Shambles By RocketMan lebontrager@harding.edu Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully belong to CC, 1013, and Fox. No infringement is intended. Dedication: This is for Lori, my manager, friend, and encourager while we're at work. You have to put up with a lot, babe. Hope everything goes well for you in your new job. CONTENT::::M/S UST, This is SEASON 1, simply because it fits in better. Scully is a bit more innocent, a bit more unsure of herself. Mulder still isn't sure if he can completely trust her, but he knows she's important to him and his work. ~~~~~ Shambles ~~~~~ "what does this mean to see walking men wrapped in the color of death, to hear from their tongue such difficult syllables?" --Lucille Clifton, 'seeker of visions' ~~~~~ She walked through the door again with the tattered edges of her dignity clutched in white knuckled fingers. Slipping past his look, her eyes drifted off to the places her mind had forged from harshly worded phrases and the accusations of jealous men. Dana Scully could not tell him what she had heard. She could not ask him to think of such things. But the truth churned inside her like magma angry for lava, angry for release, and she sank to the chair in front of his desk in surrender. "Scully?" It was a soft frightened sigh from his lips that reached into her, plucking the harp string that sung now, the cord one of discontent, of half assured fear. "Yes." She speaks hushed, cowed by the meeting she was called to only three hours before. Three hours. It must have really been days to her, it must have been thirty years of oppression and only now was she giving up her rebellion, only now. "The meeting, Scully." As if he would have to remind her. He stood and crossed before her, to sit on his desk, so close, too close, maybe. Maybe he was always too close and only now would she notice this. Before, it was simply Mulder. Before. Only now would this be a sure sign to her, only now would their words hurt her. "They . . . Mulder, they're accusing you of sexual harassment." His eyes shaded over and his face reacted to her news with what she thought was disbelief. "What?" His hands were catching the edges of the desk like a man drowning, reaching for the edges of a rope that hadn't been tossed to him yet. "Sexual harassment, Mulder. For three hours, they . . . tricked me." Now it was betrayal, echoed by her own eyes, reflected in his set mouth, tensed shoulders. "Tricked." he said hollowly. She didn't want to be saying this to him, and she didn't want or understand the full consequences yet. "Their questions didn't lead there at first. They were innocent, although strange. I didn't think they'd take my words and twist them . . . twist them to that." "What are you talking about?!" he cried and lurched on the desk, his face so close, too close. Her flinch made him stop, horrified. "You think I harass you. You think they're right." There was no question. He couldn't believe it. He felt crushed, lost, desparate. The truth. The truth. She couldn't answer. He leaned back, away, closed down the parts of him that depended upon her acceptance of him, which meant he was little or nothing at all. Grabbing his coat, Fox Mulder shut the door on his partnership. Shut the door with the intention of forever. ~~~~~ "I did not want to be stuck one second longer than I had to be there, stuck inside the door. I'm always scared I'll slam my fingers in the door, Cause the last time that I left I slammed my fingers in the door. When you want to get out, you get up, and walk straight to the door." --Lisa Loeb, 'Split Second' ~~~~~ When she walked in again, (again, it was always again,) when she walked in *again* there was no dignity to clutch with the white knuckled fingers that fisted in the air. She sat down in his chair and mindlessly shuffled the papers around on his desk, ignoring the heavy scrawl that made her want to curl up and cry for him, for them, for what she hadn't meat to do, but had anyway. She picked up the phone and dialed his home number again, again, she was always repeating her actions, hoping that once, just one time, he would actually be there. Praying, praying, she listened to the machine Mulder call out a monotone version of her own machine Scully and begged him to answer. She was startled when a hiss sounded over the line and she realized that he had yanked the answering machine from the socket, just to rid himself of her voice. Replaying all that was said that afternoon, she attempted to understand what had been wrong with it all. It was so obviously a set up, an attempt to get the X-Files shut down, or at least have Mulder's reputation and hers ruined, that she couldn't understand why Mulder was going along with it. Why didn't he rage into the night about his personal persecution? Did he think he had harassed her? Did he think that she thought he did? She didn't know if he had or not. The conditions they laid out, the very clear terms of 'hostile environment' that the committee had spelled out for her, it all could be . . . it had the possibility of looking that way. Did he harass others? Certainly, it was part of his job, of their job. They had to harass suspects, sexually if that's what it meant, make things uncomfortable, even for victims, if that's what was needed to solve the case. These things they could argue. But the things she had unwittingly admitted to could not be construed any differently. Hostile . . . he had been hostile to her before. He had said things to her, made her uncomfortable, but she could take it. She'd gotten it before. And with Mulder it was different. How could a committee understand that? They didn't and wouldn't and because of her idiocy, Mulder would not speak to her. The hand on her back. The lips near her ear. The look that undressed her. The touch along her side. The words . . . the words that could take her from strong and callous and hard, to weak and ill and soft all in the space of a phrase, a gentle whisper. And it was all, all, counted as sexual harassment. But she would not press charges, she could not. This was Mulder, this was what she *liked* and that's what frightened her the most. That he would know this, know that his touches, his words, comforted