Title: Enough Author: Jessica < JessLB@aol.com > Rating: G Keywords: M/S, Scully/Other, Mulder/Other (a little) Category: Lotsa, lotsa ScullyAngst Spoilers: Small ones from Arcadia, Lazarus, and The Blessing Way. Anything else is too minuscule to mention, so it shouldn't be classified as 'spoiler,' right? Archiving: Now who could say no to free publicity? Just drop me an email first, okay? Feedback: This is a non-profit job, here. No feedback, no paycheck. Tell me what you think! If you hate it, tell me how to improve, it's not written in stone. If you love it, tell me that too. Disclaimer: I do not own Mulder or Scully, and if I did, we'd be having quite a different season six right now. As for Trish and Steve, they do belong to me, and no, you cannot have them. Author's Note: I hope that everyone understands the importance of feedback, especially to a new author like myself. There's nothing like having someone tell you that they enjoyed reading your work (except maybe having them tell you that they hated it and you deserve to be shot...). Not only is it an ego-booster, but it helps an author to understand who is reading their stories and how the public feels. If an author is bad, don't hesitate to tell them; I haven't (politely, of course). It only takes a few small minutes to write a quick email and say, "Hey! I liked your story." So after this shameless guilt-trip, proceed. ::smiles:: Author's Note, The Sequel: Although this story is labeled as Scully/Other, I'd just like to take a minute to clarify that, in essence, this *is* a MSR. But maybe your idea of romance (or love) isn't the same as mine. But this was written with the intention of being a M/S romance, although it's not quite your average love story. Enjoy. 3/20/99 Enough Guilt unfolds like a flower; each layer deviates from the next. Perhaps a different texture, or heavier emotion. I felt guilty when I was six, and I was caught lying to my father. I was guilty at twelve when my goldfish Patty died and I flushed her down the toilet. I was guilt- stricken at seventeen when I refused my boyfriend's advances and he dumped me. I felt horrible guilt when my sister died for me, in my place, four years ago. She was only thirty- three; she still had so much life left in her, only to have it brutally stolen from her. My guilt at realizing that the only way to save my only child, my daughter, was to let her die was a powerful, emotional guilt. One which I struggle still to overcome. The heartbreak has subsided; the guilt will always be ever-present, barely cloaked by the walls I've set up around it. And now -- consuming guilt. Perhaps it is the knowledge that I have nothing to feel guilty of; or maybe because it's because I long to have the right for this cumbersome sentiment. For whatever reason, it is here in full force, and no amount of laughter, eating, or paying attention to what he's saying will diminish it. He's tall, dark, and handsome. It's clich‚, but clich‚s are such because they're true. He's successful. Brilliant. He respects my opinions, he understands the demands of my job, and he doesn't appear to have any talking tattoos, abducted sisters, or any type of psychosis. In fact -- I like him. I like him a lot. He possesses every quality that my sixteen year old self concocted on my "Mr. Right" list: kind, courteous, respectful, honest, handsome, successful, likes children, and isn't sexist. He listens to what I say with interest. He doesn't mind, either, that I pack a gun and could kick his two hundred and ten pound ass in one swift punch if I cared to. But all of this is lost somewhat on me. Somehow, I find myself catching every slight flaw and magnifying it. I don't really like brown eyes. And his nose is sort of long. He likes French food, which I hate. He drives a little too slow for my liking. I give up. It doesn't matter to me what color eyes he has or his favorite food or his driving speed. There's one thing that he isn't that truly matters; one thing that I just can't seem to get past. He isn't Mulder. ". . .moved around a lot. But I had my brother; I guess that's why we're so close now, because we were stuck with each other so much." He laughs, and I force myself to try. I manage a slight cackle and grimace. "Dana, is something wrong?" If I had a dollar for every time a man has said that to me in the past six years, I could quit the FBI and live quite luxuriously on some island in the Caribbean. I shake my head, a smile plastered on my face. "Sorry, sorry. Nothing's the matter, it was just - - a long day at work." He nods sympathetically. "How's your case going?" I sigh, fiddling with the tablecloth. "We're at a crossroads, I suppose. It's obvious that the woman died from a heart attack." "But?" "*But* that's not what my partner believes." "Mulder has a theory?" "Mulder always has a theory." He laughs and sips his wine. "Let me try this time. The suspect was able to. . .invade their body and mentally bring about a heart attack, leaving the body when the woman died." He notices my look. "I'll get better, I promise." "No, no," I stutter, amazed, "you're, um, actually -- actually, you're dead-on." "You're kidding," he muses, then shakes his head. "That Mulder. Got to love him." Inwardly, I groan. Come on, twist the knife a little harder there, pal. If you only knew. I look back at him, and he's obviously expecting