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This author's e-mail address has changed to: rn500@usa.net
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From: Linda Phillips <rn500@ozline.net>
Date: Sat, 31 Oct 1998 01:23:37 -0500
Subject: NEW:"What I Wanted" by L. Phillips

ARCHIVING- Gossamer - YES, others please ask

Title: What I Wanted
Author: Linda Phillips (rn500@ozline.net)
Rating: PG-13
Classification: V / R
Keywords: MSR
Spoilers: Lazarus
Disclaimers: The X-Files and it's characters are the property of Fox
Television, 1013 Productions, and Chris Carter. No infringement
intended.
Summary: Scully reflects on the meaning of past loves.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


 When I was four years old, I wanted to marry my father. It
seemed natural enough to me. He was the center of my universe, a
man who was at once familiar and yet so mysterious. Some of my
earliest memories are of holding my mother's hand as we stood on
the dock, watching him wave to us as he boarded one ship or
another. My sister and both of my brothers would be waving, yelling
"'Bye, Daddy!" My mother would lean down to me and say, "Dana,
wave good-bye to Daddy." But I would just stand there, watching
him get smaller and smaller, until he disappeared through that hole
in the side of the ship. I always wondered whether he would come
back.

  Finally, when I was about nine or so, we stopped going to
see him off. Oh, not just like *that*, of course. First we missed one
departure so Mom could see Bill get an award for something or
other at school. I think the next time we missed was when we all
had the chicken pox. Then Mom was busy sewing Melissa's
costume for a play at school. Band practice, piano lessons, and a
myriad of teenage crises got in the way. But by then, we'd all
become secure in the fact that Daddy would leave for a while then
come home safely, and in the meantime life went on without him.
Mom juggled everyone's schedule, paid the bills, kissed the boo
boos, stood firm in the face of tantrums and angry words, and kissed
us all good night. It's just the way it was.

 One night, when I was about twelve, I was tip-toeing
downstairs to get a magazine I'd left in my book bag, one of those
teeny bopper things with the dreamy boy of the moment on the
cover. My Mom thought they were trashy, so Melissa and I got
pretty good at sneaking them into our room. I had successfully
retrieved the booty when I heard my mother talking on the phone.
After a moment of eavesdropping I knew that she was talking to my
father, and I pictured him at a phone booth in some distant port
city, jangling a handful of quarters as he spoke. Her voice was soft,
and she laughed quietly at something that he'd said. I couldn't help
but smile as I listened, and before she even said the words I could
hear the love in her voice. "I miss you, darling," she said. Suddenly,
she wasn't just my mother. She was a woman who felt the love of a
man from halfway across the world. And I thought, 'I want a love
like that someday.'

 When I was fifteen I met Christopher. He was tall, with
that all-arms-and-legs look that boys that age get. He had the most
beautiful blond hair, and deep brown eyes. I could scarcely believe it
when he said hello to me in Geometry class. I was so shy, barely out
of my braces and into a B-cup bra. In my mind I was still the gawky
nerd, the smart girl, the one who walked the halls with eyes cast
down and was sure every giggle behind me was at my expense.
When Chris asked me for my phone number, I couldn't remember it
for a moment. When he called, I kept thinking, 'This must be some
kind of sick joke. Tomorrow at school I'll find out I'm the laughing
stock of ninth grade.'

 But I wasn't.

 In no time at all, I was in love. Oh, I know a fifteen year
old can't possibly know what love *really* is all about. But I loved
him with every ounce of fifteen year old love that I had. He was my
first kiss. I still remember it, the feel of his lips on mine, so soft. I
was scared, and excited, and so, so happy. In a few months I had
our children named (all five of them), our future home decorated,
our picket fence painted. When he looked into my eyes, I knew he
could never love anyone but me. He even said so. Right before he
tried to pull my pants off.

 I was devastated. I would never love again - no, never. My
heart had been broken and I was back to being the girl nobody
wanted. I was back to walking with my eyes on my shoes, head
ducked down, mind on my studies. Until I met Greg.

 Eleventh grade, Advanced Biology. By now I knew what I
wanted to do with my life. I was going to be a doctor. I would never
marry, because I would be too busy devoting all my time and energy
to helping people and becoming famous by discovering some
miraculous cure for a deadly disease. I would make my parents
proud, have a wall full of plaques and awards, and a bank account
full of money. I would travel to exotic places where a smart girl
with pale skin and red hair would have men falling at her feet, and I
would rebuff them all.

