Title: Things You Think and Things You Know
Author: Alicia K.
Email: spartcus1@msn.com
Rating: PG-13, for language
Category:  mention of Scully/Other, Angst
Spoilers: Only for the previous stories in the series.
Summary:  Mulder's turn.  
Archive:  Spookys are fine, anywhere else please ask.
Disclaimer:  Mulder and Scully belong to Fox and 
1013.  No infringement is intended.

Author's Note:  This is the third story in the "Black 
Coffee In Bed" series.  This won't make much sense if 
you haven't read those.  They can be found at my site:
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/fanfic.html

I thought I'd jump on the second-person POV 
bandwagon.  Tons of thanks, as always, to my beta 
readers: Joanna, Mish, and hap.  Double thanks to hap, 
for the ending.

XXX

You think you've finally gotten it right.  You have a 
woman - no, wait - you have THE woman. She's 
agreed, she's smiled upon you, she wants to be with 
you.

You think you'd be surprised at how easy it is to hurt 
each other, but you're not.  Not really.

All it takes is one secret, one secret so long and so 
carefully hidden, so accidentally found and so quickly 
thrust in your face.

You know that this woman means more to you than any 
other in the entire world, save perhaps for your sister, 
and you know that you've hurt her more deeply than 
you've hurt her before.

And you have hurt her before - not intentionally, and 
not that she'd ever place the blame on you, but oh yes, 
she's been hurt by your single-minded and arrogant 
quest.  She could attest to this by pointing to her dead 
sister, her dead daughter, her dead ovaries.

But never before had you reached inside her chest and 
forced your fingers around her warm, dark heart.  Never 
before had you crawled inside and made her bleed so 
red and rich.

She stands at your hospital bed and you can smell it on 
her.  You can smell the blood leaking from the holes 
you dug in her heart; you can smell the sex on her body; 
you can smell her betrayal and ferocity, and it hurts 
more than you've ever hurt before.

You could not mention it, you could take that hurt and 
harbor it deep inside of you, feeding on it until you are 
once again cocooned in that safe haven of guilt.  But 
you don't.  You turn on her, suddenly sure that you 
want to see if she'll bleed again for you; how much of 
herself will she let you scrape away?

"This is so fucked up," she says, and though you know 
what she means, you play dumb, wanting to see how far 
you can take this, to see what you have to do before she 
retreats.

"Us, Mulder.  We are."  She glares at you, as if wanting 
to know what you could possibly gain by pushing her.  
You want to laugh, knowing there is nothing to gain.

You close your eyes, if only for a moment, needing a 
brief respite from the emotions in her gaze: you see 
hatred and confusion, but not the remorse or guilt that 
you were expecting . . . hoping for.

Your words are harsh, your eyes deny admittance to the 
tears that crawl their way up your throat.  Vulgarities 
are exchanged as if they were greetings - they roll off 
your tongue and stick to her skin, her skin that still 
smells of her new friend.  

She spits them back at you, refusing to let you twist the 
knife in her open wound.

With one last jab, you turn away from her and listen to 
the door slam as she leaves you.

When she is gone, you look to the empty chair that she 
had occupied and wonder if the seat is still warm, if it 
bears the imprint of her tense body.

Trying to ignore the sharp pain in your head, you get 
out of the bed and walk the four steps to the chair, 
cursing the lack of concentration that led to your being 
cold-cocked by the suspect.

You stretch out a hand to the chair and press gently at 
the cadet blue fabric.  It isn't warm, and you're 
disappointed. Part of you wonders if she was ever there 
at all.

The fingers of your left hand are splayed over the faded 
cushion, and you look at your ring finger, trying to 
remember what it looked like with the thin band of 
gold.

Pulling your hand back to the slight comfort of your 
body, you let out a small sigh and reach for your 
clothes.  The nurses will lecture you and tell you that 
you can't go to sleep, that you need to stay for 
observation, that you will be leaving AMA.  

You know all of these things, but you also know that 
there will be no sleep coming tonight.

After the lecture and the drive, you return home to find 
that it's cold in your apartment.  The temperature has 
dropped, and you feel very quiet and alone there.

Not bothering to turn the lights on, you sit in the hard-
backed chair at your desk and stare at the fish tank.  
You try to remember the last time you even had fish in 
it, but give up when you realize that you have no idea.  
You continue to stare at the bubbling tank anyway.

You love her.  There's nothing more that can be said 
that won't take away from the intensity with which you 
love her.  With which you've loved her for years.  You 
can't believe that she let you kiss her on New Year's 
Eve.  You can't believe that she listened without 
embarrassment or discomfort to your quiet, heartfelt 
words five nights later, when you told her that you 
loved her, that you wanted to be with her.

She smiled, a bright and rare light, and took your face 
in her hands and kissed you.  She echoed your words in 
a simple manner that made your heart feel as if it were 
glowing.  She expressed her concern that a more 
intimate relationship could not last if you both 
continued lurching down the unpaved road of 
miscommunication, whose rock-strewn ruts had 
become familiar, even comfortable to the two of you 
over the years.

You agreed eagerly, but already felt the pang of guilt as 
you realized that you didn't want to tell her everything.  
There were some secrets that should remain locked 
inside your heart.

You agonized over that secret for days, knowing she 
would be hurt that you hadn't told her years ago.  She 
would wonder why your records show your marital 
status as 'single' instead of 'divorced.'

Of course, being the single-minded, arrogant fool that 
you are, you forgot that you had kept the physical 
reminder of your biggest mistake.  Of course you never 
imagined that she would stumble across it and that you 
would make her bleed.

You could tell her, "Take it, Scully.  Take it.  It belongs 
to you, just like everything else."  You could press the 
ring into her palm and close her fingers around it, as if 
it were the most precious gift you could ever give her, 
but it won't stop the bleeding.