a reply. "Yeah, what a guy," I murmur, hoping to placate him. It works, and he's off on a story about a patient he saw today. I settle my face into what I hope to be an interested look, and bury myself in my thoughts once more. *** "Hey, Scully, why do nursing homes give old men Viagra?" I glare at him. "Mulder," I say warningly. He's either pretending not to notice, or he just doesn't care, because he's got a mischievous look on his face. "So that they --" The phone cuts him off, and he reaches for it reluctantly as I turn back to my monitor. "Mulder....Yeah, hey." Something in his voice changes, and I look up curiously. "Yeah, it's going okay....No, no more leads yet....Well, that's what I'm saying! I have ten case files sitting around here with the exact same scenario." He glances my way, and I raise an eyebrow. Suddenly, he snorts. "You have no idea." That's it; I know him well enough to know whoever is on the other line is calling for me. I pick up the phone and cradle it against my shoulder. "Hello?" The two sets of laughter come to an abrupt halt. "D-Dana, hey." I glare at Mulder. "Steve?" "Yeah. I was just calling to ask if you were --" "Mulder, hang up the phone." He throws me a wounded look before replacing the receiver back. I give him one last angry look before refocusing. Steve clears his throat. "I was just wondering if you were free for Friday night." I knew this would come. I spent all of Saturday night trying to figure it out after he had dropped me off at home. Sunday was a repeat. I had purposely avoided his phone calls Monday and Tuesday, and now that it was Wednesday, I didn't see how I could avoid this any longer, even if I didn't know what I wanted anymore. "Friday? Mmm, I -- I don't know yet, Steve. Our schedule can change at the blink of an eye." "Sure, no problem. I understand. I've got a patient due Friday anyway; she wants me on-call just in case. Why don't you give me a call on Saturday and we'll figure something out?" he responds easily, neither pushy nor passive. Damn this man for having the gall to be a gentleman. I am not prepared for this. Very rarely am I thrown off track, and when I am, it's not a the nicest thing. "Uh, s-sure, Steve. Saturday. Right. I'll call." I can almost feel him smiling. "Be careful out there, Dana. Talk to you later." I manage a hasty, "Bye," before hanging up and sitting back in my chair. "So," he says from across the room. "Got a hot date?" I brush a strand of hair behind my ears and turn to look at him. "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me when I get a phone call, Mulder." "Sorry." He picks up a pencil at random and closes one eye, taking aim before shooting it upwards. "Bulls-eye." He holds one out to me. "Your turn." I stare him down, and he finally gets the hint, taking his feet off of his desk. "So what's up with you and this guy Steve, anyway? You, uh, dating?" I shrug. "I wouldn't call four dates 'dating,' Mulder." He gives me a funny look. "Four? I would." A pause. "So, you like him?" Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. How do you answer that one? Yes, Mulder, he's a great guy; everything I've ever wanted in a man. Oh, by the way, did I mention that every time we're out together I'm thinking about you? Comparing him to you. You always win out, too. I look up and realize that he's watching me. I clear my throat and try to look as nonchalant as possible. "He's nice." "Nice? Twist the knife a little harder, Scully," he teases, and I freeze. I've never been an avid supporter of any type of mental telepathy. Scientifically, it's highly improbable. The idea that two people could converse using some unknown mental capability and actually understand each other would defy logic. However, it's more likely to assume that when two people are around each other every day in an intense job for six years, they can develop the ability to understand how the other's mind works; to, essentially, think along the same lines as the other. But this is Mulder and I, and I've come to understand that everything about us cannot be programmed, categorized, or easily referenced. In fact, almost everything about us defies any type of logistics. At this moment in time, I think I may just suspend my scientific background and agree that yes, somewhere along the line, our minds crossed paths and have been intertwined ever since. "Do you like him?" He stops leafing through the latest issue of Celebrity Skin that Frohike loaned him to stare at me. "What's that?" "Steve. Do you like him?" I repeat. He shrugs and grins. "He's nice." I roll my eyes. "Mulder, be serious." He must understand I'm truly seeking an honest answer here, because he immediately sobers up and his eyes flicker across the room as he considers the question. "You two seem. . .compatible." Compatible? Christ. "Compatible?" I repeat. "Don't try too hard, Mulder." "Okay, okay. I don't know, Scully. I mean, he's a doctor, you're a doctor. You guys both had military childhoods, you're both brilliant, you both like Kenny G --" He trails off and I give up. I knew it wouldn't work; Mulder's mind works like a bird's. He can only stay focused on a topic he finds unstimulating for a few seconds before trying to get escape it. He notices that I've begun to pound my fingers against the keyboard in another unsuccessful effort to start our expense