Subject: preview: Hurting Heart (Milagro post ep)
Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999

*****

Title: Hurting Heart
Author: Vickie Moseley
Spoiler: Milagro
Summary: Scully examines her heart after things have calmed down.
Category: V A UST (with a capital U)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't, they do, I won't, don't sue
Archives: Yes
If you like it, if you hate it, let me know. I'm of a mixed opinion
myself :)

Hurting Heart
by Vickie Moseley
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

I hate that Mulder knows me so well. It bothers me that lately, the
only way I can see myself is in his eyes.

I want to know the person in the mirror. I want to know her
motivations, her reactions, her hopes, her dreams.

I've often told him that it's not just about him. That _I_ have a
place in this partnership. That I'm not the Sancho to his Don
Quixote, that I'm not BooBoo to his Yogi Bear.

I am myself. I have my reasons for staying beside him and it's not
that I can't make it on my own. I could be somewhere else, doing
whatever I please. I'm not a masochistic co-dependent she-bitch
who only sees herself through the tortures her sadistic other half
puts her through.

But lately, that's how it's felt.

I shouldn't have snapped about the autopsy yesterday. He did me a
favor. Mulder knew that I would want to see the body, knew that I
would jump at the chance to conduct the autopsy myself and not
just watch over the shoulder of some one else. He knows my ego.
He knows that I'm a perfectionist and it grates on me for _days_
when someone does things that I feel are unnecessary, or overlooks
things that I feel are essential. And he knows that often, I end up
going back and opening the body up a second time, which is
_never_ a pleasant experience, just to 'do the job right'.

But hearing the words out of his mouth, that he had made all the
arrangements, did I take it as it was meant, as a gift, a favor? No, I
saw it as control. Mulder, once again handing out the assignments,
making all the decisions for both of us. It's a male thing, I'm sure
of it. Probably science will find out some day that testosterone
plays an important part in the body by increasing the drive of the
male to make decisions for the family. And never ask for
directions.

He does ask for my input. He asks all the time. Three o'clock,
four o'clock, five-thirty in the morning, he's on the phone, calling
me. 'Scully, did you have a chance to look at that file? Whaddya
think?' 'Scully, did you get the tox screen, how far off was I?'
'Scully, I'm in a motel in Providence, Rhode Island . . . and I don't
think it's my blood.'

Even then, though, it's his part to initiate the inquiry, and my part
to wait until he does. Not that I've ever considered reading a file
and _not_ calling him immediately. I've done that, too. But lately,
I just feel so . . .

Confused. Confused and frustrated.

Padgett had me so right. He wrote me just as I want to see myself
in the mirror. I want to be wild, I want to be out of control. I pray
each morning that there won't be a case to take us within a million
miles of Philadelphia or a tattoo parlor. It's an itch. It will go
away. I know that.

I just don't handle it well.

Missy was all itches. All scratching, in public. She wanted to see
the Pacific again, had friends who lived on the beach. One morning
my first year at med school, she woke me up after a study session
that broke at 3 in the morning to ask me to drive her to the airport.
I didn't hear from her for over a year.

I saw the pain her actions caused. My parents fought, like all
married couples. Their worst fights were over Missy. Mom would
blame Dad for being too strict, Dad would blame Mom for being
too soft. They would scream and say horrible things to each other.
The house would be a minefield for the longest time. God forbid
the argument took place before Dad went out to sea, because Mom
would be the Wicked Witch of the West for days afterward.

I don't ever want to fight like that. But I can well imagine the
passion it invokes.

Mulder and I don't fight like that. Oh, the passion is there. There
are times that I'd gladly rip his head off and stuff his arms down the
hole. I can lie away at night and imagine performing a nice Y
incision right down his chest and listening to him scream all the way
through it.

I would _never_ do those things, of course. If Mulder stubs his toe
getting out of the Bureau pool, I'm all over his with band aids,
triple antibiotic ointment and sympathy. Because I know if I leave
him to his own devices, that stubbed toe will end up in blood
poisoning. He cares nothing for himself.

I suppose it could be said that I know Mulder better than he knows
himself. I see him as he could never imagine himself to be.

He thinks he's a coward for not forcing me away from him. He
thinks that he's a loser because he brings death and destruction
wherever he goes. He thinks he's a failure because the side of evil
seems to be thriving even though he puts all his energy and all his
strength against it.

I know he is none of those things. I know. I've seen him stand
against unbeatable odds and never give thought to flight or safety.
I've seen him bring life, to victims, to strangers . . . to me. I've
seen the face of evil cringe at the sight of my partner. That is the
man I stand beside. That is the power of our partnership. His
heart, my mind. Together, we are unbeatable.

So why is it so hard for me. This has nothing to do with Mulder.
Although he is the unfortunate recipient of my turmoil, he is not the
center of the maelstrom. He is merely the catalyst, the reacting
agent. It's his presence in my life that has caused my own internal
war to be waged.

