***DISCLAIMER***: All "X-Files" elements and references
in this story belong to Fox Broadcasting, Chris Carter,
and 1013 Productions, and I am making no money from it.

ARCHIVING: Link only, please!

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All I Have to Fear ...
by shannono
shannono@iname.com


Vignette, Angst

Rated PG

Spoilers through 'Emily'

Summary: Scully considers her fears as they relate to her partner.

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All I Have to Fear ...
By shannono


From the beginning, he has been a challenge to me. A challenge to 
my beliefs, a challenge to my intellect, a challenge as an agent 
and as a friend.

I have been haunted by his hauntings, demonized by his demons. I 
feel what he feels, as deeply, and as terribly.

But above all else, I have known his fears. And in return, he has
challenged my own.

He has taken my ironclad beliefs and shaken them, not in an effort 
to destroy them, but instead in an attempt to make room for new
interpretations. His interpretations, yes, but my own as well.

He has succeeded. For while five short years ago I was often incredulous
at his far-out conclusions, today, I can almost believe them myself.
I've even spouted his own theories to him before he had the chance, as
I did with Eddie Van Blundht.

Eddie. Even now, nearly a year later, just thinking the name is like
pouring salt into an open wound. It still amazes me that, in just a
few short hours, this little man nearly destroyed the bond which had
taken us four years to build. A few glasses of wine, a little
conversation, and I was putty in his hands. Had Mulder not burst in,
had he been trapped a little while longer in that basement room with
nothing but a soda and a sandwich to keep him company, I would have
kissed Eddie. And, if his previous targets were any indication, I
would have slept with him, too.

Of course, I wouldn't have been subjected to the babies with tails
the other women had delivered. I didn't know at the time that I
wouldn't be having any babies, at least not by natural means.

Mulder knew. He'd pocketed a vial of my ova when he discovered
them, inadvertently destroying half my chances for a child of my
own. But he didn't see fit to tell me about it until Emily. When
I thanked him for coming to San Diego testify on my behalf in the
adoption hearing, his reply shocked me. "I should have declined,"
he'd said, and the buzzing in my ears drowned out the rest of his
statement.

Exactly what he had said didn't register until later, during the
hearing, when he'd finally told me -- and the judge -- the truth
about my sterility. Then the remainder of his statement came back
to me: "... if I never want to see you hurt or harmed in any way."

He *had* hurt me, but only temporarily. With the benefit of a few
hours and a short discussion at my brother's house, I understood.
He was still trying to protect me, trying to carry my burdens for
me. He hadn't expected Emily any more than I had, and he'd been
thrown for a loop, too.

But he was there as soon as he knew, willing to support my
decisions, even if he didn't agree with them. And for some
reason, that frightened me.

He is not an easy person to love. Yes, I said love, although I am
not yet willing to extend that feeling beyond the bounds of
friendship. I do love him, as I love my family. He is a part of
that family, having slipped through the seams and insinuated
himself into, not only my heart, but also my mother's. She feels
as close to him as to her own sons, maybe even closer sometimes.

Yet I am afraid. I told him that once, years ago, my father's
death still fresh on my mind and my heart. "I'm afraid to
believe," I said then, a simple expression of a complex thought.

Oh, I have my beliefs. I believe in science, and in God, two
things which seem antithetical, even to him. But what I truly
fear believing is those things beyond the realm of my scientific
knowledge or my Catholic upbringing. Things Mulder sees as fact.

Some "paranormal" events have been easier for me to accept than
others. Psychics, for example, can fit within the Biblical
framework of prophecy. The questions come in the search for
proof that they are truly prophets, not scam artists trained
to turn their subjects' own statements back on them.

But Mulder has always been so open to other "extreme
possibilities." Werewolves. Astral projection. Telekinesis.
Extraterrestrials. Vampires ...

My belief structure has widened somewhat with his influence. He
himself is the most obvious evidence of this, for I believe in
him. I don't always agree with him -- okay, I rarely agree with
him -- and I still get angry with him, especially when he gets
overprotective or tries to leave me behind while he chases after
leads or ... shadows.

But I do believe in him. No matter what the situation, I always
believe that he and I, together, will prevail, whether we are
finding the truth or simple surviving another day.

And still I am afraid. I put on a good front, I know; I have
plenty of practice with that. The fear has become easier to hide
as it has become an integral part of me.

I have not tried to analyze its exact roots, in part because my
fear apparently extends to include the fear of discovering
exactly what it is I am afraid of. I have been unable to bring
myself to look far enough inward to ask those questions.

So I go on, simply reacting as the fear rises in me, pulling back
from the actions which send it surging forward, never stopping to
consider just *why* it happens.

Today, for instance. Mulder and I were in the car, headed back from
yet another crime scene to yet another slightly seedy motel. Our
conversation was easy, a simple discussion of evidence and
possibilities, with no unusual conclusions emerging from his
mouth, for a change.

But then I caught him looking at me from beneath half-closed
eyelids, a soft smile on his lips as I spoke about an autopsy
report. My voice faded off as he caught and held my gaze, and
the fear surged in me. Before I quite knew what I was doing, I
tore my eyes away, looked toward road ahead, and murmured, "Eyes
on the road, Mulder, or I'll be taking over the driving."

I felt his eyes still on me for another few moments before he
turned his attention back to his driving. An unusually
uncomfortable silence followed, until he finally drew a breath
and said, "So, burgers or Chinese for dinner?"

Now, as I recall these events, the fear returns, so strong I
can hardly continue my thoughts. What is it I fear?
Certainly not him. I trust him with my life. I *have* trusted
him with my life, many, many times. And he has earned that trust
again and again, putting my safety and well-being above his own
more times than I can count.

I trust him more with my life than I trust him with his own.

What, then, was I afraid of this time? Afraid of his scrutiny,
that he might find a chink in my armor? Afraid of his thoughts,
of what he might say?

Afraid of the look behind his eyes, not haunted or intense or
even worried, as I usually see when I look at him, but unguarded,
soft, open?

I don't know, and my mind refuses to allow me to continue this
analysis. So I must pull back again, avoiding the train of
thought that leads only to him. I have yet to find a way past
this stumbling block.

And so the fear retains control. And it remains all I have to
fear.

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