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blairprovenceTitle: Banging Your Head Against a RedHaired Brick Wall
Author: Blair Provence
Originally Written: Thu, 1 Jan 1998
Rating: PG - for language; non graphic
Summary: Another's candid view of Mulder and Scully, or "An Essay on Why It Sucks To Be The /Other - by Cassidy Neill"
Disclaimer: Not mine. Duh.
Author's Notes: This is my only story in the X-Files fanfic genre, and I decided to try it from a first-person point of view. The inspiration for this story came from a discussion I had with a friend of mine about the ability of any relationship Mulder or Scully entered into with someone other than each other. Her contention was that Mulder was too damaged for *any* kind of meaningful relationship, and that Scully could, and should, do much better for herself. But I contend that their relationship is such that any *other* relationship would suffer for their closeness, i.e. the only thing they aren't getting from each other is sex.
"Never fall in love with a cop."
That's what Ma always told me - it's practically the sum total of the advice she felt it necessary to offer me in the subject of love and romance. Not that she's an uncaring mother - she just has an unwavering faith in the discover-the-pitfalls-yourself school of child-rearing. In general, I appreciate this approach, but lately I find myself wishing she'd at least pressed her chosen point a little more forcefully.
Now I know what you're thinking: she's overprotective, doesn't want her baby involved with someone whose life is so dangerous, yadda, yadda, etc., etc. The more uncharitable of you out there might sense an element of snobbery, but nothing could be further from the truth. Which is, in all honesty, that my mother loved a hard-drinking, hard-loving bulldog of an Irish cop until the day he died five years ago - a singularly nonviolent death that took place in an easy chair in front of a Sunday Redskins game. All in all, probably the way he would have wanted to go, had he had any kind of choice at all in the matter.
It took me just a little too long to figure out why Ma gave me that particular bit of advice. In my own defense, I was still just a kid when Pop's partner Ray died in a shootout at a convenience store downtown. I do remember weeks of silence between the funeral and the trial, and that afterward Pop began to drink a fourth of whiskey with dinner more often than not. Ma used to tell me not to bother Pop when he locked himself in the den for hours at a time. "He misses Uncle Ray," she'd tell me, an
insufficient explanation for a kid who just wanted a little attention from her father.
It was only later that I began to understand what she meant, and why she didn't want me to follow her path in life - that she didn't want me to have to share my husband's heart the way she had shared Pop's with Ray. Because cops depend on their partners to the exclusion of all other people, and that can be a little hard on a marriage. I know, I know, it's not an uncommon complaint, and it's a pretty widely known statistic that cops are more likely than most to end up divorced. In my own defense, I didn't go out *looking* to fall in love with one.
And he wasn't exactly a *cop*, either.
Just an FBI Agent.
With a partner.
A *female* partner.
Geez, Ma, you couldn't have been just a *little* more specific?
***
I met Special Agent Fox Mulder one Saturday afternoon on the jogging trails of
capitol city. I'm not above an impromptu race or two myself, but my major occupation while *enjoying* my exercise is guy-watching. Yeah, yeah, I'm not much for political correctedness. I tell my friends I admire the human form for artistic reasons - I'm a graphic designer, so as an excuse it can work, but it's kind of a stretch.
Anyway, Mulder's form has much about it to be appreciated, if you know what I mean. Especially if he's been running for a while, and his t-shirt clings to his torso in all the right places. I don't know what bizarre
impulse that day led me to upgrade from watching to meeting, but even now, I can't bring myself to regret it.
Midway through his second circuit around the park I fell in step with him, our feet striking the pavement in perfect concert. I have rarely been as appreciative of my height as I was at that moment - he's quite an athlete, and it took a bit of effort to keep up with him. But I have to admire a man who doesn't make allowances just because I'm a girl. He turned his head to glance at me for a moment, seeing, I suppose, a tallish, thinnish brunette with blue eyes and a swinging ponytail. Not exactly glamorous, but healthy enough. I'm pretty rigorous about my exercise regime, and I see no reason not to be proud of it. God knows, it has few other benefits.
I didn't introduce myself that day, and neither did he. In fact, we didn't say a word. We must have run about five miles before he peeled off the path with a nod and a friendly wave. I felt a pang of mild disappointment, but I didn't give it much more thought than that. I mean, he was cute and all, but I draw the line at falling for someone without even talking to him first. I'm not *that* much of a hopeless romantic, no matter what my best friend Carly says.
