From: Isahunter@aol.com
Date: Sun, 8 Aug 1999 13:52:59 EDT
Subject: NEW: "Maybe" by Diadem (1/1)
Source: xff


Title:  Maybe (1/1)

Author:  Diadem

Category: V, A, MSR

Rating:  PG

Spoilers:  Yup, afraid so.  Pilot, Rain King, 
     Arcadia, FTF, Tooms... Let's just say up
     to the end of S6, shall we?

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     feedback will still be given a good home!
     Diadem@cwcom.net

Archive - Anywhere's fine, but please let me 
know where.

Disclaimer:  M&S belong to CC, 10:13 and Fox.  
     I am making no money from this, but if there 
     are any jobs going on the show....

For anyone who has ever had to manage without 
     the internet AND e-mail for a whole week.  It's 
     tough, isn't it?.


Maybe (1/1) by Diadem

It's strange, now I think about it.  I've known 
him for what, nearly seven years, and it's only 
in this last year that I have apparently become 
a nuisance to him.
     Hell, it wasn't this bad on that first case.  
Don't get me wrong - I have no delusions about 
his opinion of me back then.  But that night, when 
I literally threw myself at him, I knew there was 
a spark of... something.  Maybe I was wrong.
     And yet there are all those other times, times 
when I have felt that we are connected in some 
way, some way more than just being partners.  
The Tooms stakeout.  The Red Museum, when 
those kids assumed we were husband and wife.  
The same case, when he reached across the 
table in the diner and wiped sauce off my mouth.  
I thought he felt it too.  Maybe he didn't.
     All the innuendoes, the looks, the trekking 
to the ends of the earth to save each other.  
Surely all that counts for something?  Maybe not.
     And even during this past year, there have 
been moments, albeit brief, during which I have 
been able to pretend that nothing has changed, 
that nothing is any different to the way it used to 
be.  The Falls, Kroner, Bermuda, they all have 
their memories, memories I file away in my mind, 
and drag out when there is no where left to turn.  
He told me he loved me.  I tried to convince myself 
he meant it.  Maybe I shouldn't have.
     I hope he hasn't noticed I haven't moved in the 
last twenty minutes.  He is sitting at his desk, 
firmly engrossed in an article on UFO sightings 
in South East Asia.  I wish he would pay that 
much attention to me.  Maybe, once upon a time, 
he would have.
     Where did I go wrong?  When did I go wrong?  
It must have been after Antarctica - or was it?  Did 
he simply need to test the antidote to the virus, and I 
was in the right place at the right time, so to speak?  
It's hard to believe he would cross continents to do 
that, but then with Mulder, it's always hard to tell.  
Maybe he did, maybe he didn't.
     Could it have been as recently as that whole 
fiasco with Spender?  It was around then that things 
started to go from bad to worse.  Diana.  Maybe I 
was just an interlude, something to make do with 
until she returned.
     It is certainly possible.  Things did get better 
between us for a while, after her disappearance.  But 
then she came back.  Maybe she is all he ever wanted 
after all - he was certainly very quick to trust her over 
me.
     Did he ever find me useful?  Were my theories, my 
versions of events ever taken seriously, or was I 
simply around for amusement value?  Did he ever find 
me attractive, as a woman, rather than a gun-toting 
authority figure?  I thought he did.  Maybe he didn't.
     I shake my head slightly, just enough to make an 
attempt to return to my work, but not enough so that 
he will notice.
     Damn.  I need his driver number for the latest 
written off rental car on the expense forms.  Just what 
I need.
     "Mulder?"  To my horror, the words come out as 
little more than a croak.  I clear my throat and try 
again.  "Mulder?"
     This time he looks up, and regards me quizzically.  
Yes, this is me, Scully, I am your partner, I have 
been for the last seven years.  And yet he doesn't 
have to speak.  I can read everything I need to know 
in his eyes.  At least, I thought I could.  Maybe I 
can't any more.
     "I need your driver number."  I tell him.  I really 
should know it by now - it would save us having to 
go through this ritual every time he smashes up a car 
"in the line of duty."
     He grins at me briefly, and despite everything I 
feel the old familiar warm flutter deep in my belly.  I 
return to the real world quickly, though, and it is a 
good job I do, for the first thing I notice is his leather 
wallet sailing through the air towards me.  "It's in 
there somewhere."  He assures, me, and goes back 
to his magazine.  How can he escape so easily?  
Maybe I should try it.
     Honestly, I don't know how this man gets away with half 
the stuff he does.  His badge is partly covered over with 
old receipts, and judging from the weight of the wallet 
its seams must be pushed to their limits.  Sighing, I 
turn the whole lot out onto my little table.
     Sure enough, most of it is junk, which I take the 
liberty of filing away in the waste paper basket.  I 
manage to unearth his drivers licence pretty quickly, 
note down the number, and start to pack everything 
back into the little leather pouch.
     And it is in doing this, this simple act, that I find 
them.  Photographs.  Four of them, three face down, 
one staring up at me.  I sneak a glance across the 
office.  Sure enough, he is still engrossed in that 
damned article.  Carefully I pick up the first photo, 
the one that lies face up.
     I recognise it.  It's a copy of the one that lives 