report, and I see his face soften out of the corner of my eye. "It doesn't really matter what I think, does it, Scully? The only thing that matters is what you think." He breaks off, searching for the right words. "He likes you. He respects you and your job, and he actually appreciates some of my theories." I smile somewhat at that. Mulder shrugs again and fiddles with another pencil. "He can take care of you, Scully." He says that one quietly, anticipating my response. And I always try not to disappoint him. "I don't want someone to take care of me," I remind him. "You can't always be the strong one, Scully." "I want a partner whose my equal, not my protector." He's getting frustrated with me, which only fuels my desire to contradict him. "Can't you ever just let down the walls, Scully? Let someone in to see you at your weakest?" Time to step back and re-evaluate situation. I'm Irish enough to know that this could end up ugly if I reply to that statement. "Forget I said anything," I say stubbornly. He stares at me for a minute, then sighs and turns back to his own computer. "Fine." "Fine," I echo. I remember reading in high school that the Great Wall of China took something like a dozen years to build. Right now, I'm finding it amazing that I've managed to construct my own in the space of five minutes. *** Mulder, being Mulder assured me that we wouldn't need to be away on a case the entire weekend, so why didn't I call Steve up and tell him? Sometimes I think he enjoys putting me between a rock and a hard place. So as I sit here now, absently twirling my rice around with my chopsticks, my thoughts once more revert back to Mulder, and the guilt that I've become so accustomed to slowly threads its way back into my head. Suddenly, Steve's hand is in front of my face, waving up and down in an unsuccessful effort to grab my attention. "Dana?" I blink. "Sorry, what?" He shakes his head. "Nothing." He clasps his hands together on the table and rests his chin on them. "So, Dana, what's really the problem here?" "What do you mean?" Steve gestures. "We've been out together five times now, and each time I feel like you're a thousand miles away." Now I realize how Mulder must feel, trying to absorb all of the guilt. Steve hasn't meant to, but he's just made me recognize that I'm being completely unfair to both of us. "I'm really sorry, Steve." I must have said this a hundred times already, but I can't help it; I *am* sorry. Sorry that this wonderful man is sitting right in front of me, willing to try to have a serious relationship with me, and I'm using his time and money to contemplate my guilt in seeing him when Mulder is. . . Sauntering across the Chinese restaurant to our table with a smile a mile wide on his face. Involuntarily, my hands curl into fists underneath the safety of the table. "Steve! Scully! What are you two kids doing here?" Steve smiles at him, and they shake hands. "Just having dinner. How've you been, Mulder?" He shrugs, watching me out of the corner of his eye. "You know how it is." My date nods sympathetically. "So don't tell me you're here all alone. Where's your girl?" I start to open my mouth to tell him that Mulder doesn't have a girlfriend, that he hasn't dated anyone past two dates in our entire six year partnership, but it closes with an audible pop when I see the tall blonde weaving her way through the maze of tables towards us. "Mulder, our table's ready. Oh, hello." Oh, hello? Against my better judgment, jealousy has seared through my heart and the guilt is rapidly disintegrating in its shadow. Oh, hello? I feel my eyebrow involuntarily shooting up. "Hi." "Oh, Scully, this is Trish Peterson, she works up in Computers." I know who she is; I've seen her in the cafeteria, we've said a few hellos now and again. I nod, feigning a happy look that I don't at all feel. "Trish, this is Dr. Steven Allen. Steve, Trish." They nod their hellos, and I take the opportunity to size her up. She's tall but not towering, brown eyes, long legs. Intelligent. Friendly. As if on cue, my brain automatically pipes up, "not you." ". . .with us?" I hear Steve say as I come back down to reality. Eat with us? Oh, wonderful. Sure, fine. Whatever. One big happy fam -- "So, Dana, Mulder was telling me about the case in San Diego." Of course he was; why wouldn't he bring up a case I'd just as rather forget? Five days of close proximity to him, of having his arm around me at any given time, has wrecked havoc of my nervous system. It was a month ago, and I'm still recovering. "Oh?" The girl isn't deaf; she hears my dislike in that one word, but she doesn't act on it. Instead, she smiles. "Yeah. I was just thinking how awful it must have been for you." Eyebrow up. "Awful how?" "Hey, Scully, why did Michael Jackson cross the road?" Mulder interjects suddenly. He must have sensed my eagerness to draw blood. I give him a patent ScullyLook, and he backs away as my mind slowly drifts off again. It's my lifeline, this daydreaming. If I wasn't able to distance myself from this situation, more than likely, I'd make a fool out of myself. The meal passes by quietly, and without further incidence, and it is only when I see Mulder give Trish a chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth that I finally choose my path. *** Two months later. I didn't think it was humanly possible, but since I've