No Particular Place To Go (1/1) by Danielle Leigh Spoilers: One Son, general season five and six Rating: R for dark themes Summary: An evening's betrayal reveals something darker at work. This is also probably a big ball of wrong, but without the humor. Disclaimer: 10-13 owns them, I'm just torturing them. ---------- Ridin' along in my automobile My baby beside me at the wheel I stole a kiss at the turn of a mile My curiosity runnin' wild Cruisin' and playin' the radio With no particular place to go -Chuck Berry ---------- He agreed to meet her even though he knew it was wrong. It was as if his curiosity had finally won over every other impulse in his brain. And he was. Curious. Would she look different to him now? Would knowledge taint the memory of her? He had known it was wrong when he had made the date. Not date--meeting. Meeting. He knew it now, staring mindlessly at his fingers drumming nervously against the rich pearl tablecloth. He found he couldn't stop staring at their action, these fingers of his, moving as if against his will. Or at the very least lacking permission. But his will had been a foolhardy monster lately, refusing to listen to reason. Her voice over the phone had been the same. It had been an insanely normal conversation. Diana had suggested drinks and he had insisted on dinner. It only occurred to him after he had hung up that his first thought should have been to trace it. He had stared at the phone for a minute, debating his options. She hadn't sounded like she had been calling from a pay phone. Her voice had been too--real. Too connected. So it had probably been from some anonymous cell phone. There wouldn't even be a point, would there. And frankly, he just didn't want to. After the whole debacle (which was the only way he could think about it still) he had been flooded by this primal urge to see her. For a while he had a strange theory that she was still living in the Watergate. Just on a different floor. In his mind's eye it was as if the truth had always been there, just an elevator ride away. For a few weekends--after--he had spent days wandering aimlessly around the complex riding different elevators, sneaking in different rooms when a maid had left the door open to clean. But he never saw her. She had sounded busy on the phone. Not I'm busy so why am I talking to you, but apologetic busy. As if she was truly sorry he didn't have the same purpose for getting up in the morning that she did. So busy she had only suggested drinks. It was like waking up one day, and finding a life you had left behind. Finding a lover you had kissed goodbye and a love you had relinquished. Picking up--not where you had left off, but in the middle. After learning enough about a person to claim you knew them, but before you could call them a soul mate. He had never realized he was capable of such forgiveness. The restaurant they had agreed to was not a place they would have gone to when they were together. It was too expensive, too formal, too false. They had specialized in charming dives, all night places, cheap and comfortable that would always be there to welcome them. But strangely, he could see them here together, when he could not picture either of them here with someone else. The empty chair in front of him was aching to hold her tall, lithe form. He shivered. Was it possible? He felt almost--invigorated. As if something unimaginably exciting was going to happen. And he searched himself for the answer to the question she was bound to ask. Would he say yes? Kiss Scully on the forehead, give Kersh the finger, salute Skinner and go? It was practically inevitable, wasn't it? He and Diana were a set. A pair of salt and pepper shakers. One without the other was just silly. Incomplete. And he was jealous. Of her action. Of her purpose. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Yet--the most momentous event that had ever happened on the earth and he was still. Stunned into inaction. At times he could hear the humming of his flesh and mind--small movements he couldn't predict and was loathe to control. Somewhere, somehow, movement was escaping unchecked from his body. All he wanted was to channel it. Diana could help him, she could show him the right tool to use. Perhaps she wouldn't ask him at all. Maybe she wanted only to rebuild what had been lost at El Rico in the manner she saw fit, without all of his fumbling and interference. Perhaps she would only see him as something to overcome. To placate. The way Scully was beginning to find him an obstacle on their cases, something to appease and ignore, but never acknowledge. The ability to make decisions--to investigate in purity, a talent he had always taken for granted, had somehow been transferred to Scully's rounded, perfectly capable shoulders. Scully. He supposed--no, he *knew* that he should have thought more about the consequences of his actions tonight. Examined all the outcomes and asked himself if he could accept them, live with them. He had only been able to examine one option clearly: not coming here tonight. Being without movement. And *that* and that alone had been unimaginable. Although he saw it as a kind curiosity--a peekabo with a life he had never had or wanted, until now--that was not how *she* would look at it. It was so easy to imagine her anger, her wrath directed squarely at him. The last few weeks he had seen her in fervor that was unparalleled to what had come before. It was comfortable to imagine her anger, but he couldn't honestly believe she would be angry. Somehow, he believed she was past anger when it came to him--past passion, past feeling of any kind. It was a belief he found neither sad nor strange, just undiscovered as of yet. Something he couldn't seem to compute into his own particular universe. Perhaps one day he would feel-- It was only when Scully sat down in the chair across from him he understood the true disadvantage to having one's back to the door. She looked merely grim and little else. Mulder stared at her, uncomprehending. Her red hair and sea blue eyes clashed against the maroon fabric of the chair. She just didn't *belong*, for Christ's sake. Couldn't she see that? Apparently she couldn't, for instead of saying anything she took a sip of water that had been waiting for another set of lips. Her fingers seemed to jump on the glass and he knew with sudden insight they wanted to hold her gun, that they felt bereft without the cold steel against them. He had seen the unconscious twitch before, but never she was alone in his presence. Never when the threat was this insidiously personal. Scully put the glass down carefully, as if she had sensed what he had sensed about *her*. He could practically sense the way she was keeping herself in check, in control. The muscles in her jaw were