Unconventional by Leyla Harrison Classification: SA, MSR Summary: After a fight, Mulder and Scully come to a realization about their relationship and about Scully's health. Post-Elegy. Spoilers: Memento Mori, Never Again, Small Potatoes and Elegy Rating: PG-13 (mild sexual situations and language) Disclaimer (official): Aren't mine. Never have been. Well, except in those tranquilizer-induced times (these occur usually right after I see the teaser for the finale). All characters are the property of the man who does Millennium. Can't recall his name at the moment. :) Disclaimer (unofficial): Thanks to everyone who has been so supportive lately through my recent illness - particularly Jennifer, JohnBear, Lydia and Madeleine. I hope to have more fanfic posted before my next trip under general anesthesia. But my last two experiences may account for the very unsexual nature of this story. I promise, I'll have more erotica out soon. ******* Suddenly I have had to explain every change in my medical condition to Mulder. I am to keep him apprised of my situation. At all times. Even when I don't have nosebleeds for weeks, even when there are no headaches, I am still to report to him, it seems, every day to let him know exactly how I'm feeling. It hasn't taken me long to get tired of it. I'm just not sure how to tell him to knock it off. He's been through a lot lately these days as well, after all. It's not as if the stress is all just on me. I don't want to hurt his feelings. But at the same time he needs to know that he has got to give me some space. Dealing with dying is not an easy thing. Truth is, I don't deal with it as much as I should. I try to pretend that it is not really happening. That I am fine. After all, I feel fine. Physically, I'm a little weaker than I used to be, but I think that is a direct result of the fact that there is a cancer in me, and it uses up some of the vital resources I need to live off of. But it doesn't use a lot of those resources, and so I am still strong. I will be strong. I am not in a hospital. I am not weakened like Penny was, lying in that hospital bed in Allentown. She was a woman who was actively dying. I, on the other hand, am not. Yet Mulder seems to want to treat me as if I were. As if I am going to drop dead from a simple sneeze. Or as if I am going to clutch at my chest in pain and keel over just because I can't run the track at Quantico for an hour like I used to. I mean, it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that it's allergy season number one, and number two, I am not as young as I was when I used to be able to run that track for an hour. I mean, that was almost seven years ago. Don't you understand that, Mulder? Don't you understand that I'm not going to drop dead on you tomorrow? I know you are, Mulder. I know. I know you're scared - no, terrified to lose me. Because it's your fault anyhow. I know you blame yourself to an extent for my cancer, just as much as you blame yourself for Samantha's abduction. But you have to learn to not blame yourself. You have to move on, Mulder. I should have known that wouldn't have worked with him. Who was I kidding? I think I know him better than anyone on this earth, and yet I say things like that to him. Moving on and getting over what happened to Samantha - giving up his one and only true Quest in life - is about as easy for Mulder to do as it is for him to stop believing. He can't give it up. He never will. I remember what I told Karen Kosseff. Scared to admit the whole truth even to a woman who I know wants to help me face the things I fear most. I won't even tell her how I really feel about Mulder. I'm sure, though, that she knows. She's a smart woman. So this is what it comes to. I have to get him to to back off. I have tried of a million small ways to tell him, little clues I could leave for him, so that I don't have to actually say the words. Mulder, you're driving me crazy. You're making me actually think that I am going to die, and I refuse to believe that. I'm going to fight this. So stop treating me like this. Stop being such an asshole. And he has not understood. He has not picked up on the hints. Damn him. He always makes me take the hard way. "Mulder, you've got to stop this," I tell him as he is making himself comfortable on my couch for the fourth Saturday in a row. He looks up at me in surprise, giving me the Mulder Puppy Eyes. "Stop what, Scully?" "You're acting as if I'm a lonely spinster and you don't want me to end up alone." "I don't want you to end up alone, Scully. I hope you meet someone who loves you very much," he says, and I am almost surprised by the sincerity in his voice. I shouldn't be - I know that Mulder cares, but we usually don't discuss the other's personal life. Personal love life, that is. We know every detail of each other's personal life. "But you're acting as if I'm going to drop dead on you tomorrow or something." "What?" he