on the notice board behind Mulder's desk, the one 
that was taken by a forensic photographer who was 
trying to use up his film on a standard case that I 
can no longer remember the details of.  Bones found 
in a field, a case that would be grisly by anyone else's 
standards.
     It's a pretty unspectacular photo really.  Me, Mulder, 
and a hole in the ground.  Why does he keep this in 
his wallet?  Skinner would flay him alive if he knew 
he was keeping all this junk in with his badge.
     I slide the photo back into the wallet and turn my 
attention to the three left on the desk.  Pot luck.  One 
out of three.  I pick up the one nearest the top of the 
little pile of paper.
     Another crime scene photograph, this time with 
only me on it, and this time a much more recent shot.  
I clearly remember him taking it, and I knew as soon 
as I heard the click of his camera that it would come 
back to haunt me.  I am standing with my hand half 
covering my face, squinting into the sun.  Very 
attractive.
     Quickly discarding the evidence, I turn my attention 
to the third picture.  I almost with I hadn't.  Emily.  It is 
a small photograph, a little smaller than passport size, 
and at first glance it seems to be a copy of the one I 
keep in my desk at home.  But on closer inspection I 
realise that it is a photograph of the original, cut out 
of an evidently larger print.  Oh, Mulder...
     Placing the picture of Emily carefully down by my 
left elbow I pick up the one remaining photograph, but 
I don't turn it over right away.  This one has my curiosity 
piqued.  At some point in it's history it has been ripped 
in half, and then carefully taped back together again.
Slowly I turn it over in my hands.
     It's me.  I don't remeber this one being taken, but 
that could be largely to do with the fact that I was 
apparently asleep.  It must have been during a long 
car journey - Mulder must have pulled over to take a 
pit stop and decided not to wake me.  And yet I never 
sleep in cars.  The only time I have been able to do 
that was during the time I had cancer, and I was literally 
able to fall asleep anywhere.
     "Ah."  I nearly jump out of my skin.  I hadn't even 
noticed him move.  "I thought you were looking for my 
driver number?"
     I will my heartbeat to slow back down to a reasonable 
pace.  He doesn't seem angry, in fact there is a hint of 
amusement in his eyes.  But better err on the side of 
caution.  "I'm sorry.  I just wondered..."
     "Why they are in there?"  He interrupted.
     "Well, yeah."  Co-operative Mulder.  Now there's a first.
     "Because I like them there."  He answers his own 
question.
     "What happened to it?"  I hold up the ripped photo.
     He takes it off me and simply holds it for a moment.  
"I took it a couple of years ago, before you went into 
remission.  You looked so peaceful..." He trails off as he 
rubs the photo absently with his thumb.  "So I took this."
     I don't interrupt him.  This seems to be difficult for 
him, I don't want to push him away.
     "I kept it with me all the time.  But then, one night, 
it struck me that there was no life in the picture at all.  
Suddenly it became an image of death, rather than a 
lifeline."
     He has put the photo down on the desk, but his 
hands are still fidgeting.  I reach across and link my 
fingers with those of his right hand.
     "And then they called me from the hospital."  He 
continued.  "And I realised that there might be no 
more photographs, and this was the only one of you 
I had.  So I rescued it, and it's been with me ever 
since."
     "What about the others?"  I can feel my voice is 
about to crack.
     "Emily?"
     "Yeah."
     His eyes seem to cloud over.  "I guess she just 
meant so much to you, that she became a part of 
me too.  Just like you have always been."
     "Thank you."  I whisper.
     "What for?"
     "For... everything.  Showing me that you still care."
I can feel the tears threatening.
     "It hurt, you know.  When you pushed me away 
like that.  She meant so much to me too..."
     He doesn't seem inclined to finish the sentence.  
I'm glad, in a way.  I miss my daughter.  There, I've 
said it.  Most mother's wouldn't be looked at as though 
they were crazy if they said that.  Most of them.
     I don't know what to do, so I simply tighten my grip 
on his fingers, letting him know I am still here, and 
reassuring myself of his presence.
     I feel his own fingers tighten in response, and then 
I am surprised to feel his other arm slip round my 
shoulders and pull me close.  We must make a real 
sight, Mulder kneeling on the office floor, me still 
seated at my table, both clinging on for dear life.  And 
yet this moment means so much to both of us.  At 
some point we reached a fork in our path, and we 
couldn't agree which way to take.  We tried to make 
our own ways, separately, but it didn't work.  I can 
only thank God that the paths merged again.
     I don't want to let go, but after what could only have 
been a minute Mulder pulls back slightly, and I feel 
the familiar pressure of his lips against my forehead.  
After another moment he rises from his knees and 
looks me right in the eye, seeking confirmation that 
I am OK.  I give him a small smile and he returns to 
his desk.
     Why now?  I wonder, but I think I know the answer.  
I has nothing to do with the date, or the time of day.  
Mulder has carried these photographs with him every 
day.  How could I have thought he didn't care?
     I thought I was alone.
     Maybe not.

End (1/1)

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