Pass You By
by Lydia Bower <bower@advancenet.net>
Distribution: Please don't. You'll be able to find this piece, along 
with all my other stuff, over at my web page: 
http://members.aol.com/XFSparky/index.html  
Classification: V, A, Mulder/Scully something  
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Spoilers: Sixth season, with the exception of Biogenesis. That 
episode doesn't exist in my little world.

Summary: It's time to talk about the elephant in the room.

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully aren't mine and never will be. 
They belong to David and Gillian. Everything else belongs to 
Chris, the gang at 1013 Productions and Fox. I mean no 
infringement and I'm sure as hell not making any money off this.

Warning: If you're a staunch Scullyist you may not find this to 
your liking. I've had some issues with Scully this past season 
and I can't help but think Mulder may share some of them. 
Proceed at your own risk; the following isn't pretty, but I've tried 
to make it honest.

Thanks to Micki and Sharon for looking this one over.  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

There exists no greater proof of the stupidity of mankind than 
the sorry sight I see as I strip off my suit jacket and face myself 
in the mirror. Fox Mulder, Special Agent with the FBI. Bonehead 
extraordinare. 

Now, I've done some mindless things in the past, but this one is 
right up there in the top ten. I've really blown it this time. I only 
hope I can salvage something of my relationship with Scully. 

The chances aren't looking good. I'm expecting a phone call any 
time. Scully will be on the other end, telling me in that slightly 
self-conscious, hesitant tone she gets sometimes that she's 
going to put in a request for transfer. Or even that she's looking 
for a position at some teaching hospital on the other side of the 
country. Or the world.

The possibilities are endless.

She could spend the rest of her life running away. The pathetic 
thing is I'd willingly spend the rest of mine chasing after her. If I 
thought she wanted me to.

I'm sorry, Scully. I'm sorry for crossing over the line in first 
place. I'm doubly sorry for not stepping back when I was told. 

A hot bubble of anger rises in my belly, more familiar now than 
it was just an hour ago. And more welcome. 

I was told, I repeat to myself. Informed. Instructed. Dismissed. 

Compelled by patience stretched to transparency, I'd demanded 
answers I felt I deserved and left myself open to utter 
humiliation.

Somebody needs to just shoot me the next time I get the bright 
idea to kiss Scully. I'm not asking for punishment. It would be an 
act of mercy. 

Next time? Who the fuck am I kidding? She's pushed me away 
one too many times. Fox "Whipping Boy" Mulder is heading for 
retirement.

She doesn't love me 'that way.' Or so she said. Isn't interested in 
'pursuing a more intimate relationship' with me. Or so she said. 

Maybe I've been imaging things all this time. But I don't think so. 
After Samantha was taken, people would tell me I needed to 
accept that she was gone, probably forever. I didn't believe it 
then and I still don't now. Some things you just know in your gut. 

I know Scully loves me. And I know how she loves me. The 
problem is, she won't let herself feel it.

So maybe I've spent the last few years chasing a windmill. I 
guess that's not bad when compared to the twenty-odd I've 
pursued my sister. 

But, damn, it still hurts.

There's a ball of lead in my gut with a really serious personality 
disorder. At first it was cold as ice as I thought about how badly I 
might've screwed things up. But now it's just red-hot as I begin 
to chronicle all the mind games she's played over the years. 

In between rounds of this fun little exercise demonstrating the 
futility of playing woulda-coulda-shoulda, I'm cursing myself for 
holding back while she read me the riot act earlier this evening. 

I tucked tail and slunk away. Stepped back from the edge that's 
way too deep. Trained like some Pavlov's dog to avoid Scully's 
danger zone lest she finally get fed up and leave me.

But so what if she does? Is keeping her with me worth the 
constant ache her presence guarantees? Hope at least gave me 
a reason to keep trying. What's left when hope is gone?

In the immortal words of Kenny Rogers: You gotta know when 
to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em.

Maybe it's time I folded. 

I have no idea how long I've been staring at my toes when I hear 
the knock at the door. There's no doubt it's Scully. It's her knock; 
I'd know it anywhere. I take longer than I should to rise from the 
couch and answer the door. My feet are like lumps of steel, my 
steps clumsy and slow. 

Why couldn't she have just called the way I figured she would? I 
don't trust myself to do this face-to-face. There are too many 
accusations dancing like impatient children on the tip of my 
tongue. Open my mouth too quickly and I'm afraid they'll jump 
out willy-nilly. 

I hate that she can do this to me. I'm constantly censoring 
myself for her benefit. When I live dangerously and don't, she's 
an expert at taking my righteous anger and turning it back on 
me.

I pull open the door and make myself take a long look at her 
before I say anything. The passivity of her face gives me no clue 
to her frame of mind. 