asks, standing up from the couch. I repeat myself. "You're acting as if I'm going to drop dead on you at any given time. I mean, your life will go on without me after I'm gone, Mulder. You do realize that, don't you?" There is a long moment of silence and in that moment I realize that I have said the wrong thing. I know but I cannot take it back. It's too late. Mulder's face is full of fear. Fear that I am going to leave him. That his life will be empty without me in it. "Scully, you're not going to die," he starts out confidently, looking at the floor, then up to me for confirmation. I don't answer him. I don't know when, but eventually the cancer will do its work. Of that I am sure. I don't want to say that because it will frighten him. And it will frighten me. "No," he says, giving himself affirmation when he does not receive it from me. "It won't happen. And I'm sorry that you don't like how I'm acting. How am I supposed to act? Tell me, Scully, how would you act if your best friend was dying of cancer?" There. He's said it. He's admitted, aloud, that I am dying. He has told me that I am his best friend. I am suddenly touched by that. I don't think he has ever verbally referred to me as anything more than his partner. "How would you act if it were me, Scully?" "I don't know, Mulder," I sigh wearily. "I just need you to stop this. Stop always being in my apartment. Stop always finding reasons to show up and hang around. Just stop it." I don't really mean any of this, of course. I will never admit it, but I love actually having Mulder in my physical presence. I just love having him around. We don't have to be doing anything - from working together to just reading a case file in the same room - and I feel connected to him in a way that goes beyond words. "That's what you want?" he asks incredulously, and his voice has risen considerably. I know he's angry. I know that I've just unwittingly started another fight. I have begun to unbutton the light blue work shirt that I am wearing, feeling the sweat forming under my arms and down my back. Arguing with Mulder takes energy, a lot of energy. And strength. Two things I have precious little of these days. Under the work shirt I am wearing a white t-shirt. I am just about done unbuttoning the work shirt when Mulder grabs my shoulders from behind me. The button I am undoing pops free from the fabric, and in the silence of the room I hear it land with a plink, on the hardwood floor. "Is that really what you want?" he asks, bitter. I know what he is thinking. I am shocked that he would lay his hands on me like this, that he would touch me like this. Mulder's touches are usually so protective. A hand at my elbow or at the small of my back, guiding me out of a room. And recently, he held me to him in such a way that I felt safe for the first time in months. Years, even. But this touch is not that of safety, of concern. This touch is a violent one. This touch tells me that he is not going to let me go. His anger has been building since the case with Harold Spuller, and it apparently has festered and manifested into this. My own anger flares up suddenly and I have no control over it's sudden appearance or it's intensity. I turn around, sharply, striking out at him with one hand, my fist connecting with his upper body, his chest. I am suddenly hitting him again and again. I hate him. It is his fault, all of it. My abduction, Melissa's death. The cancer. It's his fault. I'm going to die because of him and there's nothing he can do to save me. Mulder grabs my small wrists with his large and powerful hands, forcing my body up against the wall with such force that it knocks the wind out of me for a moment. "Damn it, Mulder." I still don't realize that I have been speaking my thoughts aloud, that I have been yelling at him through my tears. "Shut up, Scully. Just shut the fuck up." I have never seen him this angry. I have never seen this look in his eyes, this look of rage, this look of absolute and utter pain. I struggle against him. His body is inches from mine. We both breathe heavily. He leans into me. "Stop it, Scully." My face is hot. I look at him. Now he's going to kiss me, I think, dazed. Oh, God. It's like when he was Eddie Van Blundht and he was sitting on my couch, only this is really Mulder, he's really going to kiss me. His mouth is really going to come down on mine, hot, forceful, stealing the breath from my lungs like a thief in the night. And he doesn't. He knows I was expecting it, though - I can see that in his eyes. I can see that he knows that I want him. I want and yet because of my fear, I don't take. Another of my many weaknesses. "Fuck you, Mulder," I hiss at him. "Yeah, wouldn't you like to," he spits back at me. He gives my body one more thump against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to get his message across. I try to catch my breath. Mulder has already made it halfway across the room, and in