep Mulder too. SUMMARY: Mulder expounds on his life philosophy. He really is a depressing guy, but not in this story. And Scully really is still mad at him for the Fowley thing, but not in this story. This is a happy story. It is a fluffy, not-quite-schmoopy story that nonetheless manages (hopefully) to explain a little bit of what Mulder is looking for. DEDICATION: Who else? To Greg, who was the inspiration for this story in a conversation that lasted 3 hours and had us eventually asking, "I could marry you in Texas, couldn't I?" AND JUST ONE MORE: Thanks to my beta reader, Jen, who was wonderful, and whom I'm sure I didn't do justice to with this story. She made great observations, and I thank her for it; unfortunately, Real Life interfered so that I could follow only some and not all of them, so anything you don't like, it's my fault! Life Philosophies By Grace When I was younger, my girlfriends, almost every one, told me that I depressed them. What can you say to that, really? Usually their words would come after I had bared a little of my soul to them. I'd tell them that I was glad they were there, or that they made me feel real, that they made me feel as though dying weren't such a good thing after all. That they made me like life, even a little bit. And each one would be quiet for a moment, and her eyes would shift away nervously. I never did learn, did I? I mean, what could I do? I wanted to change--who wants to be known as "that depressing guy, good-looking as hell, but gawd does he make you want to kill yourself." Not me. I think I even made one or two cry. How sad and pathetic is that? But there was nothing to be done. I had these thought patterns, this way of thinking, and no matter how hard I tried to be a little more upbeat, it never worked. So I think about death a lot. I thought everybody did. Really, I did. So I think about betrayal more often than normal--it's only to be expected, after what I've been through. But I would attempt to explain to my girlfriends, very gently, this expectation of betrayal; explain why I needed a life outside of this girl or that girl--mind you, I had learned a little; I'd only go into this explanation when we'd actually been dating for a few months. I think I said something along the lines of: "So let's say I invested myself in you, and all this time . . . and let's say you suddenly decided to dump me." Okay. I'll admit--big mistake right there. It is a little depressing to hear that your steady boyfriend has been considering you suddenly leaving, especially when you've made the effort to break down at least some of his--yes, I'll say it--emotional walls. I'd realize my mistake a moment after the words would come out of my mouth and I'd rush to fill the vacuum that my words had left. I didn't mean it like that, really. I meant--what I meant was, you know . . . Ah, what if something . . . unforeseen were to happen. Yeah, that was me. Fox Mulder, smooth operator. And then there was that one disastrous time that I actually attempted to explain my life philosophy. You want somebody who makes you want this world. There. That was it. Not so difficult, right? That's all I've really wanted--well, let's ignore The Truth and Samantha, although it's been pointed out to me that the two are not mutually exclusive. I attempted to explain this, one sleepy night in bed with Diana. We talked sometimes, which was unusual enough in and of itself, but that night I was feeling particularly mellow and for once she was too, so there we were, expounding on our little philosophies of life. Although now that I think about it, I was doing far more expounding than she was. Some men want their women to be dependent on them, a la 1950s Americana. Some men want their women to dominate them, courtesy of the feminist revolution. Me? All I wanted was somebody who would make me real. Since That Night--yes, I think in capitals, so sue me; and this That Night referred to the one in my childhood when Samantha was taken, not that That Night that referred to the one in my adulthood when Scully was taken. Since That Night, I've never felt really real. Most people don't question the solidity of their existence, at least not until they've hit their mid-life crisis. I hit that point in my life 30 years too early. My life, up to that point, had been defined by Samantha--I was me, Fox Mulder, Samantha Mulder's Older Brother. I had never been able to define myself as Fox Mulder, Son of Teena and Bill Mulder, for the quite obvious reason that they barely recognized my existence since they were too caught up screaming at or ignoring each other for most of my life. So I was Samantha's Brother, and that was all right by me, because it never occurs to a 12 year old that the fixtures in his life aren't permanent. It should never occur to any child that the figures of life are only semi-permanent, wavering things. So what I wanted, was somebody in whom I could submerge my identity once again. Don't bother telling me that that's an unhealthy urge; I have a Ph.D. in Psychology from Oxford, it's not like I don't recognize the signs of codependency. Is it so wrong to want to feel real? To feel anchored? I wanted somebody who made me think, Hey, maybe this world isn't so bad after all. Maybe I might just stay here a while longer. I thought Diana was that person, so I felt safe in telling her that. Yeah, the sleepy-satiated-post-coital state I was in that night helped in my unusual mellowness. I'm a male; we get sleepy and unguarded after sex, okay? It's an actual documented fact. Ask a man for something after sex and eight times out of ten he'll just give you a goofy smile and a vacantly contented gaze and say yes, sure, and could you turn off the lights while you're at it? Turns out I was wrong, about Diana that is. She was definitely not that person. It was a momentary