Okay, Mulder, be a grown-up. Say something rational.

"Well, look who's here. You've already got my head on a platter, 
Scully. Have you come to collect my balls, too?"

So much for rationality.

Shock flickers across her features before the mask slips back 
into place. Then she looks at me with mild disdain and asks, 
"Are you offering them, Mulder?"

If I weren't so highly pissed, I'd be congratulating her. Nobody 
does haughtiness quite like Scully.

"Frankly, I'm not sure I have any left. I'll go check, if you'd like."

"I'd rather you just invite me in."

There is a long silence as we lock eyes and play chicken.

"Look, I'm really not ..." I trail off into a sigh and bow my head 
in defeat. I don't know why I even bother trying. She had me the 
second I opened the door. I lift my hand and wave her in.

She brushes past me, the air surrounding her electric with 
something unnamable and highly intoxicating. The hairs on the 
nape of my neck stand at attention.

Scully walks into a room and there is an elemental change. It's 
almost as if atoms begin to shift and dance, all straining against 
their bonds to come closer to her. Waves of energy shimmer 
around her, encompassing her in shades of pearl and softest 
blue. My mind's eye pictures the underside of a breast, the 
canvas of her inner thighs, milky-white and traced with delicate 
indigo veins. I get busy mourning the beauty of things I'll never 
see. I'm very good at that.

Did I mention I hate that she can do this to me?

I follow her into the living room, giving her the once-over just as 
she stops and begins to turn toward me. I notice the collar of her 
jacket is turned up on one side. A small detail, but still very un-
Scully-like. 

Ah, there's a chink in the armor. All is not perfect. 

Imagine that.

I make no move to sit down. Most battles dictate the necessity 
of staying on one's feet. "So what are you doing here, Scully?"

She shoves her hands in her pockets and studies the floor for a 
second before glancing up at me. "I'm not really sure." Her eyes 
slide to a place just over my left shoulder. "I guess I wanted to 
see if you're okay. You were ... upset when you left."

"Yeah, well, I'm fine now." 

I've got my resolved face on. The one that says Don't Fuck With 
Me. The one Diana dubbed "The Pitbull Stare." 

Goddamn it, Scully, look at me. It doesn't do any good if you 
won't look at me. And I can't hold it indefinitely.

She finally shifts her eyes to mine. A forever moment passes as 
I recognize stark terror in her eyes. An eternal second as I 
realize how easy it might be to cut her as deeply as she has me. 
The temptation is almost overwhelming. 

"Mulder ..."

I have to walk away. I can't face her anymore. I brush past her, 
heading for the fish tank. "I said I'm fine. Just let it go." The 
goldfish race to the top of the tank as I sprinkle flakes onto the 
surface. They suck hungrily at the food, making tiny ripples in 
the water. 

She speaks again and I can hear the steel in her voice, so 
different from the concern only moments ago. "No, I don't 
think I can do that. I'm sorry if this is uncomfortable for you, but 
it's not easy for me, either. We both said some things we 
probably shouldn't have."

"And life goes on. Look, this is a really bad idea. The best thing 
you can do right now is go home." 

I swear I can feel the heat of her eyes on my back. I can 
practically smell the fabric of my shirt as it begins to singe.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she finally says. "Just pretend it 
never happened."

Motherfucker. She could not have picked a worse thing to say. 
Whatever control I was clinging to is violently torn away. Blood 
roars through my head like a freight train, drowning out 
everything but the discordant sound of her hypocrisy.  

I whip around, hands clenched into fists. Before I know it I'm 
scant inches away from her, towering over her small frame. "Oh, 
that's rich. That's fucking precious, Scully." I bite off the words, 
my voice caught between a growl and a scream. "You 
sanctimonious bitch. Don't you even try to lay this at my 
feet."

I'm so angry I'm panting. Each breath pulled into my lungs is 
infused with her scent. Overwhelming anger and inescapable 
attraction brew a dangerous concoction. 

God help me.

Scully hisses, "Let go of me."

It's then I realize my hands have somehow made their way 
around Scully's arms, fingers digging deep. The realization 
throws them off like a jolt of electricity. I force myself to take a 
step back, trembling with the intensity of my rage. "Where the 
hell do you get off accusing me of having a selective memory? 
You're the one who conveniently forgets, ignores or denies 
things you don't have the courage to face."

"You don't know what you're talking about." She mirrors my rigid 
posture, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes hard as rock candy.

I can only stand and gape at her for long moments. What was it 
she said to me about Phillip Padgett? Oh, yeah: "What kills you 
is his audacity."

Padgett had nothing on Scully. 

"Are you really that obtuse?" I finally sputter. And then 
something in me that's still gentle offers her the easy out, a 
gesture of plausible deniability. "Or is it just that you can't stand 
me but you're not sure how to break the news?" 