made the decision to move on with my life, less Mulder, I've reverted somewhat back to what I used to be, before I joined the FBI, before I was assigned to Mulder. Before my family members started dying off. He sees Trish on occasion, just as I see Steve when an x-file doesn't demand my time. When I was a little girl, I believed that one day, my knight in shining armor would come and rescue me. He'd be tall and handsome, and he'd whisk me away to some fantasy fairyland teetering with happiness, make-believe, and filled with love. By the time I was about to enter college, I had found that men either want you as a friend or want in your pants. When I began seeing Jack Willis in my twenties, I had decided that the maddening, crazy love happened only to Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, and that real love depended more on friendship than lust. And now, at thirty-five, I have once again redefined love. Or, rather, the *art* of loving. Before, I might have told you that I believed we all have our perfect someone out there, someone that we're fated to be with. And I still believe in that, I suppose. To an extent. Please don't get me wrong. I love Mulder. I'm in love with Mulder. And I know, somewhere, that he loves me too. He has gone to ends of the earth for me, he's risked his life and everything he has to save me, and I know that he'd do absolutely anything I asked him to do. And as much as I love Mulder, I hate him. I hate the fact that he can control me without words, without touch. Somewhere along the line, perhaps even the first day, he gradually took hold of my heart and hasn't let go. He owns me -- my heart and my soul -- whether I like it or not. I've followed him for six years; just as my heart as become his, his quest is now mine. I have watched him walk into the clenches of Hell only to wander back when I least expected it. I've seen him nearly destroyed by men who care nothing of him. And I have never once asked for my heart back. I don't want it back. It is rightfully his. But even in my assurance of Mulder's love, I have my own doubts. Doubts about Diana, about his trust *in* me, about his trust in us. I doubt in his ability to surrender his entire self to me as I have to him. There are no assurances in our love. We don't speak of it, acknowledge its very existence. We haven't acted upon it since our interrupted interlude in his hallway last summer. I have tried, God I've tried, to remain content with our state of affairs. But since my decision, I've asked myself if it's right to remain content with never touching the man you love. Never holding his hand, hugging him just because, or kissing him. I know Mulder loves me, but I don't feel it. And of all the realizations I've come to in my life, it is perhaps this one that is the saddest. That although I love, and am loved, I will never once experience it. Before, I might have told you that is impossible to be in love with one person and be with another. It was painful to recognize that not only is it entirely possible, it is sometimes the only way. I do love Steve, I do. It is not a crazy, head- over-heels kind of love. I don't get weak-kneed or breathless when he enters the room. He doesn't occupy all of my thoughts, and I won't ever tell my girlfriends that he's the love of my life. But it's a stable, warm, contenting kind of love, and I guess that's enough. It's more than I've ever had with any other man other than Mulder. It isn't overwhelming, fulfilling, radiant happiness. But I am happy, for the first time in a very long time. I will never physically be with the man I'm in love with, but he's my friend, and I'll fight forever to keep him that way. He asked to drive me home from work today, and I agreed. As we sit here now in front of my building, I turn to him, laying a hand gently on his arm. He turns to me, and I see every regret, every longing, every desire of my own reflected in his hazel depths. "Are you happy?" I ask quietly, praying for reassurance, for some comfort. He looks ahead, away from me, at the cars rushing past us in the spring rain. Finally, his eyes meet mine again. "Are you?" I pause. "As happy as I can be." He hears the double entendre, and nods. "I'm happy that you are, Scully." We don't hug, or whisper soulful apologies of love, or even argue. I squeeze his hand, feeling his warmth, and open the car door. I'm nearly soaked to the skin by the time I enter my apartment and close the door behind me. I walk into the bathroom to grab a towel to dry off with, and I see Steve's toothbrush hanging next to mine in the little powder blue cup. I run my fingers over the bristles before turning off the light and retreating to the living room. As I sit down on the sofa, my thoughts drift towards Steve, and suddenly, I need to hear his voice. "Hey," I say softly when he answers. "Hey." He sounds surprised. "What are you doing?" "Driving home. What's wrong?" "Nothing. I-I just needed to hear your voice." Even though he's miles away, I can hear his smile. "Bye." I smile somewhat. "Bye, Mulder." "Don't stay up too late, okay?" I hang up without answering and curl up on my couch, my thoughts suddenly settling. Maybe, just maybe, it is enough. The End. --------------------------- Questions, comments, and death threats accepted. JessLB@aol.com http://members.tripod.com/~SueBridehead_2/fanfic.html