From takakin0@slip.net Sun Nov 24 19:42:16 1996 For Kelsy: Questionable Logic - Jeannine Ackerson -PG VRA Summary - Mulder contemplates Scully's association with the X-Files, and with him. From: J. Ackerson Subject: New story - Questionable Logic 1/1 Rating: PG for the use of swear words. Spoiler warning: One fourth season reference to "Unruhe". Disclaimer: The X-Files as well as the characters portrayed therein are property of C. Carter, Fox Broadcasting, 1013 Prod., and most importantly: they don't belong to me. (I'm not making any $$ here, so FOX: I don't have anything for you to sue me for.) Relationship: VRA. Mulder ANGST!, plus lots of UST. Anti- relationshippers should avoid this. I won't be held responsible if you read it. :-) Summary: Mulder contemplates Scully's association with the X-Files, and with him. Hi All! Here we are, my "Q" instalment for my Alphabet "files". :-) I thought I'd let Mulder vent to some of his built-up frustrations regarding his partner. I left the end open to interpretation. But just figure that when Mulder sets his mind on something, he always follows through. Now, on to the story . . . Questionable Logic By Jeannine Ackerson It was late. I hadn't looked at my watch for a long time. Being in the basement, there wasn't exactly a window I could stare out to see how dark it was, but I knew it was late evening. Maybe eleven or so. Inside the office, I'd turned off all the lights, except for the small desk lamp. The dark was comforting, enshrouding. The perfect atmosphere for my mood. Reminiscent. Contemplative. Scully had left hours ago. She'd gotten up and headed for the door, probably more than half an hour past quitting time. As she did I watched her. Stared at her form with an intensity that I would have sworn she could have physically felt. She'd turned and asked me if I was leaving soon and I told her I'd follow her out in a minute. She gave me that look, the one that told me that she didn't believe me, but she didn't press me. Somehow she knew better than to question me about it. Then she'd just left. That was when I started thinking. Or brooding as some might call it. About how my life has turned out. About the X-Files. About Scully. Thinking about her was easy. She was the one person in my life that understood me. Even if she didn't always agree with me, she could understand me. She's my best friend. I don't think I'll ever be able to express in words to her exactly what she means to me. I just don't think I have the words. When that little voice inside me chimed in, I knew I was in trouble. It seemed to know me better than I did. Better than I'd liked. Because it knew the things about me that I couldn't admit to, even to myself. What excuses? No, I'm not! I'm not afraid of loving her. I've been in love with her for a long time now. "Oh God, . . . " I felt my head drop to my now waiting hands, the enormity of what I'd just admitted aloud to myself hitting me hard. Acknowledging exactly what that vague feeling in my heart and soul was hit me with the force of slammed in the gut with a steel pipe. "That Goddamned stupid unwritten rule!" In a burst of pure anger, I'd leapt from the chair, picked up my coffee cup and hurled it towards the far wall. The smashing sound reverberated through the small, darkened office. Cold, dark liquid dripped down the wall, tracking muddy brown streaks along the off-white paint. The shattered remains of the cup littered the floor, the large shards of glazed glass scattered about. Thankfully there was no one else around to hear the crashing sound it had made before it settled in a jumbled mess on the floor. Shit. How the hell am I going to explain *that* to her? Alright, let's prioritize a little here. I broke a mug. OK. At least it wasn't something more valuable. . . Like my heart. Not yet that is. I can't have what I want as long as she's assigned down here. I feel that knife twist in my chest with her every look, every gesture, every breath. I might as well have a broken heart because living like this is going to kill me. Slowly. It's pure torture, and she doesn't even know it. No! Scully wouldn't. She doesn't have it in her. She's not like Phoebe. I mean . . . But she doesn't have a clue that I feel more than that for her. So that will never happen. She can't know. I . . . can't tell her. I dropped down into the dark leather chair, feeling uncomfortable at the turn my "conversation" with myself was taking. In trying to divert my eyes from the coffee still running in rivers down the wall, my eyes fell on a more discomforting sight. Her desk. It was immaculate as always. Controlled. Organized. Simplistic. Like her. I was tempted to let my mind wander into that warm, enveloping subject, but I wasn't done arguing with my subconscious mind yet. God! Why the hell did they have to send *her*? I was happy down here all by myself. I didn't need a babysitter. Or a partner. Or a best friend. Or a . . . I hate that thought, that's she's untouchable. Of all the women I've ever wanted, Dana Scully is the one that I want the most. And I can't have her because I work with her. Because of a rule. I had to think about that one for a long time. I was the rebel, the maverick: 'Spooky' Mulder, never following the rules, making them up as I went along. So why had I chosen this one rule, one that wasn't even written to follow. Had I been using that rule as an excuse? No, I thought. I've shown her how much she means to me. I've