I give her a few seconds to accept my out. She doesn't take it. I 
truly believe there was a time when she would have. It seems 
now she's ready to face some facts. Lucky for me, because I'm 
just the man to give them to her.

"Would you like a list, Scully?" I ask, "Because I've got one. 
Why don't we start with a certain incident in my hallway? The 
one where I spilled my guts and then you saw fit to turn my 
words around and make what was heartfelt and honest into 
something abstract and impersonal. You remember that?" 

Her gaze cuts away from mine. 

"How about when I told you I loved you? Ring any bells? You 
didn't twist my words that time, I'll grant you that. But you 
did manage to mock the sincerity of them."

Her eyes shoot level. "Mulder, you were half out of your mind on 
painkillers."

"That's a bullshit excuse, and you know it. You just couldn't deal 
with it."   
   
She murmurs sadly, "I shouldn't have to." She pivots and heads 
for the desk, turning her back on me. I can only stand and study 
her. I know what's coming. I just can't make myself hurry it 
along. 

I've pushed us to this. I realize that now. But I'm not sure I ever 
had a choice--not once I found myself falling in love with her. 
I've had nightmares about this more times than I care to 
remember. The reality of it is as bad as I'd imagined. And yet 
even through the despair, I find myself welcoming this moment. 
There is an odd sort of relief in knowing the world is about to 
come to an end. 

Scully has always denied the inevitability and existence of 
certain things. As rigid as she is about her science, she is even 
more so when it comes to her emotions. She's also 
extraordinarily stubborn. Once settled comfortably into position, 
it's damn near impossible to budge her. 

I used to see this steadfastness as a challenge and a virtue--
albeit one that often drove me crazy. Just now I find myself 
supremely tired of it. 

"So, is that why you came here, Scully?" I ask quietly. "To scold 
me for forcing you to acknowledge my feelings for you?" 
Incredibly, her spine stiffens even more. "Because if that's the 
case, you needn't bother. I got the message loud and clear. 
You'll have to excuse my current foul mood. I've never been a 
very gracious loser. This is no exception."

I wish she'd turn around. Pierce me with those eyes and flay me 
raw. I wish she'd just get it over with. The lead in my belly has 
expanded and is beginning to crush my heart. I can't manage a 
deep breath.

One arm unfolds from the other and she pokes a finger at 
something on my desk. "I came here, Mulder," she says softly, 
"because I was hoping we could find a way to get past this."

"This?" I try to laugh. It comes out a grunt. "Which 'this' are you 
referring to? The fact that I love you, or that I broke the rules 
and brought it to your attention again by kissing you?"

The room is so quiet I can hear the click of her throat as she 
swallows. "It's not that simple."

"Sure it is, Scully. Not everything has to be complicated." 
Weariness surges through me, replacing the frenetic energy 
of anger. I sink down to the edge of the couch and cradle my 
head in my hands. "The simple facts are these: a.) I'm in love 
with you and b.) that makes you uncomfortable. Whether you tell 
yourself it's because you don't share those feelings or you do but 
can't deal with them is beside the point right now." 

I lift my head and look over at her, curious at what her response 
will be. I'm sick of feigning. Dealing with our situation by not 
dealing with it won't work anymore. I'm tired of keeping her 
secrets for her, of being the onIy one to openly acknowledge 
what I know in my bones is there.

She stands mute, but her body gives her away. She's turned 
slightly toward me, attentiveness etched in the lines of her limbs, 
the delicate tilt of her head.

"The problem as I see it, Scully, is that we've reached an 
impasse. It's obvious I'd like our relationship to develop into 
something more ... intimate. It's also obvious you don't. Like I 
said, the reasons don't matter. What's apparent is that we can't 
go back and negate what's happened. Like it or not, things will 
never be the same. Now we have to figure out where to go from 
here."

She gives a final poke at my desk and then eases down onto the 
chair. She still hasn't looked at me. The silence stretches out, 
the passing seconds instilling the room with an awful sense of 
anticipation. Scully ultimately ends it, shifting her eyes to mine 
and asking, "What are you thinking, Mulder?"

Here I was, only minutes ago, dreading the words I was certain 
would come out of her mouth. Now, instead, they're about to 
leave mine. Why was I so sure she would be the one to end 
this?

"I suppose we could try to stick to the status quo. We're both 
pretty good when it comes to denying certain aspects of our 
relationship. The thing is, I don't know if I want to do it anymore. 
I don't know that I should have to."

Scully's eyes are the brightest things in the room. Moisture 
builds in mine as I look away, fearing blindness.