her, held her together, gave her the weakness that kept her from being too unfeeling, kept her from eroding away inside. If he knew such a thing, he wouldn't understand, he would see it as weakness only, a weakness that could not be tolerated. Not by a partner, not for a spy . . . She had so much to prove to him, and this could not help at all . . . A memory flashed through her and she sank into the desk top, cradling her head. A motel, a blackout, and mosquito bites that had scared her more than she was ready to admit. He surely thought she had set him up, now. With such an event, so recent, too odd for a new female partner to trust him . . . He thought she had set him up, pulled him into a plot to shut him down. And what nagged at her the most, what made her shake, was that he was not fighting. He was not fighting them. He wasn't fighting her. Betrayed, beaten, hurt by his only friend. That was what he thought, and in so many ways, it was true. She'd been stupid, she had seen things, known things about his work, and still, she had let those men trap her into saying things that could be twisted to hurt him. She'd hurt him. It was all her fault. He'd never trust her again. ~~~~~ "Life's the fruit she longs to hand you Ripe on a plate. And while you live, Relentlessly she understands you." --Phyllis McGinley, 'The Adversary' ~~~~~ The door was growing harder as she pounded on it, her fist more numb, fingers more bruised. She wanted to sob, but she couldn't let him see her, hear her weak. If he saw that, he'd never let her in again. Again. Everything in her life happened in rounds. She could remember her father's anger, pounding on his door, begging to be understood for such a decision, such a choice as the FBI, and his resolute silence. Like Mulder's silence now. And her father loved her, her father cherished her, and Mulder . . . Mulder thought her a spy. What chance did she have now? She pounded harder, not seeking to be understood, merely forgiven and tried again. If anything, she never wanted him to understand her. Such a thing was too frightening, too close to real and pain and love and she could not do those emotions, those things again. Again. Was she already loving him, real to him, in pain for him? She knocked again, feeling her throat choke on sobs, struggling for all her strength to keep her own self out of this. She couldn't be caught caring for him, not when he thought she was a spy. "Mulder . . . Mulder." It was a litany on her tongue now, rambling from her mouth in no conscious thought to get it there, only in the desparation of her innocence. She wanted to explain to him, wanted to make him understand, she realized this now. Just like her father, his silence spoke things that she did not want to hear. "Mulder, please . . ." She felt the sob and heard it escape and she hated herself for it, and scratched at her eyes with a broken fist, and a broken will. She turned, to cleave herself of him once and for all, telling herself that this was unsalvagable, this was dead between them, whatever she had hoped was growing was stagnant, shrivelling. And the door opened. She stayed perfectly still, eyes squeezed shut, tears forced back to the choked up place in her chest that hid her crying until there was a better time, a more appropriate place. He stood there, watching her back shake as she controlled herself again, wondering what it was in her that made her so determined. She had not lost a sister. She could not know that kind of motivation. Yet she was in his hall, had been for hours, slamming a weak fist into his door. He would not move to her; he was wary. She turned, eyes bright, face young and too hard for such a beautiful smile that tried to struggle forward. "I . . ." She stopped, suddenly surprised. She hadn't thought through this far. "I didn't think you'd open the door." "I didn't think you'd cry." Her back tensed and she bit the inside of her cheek. He sighed. "Is that something you termed 'hostile work environment,' Agent Scully? Because maybe crying is a sexually oriented activity and so therefore, if I speak about it, I'm harassing you?" She was furious now. He wouldn't even listen to her before lashing out. "I never said anything like that. They asked me questions about working with you. I thought they were trying to see how I was, being a relatively new agent, maybe attempt to head off any problems before they got started. See if I could handle it. I *can* handle it. They twisted my words around. They --" "You said those words." She wanted to hit him, to slap his face and make him see. Make him understand. "No! I didn't say it like they said I did. I meant it as good. I meant for them to see how . . ." Her words choked away. She stopped. "See what?" he asked, leaning back, as far from her as possible. He would think her weak, needy; he would think that he had to protect her all the time, that she needed him. Or he could continue to think she was a spy. "I meant for them to see . . ." She took a breath, closed her eyes for a second, trying to recall her father's face when she had ended up begging his forgiveness. Such disappointment in his eyes, when she had begged, such sorrow that she would let herself do that. She still had to prove herself to her daddy time and time again. She had to prove herself to Mulder now. Saying this might prove only one thing -- that she was weak. Too weak to be of any help to him. "Nothing." She whispered the word and turned in the hall, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep from crying, shoving it back into the place in her that kept her tears. When she got to the car and realized he had not come after her, had not tried to listen, she sank into the seat and lowered her head to the steering wheel. The tears had been pushed so far back, that they would not come out. She shivered. It was the first that she could not cry. The first time that the tears did not come. The first time she felt the gaping hole where her tears had slid down, the broken shambles of herself that had cracked as she denied her feelings, denied herself. She could not cry. ~~~~~ "But you're going to have to hold on, hold on, Or we're going to have to move on, move on." --Cranberries, 'Ridiculous