crossed that line, broken that rule. I even did it without anyone even realizing I'd done it. Even Scully. No *partner* would have done the things I'd done for her. Like after her abduction . . . the determined search, the watch at the hospital. I've done everything I know to show her what she means to me. That's not true. Just the way I touch her . . . I'm surprised she hasn't ever called me on it. The hand against her back, against her cheek, my hand on hers, my leaning into her space. Hell, the things I've said to her . . . those things alone should have made her realize it. How should I act with her? I don't even know if she'd want to be with me. *No* woman would. I'm too messed up for a relationship. Obsessed with finding Sam, finding the truth. Scared by Phoebe and my parents treatment of me. An outcast in my own profession. "Spooky" Mulder. *She* wouldn't want me. So I screwed up, so sue me! We can't be together anyway. Even *if* she felt the same way I do, they would never let us be together. Either they'd transfer her out of the X-Files, or they'd take her away again . . we could never . . . But we are together. We work side by side, and have for four years. And I've done everything in my power to keep her here, even if I knew I might be able to pursue a more in-depth relationship with her if we were professionally apart. So the personal side is there, just not like . . . Like . . . I want it to be. How I dream about it. How in my darkest, wildest fantasies the woman in my apartment, in my arms, in my bed, in every aspect of my life is Dana Scully. But I can't have that. So I have to settle for being her friend and her partner. It's the best I can make of the situation. It's not great, but that's the only way I can keep her and my sanity at the same time. Huh? I shuddered. Hard. Then my arms wrapped themselves across my chest. The memories came flooding back. Every single one of them. Duane Berry, Donnie Pfaster, Jack Willis, Eugene Tooms, Gerry Schnauz, Robert Patrick Modell, the list went on forever. And the pain it generated in my soul was incredible. It was true. There really wasn't any way that I could feel more for her than I already do. It would kill me at this very minute if they took her from me, and she wasn't even everything she could be to me. I . . . Except you forget she shot me, I half-heartedly joked, trying to cover my feelings with humor. Just like I always did. But I couldn't not face the truth anymore. No, she's more dangerous than anything I've ever dealt with. Because she holds my heart, my life and my destiny in the palm of her hand. I could find the truth, I could find Samantha, and expose every last conspiracy about UFO's known to the planet, but if she wasn't with me . . . it would be worthless. How? How can I go up to her and tell her this? What, do I just come out and say, "Hey Dana, you're my best friend and I'm in love with you."? It's true. She is strong. Hell, she's stronger than I am. If she was in love with me, wouldn't she have told me by now? Wouldn't she have said something if she felt that way about me? I don't want to lose her. If she says no, then that's it, no second chances, the door's closed forever. Maybe, if I wait a little longer she will . . . You don't know that! I don't know that. If I did, I wouldn't still be here. I'd be over there. Kneeling at her feet, holding her hands in mine, looking into her eyes. I'd be asking her if she loved me, if she wanted me, if she'd be by my side for eternity. But I don't know. So I not going to endanger our working relationship for my selfish desire to have something more with her. I didn't like those thoughts. Of the things I could imagine, Scully with someone else just wasn't something I could comprehend. It sent sparks of jealousy through me that quickly leapt into flames. Her, the woman I loved with someone else. . . No I wouldn't let that happen. I'd tell her before that happened. But the other. . . the fire I'd just felt now turned to an icy fist around my heart. In our line of work, it could happen at any moment. No, I couldn't wait until then to tell her. That image, that acknowledgment sealed it for me. No more hedging, no more hiding. I *was* going to tell her. Come what may, I *had* to tell her the truth. Ok, so I have to tell her, I finally agreed with my conscience. When though? Wait until tomorrow morning and tell her when she walks into the office? Take her to lunch, to dinner and tell her there? Take her away for the weekend? The voice was silent, and I knew why. Are you suggesting I go race over there like a madman at . . .? I looked at my watch. It read 11:55 p.m. Almost midnight? I knew that was what it was suggesting. Because that was what *I* wanted to do. I shook my head, not believing what I was suggesting. Tomorrow . . . I could literally say that tomorrow never actually comes, and I could let myself off the hook. I was giving myself that last out. But for once I wasn't willing to take it. Picking up my jacket, I threw it on, then added my coat. Clicking off the desk light, I headed for the door. Tomorrow, I thought with growing determination, the icy grip on my chest had been replaced with a spreading warmth. Warmth created by love. I could wait until tomorrow. I smiled at that idea as my hand reached for the doorknob. After all, tomorrow *was* only five minutes away. -End- Hope you enjoyed. Now I see why lots of writers like doing first person. It was fun. J.