"And the thought of spending ten, twelve, fourteen hours a 
day with you, five or six days a week ..." I have to stop and 
clear the lump from my throat. "Knowing how I feel about you, 
and knowing you won't ..."

I don't think it's necessary to say any more. Truth is, I'm not sure 
I can finish the thought. Speaking it will give it substance. Once 
said, the words can't be taken back.

After a moment and barely above a whisper: "Why can't you just 
keep on doing it, Mulder?"

We lock eyes and I can't decide whether to laugh or cry. The 
gloves have certainly come off. I've been wanting honesty from 
her and now I'm getting it. The results aren't pretty. 

The fact that she knows how hard this has been for me and yet 
encourages the continuation of our awkward facade should 
enrage me. But I find myself so dazzled by her brazenness that I 
can't work up a decent head of steam. The lethargy of grief is 
more acceptable right now. It requires less effort.   

There is a tenacity in her eyes that shouldn't surprise me, but 
does; a childlike, ultimately selfish belief that leaving well 
enough alone is the solution to all of life's problems. 

"Not anymore," I tell her. "I can't."

She slowly folds her hands in her lap and bows her head. Her 
hair becomes an effective screen, hiding her face.

"If I could stop loving you, Scully, I would." I snap my fingers 
and she flinches. " ... Just like that. But it doesn't work that way. 
And until I can get a handle on this thing ... I think it'd be best to 
take a break. Spend some time away from one another."

There is a long, long silence. I pass the time watching the pulse 
beating in her pale neck, marveling that there's fragile muscle 
and blood beneath the stony exterior.

"And the work?" she finally asks, tilting her face to look over at 
me.

I suppose this would be the perfect opportunity to remind her of 
the endless sneers, eye-rollings, and whining sessions I've been 
subjected to this past year. 

I suppose a root canal without benefit of Novocain would be a 
real treat, too, but I don't particularly want to find out.

"We've got enough of a backlog that we could work 
independently for the better part of a month. If not longer." 

"What about field work?" 

Just the facts, ma'am. Let's completely ignore the emotional 
impact of what we're discussing and concentrate on the 
important stuff.

Goddamn it, Scully, why do you have to do this? Why can't you 
be human like the rest of us; like me? There's nothing wrong 
with being flawed.

I slump back against the couch and scrub my eyes. "Skinner 
would probably appreciate the reduced expenses. If we get 
called out, we'll deal with it. We're experts at that."

"It's my work too, Mulder."

I blink at her, taken aback by her sudden proclamation. Earlier 
thoughts of presenting evidence to the contrary briefly return, 
but I can't do it. Despite her prevailing attitude these days, I 
know how important our work is to her. 

"I'm aware of that, Scully. I'm not suggesting you leave the X-
Files."

She quickly pushes to her feet to face me. "No, just that I leave 
you."

Now where the hell did that come from? And what gives her the 
right to play the wounded one? I can't resist taking the shot she's 
left open for me.

"Actually, Scully, in this case it's the other way around."

The pain I see in her eyes feels good for about a second. Then it 
turns brittle and sharp and bites into my gut. I can take no 
pleasure in the blood I've drawn.

"Well," she says, smoothing her jacket over her hips. "I guess 
that pretty much ends this conversation." She starts to walk 
toward the doorway but stops halfway there. "Am I allowed to 
communicate with you, or is that also prohibited?"

Our eyes meet and I hold hers hostage for the time it takes me 
to tell her, "I'll always be here for you ... if you need me."
 
Something crosses her face, fleeting and sad. She turns away,  
heading for the door. I come up off the couch, compelled to 
follow her, to try one more time to reach her. Just as her hand 
closes around the knob, I ask, "What are you so afraid of, 
Scully?"    

I watch as her shoulders sag. Her hand drops and hangs at her 
side. There's poignant defeat written in her posture, in every line 
and angle of her small, strong body. It's a long time before she 
says anything. Long enough that I wonder if we've been frozen 
in this moment forever.

"I don't deal with loss very well, Mulder. In that, at least, we're 
alike. But I'm not you, and I don't think I could stand the pain if 
we took the chance and screwed it up."

"Thank you," I whisper. I don't know if she heard me, but she lifts 
her head and opens the door.

"Scully?" 

She stops and waits, back turned.

"Could it hurt any worse than this?"

I hear the deep breath she pulls in through her nostrils, the 
whisper of the sigh as she pushes it back out. And then she 
straightens her shoulders and walks away.

I guess I've got my answer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The End.

Notes: That's it, folks. The romantic in me wanted to see this 
one through to a more hopeful end, but the muse refused to 
cooperate. 

On a more encouraging note, I have something in mind that'll 
explore these same issues, though in a slightly different way--
one that involves smut. But you'll have to be patient with me. 
Very patient. ;-)