I wasn't even looking for him the next Saturday, and it was he who fell in step with me. I glanced at him, but he was staring straight ahead at the path, his lip quirked in a wry smile. Our run that day ended in a
handshake. "Mulder," he said, in a low, modulated voice, his palm smooth in my hand.
"First or last name?" I asked, smiling at him as I felt a tingle of electricity shoot up my arm.
"Let's just say it's the only one I'll answer to," he returned, eyes sparkling.
"Cassidy Neill."
"Nice to meet you, Cassidy Neill," he said. And then he was gone.
***
I didn't see him again for three weeks, but I though about him a lot. Wild, crazy, monkey love dreams, Carly calls them. It's a version of the game we play on the subway, when we pick a person and try to figure out why he or she is on the train. Is she a secretary on her way to meet her boss-slash-lover? Is he a college student racing for that last final exam? Or is that pair of suits over there a set of secret agents, casing the train for a defecting spy? The stories vary from day to day, depending on our moods and what television shows we watched the night before. They aren't ever just everyday commuters slogging to and from work, though. Booooring...
I came up with some great stuff for Mulder, and I'd tell you about it, but it turned out kinda tame compared to reality, and, anyway, some of it seems a bit stupid now. Suffice it to say, it my fantasies he did a little thinking about me, too. Knowing what I know now, I'd be surprised if he ever even gave me a thought. Not very flattering, I'll admit, but I'm trying for truth in the retelling.
On that third Saturday he showed up late in the afternoon looking pretty much the worse for wear with the vestiges of a beaut of a black eye and an aircast on his arm. It lent him an air of rakish charm and did nothing to quash my fantasies. He was sitting on the grass in front of a stone bench, stretching in preparation for his run. I jogged to a halt in front of him.
"Hey, Mulder," I offered, trying for cool disinterest, as if I'd only recalled his name by chance. "Looking pretty bad there, buddy. Hope the other guy looks worse."
He grinned up at me, squinting into the sun. "So, you're the only woman in the universe not suffering from the Florence Nightingale syndrome, huh? God, that's a nice change of pace."
I offered him a sympathetic grimace. "Been mother-henned a bit, have you? Wife? Girlfriend?" Not that I'm dying to know or anything...
He sighed dramatically and shrugged his shoulders. "My partner's mother. She made me about a thousand casseroles to eat during my so-called convalescence. I had to throw out some prime three week-old Chinese food to make room in my refrigerator."
"Oh, you poor, put-upon man...However will you survive such torture?" Partner...hmmm...interesting. "You a cop?" I asked, keeping my voice light. "Get banged up nabbing a vicious jaywalker?"
"Something like that," he murmured, pulling a knee up to his chest. "Ready?" And without another word, we set off.
***
It was another month before I found out he was an FBI agent. We'd progressed from running together to getting a bite to eat afterward at a hole-in-the-wall cafe a block from the park. He ate artery-clogging food
that completely obviated whatever good the jogging had done. I can't tell you how tempted I was to follow his example, but, really, what's the point of exercise if you're just going to make it irrelevant? I certainly don't do it for the runner's high. Anyway, I'd been telling him of Carly's visit back home to see her family in
"Bad one?"
He shook his head as he swallowed a bite of greasy hamburger. "Bad weather."
"Well, they're known for it. Tornado capital of the universe, and all that. But why would D.C. cops be investigating a case in
He took a sip of coffee, eyebrows arched in surprise. "I thought you knew. I'm not a cop. I'm an FBI agent."
I think he must have wondered why I smiled so broadly at his reply. All I could think was, "Boy, will Ma be relieved." Here I was already planning our future together, and he'd never even asked me for my phone number! I didn't even know if he *did* have another name besides Mulder. But if I draw the line at falling in love without speaking to someone, I do not, on the other hand, require full disclosure of all pertinent information. At least I didn't then. Maybe that'll have to change.
And I was *way* gone by that point.