lapse in judgment, one that shall never be repeated again. I believe her exact reaction to the baring of the deepest recesses of my vulnerable psyche was to snort in disbelief and say something along the lines of, "God, Fox, you think too much. Stop being so needy." So after that little debacle which I simply prefer to term "Diana," I understably grew a bit warier about divulging my life philosophy. Even a post-coital state couldn't get me to open my mouth on that topic. Until Scully. She's not exactly my type--Scully is definitely not brunette nor bitchy, which both Diana and Phoebe certainly were--and it's not even a matter of sexual desire being misinterpreted as something deeper. Which is not to say that I don't lust after her, in a quite unholy manner that I'm certain the Pope would not appreciate. How long did it take for me to spill my guts to Diana? A year, maybe even less. And with Scully it's taken almost seven years. Even though she is quite obviously infinitely more trustworthy and understanding than Diana. Who knew that I would be pouring out the one part of my soul that I had firmly marked off-limits to the red-haired girl? Even Samantha and the entire Mulder family legacy was not as taboo as this one thing, of my desperate need to have somebody who made the world more palatable. Maybe it's because the former is something outside of myself, something that I can fix with the right amount of glue and sweat and duct tape, while the latter is something created wholly of my own insecurities, fears, and traumas. And all this without the added spur of post-coital-vulnerability to boot. It was as simple as opening my mouth and saying, while we were sitting on our bench, discussing some case, I can't even remember which one: "I like being here, Scully." She'd looked up at me, blinking; trying, I'm sure, to understand my sudden random statement. I'd elaborated, for her sake and for mine: "You make me like being alive." She'd pursed her lips, then shook her head, and laughed a little. But it wasn't Diana's laugh; it was hers: a little bemused, a little surprised, but completely accepting. "Good," she'd replied. "I'm glad." I hadn't been able to leave it at that, of course. It was seven years in the making; my revelations weren't going to stop themselves after two sentences. She had begun to walk away, still smiling, and I'd reached out without thinking and grabbed her arm lightly. She'd stopped, and turned her head, and gave me that inquisitive look that she'd honed to perfection. "I mean," I'd said, or at least I said something to that effect, "that you are the one person in my life that makes me feel real. You make me realize that there are good things in the world." For a moment I swear I'd glimpsed tears in her eyes, but it was probably just the clouds moving away to reveal a brightly shining sun reflected in her eyes. She'd nodded, and held up a hand and touched my arm, briefly, lightly. And, before I could stop myself, I'd heard myself saying the fatal words: "I've been looking for that. All my life." You've heard of moments in time, I'm assuming. Well, that was the mother of all moments in time. I had thought, previously, that our moment would be the one right before we kissed--because that is a when, not an if--when we made the momentous realization that we loved each other and that it could maybe just work out. Once again, a lapse in judgment. *This* was it, *this* was the time and place where all other times and places ceased to exist. This was more important than a first kiss, or a first roll in the hay, or a first declaration of love. Because this was me, Fox Mulder, finally saying to her, Dana Scully, that she had given me something that nobody else in the world has been able to give me. This was me telling her that she had made me like life. This was me finally telling myself that I could trust her with everything, even that tiny little bit that had scared everyone else off. And she didn't call me needy, or depressing, or start shifting nervously away. Scully simply smiled at me, a big toothy grin, and just as quickly as it had begun, the moment was over and we were once again simply Mulder and Scully standing on government property. She'd nodded sharply, as though she'd expected my words, and said again, "Good. I'm glad." She'd paused, and then continued, "Life is better with you around, too, Mulder." Then she'd chuckled, a little, and began to disengage from my light grasp. "Usually." I'd smiled too, and let her go, and we began the walk back to the Hoover building. I still can't believe it was quite that easy, although why it should surprise me, I don't know. With Scully, it's always been easier than with anybody else--keeping in mind that everything is relative, after all. So now I'm considering that maybe I can tell her more about my life philosophy, or at least this aspect of it, and maybe she can tell me more of hers. And maybe we can do it while lying in bed on a sleepy mellow night, with me in a sleepy mellow mood that just might be coitally induced. END AUTHOR'S NOTES: This has been sitting on my hard drive since June, and after making 2 or 3 editing forays, I never quite had time again to focus on this story. But this story screamed (at least to me, heh) to be posted before I forgot about it, so I did. This was an exercise in tone for me. As for the timing of this piece, I would be hesitant about placing it after sixth season, despite my mention of "seven years" because of that debacle I prefer to term simply "Fowley", because my theory on that is that Mulder and Scully need to have a big knock-down drag-out fight where they actually *deal* with *issues* before they could reach this happy place. So let's just place this in a galaxy far away in a time long ago where Mulder is only slightly a jackass and Scully isn't so weary.