traditional Mulder avoidance style, is headed for the door. "So you're leaving?" I ask. "That's all?" "Yeah, I'm leaving, Scully," he says to me. "I refuse to stand here and let this happen to us." "What in the hell are you talking about, Mulder?" "You're angry, Scully. You need some time. So do I." "I still don't understand what you have to be angry about." "You don't, huh?" I don't respond. My body aches now from being up against the wall. My heart is still pounding. A strange fluttering that begun in my stomach and moved to my groin when he was pressed up so close to me has not subsided. "I don't want to lose you," he says, his voice hard. "I *can't*." He stares at me. I stare back. A challenge. Where the hell is this all coming from? I wonder. What has happened to us? Another long moment of silence. He won't take the challenge. Inwardly I cheer my victory, although I know that I have not admitted my own feelings, and so have not fully won. "You know how I feel about you, Scully." I freeze. He steps closer. The fluttering is stronger now, moving back down to my groin. My heart is thudding crazily in my chest. "No, Mulder, I don't," I manage to get out in a shaky wheeze. "Yes, Scully, you do." His voice has become amazingly tender. He can be like that. One of the many things I love about him. Oh, God. There now - I've gone and admitted it. Did I say that out loud? I wonder in a panic. I can't remember. I'm too nervous. And the look on his face is no help. He's half-smiling, like he *knows*. He steps even closer. Now we're face to face, although I would have to look up to see him. I choose not to. I keep my head level, my eyes down. His hand comes up and caresses my cheek. Gently. So gently. He lifts my chin so that I have no choice but to look at him. And then he leans down and touches his lips to mine. Oh, God. I am lost in him instantly. I press my mouth against his roughly and he responds, pulling me to him, pushing me back, up against the wall again, my hands trapped by his again, held captive, unable to touch him. And all he is doing is kissing me. Not exactly gently. Forcefully. Hotly. His tongue dueling with mine for possession of my mouth, of my lips. His lips pulling and tugging at mine, tasting them. I break the contact for a moment, to catch a breath, to try to get my thoughts together. Impossible on the latter. He is looking at me and the look says it all. "Mulder," I start, not knowing what to say next. "I know," he nods. Then his hands are on me, releasing my hands so that they are at my sides. His hands are on my shoulders, my neck. He passes over my breasts slowly, tracing the shape of each one with his fingertips and I lean into the wall and close my eyes. It has been a long time since a man has touched me like this. I don't count Ed Jerse. For some reason Mulder's touch is different - and I knew it would be. Mulder is touching me, gauging my reaction as he runs the back of his knuckles across my nipples, and I open my eyes and gasp. His eyes glitter. I want him. I want him to drag me off to the bedroom, to carry me, or I'll carry him, if I have to. I know in that moment that I want him to be inside me, to be crying my name into my shoulder when he comes, to make me whimper. I am surer of this than I have been of anything else in my life before. "Please..." He seems to read my mind - he doesn't pick me up, but he does take my hand and tug at my arm, leading me off to my bedroom, where he finishes unbuttoning the work shirt I started to take off, leaving me only in old jeans and a white t-shirt. The t-shirt is a bit slim fitting, which is why I normally don't wear it alone - only with something over it. And I am shy in front of him. My arms go up instinctively to hide myself, but he stops me. "Don't," he murmurs, and reaches instead for the hem of the shirt, pulling it up and over my head before I can protest. He breathes in quickly. I can only imagine what he sees - my breasts, heaving slightly from my slightly ragged breathing, contained by my simple white bra. I want to say his name. I want to say something. I open my mouth and a noise that is a cross between a gasp and a sigh comes out instead of words. "Scully - " he says, and then there is a flash in his eyes, and he looks at me, and he closes his eyes for a moment. Suddenly I know what is about to happen. We are about to regret what we are doing. And we haven't even done anything yet. I reach for my shirt and pull it over my head, and he does not stop me. I try not to make eye contact with him. I cannot look at him, I do not want to see the look of apology, of pity. "Scully, look, please --" "Spare me, Mulder, OK?" "Damn it, Scully, what was about to happen? What just happened?" "You tell me." I am still not able to meet his eyes, although I can feel them following me around the room. I pull the work shirt back on, button it up all the way to the top, and head for the living room. He is hot on