I think Carly believed for a while that I'd made him up, using what she calls my 'artistic imagination' - which is an insult, no matter how it sounds. Under protest I consented to allow her to hide behind a tree in
It's difficult to figure why that particular reason for his reticence hadn't even occurred to me, or why I dismissed it out of hand when she brought it up to me then. He just didn't *seem* married, somehow. Maybe it was the lost puppy dog look he got sometimes, or his occasional remarks about the mountains of laundry awaiting him at home. I know, I know, it's the nineties, but I'd still be willing to wash his socks anytime. Sue me. And of course, there was the partner's mother's casseroles, which seemed to indicate a lack of closer female companionship. Hell, if he were mine, I'd have mopped his brow and fed him soup with the best of them.
Had a few fantasies along that line, I have to admit.
In any case, the mountains of laundry to be done on Saturday night cheered me for what they implied about his social life - it was distressingly similar to my own, it seemed. That's why I was bouncing off the walls when he finally, *finally* asked me out to dinner after our run one Saturday in November. Okay, it was pizza and beer at the sports bar in the downtown Hyatt, cheering the downfall of Notre Dame football. But it was a start.
Sports became a major theme of our relationship - if you could call an intermittent one-day a week, basically superficial contact a 'relationship'. We talked about football, baseball, basketball, hockey,
and on one memorable occasion, the intricacies of cricket. (He talked and I listened, but I *still* argue that it isn't actually a sport. It's more of a tea party with bats and white knickers.) He knew my teams, I knew his, and we won computer trivia three nights out of four. We were easy and comfortable with one another, a lot of laughs and no tears. And it was fun...but I wanted more.
The second Saturday in March I got it.
I think he was more depressed than usual that weekend. It had taken a while for me to realize how truly unhappy he generally was - he hides it very well under a facade of sardonic humor, but the truly obsessed - like me - learn to read the subtlest nuances. And truth be told, he wasn't all that subtle about it...those puppy-dog eyes again. And I, exhibiting the Florence Nightingale gene that I'd heretofore denied having, decided I was the perfect prescription to make it all better. A few more beers than usual ensured a shared cab ride home, and an offer of a nightcap in my apartment won me a shy, uncertain smile and a slight nod.
It's kind of sad that someone so amazing needs to be seduced into making love. It's almost as if he can't believe that anyone would ever want to be with him - anyone that's not as damaged as he is, anyway. I have my flaws, but I'm basically a happy-go-lucky, reasonably hardworking, family-loving, normal-type person.
I must have seemed as strange to him as the man on the moon.
Actually, now that I think about it, to him, the man on the moon might have been a bit more familiar.
His seeming reluctance to enter into a more intimate relationship with me by no means implies that he's anything other than absolutely fabulous in bed, mind you. Which is not all that common among your incredibly good-looking men, no matter what the soaps say. Most of them (not that I've taken a personal survey, don't have a heart attack, Ma) seem to feel that their good looks are all they need to contribute to the whole experience, if you follow my meaning.
But Mulder was different. Mulder showed an almost disturbing need to make sure that our afternoon together was everything it could be for me and more. By the time he left that evening, I was more exhausted, sated, and plain wrung-out than I had ever been before in my life - and that's a *good* thing. Who am I kidding? That's a great thing, a mind-blowing thing...an I'd-love-to-see-you-again-sometime-more-than-all-the-chocolate-in-the-world kind of thing. Suffice it to say, the memory of that afternoon in March is indelibly burned upon my brain, and no one under seventeen is admitted.
I thought we'd finally overcome the hurdle in our relationship at that point. I was deep, deep, *deep* into plans for our future together. As Carly says, "Hearing wedding bells a ringin' and rice we'll be a flingin'". The fantasies that week were definitely something to write home about...or write to HBO about, in hopes of inspiring an erotic TV movie. Rated XXX.
So I waited for the opening of our hearts and souls that would accompany the sharing of our bodies. I waited for the exchange of deeply personal intimacies, embarrassing childhood foibles, future hopes and dreams. I waited for silly gifts on Valentine's Day and hokey pet names for each other.
I waited for him to *call* me, dammit.
I'd given him my number.
I'd given him a sultry good-bye kiss.
I'd given him my heart.
I can only thank the Lord and whatever guardian angel watches over me that I never actually *told* him that last bit of news. Even with all about him that I didn't know, I guess I'd somehow sensed the one thing that would have sent him running for the hills. But then again, for all his exceptionalism, Mulder is nothing if not one hundred percent male. He's got the reaction to commitment down cold, and somehow I knew it even then.