Thoughts' ~~~~~ Her bed was too hard, her pillow made her head ache with a thundering kind of pain, one that said she hadn't cried, and needed to. Standing, refusing to stay in bed, sleepless, she shivered in the chill and tiptoed to the thermastat, fiddling with it and hoping she still had heat. The dark night was soft lit by the blankets of cloud reflecting the street's eery glow, the natural design of city lights and apartment buildings. She watched the absence of activity on the sidewalks, the flickering of shadows as homeless people turned in their sleep, and wished she had managed the strength to tell Mulder. How she had tried to make them see how comfortable she was with him. How she had wanted to show them how wonderful an angent he was, how great a mentor, how inspiring a human being. How beautiful a man with a determination that left her raw. She closed the curtains and walked to the closet, dragging on jeans and a heavy sweater, then her coat, thinking nothing and knowing that she dared not try to examine this right now. ~~~~~ The door came open immediately, with her own wince as she split open the bloodied heel of her hand, and his surprise. She was equally surprised he was up and opening the door to her. He sighed at the question in her eyes. "I was waiting for the Chinese takeout guy . . ." She gave him a brief smile. "Can I come in?" He paused, as if he had to *think* about it. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?" he said finally. "Shouldn't you?" Her own courage was frightening her. "No," he said pointedly. "I try not to." Her face softened with his words, open curiousity on her face. "Why not?" she asked, stepping forward. "Am I going to need my attorney present for this conversation?" He regretted his words as the pain lanced across her face. She felt the tightening in her chest and had to clamp down again on her tears. "I just don't, Agent Scully." That hurt just as much as his biting remarks. "You can call me Dana," she said softly. At the look on his face she shook her head. "Scully . . ." she said then and glanced back at him. He nodded. "Scully." "Mulder . . . what I couldn't tell you before . . . somehow I've found the courage . . . maybe the stupidity to tell you now." He said nothing, his face gave her no ideas. "I was trying to make them see . . . see how you've changed me . . . taught me more in a few months than I could ever have learned on my own." It wasn't what she wanted to say . . . She did not drop her gaze, simply stared back at him with clear eyes that did not beg, did not plead for his understanding. She could do this. She could tell him the truth and have him see her words as the truth without fear. It mattered to her what he thought, but she would not be ashamed, would not fear, the truth. His face was breaking down, his eyes swimming, his mouth quirking. He gently took her arm, reflex more than anything, and simply watched her. He was studying her, she thought, he was making sure this was the truth, deciding even now if he could trust her. "I'm not against you, Mulder. I want the truth just as much as you." He was again surprised at her determination, at the fount of strength welling in her that seemed to come from nowhere. No sister had been taken from her, no life ruined. And yet, such resolve for the same quest he had embarked upon, equal measure intelligence and uncompromising persistence. "Mulder?" she asked, looking up at him. "What am I going to do?" he said softly. It had been on his mind all day, rotted through his soul all night. She blinked, turned around by his words. She had been expecting confirmation of her words, some kind of emotion or revelation in turn. She shook her head. This was Mulder. He was not emotional, nor revealing, unless he was entering the mind of a killer, the soul of a psycho. "Scully, this could destory me. People get smeared, ground into the dirt with accusations like this. And never recover." She bit back her anger, tried hard to be good now, to be worthy of the forgiveness he had instilled in her once more. She had screwed up, and he was taking her back. But her anger overflowed. "Yes, I suppose it could destory you, Agent Mulder. It could also destroy me. You think I'll ever be trusted again, by anyone in the government? They'll see me as you do, a spy. A betrayal to --" "Scully." She stopped, her mouth closing as she realized she had gone off on him for something he could not control. "Scully. I do *not* see you like that." She paused. Did not . . . not see her like . . . what? "But I . . . I gave them everything they needed to shut you down . . . I fell right into their trap and --" He took her shoulder in one thin fingered hand and squeezed it softly. "I tried to blame you for that, Scully, believe me. It doesn't work." He shrugged and moved to the couch. She stood there, staring after him, wondering where exactly that left them now. "So, what am I -- we -- going to do?" His face turned to hers in the darkness of his apartment, the moon casting shadows of fright across his nose and cheeks, and the still air kissing his lips with the hint of chill. She wanted to shiver and run home to her own bed, jump into its warmth and blankets and never come out again. Again. But she elaborately shrugged her shoulders and went to sit in his armchair, placing herself gingerly down with as much dignity as she could. She found it clutched in her hands, slightly tattered and torn, but wearable, usable. Making a fist, she curled her legs under her body and stared over at him. "We'll think of something, Mulder." He glanced off into space and his own hands twitched, searching for his own dignity among the cobwebbed corners of his empty apartment. "Mulder, you probably don't need to be told this, but you don't mistreat me. I've never had any complaint for the way you respect me." She gazed at him, eyes bright again, speaking truths that he caught hold of tightly, taking them deep inside, to places where he stored away these moments. His hands were full. She came and sat down next to him, the couch dipping down with the slight weight of her body and the air he breathed suddenly light. "All I want is the truth," he whispered. "Is that so much to ask?" ~~~~~ end adios RM