my heels. "Scully, you know how I feel." "We did this once already, Mulder. And it ended up badly the first time. So why don't you just give it a rest this time?" "No, damn it, Scully, wait." He takes me my the arms again and forces me to look at him. I am afraid of what I will see in his eyes. That he will see how much I need him, and that he will tell me that he doesn't really need me at all. Fuck. I am so weak. I hate it. "Mulder, let go of me." "Scully - " The phone rings. He stares at me, doesn't release me. It rings again. "Mulder, I have to get the phone." "Let the machine get it." The machine does pick up. Mulder still hasn't let go of my upper arms. He has strong hands. I want those hands on my body in ways they have never been. We both wait, listening to my disembodied voice on the machine. "Hi, this is Dana Scully. Please leave a message at the beep." "Dana, honey, it's me. I just wanted to know if you still wanted to come by for lunch this Sunday. Let me know." My mother hangs up the phone. "Please let me go, Mulder." "Scully, listen to me. I have to talk to you. I have to explain." "There's really nothing to explain," I tell him, as calmly and rationally as I can force my voice to sound. "I completely understand. This is my life, after all. I don't expect - I mean, you cannot hold yourself responsible for everything that happens to me." I say this because I know that he blames himself for my cancer, for Missy, for everything. I give him enough time to say something. To explain. To say, Scully, shut up. I love you. To kiss me. He does none of the above. He still holds me by the shoulders, staring at me with those eyes, those deep intense eyes, and in a flash I realize something. I love this man. I have loved him for far too long; longer than I care to admit to myself. "Scully." He whispers, then closes his eyes for just a moment, shakes his head off to one side, and then opens his eyes again. This time they are tortured. "I'm so sorry." For what? I am wondering as he lets go of my arms. "Mulder, what are you sorry for?" "I...I don't know," he admits weakly. "But I feel like there's something I should apologize to you for. And I think that a lot of it has to do with what just happened in your bedroom." I nod my head slowly. He's right, after all. It doesn't really matter what we feel for each other - we're partners and we aren't supposed to behave this way. We just aren't. There's no excuses for that. Getting involved would be going against Bureau policy. But as much as I know these things, there is also a part of me that is not so rational. It's strange. My whole being revolves around being so professional. So formal. I go by the book. I do the "right" things. Mulder is the exact opposite of me. And yet we are so perfectly suited for each other - both professionally and personally - that it's amazing. "You just don't understand, Scully," Mulder is saying to me, " it's just..." I wait. "...so *hard*, Scully." He says this last part with a heavy sigh and sits down on my couch. I stand there, a bit confused. What the hell is going on here? We're fighting one minute, then we're kissing, and now he looks like he wants to kill himself. He does, too. His eyes have gotten dark and sad. He absently runs a hand through his hair and looks up at me, his face filled with pain. "I don't want to stand by and watch you die, Scully." Well, he certainly gets to the point, I muse. But my breath catches in my throat for a moment. He was right that night - we're both scared of the same thing. "And I don't want to die, Mulder," I tell him. He nods. "We're going to find a way." I shake my head slightly. "You can't sit around expecting a miracle." "I'm not saying I'm going to sit around and expect a miracle, Scully. I'm going to get up and go out and find one. Your tumor is not treatable by conventional methods. So there have got to be a few unconventional methods out there that can be tried. That is, if you're willing to try them." He looks at me hopefully. Of course I will try his unconventional methods. I *am* afraid to let him down, as Karen Kosseff has suggested. But I want to live. I am willing to not go by the book if it means saving my own life. "The only thing is, Scully, you have to be willing to talk to me. To really talk to me. No bullshit. No more of this 'I'm fine' stuff I hear from you all the time." The lump in my throat is too large, and prevents me from speaking, so I nod. He knows me so well. He stands and comes to me, pulling me into his arms easily like he did that early morning in the hospital after Penny had died, and he tucks my head under his chin, holding me close to him. "And then," he murmurs into my hair, "we can talk about us. If you still want to." I smile into his chest through my tears. "Deal," my answer comes, muffled, but I know he has heard me because he releases me and kisses me lightly, slowly, on the lips, and then holds me close again. END