From: Kathryn Whinney Date: Fri, 30 Oct 1998 13:38:36 +0000 Subject: Submission Catagory:MSR, but not too bad, don't let it put you off. Rating:disgustingly PG Spoiler: Post FTF. Bear in mind I've seen none of series six yet. And the keyword is...Angst. Legal Bit: They aren't mine, blah, blah, they belong to CC, 1013, and the FOX network. I just like to have some fun. Plus I haven't really used their names either. Authors note: This is the first fan fic I've posted, or written come to that. I'd love any comments, even if you think it sucks, (just be tactful.) Mail me at zcles58@ucl.ac.uk I've tried to look at the relationship in a way that is 'shippy, but not in a gushy way. No disrespect intended, I can be as gushy as the next gal. It's quite cynical actually. My next offering will probably have more plot, I hope. This is just scribblings. Thanks to Kate for proof reading, (blame any errors on her,) Jen and to Ian for being around yesterday, even if it was just on the net. All the rest of you who I worship and adore, you know who you are. Plus DD, GA, and especially CC for creating such wonderful characters with which we can all have so much fun. So, here we go then. Salvation via a Shredder??? She stares at the empty chair across the office. He's not there. He wasn't there when she came it forty five minutes ago. She knew he had been there. Half empty coffee. A page of scribbled notes. She was tempted to go and read them, but what he wrote were his business. Most of the time. The walls were again beginning to fill. A photograph, a poster. She hadn't been able to find another "I want to believe" poster, yet. Her computer was on, with a list of new E Mails to read. Scanning through them, she saw a familiar name. Another marriage proposal from the old pervert. She'd noticed that these had become less frequent over the past year. Perhaps out of respect for... For what? Their friendship? Their not-quite-love-affair? For all the looks, and comments, and half touches? Why did everyone see it so clearly, when to her it was a huge great confusing mess. On everything she knew her mind except this. A cliche no doubt, she thought, as that phrase passed through her head. She had her own desk now. Part of her knew that this was a good thing. It showed... what? That he respected her enough to get her a desk? big deal. It showed that they had more office space, that was what it showed. Quickly she pushed that cynical thought aside. But she still had the nagging feeling that for a year and a half after she had mentioned it, before the fire, he still didn't get her a desk. Of all the shows of affection he made during the cancer, he still did not get her a desk. Why was she dwelling on this, it was ridiculous. She knew that he saw them as equal. Or did he? After the fire, when they had first seen the wreckage, he was frozen. A statue. She'd gone to him, gone to hold him, and he'd stayed, unresponsive. Did she do it all for the work? Or for him? That was something she didn't want to address. But, she couldn't push it away after the stark reality of the situation had presented itself. For five, going on six years, why did she have this passion for the truth. Her mind defended itself with plausible reasons. For Melissa, for the cancer, for Emily, for all that they had put her through. Put thousands of innocents through. The files, God, all those files. She was FBI, did it matter why she sought to expose these villains, it was her job. Why does it matter if she did it all... ...for him. He had once told her that she had said that. She couldn't remember. She also couldn't remember complaining about "Lite" cream cheese. Where did she stand with it all. He was her partner, friend, confidant. The English language didn't contain a word that described it all clearly enough. They weren't lovers. Not in a sexual way at least. Not that he wasn't gorgeous, and sexy, and everything else that an object of desire should be. Dark hair and eyes. She loved his off hand flirtatious comments. She smiled at the thought. And he was hers, in every way. If she pushed at the boundaries of their relationship, how would he respond? How would *she* respond? She could not imagine them as lovers. She *could* imagine the sex. That was easy, and she did that often enough. She pulled away from that thought quickly. This wasn't the time. Not here, not again. But lovers? a step beyond where they were. A need to redefine the relationship. Did they *need* to have sex? OK, physical desire was one thing, and there was plenty of that. But emotionally? would it bring them closer? or introduce an unstable element that could shatter everything that they had. She liked to think that it wouldn't. But if that were the case... ...then why weren't they? Why did they continually push away desire. The need? She dwelled on this, during the night sometimes. Tempted to call him, ask him why? In all the ways that they were open to each other, this was still closed to her. If they discussed it, there would be an acknowledgement that one wall was still there. She felt vaguely pathetic, admitting that she did it for him. How backward and anti feminist was that. But it was the truth, and how can you search for the truth outside, when you didn't admit the truth to herself. Another cliche. Her mind seemed full of other peoples words. Where was he? If he got here she could concentrate on his latest wild theory and not just sit pondering. Again. Go get coffee. That would at least provide some distraction. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX When he returned she wasn't there. Just missed her. This whole thing was one giant farce. He'd gone out to stop thinking about her. Walked all the way down to that really expensive coffee shop to get out of the office that he had gone early to. Hoping she would be there when he got back. He needed a case. But at present there was nothing to distract him from her. He realised that his rhapsodic scribblings were still on his desk. I hope she didn't read them. He'd turned into a great big love struck, love sick fool over this whole thing. And he still didn't know what to think. Maybe she knew her own mind, he hoped she did. Get rid of the scribblings. Good Idea. He put them through the shredder. Not that he thought that she would go through the rubbish and read them, but he wanted some salvation from his own thoughts. Destroying them should help. Plus he'd never had a shredder before, and he had to admit it was kinda cool. "Hey," And there she was. Did he imagine it, or was she really pleased to see him? "Hey," pause "cool shredder huh?" Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatthehellwasthatnicegoingreallysmoo ththerewhywhywhy. He picked up the shreds, and then dropped them back through again, the other way round. I hope the thing doesn't get jammed up now. He wondered if he looked guilty. Why was he suddenly reacting in this way. Usually he was fine around her, even when in his head all he could think about was white skin red lips red hair. Because this was the first time he had written anything down. He didn't keep a diary, an appointment book ,yes, but a journal of his thoughts, no. It had always seemed that with all the spies after him and his work, if he did this, he would be even more open to them than he already was. And writing his thoughts down seemed to solidify them. It wasn't love poetry, or a letter professing undying love, just the same words over and over, 'Does she know?, Does she know?" in a variety of different sizes and handwritings. However, it was probably still enough to get her thinking, to lead her to the truth. She was probably already there. "I, uh, want to ask you something," He realised he sounded incredibly serious. What was he saying? She was looking at his quizzically, and he realised that he was staring at her. "Do you want this danish?" he asked holding out the bag. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX He looked as though he had expected to say something else. She had certainly expected him to say something else. Maybe it was just her fantasising mind working overtime again. Still, he looked genuinely surprised by the words that had come out of his mouth. "Sure," and she reached out to take it. Her hand brushed against his. Electric. She couldn't meet his eyes for a moment, but then did. They were soft, almost unfocused. Is he going to kiss me? Am I going to kiss her? He had gone to kiss her once before. Just once. She hadn't pulled away. God damn all the bees in the world. But he could still remember seeing himself, and her, on the couch in her apartment, lips almost meeting, after he had kicked the door down. OK, so it wasn't actually him, it was Van Blundht, but she thought it was. She thought it was him. And she was letting him. What now, what now, what now. She wanted to lean into him, take his lips with hers. But that would be crossing that line that they had carefully drawn. What now? -End XXXXXX OK, so, cop out ending I know, but at least it's better than a bee stinging one or other of them. I've only had two hours sleep and I spent that in a really uncomfortable bed. I hope you enjoyed the journey.