I love him. That's so easy to admit that it's almost laughable that
anyone would question it. I love him deeply, dearly, with my heart,
my soul. I would never betray the love I have for him. But my
love for him has nothing to do with sex.

I know I will never marry. It goes way beyond the pathetic
knowledge that few men would marry a woman who couldn't give
them children, and I would reject anyone who thought he could. I
will never marry because I am already married. To Mulder and to
our cause. Even if the fight was over, even if we succeeded or
failed, I would still be married to both. Mulder and the cause. A
menage a trois that I could never divorce. Would never want to
leave behind.

No man in his right mind would marry a woman just for the sex.
It's just not what marriage is about. And since I could never give
my heart or soul to any man but Mulder, that leaves only my body.

One night stands are great for your twenties, but by the time you hit
your thirties, most people are looking for more.

Is that what I saw in Padgett's eyes? The chance for a clandestine,
one night stand. Oh, not with him. He was a loser with a capital L.
But I could see it in his eyes, read it on the pages he wrote. Sex, in
the dark, with a stranger. Someone I didn't know who didn't know
me. Someone who didn't see my motives, my anxieties, my lifetime
in my eyes.

Sex. Dark. Hot. Tawdry, as they say in the cheap novels I
sometimes glance through at the checkout stand. A part of me that
not even Mulder wants to admit to seeing wants that. Just a little
part, but it's there.

The reason I can't think about my little excursion on the wild side,
the reason it fills me with guilt and regret isn't because I didn't
enjoy it. Oh, sure, I can name about one thousand things I'd rather
do on a date than get shoved into a blazing furnace. But what stops
me from ever, ever doing that again was the look in Mulder's eyes.

Fear, yes. But I've seen that before. Fear for me, fear for himself if
anything were to happen to me. That look and I are old and dear
friends.

Pain, yes. I hurt him with my words, as he knew I wanted to do.
And the fact that I wanted to hurt him, and hadn't done in
accidentally, that caused him to bleed just a little bit more. But
there again, I've seen Mulder in pain so often that it doesn't hurt as
much any more. I just bleed a little silently and go on.

No, what I saw which really made the decision that I would never
again walk on the wild side and hunt out a nice 'tawdry' one night
stand is simple. I saw something I never wanted to see, never
thought I would find.

I saw revulsion. Repulsion. Accusation and condemnation. And I
saw it as coming from my father's eyes, even though they were in
Mulder's face at the time.

Mulder is no saint. I know what he does in the dark of his
apartment. I often think he should be writing a helpful hints column
for Playboy. 'A hundred ways to remove bodily fluid stains from
leather and other fabrics.' I know why he likes porn movies and I
know what he does to release his tensions.

But he assumes I have no tension to release. A big assumption. A
very large mistake.

Oh, I don't think he sees me as Mother Teresa. He knows I have a
sex drive. Occasionally, he'll tease me about it. But he sees me as
being a good girl. He sees me as settling down, white picket fence,
husband with a salary in the six figures (in front of the decimal) and
two cars in the garage. He would hate it, it would kill him to give
me up to someone else, but that's what he sees as best for me.

And so we work at cross purposes. I know giving any part of my
heart to someone else is impossible and he thinks it's the only way
for me to have a 'normal' life. We butt heads on it all the time,
usually without even realizing it. He throws buck-toothed deputy
sheriffs at me (even the ones who turn out to be closet vampires)
and I go along with the game. But that's all it is. Because
buck-tooth deputies who Mulder would deem good enough for me
are too good to take as a one night stand.

And he wonders why I tattooed that damned snake on my ass. It's
the story of my life!

With Padgett, I hoped to get something out of it. Maybe some
thrills, nothing more. Reading the book was pretty hot. Especially
knowing that it was me on those pages, having sex in those
positions with a complete and total stranger. In the book, the
stranger's face was covered by the shadow of his hood. All the
better. I could lie there and see whatever face I wanted.

Even Mulder's face.

So it was all pretty harmless. I wasn't going to bed with Padgett,
and I think the poor guy knew that from our first meeting. What
was it Mulder called it? 'Two professionals exchanging
information.' If it was good enough for Bitch Lady, it's good
enough for me.

Yes, just a harmless little diversion. Right up to the point where
the fictional character took form and shape, and tried to hand me
my 'passionate' heart.

I really do hate it when Mulder is sooo right.

But I have never wanted to see Mulder's face as much as the
moment he burst through the door. He was the only one I wanted,
the only person on earth. I didn't have to say a word to him, he
just knew what to do.

He gathered me in his arms so he wasn't looking at me while I
sobbed against him. He talked to me in little nonsense words that
only make sense to the two of us, drowning out the sounds of my
own ragged breathing.

He made me know that I was not alone, have never been alone
since the first day we met.

Yes, I hate that Mulder knows me so well. But I've learned long
ago that I can live with it.

the end.

Vickie

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Never let the fear of striking
out get in your way.

Babe Ruth

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