MSR NC-17 (1/4) Desire Is Suffering Title: Desire Is Suffering Author: Darwin Summary: Scully makes a difficult decision which forever alters her life, her career, and her relationship with Mulder. This vignette begins sometime during season five, and soon spins off into its own universe. I’ve tried to stay true to the characters as I could and references to episodes abound, but there’s nothing here I’d consider a spoiler. Though I think a ‘ship invading the show would be hard to write well, this is most definitely MSR, so if that’s not your bag then bail now. (As for what you can expect if you make the commitment to sample this long story, all I can say that there will be no spawn named “Walter” or “Missy.” In fact, there will be no Mulder / Scully progeny at all. And at no time will Mulder mutter the words “Call me Fox.” If these things come as a relief to you, read on.) This story is rated NC-17 for consentual sexing type stuff, which I have to admit I got carried away with. So be warned, it that’s not your cup of tea, do not go there with me. Disclaimer: These characters belong to 1013 Productions, Chris Carter, and to the actors who bring them to life. I’m borrowing them, and not for profit. Feel free to archive this anywhere as long as my handle stays attached. I am a first time author (of fan-fic anyway -- usually I need to get paid to write so this is most likely my last effort as well). I’ve been reading fanfic for about a year now and wanted to contribute. Incidentally, I like the short, steamy stuff best (as well as some of the longer “classics”) but since I was only gonna write one, it became a long, angst-ridden one that dealt conclusively with all that relationship stuff, blah blah blah. No X-Files here, though. Just the mushy stuff. And, of course, the blessed smut for which we are all grateful. (And if you don’t feel that way, stop reading now....) Thanks for reading, thanks for writing, and I hope you enjoy my work as I have enjoyed yours. -- Darwin ************************************************************************** Part 1/4 “It’s late,” Mulder said. “I’m going home,” He stretched his long frame and removed his suit jacket from the coat rack. “What about you?” “No,” Scully said, sitting down at the desk and opening her briefcase. “I have a few things to finish up here.” Her voice sounded subdued, like she was afraid to really use it. He wondered what that was about. The case hadn’t gone well, but it hadn’t gone badly either. She’d been so moody lately. It really was unlike her. “Can’t it wait?” he asked. “Might as well finish up the paperwork,” she said. “So it doesn’t stack up.” “You okay?” he asked, slinging his suit jacket over his shoulder and approaching her. He framed her face with his hand, brushed his thumb across her cheek. She hadn’t been herself in days, weeks even. “Yes,” she said, not meeting his eyes, her voice tight. “Really?” He wanted to drop down on one knee and lift her chin with his hand, to look her in the face and make her tell him what had her so sad. But he resisted this urge, like he usually managed to. The complicated system of fences and gates that tacitly governed their interactions were in place for a reason, and he had to trust her to maintain them, to know when it was a good idea to let him in and when to do so would be dangerous. He had to trust himself to know the same thing. She cleared her throat and looked up at him. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m getting a cold.” He raised one skeptical eyebrow in her direction. “Okay, Scully. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he walked toward the door. “If you don’t need to take a sick day, that is. And I hope you don’t because we’ve got some creepiness in Indiana to investigate. I know you wouldn’t want to miss that. I have slides.” “Sounds good.” Scully said, managing a smile he knew was for his benefit alone. “‘Night Mulder.” “‘Night.” ************************************************************************** Mulder showed up for work the next morning at seven am. He flipped on the fluorescent lights and they sputtered and buzzed to life. He put his briefcase on the desk and hung his overcoat on the rack. Something in the office was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The stuff on the bulletin boards rearranged? The desk in a slightly different place? Or was it just hotter than usual in there, with the air conditioning on the blink again? He shrugged and went to put on a pot of coffee, strong so Scully wouldn’t complain. He had a case file in his briefcase about some a kids in Bloomington, fraternity boys who claimed that the mist over a cornfield where they went to party had taken on a form and spoken to them. He couldn’t tell if it was a prank, a mass hallucination as a result of some bad acid, or something else, something worth checking out. As he snapped open his briefcase to remove the file, he caught sight of an envelope tucked into his desk blotter. His name was penned on the front. His birthday wasn’t for another month. He opened the envelope, and a three page, handwritten letter fell out. Scully’s careful script. Mulder unfolded it and smoothed out the pages before he began to read. Dear Mulder, Writing you this letter has been the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. I’ve been composing it for a long while. Please trust that nothing contained in it is said lightly or without untold hours of consideration. You’re not going to like what follows. I only hope that you can come to accept and respect my decision. I’ve requested a transfer. I can no longer work with you on the X-Files. AD Skinner has approved my request, and by the end of next week I’ll be reassigned, probably to Quantico, but possibly to Baltimore or even to Chicago. My commitment to this quest that you began and I joined you on six years ago truth has cost me a great deal; my sister’s life, my ability to bear children, nearly my life and yours several times over. I know that abandoning our search for the truth now threatens to make all our sacrifices, mine and yours both, pointless. I’m familiar with this argument. I’ve recited it to myself many times in the past year, ever since the urge to dissolve our partnership has begun to well up in me on a regular basis. And yet for all our trouble and sacrifice, I don’t feel any closer to the truths we seek than we were when we began. I joined the FBI to distinguish myself, Mulder, and in so doing accepted some risk to my personal safety. But remember that discussion we once had in the woods with those moth-men? The