You watched her walk out the door and down the hall, 
calling her name as both a plea and a curse.  The 
elevator doors closed between the two of you, and it felt 
like a slap.

Now you sit in the dark, scared because you don't know 
how to even begin to fix it.  And you cry.

In the middle of your self-loathing tears, there's a 
knock at the door.  You know there's only one person it 
can be, and you wait for her to use her key.

"Why aren't you at the hospital?" she asks, her voice 
calm but not particularly kind.

You swipe at your eyes and clear your throat.  "Come 
on, Scully," you tell her, trying to keep your voice 
steady.  "I've walked away from hospitals with worse 
than a concussion and a broken bone."

She locks the door behind her and sits on the couch, 
hands templed under her chin.  Her hair is wet, and you 
realize that she's taken a shower, washing the evidence 
of your pain away.

"Why did you going back to the hospital?" you ask her, 
picking at a loose bit of plaster on your cast.  "I didn't 
think I'd see you . . ." You let your words trail away, 
not wanting to finish the sentence: again.

She sits back and stares unblinkingly up at the ceiling.  
"You tell me, Mulder."  You're not really sure what she 
wants to hear, and your lips form silent words around 
your fumbling answer.  "You tell me why I felt the need 
to be at your side when I was so sure I hated you."

You stand up, your knees popping from sitting for so 
long, and pass a hand over your mouth.  "I don't know, 
Scully," you whisper, feeling suddenly bone weary.  
You'd just as soon not have this or any conversation 
tonight (this morning), but are afraid that if you turn her 
away now, the damage will most surely be irreparable.  

The two of you are silent for long, uncomfortable 
minutes, and you wish that she wasn't sitting where you 
wanted to lie.

"So who is she?" she finally asks, her voice tight.  

You hear a hint of fear in her question, and you wonder 
if she's thinking of Diana.  "Kathleen.  But she 'was,' 
Scully.  There is no 'is,' I told you that."

She ignores your emphatic words and gives a short, 
humorless laugh.  "Kathleen Mulder.  Has a lovely ring 
to it, doesn't it?"

Your voice gains volume, frustrated that she's not 
really listening to what you're saying, but knowing 
deep down that it probably doesn't make much 
difference anyway.  "Yeah, it would have, but she kept 
her own last name."

Silence descends upon the room again, and you stand 
across from her, arms folded over your chest, rocking 
slightly from foot to foot.  

"So are you going to tell me what happened, or will I 
find that when I'm looking for a corkscrew?"

You want to laugh at that, but her expression is still 
unforgiving, so you just bite your lip and tell her the 
truth you've denied her.  "She cheated on me."  You 
shrug a little.  "I cheated back."

"Oh," she says, obviously drawing the parallels 
between your ex-wife and herself.

"No, Scully, not 'oh,'" you argue.  "It . . . it was a 
mistake."

Her eyes meet yours, and you're surprised to see the 
shine of tears there.  "Am I a mistake, too?"  Your 
mouth drops open, and she continues before you can 
protest.  "You couldn't share this with me after seven 
years, and I've given you everything."  Her voice is soft 
and trembling.  "You said that everything belonged to 
me, but Mulder, you should have given it to me."  She 
looks down at her hands, folded loosely in her lap.  "I 
feel like I stumbled across something you didn't want 
me to have, but I asked you for it anyway."

You feel a little lost, and you're not sure if it's from 
exhaustion, or if her emotions are making her unclear.  
All you can think to say is "I'm sorry."  It isn't until 
after the words leave your lips that you realize that you 
mean it, that you would do anything to take it all back.

You take a step toward her, but she raises a trembling 
hand, telling you without words to keep away.  "I'm 
sorry, too," she says, and you frown.  Does she mean 
she's sorry for what she's done?  Or sorry that you 
didn't give her what she needed?

For right now, it doesn't matter.  Her words are enough 
to give you a very small bit of comfort.  "Well," you 
murmur, shuffling your feet awkwardly on the floor.  

You move into the kitchen and fiddle aimlessly with 
some dirty dishes.  Picking up a glass, sudden anger 
flares through you, and you smash it against the edge of 
the sink, surprised when it shatters against the metal.

Turning to grab the dust broom from the closet, you see 
her standing there in the doorway, arms around her 
middle as if for protection.  The unmistakable sheen of 
tears makes her eyes shine a brilliant blue, but you 
know that she's gritting her teeth to keep the tears from 
falling.  "I'm sorry," she repeats in a fierce whisper.

You want to go to her, you want to take her in your 
arms and crush her to you, crush her until the events of 
the last hours are erased, but you remain by the sink, 
gripping the remnants of the glass.

"Mulder, you're bleeding."  Blinking rapidly, she 
approaches you. You let her raise your hand and pry 
your fingers from around the jagged glass.  She bends 
intently over your hand, inspecting the cuts in your 
skin, and all you can do is stare down at the top of her 
head and ache.

You don't realize you're crying until she reaches a hand 
up to your cheek with a touch that is both awkward and 
tender.  She is still fighting her own tears, and your 
chest is tight.

"I can't lose you," you choke, wanting so badly to 
touch her but afraid of what her rejection would do to 
you.

She continues to press her warm hand to your skin, and 
you wet her palm with your tears.

You're standing ankle-deep in shards of fear, confusion, 
and pain.  She is looking up at you, and you can see the 
same splinters in her eyes, the bleeding you caused.  
But you don't see rejection and you don't see despair, 
and you realize that you can reach down into the jagged 
pile inside you and brush against the edge of hope.

XXX

Not enough for ya?  There will be an epilogue, of sorts.

Feedback lovingly embraced at spartcus1@msn.com

Thanks for reading!