Oubliette: Tears In My Coffee
by
Sydnie MacElroy
It was still dark when Scully parked her car along Indiana Avenue across from The Grounds, a coffee bar that tried to be upscale and succeeded only in attaining an atmosphere of touristy charm. Still reeling from the flood of emotions she had been experiencing over the last few hours, she didn't relish the idea of standing alone on a dark and deserted street waiting for Mulder. The Grounds wouldn't be open for a few more minutes, and the manager, Brenda, wouldn't unlock the doors for anyone before six o'clock sharp. Anyone, that is, except Mulder, so Scully waited in the car, hoping he would be along soon.
They had discovered the place together, on one of their frequent lunch time forays out of the office when the tension and intensity of the morning called for an hour or so of walking off frustration. It was the perfect place for quiet conversation or for planning a next move when they seemed to have reached a stalemate in some investigation. It was also perfect for just sitting together, sipping coffee and thinking and being secure in the knowledge that come what may, each of them had at least one ally. At some point, Scully began thinking of it as 'our place,' although she would never have said so to Mulder. There was too much intimacy implied by two people having a 'place' or a 'song' or anything else that was 'theirs' simply because it held so much meaning for them as a unit. But on their first afternoon walk after Mulder's return and their reinstatement, they found themselves on this street and Mulder said, "Hey, Scully, there's our place. Feel like some coffee?"
The warm feeling of that thought was fleeting. What had Mulder said on the phone just a little while ago? He had asked her to meet him at 'the usual place,' not 'our place.' Did that mean he didn't think of it in that way anymore? Had she hurt him that deeply? Had she inflicted that much damage on their friendship, and what could she do to repair it?
She could recall a time not so long ago when such self-doubt would have been as alien a thought to her as the possibility of psychic phenomenon or extra-terrestrial intervention in human matters. She had been so sure of herself and her beliefs, her science. She had been self-confident almost to the point of arrogance, logical almost to the point of frigidity, and that had been a comfortable existence simply because it was familiar. She wanted it back.
The glow of headlights flashed across her face as Mulder approached from the opposite direction and guided his car into a space across the street. She watched as he turned off the lights and the ignition, marveled at the fact that a man of his size and physical power could look so small and helpless at times, that someone with such a keen and orderly mind could be so emotionally vulnerable, that the person she looked to for strength needed her strength in return.
She waited until he got out of his car before she emerged from her own. And then they stood looking at each other from opposite sides of the street, neither, it seemed, daring to cross the broken white line that represented the bulwark between them, a wall built on the cornerstone of a small betrayal, not of action but of expression, the betrayal forgiven, perhaps, but certainly not forgotten. Over time, they could tear down that wall or it would grow out of control. She had laid the foundation, so the choice was hers. Her next actions would herald the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning, but whatever happened, on some level she knew that something had changed, that more changes were imminent.
With tentative steps, she began the long journey across the street, pausing briefly, symbolically, as her foot touched the center line. This was where her part of the quest ended, where she embarked on his share to reclaim the lost ground.
Mulder watched her, his face impassive, but inside a multitude of thoughts and feelings competed for prevalence. This was a woman who had survived more than he would have thought any one person could, a woman who in a few short years had endured more peril, more loss and more heartache than anyone should have in a lifetime, and she had done it all without complaint. She had followed of her own free will as he traveled down a road that might well lead them both into ruination. She stood beside him in places and situations that might cost them their careers, their sanity, or their lives and she did so without flinching, without ever expressing second thoughts, without regret. Respect seemed too insignificant a word to describe what he felt for her. Reverence, veneration, awe. Any one of those came closer, but still paled in comparison to the emotion.
He owed her his life many times over and he would give it for her, also without regret, if it came to that. It would mean the end of his search, but he suspected not the end of *the* search, for she had made it her own, accepted it, if unwillingly at first, and pursued it diligence and determination to match his own.
There was a fire within her, a fire that could consume him if he gave himself over to it, a fire from which he was content to draw the simple warmth of friendship, a fire, perhaps the only one, that he did not fear. She had a rare passion, a thirst for answers that would be quenched only by absolute truth. It was not enough for her to believe, she had to know, with her heart as well as her mind.
But there was another side to Dana Scully, a side he glimpsed only occasionally, but still too often. She could be cold, emotionless. He would never use the word cruel to describe her and he would never call her a bitch. She deserved better than that. She *was* better than that. But she could certainly act that way from time to time. She could be stubborn and argumentative beyond the usual mock hostility of their philosophical debates. Although she would accept being wrong with the same grace and dignity she displayed when she was right, every now and then something else would show through. At those moments, he could only hope and pray that it was not what he thought he was seeing - scorn and contempt.
As she stood before him now, the final distance between them a matter of inches that might as well have been miles, he saw a third facet to this complex woman, something he had seen once before, something she needed to reveal more often. This was not Dana Scully, the federal agent or Dana Scully, the woman. This was Dana Scully, the child, a timid, anxious, self-conscious creature who wanted someone to care for her and to tell her that everything would be all right. Every part of her needed that, but this was the only part that would admit it.
Scully looked up into his face, searching as she often did for some hint of what was going on inside his mind. But usually, as now, his face showed only one of two things, either he was joking or he was not, and right now there was no indication of humor. She tried a smile, but it came off looking and feeling weak and silly. That last bit of distance had to be crossed, so at last, she reached out and encircled him with her arms, breathing a sigh of relief when she felt his arms lock around her shoulders.
"I was horrible, wasn't I," she asked.
"I wouldn't say that."
"Of course, you wouldn't, but its true. Can you forgive me?"
"Already done."
Breaking the embrace, Scully stepped back to look at him once again. "There's so much I haven't told you."