house always wins. These few men, our enemies, are the house, and we’ve already lost so much. What’s next, Mulder? My life? Yours? Either one of these outcomes seems inevitable, and I can accept neither one. I can no longer ignore how my death would impact my mother and brothers. And I can’t watch you die, Mulder, not even for something as important as our quest. I know that you know this, but I need to tell you that I regret nothing, not one minute of the time I spent with you, either professionally or personally. I’ve seen things a scientist could spent ten lifetimes investigating, but I only have one, and it’s time for me to begin straining toward finding explanation for the seemingly inexplicable, explanations which I know exist. This will be my life’s work, Mulder. Please understand this, as I understand what drives you. I’ve arranged to take two weeks of vacation time. When I return it will be to my new assignment. The few things I want to take with me I’ve already removed from the office. Please don’t try to find me right now, Mulder. My mind’s made up, and seeing you would only make it harder. In the future, I want always to be a resource for you in your work, which I know you must continue with. And I want to be a friend to you in your life. Please think of me this way, always. Skinner has another partner picked out for you, someone fresh out of the academy whose shown an interest in the X-Files who he thinks you can work with. I’ve met him and I agree. I’d feel better knowing that you’ve got someone to listen to your corny, adolescent jokes. Don’t worry, I’ve warned him that he’ll have to endure your bad ties and worse humor. Please let him help you, Mulder. And please know that I go with a heavy heart. --Scully Mulder carefully folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. He tucked it into his shirt pocket. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his fingers over his face, pressing his knuckles into his eyes, and stayed like that for a few minutes. Then he got up abruptly and made his way up to Skinner’s office. He walked right in, as it was too early for his assistant to be at her desk. “Agent Mulder,” Skinner said, without looking up, “I expected you this morning.” Mulder settled into one of the leather chairs across from Skinner and just sat there for a minute, not saying anything. Skinner looked at him, then resumed his paperwork. “Tell me sir,” Mulder said after a minute, “For all the times I’ve tried to quit and you’ve refused me, how could you accept this from her?” He held up the letter between two fingers. “Did you even try to talk her out of this?” “I did,” Skinner said, putting down his pen. “At first. But she had something you didn’t ever have, Mulder.” “What’s that?” “Good reasons.” “Namely? That she’s scared? Is that supposed to be good enough?” “I imagine she explained herself to you in that letter,” Sknner said, picking up his pen again. “It says, right here,” Mulder said, ripping open the letter, pointing to the applicable paragraph. “I can’t hold her fear against her Mulder, and you shouldn’t either. You lose too much choking it down. You and I both know that.” “Bullshit,” Mulder said. “What else does it say in that letter, Mulder? What are you ignoring?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mulder said. “Scully’s been a good agent. Courageous and loyal, and she’s paid the price. We were lucky to have her as long as we did. But she’s a scientist, Mulder. A doctor. She has other work to do. I’m sorry if you can’t see that. Agent Scully’s work here is done.” “Not if I can help it,” Mulder said. “Where is she?” “On vacation.” “Where?” Skinner picked up his pen and cast his glance down to the form in front of him. “Where?” “I don’t know,” he answered, not looking up. “But you’re on vacation too. You start back a week from today, with your new partner.” “Who? Krycek?” “No. Vincent Rhymes. He’s green, but he’s good. It’s the best offer you’ll get, Agent Mulder, so you better take it.” “Like hell I will,” Mulder said. “Agent Scully trained this guy.” “Scully trained him? On the X-Files? How long has she known she was leaving?” “Four months,” Skinner said quietly. “Christ, Skinner. Why wasn’t I told?” “Because we all suspected you’d react just the way that you have, Agent Mulder.” “This is unbelievable,” Mulder said as he got up to leave. “Unacceptable.” “You’d better try. You’ve got one week from today to accept it.” Skinner said as Mulder walked out the door. ************************************************************************** Mulder’s chest ached. Sleep had been coming harder and last night was no exception. His whole body felt stiff from too many nights accumulated in motel beds or curled into airplane seats or falling asleep on his couch, he supposed. His eyes were dry and grainy from watching too much television, his stomach acidy from too much delivered pizza. Four days into his “vacation” and he had done little but sit at home and watch TV, his feet up, soiled laundry scattered around him. He had tried to go into the bureau to work, but Skinner had ordered him home and nixed any possibility of an expense-paid trip to Bloomington. He was on mandatory vacation time until he met up with his new partner. Whoopee. And his chest ached. The pain didn’t radiate down his arms or to his jaw. He suffered no shortness of breath. So it wasn’t a heart attack. He smiled when he could almost hear Scully’s voice in his head quizzing him on his symptoms, then winced at the memory. The men in his lineage tended to live long when not put down by assassin’s bullets, and his cholesterol was fine. So what was it, besides a steady ache he couldn’t shake day or night? As he drifted in and out of sleep on the couch, he kept dreaming he was being attacked by a fat constrictor snake that only increased its warm, smooth grip as he struggled against it. He’d wake up and gasp for a first breath like his head had been held under water for a long time. He was angry. Pissed. He wanted to find Scully and shake some better answers out of her. But, slumped in the stale air of his apartment, he knew, deep down, that he had felt it coming, or would have in he hadn’t been so self-involved all of the time. How long had anyone ever put up with him, after all? Her departure was past due, and Skinner was right. He was being selfish. Still, he fought the urge hourly to try to find her. And when, on the fifth day he couldn’t fight it any longer, he went to see her mother. ************************************************************************** End 1/4 Darwin .