TITLE: Self Esteem Issues
AUTHOR: Cary Jones
EMAIL: cmjones@pilot.infi.net
DISTRIBUTION: To Gossamer, and wherever else.  Just tell me.
SPOILERS: Movie, baby, movie.
RATING: R, for various swearing and slight sexual content.
CONTENT WARNING: MSR. Of course.
CLASSIFICATION: VR, a bit of A

SUMMARY: A foray into the uncharted territory that is the mind of Fox
Mulder.

DISCLAIMER: They're not mine.  For the love of God, I have enough to
worry about with all these loan sharks, ATF agents, IRS auditors, and
mobsters breathing down my neck.  I don't need Chris Carter and his band
of cronies joining the pack, too. 

Self Esteem Issues
Cary Jones

	My name is Fox Mulder, and I'm an addict.  I'm addicted to the notion
that it is my place on this planet to be Dana Scully's personal
protector, confidant, and only friend.  And I am so addicted to this
concept that I myself have driven away every chance she's had at a real
life.  This is no life for anyone, and it's especially a bad idea for
her.  Now me, I've got no ambition.  Just a shitload of crazy ideals
that fluctuate nearly daily.  Never have I displayed a real drive to
make more money, own a Beamer, or live somewhere other than a shithole
apartment with anyone other than my sorry-ass self.

	Now Scully, she's a class-A doer.  From what I understand, she shot
through college and med school like they were fucking correspondence
courses in refrigerator repair, and found herself at the FBI, where she
thought she'd do some more of the same.  Wrong, Scully.  You must have
pissed the Big Guy upstairs off somehow, because you were partnered with
me.  And thus began the downfall of the brilliant Dr. Scully.

	It happened in stages.  During the first year she really did play the
role of debunker, challenging everything my dried-out, feeble little
soul believed in.  She had her heart in it.  She felt so strongly that
she was right, and that eventually I would come to realize it.  At the
time, I was amused.  She struck me as an upstart--an attractive little
tight-ass, but a tight-ass nonetheless.  I wish I had known then that
that Scully was soon to be extinct--the Scully who could have had
children, the Scully who wanted to succeed so badly she could taste it.  

	Gradually, Scully started edging her way onto my side.  She still
favored science over abstract lunacy, as she continues to, but she
started to trust my hunches.  And I started to trust her.  And then we
became a true team--Mulder and Scully against the world.  I loved every
second of it; the feeling of comraderie that I'd never really
experienced, the sense that no matter how low I was, I could always turn
to Scully.  We developed the kind of love in less than five years that
it usually takes married couples thirty years to recognize.  I'm still
not sure if I could ever go up to Scully and say these things, but the
sentiment stands.  The one time I ever told a woman I loved her she
never said it back.  I found out later that she was, ahem, using me for
sex.  An interesting dichotomy there for you--the masculine ego boost
juxtaposed on the sentimental atom bomb.  

	Sometimes I hate myself for taking that strong, ambitious, beautiful
woman and sucking all the life energy out of her with my neediness, like
the gestating creature inside her tried to do a month and a half ago. 
Dumb bastard, I was there first.

	So this is what happened after we got back from the Antarctica.  I
drove the Sno-Cat almost all the way back to civilization on nothing but
gas fumes and adrenalin.  I only had to hike three-quarters of a mile
carrying Scully like a sleepy toddler, but needless to say it was nearly
my undoing.  As soon as I was presented with a warm, flat surface, I was
out like a light, and so was Scully.  I hear we made an adorable
picture--two frostbitten thirty-somethings collapsed on top of each
other, entwined like they were holding on for dear life on the floor of
an airport lounge.  This from the U.S. Military guy who came to pick us
up.  I acknowledged his supremely witty remark about Scully being too
hot for frostbite with a barely controlled growl, then promptly dropped
off again, holding Scully close to me on the plane and feeling more
comforted with each heartbeat that echoed against me.  

	At that point I felt more close to Scully than I ever had before. 
Certainly she was physically close, but it felt like we were two halves
of whole soul coming together at that instant.  This sensation, combined
with the most relief I think I've EVER felt, provided for a couple very
pleasant airplane flights. 

	We flew into DC after three airplane changes--no luggage, no problem,
and we both went straight to the hospital.  She had just minor frostbite
(still trying to figure that one out myself), and extreme fatigue, but
other than that she was okay.  I was a different story, however.  Not
only did I still have a substantial head wound, but now I had a nasty,
now infected head wound, and minor frostbite to boot.  I spent four
lovely days in the hospital, while the alluring Dr. Scully spent but
two.  Strange twist of fate, I thought.  And while we spent a good deal
of time together those four days, not once did we discuss The Kiss.

	The Kiss was a very stupid thing for me to do.  What it basically said
was that I knew what she was thinking, and since I had more balls, I
would shout it out loud for the world and all of Hegel Place to hear. 
God, I'm dumb.  I could have fucked up the best relationship I've ever
had in my life because I couldn't handle the thought of her leaving. 
And wham--here's some irony for ya--they re-opened the X-Files, so she's
not leaving after all.  Score one for Mulder, Salt Lake City--zero.  I
simultaneously rejoiced and cried whe I found out.  Because I couldn't
let her stay with me, no matter how much she wanted to or felt some sort
of obligation to me because I saved her life.  I would walk to the ends
of the earth for this woman.  I have, and I will again.  So if you love
something, you set it free.

	After the conversation we had in the park, in which I elucidated every
flaw I had and several carefully thought-out reasons why she should get
the hell away from me, I saw that it was time for a serious
conversation.  Not one of our usual Mulder-bullshits-Scully,
Scully-bullshits-Mulder exchanges, but a conversation, like normal
people have.  I told her so this morning, and as you may have predicted,
she was not surprised.  In fact, I'll bet she thinks I'm an idiot for
taking so long to suggest it.  She asked me what was on my mind, and
like a ten-year-old hiding the bat and the ball but not the broken
window, I said, "Nothing."  That woman knows me.  No, I mean she KNOWS
me.  She knows sides of me that have never seen the light of day.  With
that one "nothing" she knew that I was talking about The Kiss, that I
thought we needed to dicuss it, that I felt monumentally guilty about
it, and that I really really REALLY wanted to pick up where we had left
off.  And she relayed her intricate knowledge of my psyche to me with a
simple "Okay."  But with a smirk.  She smirked.  I swear.

	And now that I'm not injured, or absorbed in the work that doesn't mean
anything without her anyway, I have to tell her the truth, I owe her
that much.

	"Mulder?"

	Oops.  While sitting here thinking of the things which led us up to
this point, I completely ignored Scully's entreaty.

	"Yeah, Scully?"

	"Could you get me a glass of water?"

	"Sure, baby."  I chuckle inwardly at my ability to use a term of
endearment, and realize that I've never been this happy in my life.  But
as I bring back the water to the bed (as far as I'm concerned it's OUR
bed now) I remember the last thought I had before she shook me out of my
reverie.  I owe her the truth.

	So lying naked in bed tangled with a likewise naked Dana Scully, I tell
her that I love her.   And when she says it back, I know that for the
first time in my life, something makes sense.