The Wisdom of a Man by Lydia Bower Classification: V, M/S Romance, A Rating: PG-13 Summary: After the events of 'Paper Hearts' Mulder visits Scully when he realizes that his search for the truth is not the only important thing in his life. Hi gang! This is a post-Paper Hearts vignette and is kinda MSR and kinda Mulderangst. I may do a follow-up to it...that all depends on what kind of feedback I get from y'all. So if you want more, you'll have to actually write me and tell me so. Disclaimer: Aw, do I have to? No, Mulder and Scully don't belong to me. They belong to CC, 1013 productions and Fox Broadcasting. I'm just borrowing them. I promise to return them healthy and happy. ******************************************************* The Wisdom of a Man by Lydia Bower I don't know how I ended up here at Scully's. I know why, but the how of it alludes me. I don't remember leaving my place and driving here--but I must have. I can see soft light washing through her living room window. Good, she's awake. I thought she might be. "Why don't you go on home and get some sleep?" she'd advised me. I couldn't help but laugh. It was my sleeping, and dreaming, that'd started this whole thing. Or finished it; however you choose to look at it. No, finished isn't a good word. Not as long as the one unidentified cloth heart remains. Not as long as there's still a daughter missing and a family frozen in a cycle of mourning that will never complete itself. I, too, am familiar with that kind of stasis. But I have moved a step closer to completion today. I shyly tap at her door. I can sense when she steps to the other side of it, can feel myself being peered at through the tiny hole set into the door. I hear the chain slide back and the door opens with a soft snick. "Hey, Scully." My greeting is both apology and request. Scully takes a good look at me and steps away from the door, opening it all the way. "Come on in, Mulder." I am once again struck by how much different she appears when she's not on the job. Her face is scrubbed clean of any makeup but still she glows from within. Her naked eyes are wide and childlike and so very blue. Her mouth reminds me of a perfect pink rosebud on the verge of blooming. Her hair is damp from a recent shower and curls softly around her face. Her severely cut suit has been replaced by a pale green cardigan and blue jeans. I love Scully in blue jeans. She has a dishtowel draped over her left shoulder. "I thought I told you to get some sleep." I grin and shrug abashedly. I feel guilty for disappointing her. "Well, you know...." "Have you eaten anything?" she throws over her shoulder as she pads barefoot in the direction of the kitchen. "I'm fixing an omelet. There's plenty if you'd like to share." I almost say no, but at that moment my stomach noisily reminds me I haven't eaten all day. "Sure. Thanks, Scully. Can I help you with anything?" She comes back around the corner and gives me this odd look, like I've been replaced by a not-very-convincing MulderClone. I'm not known for offering to help with domestic chores; Scully is aware of this. She studies me and grins impishly. "Thanks, Mulder. But I've got it under control. Sit down. I'll call you when it's ready." I slip off my jacket and toss it over the back of the chair, fold myself down onto the couch. It's comfortable, soft. I recognize Benny Goodman coming quietly from the CD player, an easy sound. The soft tinkle of dishes and pans being moved and silverware clinking together reaches me and is accompanied by the warm aroma of melting cheese and buttered toast. I am comfortable here, within Scully's home; among her things. It strikes me with perfect clarity that she has, indeed, made this space a home. I often think of my place as a repository, a rest stop--not a real home. I am comfortable there, in my own fashion. But Scully's home has become my true refuge. It's a familiar thought, but only now does it seem to resonate within me in a way it hasn't before. I tip my head back against cushions that smell faintly of Scully and close my eyes, allowing myself to drift into the cradling darkness of aroma and sound and comfort. I only startle slightly when Scully places her hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes to find her bending over me, a look of concerned amusement on her face. "Mulder, it's ready. Do you want to eat or sleep?" As she asks this she is already reaching for the soft cotton blanket that lives on the back of the couch. I've come to think of it as mine. I've spent many nights on this couch, covered by its warmth. I lick dry lips. "No," I answer and stop her hand, indulging in a huge yawn. "Food." "I'm not bringing it to you," she warns me. "I still haven't gotten the stain out of the rug from the last time you ate out here." I shoot her a toothy grin and follow her to the table. Scully will forgive me most anything. She is much like Samantha that way. The table is set as though she is entertaining. Placemats, silverware, tall glasses of iced tea. Lighted candles. Two plates are filled with omelets that are leaking cheese, and there is a basket of toast on the table. A small glass bowl of raspberry jam is sitting beside it. This is Scully's way. She has learned to treat herself kindly; and all others who are a part of her