TITLE: Becoming Dana AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray EMAIL ADDRESS: publius@avalon.net DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Anywhere is fine, so long as my name stays on it and no money changes hands. FEEDBACK: Go ahead; knock yourself out. SPOILER STATEMENT: En Ami. Also, vague but important spoilers for issues reportedly raised in "all things". Smaller ones for Pilot, Memento Mori, FTF, Triangle, Milagro, Biogenesis/6E/AF and Millennium. RATING: PG, by golly! CONTENT STATEMENT: M/S UST -- but they're working on it! ;) CLASSIFICATION: VA SUMMARY: Post-ep for "En Ami". "Things are changing, inside of her and between the two of them. Those changes have been slow and gradual, almost as imperceptible as the movement of a glacier. They are also, like that glacier, overwhelming and inexorable, and impossible to ignore." THANKS: To Paulette & Sharon, for the quick beta. DISCLAIMER: In my dreams... Becoming Dana by Brandon D. Ray At last it is she who breaks the silence -- the silence that has hung heavy between them ever since the departure of their three friends. It has taken her a long time to work up to it -- more than two hours. Not because she didn't know what to say; the words have echoed and reechoed in her soul for months, ever since her trip to Africa. Nor was it because she fears to speak the words, themselves; they are only words, after all. Only three syllables. And he is her lover, in mind if not in body, and she knows he will not hurt her, just for speaking these words. What she does fear is what will certainly come next. She's afraid of the conversation that is sure to follow, and the explanations she will have to give. She dreads what that conversation will do in the long run -- to him, to herself, and most importantly, to them. But in the end, she cannot keep her silence. Not while her partner sits at the far end of the sofa, his fingers nervously twitching on the remote control, reflexively changing the channel on a television that is dark and silent. She could have left, of course, and not so very long ago, perhaps she would have. She could have left when the Gunmen did, and returned to her apartment, there to lick her wounds in solitude and continued silence. By Monday morning the walls would have been high and strong once again, and she would have been safe behind them. But that is no longer possible for her. Things are changing, inside of her and between the two of them. Those changes have been slow and gradual, almost as imperceptible as the movement of a glacier. They are also, like that glacier, overwhelming and inexorable, and impossible to ignore. And so at last, she speaks. "I'm afraid," she whispers. Her three syllables, spoken as bravely as she can. Her throat almost closes as she struggles to force them out, but somehow she prevails. And then she adds, because she suddenly cannot bear the silence, "That's why I went with him." That's why she put herself in the hands of their worst enemy. That's why she took a car trip with the Devil. "What are you afraid of, Scully?" His voice is so soft and loving and gentle. So familiar and understanding. She wishes he would yell at her; she wishes he would pound his fist on the table and accuse her of disloyalty for her uncharacteristic act of impulse and caprice. If only he would shout at her, that would give her another excuse to withdraw and rebuild her walls. She knows how to deal with anger, after all -- especially *his* anger. It's a form of passion that she can accept, and even return. But she doesn't know how to respond to his love and caring. Earlier, when their friends were still here, he refused to meet her gaze, and a part of her hoped while most of her feared that he was simply waiting for the others to leave before he began to fight with her. But now she realizes that he was struggling to hold a different emotion in check. "What are you afraid of, Scully?" He asks the question again, as she knew he would. Now that she has opened the discussion, there is no turning back. There's no place to hide. She takes a deep breath, and responds. "I'm afraid of me," she says, staring straight ahead at his computer. The useless disc that might have redeemed her actions still sits in the drive, taunting her by its very presence. Perhaps if she rebooted the drive one more time -- 'That's understandable," her partner replies. "You're a pretty scary person." Her head whips around in surprise, and she now looks at him for the first time since the Gunmen left. His expression is sober and serious, and so very gentle and understanding that it makes her want to cry -- or slap him. He continues, "You're intelligent, dedicated, courageous -- that's a pretty intimidating combination." He hesitates, and suddenly seems a little nervous, as he adds, "In fact, you terrify me." She looks at him for a moment, and she feels her eyes widening in shock. She wonders if he can possibly be serious, but in the next instant she sees in his eyes that he is. "I don't mean to scare you, Mulder," she says, her voice once again a whisper. "Don't you?" He cocks his head; he seems genuinely curious, and she suddenly feels terribly cold, and wraps her arms around herself. "No." She shakes her head, trying to think of a way to explain this to him, but she's having difficulty finding the words. "Do you mean to scare yourself?" he asks. She realizes that her gaze has drifted away from him; now she looks quickly back at him again; once more, he has surprised her. "I ... I'm not sure," she admits. "I mean, in the strict sense, no. I didn't set out with the intention of frightening myself. That was never my goal." "But you are afraid." A statement, not a question. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then opens them again. "Yes," she says, more confidently than she feels. "I am." He nods solemnly, and she discovers that it hurts that he is not surprised. Has she no secrets from this man? None at all? But before she can pursue that question, he asks another. "And this fear of yourself is what drove you to believe ... him?" She cannot miss the slight hitch in his voice, and her insides twist at his words as in her mind she hears the subtext that he will not speak. If her partner had come to her with the same story, she would not have accepted it so readily. She would have demanded proof; evidence. She knows this, and he knows it, and he knows she knows it. She wants to deny it, she wants to push it away, but she will not lie to him. Not again. And so she simply says, "Yes." She looks at him again, waiting for a response, but he says nothing. After a moment, she sighs, and continues, "It was something Dana would have done." Finally, his eyebrows go up in apparent surprise, and she nods quickly, more sure of herself. "Dana was impulsive," she explains. "She was a risk-taker. She liked to drive too fast, she experimented with marijuana ... she even made love on the beach, once, in broad daylight." She hadn't meant to tell him that last item. It cuts a little too close to the bone; it risks exposing too much. And then she realizes she did it on purpose, and she nods again, very slightly, a tight unhappy smile on her face. Dana is a risk-taker, after all. "What happened?" he asks. She sighs, relief and disappointment mingling in her exhalation. He has chosen not to pick up the thread she just gave him. Unfortunately, there's no good answer to the question he *did* choose to ask. And yet, she has to try. "I don't know if I can explain it," she begins. She pauses, the fear coming to the surface, so thick now that she can almost taste it. Then she forces herself to go on. "Dana ... Dana was fun. And exciting. Everyone liked her. *I* liked her. She was a little wild, but not *too* wild. She had a good time, but she also fulfilled her responsibilities." She pauses again, and swallows, before concluding, "And she was available to people. She was open. When somebody needed her, she was there." She dares to look at her partner again, and her heart almost stops at what she sees in his eyes. Love, compassion, caring ... of course those things are there. They've been there for a long time. But now she also sees herself, and she realizes that, despite her best efforts, this man has met Dana a few times over the years. He met her in a graveyard in Oregon, as they laughed together in the rain. He met her in a hallway in Allentown, when he thought she was dying. He met her in another hallway, outside this very apartment, when they both thought she was leaving. He met her in the entryway to his apartment, after another man had tried to claim her heart. He met her there again, a few months later, when she came to tell him that Diana Fowley had been murdered. He has met her. And he loves her. He loves Dana. But does he love Scully? Immediately she pushes the question away, recognizing it for the sophistry that it is. He loves Scully, as much or more than he loves Dana. She knows this with certainty; has known it, now, for more than a year. *His* feelings are not the ones in doubt, after all. She never really believed that it was the demerol. He's still waiting for her to complete her thought, but she's not sure that she can. She has to say something, though, and so she takes a deep breath, and continues. "And then one day," she says, "Dana made a mistake. A bad mistake. She hurt a lot of people, without ever realizing that it was happening -- without ever realizing that she could **bbe* that hurtful. She didn't think she was that important, and she didn't really understand what that sort of pain could be like. Not until it was too late." "'Gay and innocent and heartless,'" he murmurs. She feels her eyebrows rising slightly, but then she nods. "That's right," she agrees. "That's perfect. Dana was like that; she was gay and innocent and heartless." At last he touches her, gently, leaning forward to lay a his hand on her shoulder. She shivers at the contact, but does not withdraw. "Not so heartless, perhaps," he says. "Just naive." She shrugs, but not so hard as to dislodge his hand, because she's discovered that she likes having it there. *Dana* likes having it there. "Call it what you will," she responds. "The fact remains that she -- that *I* hurt people, and then when I tried to remove myself, and get out of the situation, I hurt some more people, although in different ways." "Your father," he says, and she nods. "Your brothers." Another nod. "Yourself?" She hesitates, then nods a third time, and says, "And that's why I went with him. That's why I trusted him. Because ... because lately I've been coming to realize just how much I've hurt myself." She forces herself to meet his gaze. "And I've also come to realize how much I've been denying myself -- and how much I've been denying *you*." It's his turn to nod, and she tries to ignore the unshed tears that she sees glistening in his eyes, as she concludes, "I went with him, because I've decided I want to take back some of what I gave up, all those years ago." "You want to be a risk-taker again," he says, very softly. "You want to wonder about things." "Yes," she answers, almost fiercely. "I want those things again. I want to feel again, and not be ashamed. I want ...." But despite her best efforts, her voice trails off. She can't make herself tell him what she really wants. "You know what I want, Scully," he says after a moment. "You know how I feel. I think I've made that pretty plain." "Yes, you have," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I haven't meant to --" "This isn't about recriminations," he says firmly. "And I'm not trying to draw you into anything you're not ready for. I've waited this long. I can wait a little longer." "Okay." And then there doesn't seem to be anything else to say. Not tonight, at any rate. Before she knows it, she's standing in his doorway again -- that damned doorway, the one that has ppllayed such an important role in their life together. "Don't stop being Scully," he says, standing slightly closer to her than he usually does. "It's good that you're finding Dana again, but I love Scully, too." Suddenly she feels tears in her own eyes, and she smiles and shakes her head. "I could never stop being Scully," she replies. "She's too much a part of you." "Good." He seems to want to say something else, but apparently thinks better of it. She studies him for a moment, tasting her memories, trying to fit them in with what they've both said tonight. She feels warm inside, now; she's found a new comfort level. She's bared a bit more of herself to him than she had before, and the world didn't end. The world didn't end. Her smile broadens at the memory that phrase evokes, and on impulse she rises up on her toes, slips an arm around his neck and returns the kiss he gave her on New Year's Eve. Our second kiss, she thinks, as she presses her lips against his. Two in one year. Progress. At last she lets him go, and settles back down on her heels again. They're both smiling now, as they did in that hospital waiting room last winter. They know that it's only a matter of time. Things are changing, inside of her and between the two of them. Those changes have been slow and gradual, almost as imperceptible as the movement of a glacier. They are also, like that glacier, overwhelming and inexorable, and impossible to ignore. Soon, she thinks. Soon. Fini