tight, the skin in her face stretched bone white. Her fingers were taut and clenched. How painful it seemed and what was the point of it all? "In case you were wondering--" She peered at him carefully, her eyes traveling over his face. "No. You're not wondering. Well, I'll tell you anyway. She called me. To tell me about your," her throat worked, "*meeting* tonight." He somehow hadn't expected that. Of all things. "She thought it would be wrong for you just to sit here. She was worried about--I believe her exact words were: Your state of mind.' She felt it would be--best if I was here. That I was very important--to you and that--my being here would be important. A *help*." No wonder Scully was incensed. His betrayal would not even register, it would be dwarfed by the--most likely--calculated blow to her ego. "How embarrassing for you," he said without thinking. Her hand convulsed on a salad fork. He was mildly surprised to see no blood seep out. "Really. I was thinking the same thing about you." He smiled at her. He was about to say more when the waiter appeared and saved him from getting a salad fork deposited in his eye. "We need more time," Scully said stiffly. "Just two scotches right now." The waiter just bowed and retreated. "I've talked to Skinner. He agreed that a wiretap should begin immediately on your home, cell, and work phones. I did manage to convince him that a twenty-four hour watch of your activities would be--unnecessary. For now." This meant that skin flicks were in for a while and one nine hundred numbers were out. Her eyes reflected a bit of his own amusement back at him. "That was my first thought also." The silence that followed wasn't unexpected yet strangely it felt unpredictable. He tried to think ahead--of this night, of this exact moment in time, but when he did he couldn't see anything. Couldn't hear anything. Just white noise. "I don't guess you can understand it, can you?" He asked awkwardly. "I don't even want to try, Mulder." I can't blame you, he thought. I really can't. She looked at him then, her usually bright eyes dim in the darkened room. "You must have already made up your mind," she said quietly. "You wouldn't have come otherwise." Oh, Scully. Even I'm not really sure. How is it that you can be? "How could you have lived, Mulder--" She cut herself off when the waiter appeared with their drinks. The waiter, an older white haired man hesitated by Scully's elbow for a second, waiting for her next order. He had obviously figured out who wore the pants in this relationship. Scully nodded at him and he withdrew. Mulder wished she would continue the thought. Instead, she took a careful and practiced gulp of the scotch. It almost broke his heart watching her drink it like a professional. He wondered how often she had indulged herself with a drink when she was alone. "You don't like scotch?" He blinked and found that he had been running his finger along the rim of the glass. "I wouldn't say that, Scully." She squinted at him and took another swallow. "What would you say, Mulder?" It was almost a joke that he wasn't quite sure he had caught the meaning of. "I'd say I'm an alcoholic, Scully." She closed her eyes. "Oh Mulder," she whispered. Just that. Oh Mulder. His chest felt heavy suddenly and his eyes hot. He watched her carefully drain the rest of the her scotch, her golden lashes fluttering. She then opened her eyes, two bright circles appearing in her cheeks. She reached over the table to take his scotch, their fingers touching for a scant second against the cool glass. She ran the tips of her fingers gently over his hands, from his wrist to his fingertips. Then she retreated to her side of the table and motioned for the waiter to come forward. "Ma'am?" Scully smiled at the waiter. "Two steaks please. And a small house salad for myself and soup for my friend here. Anything with chicken and broth will be fine. And--two coffees please." The waiter smiled back at her and retreated with their untouched menus. "Steak?" He asked. She frowned over the dessert and wine menu. "I don't travel with dead weight, Mulder. You're looking a bit peaked. You need some protein. You like chocolate, right?" That would be a yes, but still-- "Scully?" He didn't understand this. She put the menu down and frowned at him. "If you want atonement, go confess your sins, Mulder. That's not why I'm here." But then she shrugged at him and he knew suddenly she didn't understand it either. "I don't want to change you," she said quietly. "I never have, in spite of what you think. I just want you to reach for something better." He sucked in a painful breath that burned somehow. How could she wish better for him, than that which he could wish for himself? "It just would have been another suicide, wouldn't it? Going with Diana I mean. Just another drink." Scully eyed him speculatively. He didn't answer. "Last summer--after the fire--you were drinking. You have been, haven't you? Somehow I've missed it." The guilt he felt was new and strange. He had never felt guilty for the faults he had, only for the unpredictability of those faults. "It's not your fault you didn't notice Scully. I'm an excellent liar. God knows I've had the practice." "Just since the fire--or has it been going on longer?" He shook his head. "Since I've known you, just since the fire." Scully looked like she'd been sucker punched. Her eyes were wide from shock. And he couldn't remember the last time he had seen her shocked. At anything. "And--when did it start?" "Since I was fifteen. Off and on." "Since you were fifteen," she repeated softly. Then she straightened her shoulders and looked brisk and ready to do battle. "You'll see someone. I'll call around tomorrow. I think behavioral-cognitive will do fine, don't you? You'll go on leave. I'll get a temporary partner, continue with the X-files division. When you're better--" she paused and gave him a hard stare. "If it's in you to *get* better, you can come back." Was this how it was to care about someone? Beyond every reasonable doubt, beyond endurance, even beyond yourself... "You're taking a big risk, Scully." How stubborn she was. How beautifully hard and sharp. "Life's a gamble, Mulder," she said. Had he said it, it would have sounded flip. From her lips it only sounded true. "Right now I'm not betting on you. I don't want you out there on the field till I trust--" It was entirely possible she could have said something more damaging, but he doubted it. They looked at each other, from different sides of the table as they had always been, neither willing to close the distance. And frankly, this wasn't exactly a hallmark kind of moment, he thought. "Can you do this for me, Mulder? Are you capable of it?" That was the question. A question that only had one answer. "Mulder?" The End.