life. I'm lucky to be counted among them. I didn't always know that or appreciate it. I do now. I take a seat and Scully sits down next to me, pulling one leg up under her. I put my napkin in my lap and wait, watching from the corner of my eye as Scully crosses herself and mouths a silent blessing. It's something I've only seen her do in here in her home, and at her mother's. The professional Scully is not one for prayer. I often wish I had a faith like hers. Scully would tell me--has told me--that I do. That my faith lies in believing Samantha is out there someone; and in finding her and bringing her home. The events of the last few days has brought an as yet undefinable change to that faith. But it has not diminished it. We eat silently, but it's a comfortable silence. Neither of us feels the awkward need to fill the air with empty conversation. We've moved beyond that. I wonder if it's the same with all partners and friends. I've never worked with anyone as long as I have with Scully, and I'm not very good at keeping friends; my lack of them proves that. I ask for far more than I am often willing to give. That's not a good basis for friendship. Or any other kind of relationship. But Scully is my friend. I don't question it. I'm merely grateful for it. The omelet is warm and fragrant with herbs, the toast crisp and the jam sweet, the tea cold and bracing. As we finish the simple meal something passes between us and my eyes are drawn away from my plate and up to meet Scully's. It's strange how that happens. It's as though we're connected at some unexplored level and will sometimes find ourselves moving beyond the need for words--because our eyes will say it all. Scully is wondering what's brought me here tonight. She is glad I'm here, but curious. And worried. I don't like to worry her, but I often find myself doing things that will. At those times I'm not disregarding her concerns, even though I know she thinks I am. I don't do it because I don't care; I do it because I'm driven. 'Passionate' is a word that Scully often uses to describe me. It sounds more polite than obsessed. Or crazy. Or spooky. There is a tiny dab of jam of Scully's upper lip and I unthinkingly lift my hand and capture it on the ball of my thumb. Scully goes very still as I place my thumb in my mouth and suck away the jam. "Sweet," I comment around a grin. Scully rewards me with one of her inscrutable looks. I don't think she's in the mood to be teased tonight. Truth be told, I'm not much in the mood to tease her, either. I'm here for more important things. I think we both know that. I push back from the table and stretch my legs out, slumping a little in the chair. I fold my hands over my stomach and regard her. Who will be first? This particular silence begins to make me uncomfortable. I am the one to break it. "I've had an epiphany, Scully," I tell her. She arches an eyebrow and cocks her head. Waits for an explanation. "The dream I have about what happened when Samantha was taken?" "Yes? What about it?" Her response encourages me. "It was different this last time. And not just because Roche figured in it." I offer her small tidbits instead of the whole. She is patient with me. Scully knows me well; knows that it's not always easy for me to open up to her. A result of not being taken seriously for so long. Not even four years with Scully can completely dispel my hesitation. "How was it different, Mulder?" She gently pulls me from my self-imposed isolation. "I wasn't twelve anymore. I was in that room with Samantha as an adult this time. It started out the same, but instead of feeling all the terror of knowing what was going to happen, it was like I was playing a part, repeating the words instead of feeling them. And then the lights went out and the room started to shake and...." "And then it was same?" Scully asks. I nod my head. "Yeah. Except that Roche was there. I was still frozen in place, unable to move; and Roche was there to take Samantha away. But I wasn't twelve anymore." I am unable to look at Scully. She is quiet for a time before she asks, "What do you think it means, that you relived that night as an adult?" I look up at her and smile. "I thought I was the psychologist, Scully. Now you sound like one." And then she shocks the hell out of me by retorting, "I'll be whatever you need me to be, Mulder." I gape at her, my mouth hanging open. It's not exactly what she's said, but how she said it. Tenderly. Lovingly. I flash back to the office and the way we reached for each other before Scully left me with the advice to get some sleep. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull her close and lean into her, feel her stroke my hair. It was not the touch of a friend consoling me. Or even something maternal. It was both those things and yet so much more. It has become easier lately for us to turn to each other, hold each other. I don't know why. I don't have to know. But now I wonder if the change in me began not with this new and different kind of acceptance towards what may or may not have happened to Samantha, but months before that--and comes because of another acceptance within me. Within both of us, perhaps. "Mulder, close your mouth," Scully instructs me, a hint of a smile on her face. I do as I'm told and then open it again to say, "Be careful, Scully. You could give a guy ideas making a statement like that." "That was my whole point, Mulder." My mouth is suddenly very dry. I reach for my tea, waiting for Scully's soft smile to widen to a teasing grin. It doesn't. I am left at the table completely baffled as Scully rises and begins to clear the dishes away. Benny Goodman finishes up and there is a short silence before the next CD begins. I recognize Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons.' Scully has eclectic taste when it comes to many things. She is hard to pin down and put a label to, despite the efforts of many people within the Bureau to do just that. Mrs. Spooky. Ice Maiden. Red. None of them fit her. She is simply Scully to me. Dana, when there is no other way to capture her undivided attention. The chore done--and again without my assistance--she comes back to the table and looks down her nose at me--an assessing look. I have no idea what she's searching for and her words give me no clue. "C'mon, let's go finish our talk in the living room. I need a more comfortable place to sit." As she walks away I'm unable to drag my eyes from her softly swaying hips. I follow her like an obedient puppy dog and sit down next to her on the couch. Scully curls her legs up close to her and turns to face me. "So what do you think the dream means, Mulder?" I glance down and study her small hands. They are folded atop her knees. I reach out and brush my fingers across her hand, pull them back. It's a glancing touch and I don't know why I've done it. I look up to find her eyes on me. Her expression is calm, inviting my confessions. I shake my head. "I... I don't know what it means." "Yes, you do." She's right. But knowing it and saying it are like apples and oranges. Scully glances aside and quietly sighs. "Do you trust me, Mulder?" My hand finds its way back to hers and this time it stays there. "You are the *only* one I trust. You know that." Scully allows my hand to stay where it is. She pins me with her eyes. "Then trust me; tell me." I feel unwanted tears burn my eyes and I close them. I am so tired. I wish I could sleep. But with sleep comes dreams. I cannot tolerate them tonight. "I think I'm growing up, Scully," I blurt, afraid she might laugh at me. But I open my eyes to find her looking at a spot across the room, a contemplative expression on her face. Thank you for not laughing at me, Scully. After a short time passes she says, "So, you think the dream means that you're beginning to be able to look at Samantha's abduction with the wisdom of a man instead of the guilt of a child?" Her words force a grunt of astonishment from me. I pull my fingers through my hair, my hand instantly missing the warmth of hers. "You've been hanging around me too long, Scully. You're beginning to sound really spooky." She turns her eyes back to mine. She has a smug look on her face. "So, I'm right?" "Pretty much," I admit. I'm thinking that it's only the tip of the iceberg. But it's a start. "So catch me up, Agent Mulder." I scrub my nose and collect my thoughts. "I was absolutely terrified to even consider that Roche might have taken Samantha. But I had to, Scully. I don't know what I was scared of the most: that he might have been telling the truth or that if he was it would mean that everything I've believed all these years was a lie. But either way, it was the first time I've ever been able to consider other possibilities. I think that's a sign of maturity, don't you?" "Yes. But I also think it's the sign of a troubled man who's looking for some closure and some peace. You're teetering on the skinny edge of burnout, Mulder. You know that, don't you? You can only take so much before it all builds up and you explode. And I'm worried about you." I chuckle, trying to give myself some time to recover from the impact of her words. On the skinny edge of burnout. Yeah, I guess that fits. It's an explanation for a whole myriad of truly idiotic things I've done lately. Like punching Roche. Like taking him out of prison and putting another little girl in harm's way just to satisfy my need to be certain he had nothing to do with Samantha. And that was just this week. It doesn't explain any of the other things away. And anyway, explanations are not excuses. I have no excuse. And because of me we'll probably never know who the last little girl is. No excuse. "I know you're not going to believe this, Scully, but it's better now than it's been for a long time. I can't explain why, but this whole fucked up mess has given me back my hope." "Hope for what, Mulder?" "For Samantha. That someday I'll know what happened to her. That I'll find the truth." "Even if it means finding out that what you think happened isn't the way it really was?" "You mean, if it should turn out that she's buried in a shallow grave somewhere, the victim of an all too earthly murderer?" I watch her nod, her eyes intent and watchful. She's afraid of my response. "What was it Addie Sparks' father said? 