Mulder nodded. "I know. It's cold out here. Come on." In a move that was neither anticipated nor expected by either of the partners, he took her hand and she let herself be led to the door.
Inside The Grounds, Mulder ushered Scully to a table in the corner and went to the counter to see about obtaining some breakfast. While he waited for the order, he stood, chatting idly and easily with Brenda.
He was a paradox, Scully thought. So tortured, so haunted by memory, and yet possessed of a child-like wonder and curiosity. So warm, so caring, so cold and distant. He was so afraid of loss that he never really let himself get close to those he feared losing. They were partners, friends, and yet that friendship never really crossed the line from professional amicability to personal bonding. Oh, they might attend a ball game together, or rent a movie, or share quiet times over a cup of coffee, but that distance was always there. There were certain things neither of them felt comfortable sharing with the other. In a moment of pain, they would turn to each other if they happened to be together, finding in each other a source of instant comfort. They might even talk about it later, but those conversations would always take the form of analysis, probing for reasons and explainations, without ever touching on more personal topics, like how they felt about it or how their experiences effected them.
They knew nearly every detail of each other's lives over the years they had worked together, knew each other as well as they knew themselves. Each could anticipate the other's actions and thoughts, one would start a sentence, the other would finish it. Yet there was so much they didn't know about each other, so much that remained hidden and denied.
A hand on her shoulder. Before she could remember where she was, Scully panicked, spinning around in her chair, ready to defend herself. Mulder looked down at her, eyes wide with alarm. The voice of Lucy Householder echoed in his mind. 'I don't like to be touched.'
"I'm sorry. You startled me," Scully said, taking one of the coffee cups from him. She glanced across the room at the restaurant manager, who was staring at her unabashedly. "I thought maybe Brenda was out to get me."
Mulder settled into a chair across from her. "That's almost funny."
"She wants you, Mulder. And she thinks I'm what's standing in the way."
"I know. She told me."
Scully started to take a sip of the coffee, then stopped and sniffed it. "Does this smell like almonds," she asked suspiciously.
"Coffee of the day. Cafe au cyanide." He laughed. "It's amaretto, Scully. Drink up."
But she made no move to raise the cup to her lips, prefering instead to stare at her reflection in the steaming liquid. "I didn't know how you would react. I was so afraid that you would doubt me, that you would feel that you couldn't trust me anymore. I couldn't say anything."
"Scully?" His hand reached out for hers, but she slapped it away.
"After the abduction, after I got out of the hospital... You were there for me, and I... And then, I thought you were... And Melissa..."
"Scully?" He reached out again and this time she grasped his hand as tightly as she could.
"It was all too much. I tried to be strong. I needed to be, but I let everyone down. Especially you."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? You don't know everything. You don't know the truth. I should have been there."
"Are you talking about the box car?"
"I don't know. Maybe. And at my apartment when Melissa was shot. And I should have been there for you in Seattle. I could see down that road."
Mulder's eyes asked the question his voice wouldn't.
"The road she was on. Lucy. I was having so much trouble sleeping, and it wasn't getting any better. After Melissa's funeral, it had been days without sleep, and I couldn't take it anymore." She wiped away a tear as it rolled down her cheek, then looked with disdain at the moisture on her finger. "I, um... I went to my doctor..."
Mulder's grip on her hand tightened. "Sleeping pills?"
She nodded. "Don't panic, Mulder. I took them two nights, and then I realized it felt too good. It let me forget for a little while, sleep without dreams. But I wasn't facing my problems, I was hiding from them. I got rid of the pills, but it would have been so easy to continue, and it was so hard not to, knowing there was something that could take some of that pain away. I understand why Lucy turned out the way she did. If I hadn't... That could have been me."
"But you didn't let that happen."
"I haven't let it happen yet."
"If you ever, *ever* feel like that again, Scully, you talk to me. Got that?" His words were harsh but there was tenderness in his eyes and in his touch as his free hand brushed against her cheek. She gave a small nod and absently nuzzled into the touch of his hand, trying to absorb some of his strength. "That's what you were so afraid of telling me?"
"Part of it." She was quiet for a moment, struggling to put the words together. "I used to know who I was, where I was going. I used to know what I believed in. I don't know any of that anymore." She braced herself for his reaction to what she was going to say next. "You took that from me."
Mulder bristled and tried to pull his hand away from hers, but she held on. "Scully,..."
"Shh. Just listen. Sometimes, I'm even grateful for that. You showed me that I was wrong about some things. I've learn a lot that I don't want to know, but now that I do, I'd rather know than live in ignorance. Sometimes, though, it just hurts too much, and I want to go back. I try to act like nothing's changed when I know it has."
He traced small circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. His eyes were focused on some point in the distance, unable to look at her. "Do you want out?"
Scully was silent for a long time, weighing the merits of the truth versus a lie. "Yes," she whispered at last.
Mulder felt his world screech to a sudden halt. The air seemed to heavy to breath, the walls were closing in.
Scully brushed away another tear, this time from his face. "And no," she said. "There are a lot of things I want, Mulder. I want to close my eyes without reliving the nightmares. I want to meet someone without wondering if I'm being set up. I want to walk through a door without wondering who or what is waiting for me on the other side. Leaving now isn't going to get me any of that. I've got too much to lose. You. Any chance I have of finding the answers. Like it or not, Mulder, you're stuck with me."
"You don't have to..."
"Yes, I do. If I gave up now, I couldn't live with myself. You know that."
He nodded. "If you do decide to... I'll understand."
Scully smiled. She was feeling better than she had in a long time. It must be true, she thought. Confession is good for the soul. "Thank you," she said and leaned across the table to plant a light kiss on his cheek. As she settled back into her chair, she had to laugh. He was blushing.
"What was that for," he asked.
"Oh, just for being you."
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