 Greg was stealthy, I'll give him that. He had the second
highest GPA in the class - behind me. He asked me if we could
study together. I was wary. But he wasn't popular, was average in
looks, had college plans - he seemed safely nerdish. Like me. I said
okay.

 We studied three nights a week. At the conclusion of week
number four, he asked me if I wanted to get something to eat when
we finished for the night. I  *was*  hungry. Over hamburgers at
Burger King he told me a little about himself - his parents' divorce,
his love of classic Led Zeppelin, his fascination with genetic
research...

 I was an hour late for curfew that night.

 We made love every Tuesday after that - it was the night
with the lightest homework assignments. Oh yes, I had guilt
aplenty. But it was eased by the feel of his hand on my breast,
kneading, caressing, wanting... me. He was a wonderful kisser - it
must have been a natural ability because he'd had few opportunities
to practice, I knew. Love was never mentioned. We had affection for
each other, affection that came from understanding what it was like
to be the "different" one - the unwanted one. We both had a hunger
for knowledge, and we learned - oh, did we learn. But summer
came,  no more science classes together, and we parted with a sweet
kiss and our heads held high. Greg moved that summer. I never saw
him again.

 One would think that that experience would have whet my
appetite for carnal pleasures. But I tucked those memories away like
a secret treasure and went back to concentrating on my studies, with
one difference. I no longer looked at my shoes when I walked.

 Jack was another story. Oh, there were a few flings
between Greg and Jack. Very quick, and only once or twice did I let
my heart get involved before making a hasty exit. I was on a
mission in those days - 4.0 GPA or bust. But Jack -  where do I
begin on the subject of Jack?

 He was older than me, otherwise we were alike in so many
ways it was almost scary. He was driven. He was focused. He said
he loved me, and I think he did. I thought I loved him too. The sex
was fast and hard, with sweat-drenched orgasms the culmination of
every intimate encounter. He even slept fiercely, with fingers
clasping and unclasping, feet moving, eyelids twitching in animated
REM sleep. It was exhausting to watch.

 I took him to meet my parents, and my father was warm
and friendly, with much shaking of hands and slapping of backs. He
was impressed, I could tell. I had landed  a great catch, in his eyes.
A man on his way up the ladder of success, smart, directed,
patriotic. My mother seemed friendly toward him, but more
reserved. What? I thought. He's intelligent, educated, attractive,
kind - what more did she want? Then I looked into her eyes. They
were sad for me. They saw a meeting of the minds but not of the
souls. And I finally saw too.

 I was changed by Jack. Oh, not in any way that he would
have wanted, I'm sure. But my eyes widened just a little, they took
in a little more. Eventually I saw that the road he had chosen for
himself was not enough for me. I wanted love, yes. Security. Belief
in myself and my work. A focus. But not to the exclusion of
everything else that was around me. I have Jack to thank for that
realization, and thank him I do. As a matter of fact, I have a lot to
thank Jack for. He died a tragic death, but he lives on in me in
many ways.

 If it weren't for Jack, I wouldn't have opened my mind and
spirit to a man like Mulder.

 I think of Jack sometimes when I am in Mulder's arms. I
think of how he looked down on Mulder, thought less of him
because of what Jack perceived as weakness, gullibility. But he
didn't know. He just didn't know. Jack saw only through Jack's eyes,
and Mulder sees through so many.  And I would never have been
able to see through Mulder's if it weren't for Jack.

 Jack's love was like the man - strong, tight, overwhelming
at times. At first comforting, it became restricting in it's intensity.
Would I have appreciated Mulder's love for what it was if I hadn't
escaped Jack's? When Mulder touches me, it is with such care -
even our most passionate moments are tempered by tenderness.
When it's over I fall gently, knowing I'm safe until I touch the
ground again.

 I turn my head now, careful not to wake him. I just want to
see the curve of his lips, feel his warm breath against my face. He is
a wonder - *we* are a wonder. The path I so easily may not have
taken has led me on an extraordinary  journey. Not to what I
wanted. No, much better.

 To what I might never have known that I needed.

 Mulder stirs a bit, tightens his arm around me. I sigh
contentedly. I don't feel restrained. I feel cherished. I move my hand
up, my fingers brushing a few strands of hair from his face. He
opens his drowsy eyes and smiles for a moment before sleep
overtakes him again. It only takes that moment for me to be
reminded of why my mother's eyes smile at me now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

End

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