'I used to think that missing was worse than dead, because you never knew what happened,'" I remind her. "Ahuh." "Yeah, Scully, there are worse things than not knowing. But I'm beginning to believe that even if I never know for certain, it'll be all right. And if the worst thing does happen, I'll survive." "What's changed, Mulder?" I know that this is where it will get sticky. I leave the couch and begin to pace the living room. I cannot be that close to her and still say what I need to say. Distance is safety. The apartment goes quiet as another CD spins into place. Some woman who sounds like she's about fifteen musically wondering who's going to save my soul. I already know the answer to that one. I keep my back to Scully as my hands move to my hips. "It used to be my whole life, you know: chasing after Samantha and the answers to what happened to her that night. But it's gotten so much bigger than any one person, any one occurrence. We've both seen so much, Scully, and paid the price for our knowledge. In blood, in tears, in regrets. I used to live to find the truth. I don't anymore. It's still important to me, but not like it once was." Scully is impatient now. Her repeated words reflect that. "What's changed, Mulder?" I ignore her efforts to get me to the point. There are things that need to be said; as much for my benefit as hers. "There was a time not too long ago when I was willing to sacrifice everything to finding the truth." I snort a bitter laugh. "I actually thought that it was very noble of me to be willing to give up everything in that pursuit. I liked that image of myself. A lot. I told you earlier that I thought I was growing up. Maybe it's just that I'm getting cynical; I don't know. But I've finally figured out that there are other things that are just as important to me as the truth." I turn back to Scully. She is perched on the edge of the couch, head down, studiously avoiding my eyes. "Do you have any idea how much you changed my life when you walked into my office that first day?" There is a barely perceptible shake of her head. "You grounded me, Scully, centered me. You made me question almost everything I believed--about myself, about the things I'd seen and done. I really hated you for it sometimes. In all honesty I still do, from time to time. But you brought credence to the work. And we've managed to make the X-Files almost respectable. I couldn't have done that without you." "Mulder," She looks up at me then and I can see the sparkle of tears in her eyes. And pride. And something else that is both wonderful and terrifying to me. "All I did, all I've ever done is--" "Everything." I go to her then and crouch down in front of her, placing a hand on her knee. We are of equal height now; I don't need to look down at her nor she up at me. Equal. Our eyes form a bridge and I am once again struck by the perfection of her face. Scully would pass it off as nothing more than a lucky combination of genes. I know better. Her beauty lies in her soul and radiates outward. Scully captures her lower lip between small white teeth. "You've done everything. From covering my ass and taking the heat for me to forgiving me for all the times I've treated you like shit. You've lost so much by helping me. Time. A sister. Not to mention all the occasions I've taken off on you that you've somehow managed to overlook, or at least been kind enough not to harp on. You've given so much of yourself to me and the work, Scully, and asked for so little in return. You deserve more than I've given you and I don't really understand why the hell you haven't bailed out on me yet." "I think you know why, Mulder," she whispers. My eyes drift closed then and I feel the corners of my mouth lift in a faint smile. A wonderful sense of peace is settling over me. I open my eyes to find her watching me. Waiting. I pull in a deep, cleansing breath and take both her hands in mine. "I need you, Scully. I'm a prideful, selfish man and a general pain in the ass. I know that. And I know that sometimes it gets in my way. But I need you. And I think it's past time that I started giving something back to you." I drop my eyes. I cannot look at her. My heart pounds in my chest, my mouth is dry, and I find it hard to breathe. I lower my voice and I can see Scully leaning toward me to catch the words. "The only problem, Scully, is that I don't have anything to give you but myself. It ain't much, but it's all I've got. Will you let me love you, Scully? Today, tomorrow, however long you can put up with me? Can I give you that?" She draws her hands from mine and they move up to cup my face. Scully pulls me to her and settles her mouth on mine.Her lips and warm and sweet and so very soft. Just as I reach for her she pulls away and rewards me with one of her brilliant Scully smiles. "Mulder, it's the best gift I've ever been given." "Even better than the 'Operation' game I gave you for Christmas?" "Oh, yeah. Much better." "Well, Scully, I bet I can come up with something we give each other right now that'll beat even that." Scully chuckles under her breath and stands. I peer up at her as she reaches her hand out to me in invitation. "Too late, Mulder. I've already thought of it." Laughing, I take her hand and let her lead me in the direction of her bedroom. "Hey, Scully? I probably ought to warn you that I snore." She looks back over her shoulder at me, Her face is luminescent, her eyes dark with desire. "What makes you think you're going to get any sleep, Mulder?" I have no answer to that. We've moved beyond words. THE END