Or maybe I just knew I wasn't the one he'd be willing to change it for. Wish my subconscious had thought to notify the rest of me of that little realization before I'd gotten in any deeper. But maybe my subconscious figured the rest of me deserved to have fun for a little while.
And God was it fun!
He never did call, and I moped about it for a week, berating myself for not seeing it coming, whining to Carly about how he was just like all the rest, only interested in one thing. She listened, and commiserated, but I don't think she realized how important he'd become to me. I don't think
she could understand how an intermittent encounter one day a week could become the most significant event in someone's life. Looking at it written out in stark letters here on the computer screen, I find it a
little hard to understand myself. But when you're alone in a room with Mulder, it makes perfect sense. Trust me.
Despite his new status as Cassidy-Enemy-Number-One, I found myself setting out for my jog as per usual the next Saturday. I was determined to respond with an icy cold shoulder should the dog have the nerve to show his face.
Which he, of course, did.
Unfortunately, the planned icy reaction melted into nothing the moment I got a look at the matching set of shiners he sported and immediately went into Nurse Nancy mode. (Damn that
Delusionville I travel. Denial, it's not just a river...
So shoot me. Having had a taste, I wanted more. And I got it that evening, when I discovered that he had bruises all *over* his body, in all sorts of interesting places. I'm sure some of my tried and true remedies for...er, *healing*...would have been severely frowned upon by Miss Nightingale, but, then, who the hell cares what she thinks, anyway?
That evening I came to several realizations, most of them unwelcome. The first came as a bit of a laugh when Mulder ordered the pizza - he paid by credit card, and that's how I came to find out that his first name was Fox. I asked if I could call him that. His response...well, let's just say, the answer was no. I can't imagine what kind of torment he endured as a child with a moniker like that one.
It was sobering for me to realize that I'd actually had sex with a man whose name I wouldn't have been able to pick out in the phone book. Which would have been a necessity, since I still didn't have *his* number, nor did he appear to be about to offer it. Canny little me didn't press the issue, still comfortably living in the visions of wedding bells dancing in my head.
But as we began our customary conversation about the baseball season over pizza and beer, I began to worry that the deeper relationship I'd hoped for wouldn't materialize from our new closeness. I tried a few light verbal probes into the subject of family, only to be met by a wall of silence and indifference that proved impossible to breach. Knowing what I know now, I can understand why it's not his topic of choice. But it still hurt. A lot.
I never told him that. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have tried a little harder, pushed a little more.
Or maybe I'm just hopeless. Because I know that it wouldn't have made a difference. He didn't need me for that kind of sharing, he had someone else that owned that part of his life.
He needed me for sex.
Even now I can't bring myself to hate him for it. He never made me a promise he didn't keep. He never made me a promise, period, as a matter of fact. It's not his fault that I have a more active fantasy life
than...well, anyone else in the known universe. I'm sure if I'd confided in him about his starring role in my future - and our children's futures, and our grandchildren's futures - he would have set me straight in no
uncertain terms, right before he took off for parts unknown, never to return. He'd have been sorry for misleading me, too, even though he never really did.
Even though he broke my heart.
***
I don't know exactly when it was that I realized we were never going to be more than a lot of good laughs and a roll in the hay every couple of Saturdays. I can't say it came to me in a blinding flash of light. It
was more like an accumulated sense of my importance to him...a slow, painful realization of my position way, *way* down on the totem pole. Quite a blow to the ego, really, but, then I'm not saying I came out of
the experience without a few scars.
And it's really kind of refreshing to find a man who values sex so little in comparison to other, more cerebral and heartfelt kinds of things.
Or it would be if I weren't the sex kitten in question. I'm not saying I threw in the towel, either. To my distress, with Mulder, I found out that I could become one of *those* women - you know, the ones
who convince themselves it's possible to *make* a man love them, if they only work hard enough at it.
Sorry, Ma, but it's nothing you taught me, I swear. And, God, have I learned my lesson. But, you know, I think you might have understood it had you ever had the opportunity to meet him. At least I didn't make a
fool of myself over some everyday, ordinary schmoe. Nope, no sir, not me. When *I* fall, I do it from *way* up high.
And fall I did.
