TITLE:  One Step
AUTHOR:  Susanne Barringer
EMAIL:  sbarringer@usa.net
ARCHIVE:  Anywhere okay with these headers intact.
CLASSIFICATION:  VA
KEYWORDS:  Mulder/Scully UST (to the max!!)
RATING:  PG-13
SPOILERS:  References to the hallway scene in Fight the Future.  If you 
know what the hallway scene is, then it's not a spoiler anymore! 
SUMMARY:  Post FTF.  Scully tries to cope with her fear of loving 
Mulder.
DISCLAIMER:  I've borrowed these characters from Chris Carter, 1013, 
and Fox.  No money being made; no infringement intended.

_____________

One Step
by Susanne Barringer


There has always been a certain unacknowledged tension between Mulder 
and me.  A sexual tension.  I have no doubt that he is as aware of it as I 
am.  It's no big deal; it has become so much a part of us that it barely 
registers with me anymore.  In fact, it would be far more surprising to me 
now if it wasn't there than if it was.  It is part of who we are.  I am 
comfortable with it because of what it is, and what I've always assumed it 
would never become.

Now, though, it sizzles between us with a force that I have never felt 
before, one that I, in truth, never anticipated.  We are eating dinner.  That's 
it.  Just eating dinner.  Yet every movement from either one of us seems to 
heat the air and send waves of desire roaring through the room.  I have 
chosen to ignore it.  We cannot do it.  I cannot do it.

I know exactly what has changed, what has brought us to this point.  It is 
the first time Mulder and I are alone, really alone, since we stood in the 
hallway outside his apartment and came one extraterrestrial virus away 
from kissing.  It was crazy.  It was wrong.  I know that.  Yet, every night I 
dream about his hands on my shoulders, his eyes focused on me, his lips 
moving toward mine.  It is not an erotic dream.  In fact, I wake up in a 
paralysis of fear.  I cannot allow it to happen.  I am terrified of loving 
Mulder, of allowing him in, of the inevitable hurt I will cause him when I 
am unable to let him get close to me, of what will happen to our 
partnership after I have broken his heart.

So, tonight, as we eat the take-out that Mulder has brought to my 
apartment, I find myself struggling to ignore the electricity flowing between 
us.  I stare down at my plate and eat.  Neither of us speaks.  It is the worst 
time we have ever spent together.  Although I chew my food and swallow, 
the lump of fear in my throat interferes with any pleasure I might gain.  I 
want this to be over.  We have each recommitted to our partnership, to the 
X-Files, and to the search for the truth.  Tonight, although we have not 
discussed it, is clearly the night the decision gets made about what else we 
will commit to.  The way Mulder is watching me, looking at me, brushing 
his hand against mine every chance he gets, I know what his decision is.  
He is waiting for me to make mine.  

After dinner, he comes to me while I am putting away the leftovers and 
rinsing the dishes.  He begins taking the dishes from me and putting them 
into the dishwasher.  I do not object.  We stand together at the sink, our 
bodies almost touching, our elbows and shoulders occasionally bumping 
against each other as he turns to the dishwasher, then back again.  We 
create a rhythm that sings--my handoffs to him are smooth and effortless.  
He touches my hand every time he takes a dish from me.  I know it is not 
accidental.  My face burns with the realization, the desire, the dread.  I 
keep focused on the dishes, for I cannot look at him.  I reach across the 
counter to grab a glass and as I bring it back to the sink, it slips out of my 
trembling hand and shatters at my feet.  The pop of the glass echoes 
through my chest, which feels so hollow and so full at the same time.

"Oops," Mulder says, and I hear the smile, the teasing behind the single 
word.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn his head to look at me.  
My cheeks flame and I simply study the fractured pieces of glass scattered 
around our feet.  The sharp edges poke up, threatening destruction.  I feel 
that same way.  Splintered, sharp, destructive, broken.  I wish to be whole.  
I am afraid of losing myself in that wholeness.  Words my sister once said 
to me reverberate through my mind: 

I turn away from the sink and kneel down to pick up the pieces, my 
shaking hand giving away my struggle.  He stoops down next to me and 
grabs my wrist just before it lands on one of the sharp edges.  "Don't," he 
says, "you'll hurt yourself."

 my mind screams at him, .  He holds my wrist 
tightly, not letting go until I forcefully pull my arm back, close to my body, 
away from the searing heat of his hand.  I can feel him looking at me as I 
look down at the floor.  I stand up and he follows, then reaches around me 
to grab a towel from the counter.  His forearm brushes against my breast.  
At least I think it does.  Perhaps I only imagine it, wish for it, pray for it.  
He takes the towel and crouches again to pick up the glass.  He kneels at 
my feet.  I have to close my eyes to get my bearings, to keep from 
swooning.  He gingerly uses the towel to pick up the glass.  I only stand 
there; I do not know what else to do.  When he is finished, he looks up at 
me, from there on the ground kneeling before me, and my insides 
somersault.  I quickly turn back to the sink, staring at the water still 
pouring out of the faucet.  I am petrified with fear, overcome with the 
surging heat devouring me.  He stands, places the towel filled with glass on 
the counter, and resumes his place next to me.  

"You'll have to sweep up the rest," he says calmly.  He is so calm that I 
begin to wonder if I am imagining all of this, if I am creating this dream.  I 
turn off the water.  The dishes are done, for the most part.  I grab the 
containers filled with leftovers and walk toward the refrigerator.  Whatever 
it takes to get away from him, to find myself again.  I place the containers 
in the fridge, then close the door.  He moves toward me.  My body reacts 
defensively, as it is used to doing, and I turn to face the wall.

He steps right up behind me.  I am sandwiched between the wall in front of 
me and him behind me, about three feet from either.  My breath catches in 
my chest when I feel him move closer.  He stands as close as he possibly 
can without actually touching me.  I can feel his breathing, even, steady, 
more controlled than mine, brushing against my hair.  I can feel the heat of 
him swimming across the space between us, seeping through my clothing.  
He takes another fraction of a step toward me and now I can feel the edges 
of him touching me, just the small parts of him that lean out from the lanky 
line of his body.  My awareness of him is honed, tightened, focused on the 
part of him that leans into me with power and certainty.  Just in the small of 
my back I feel him, hard, aroused, and I know that this is not my 
imagination.  In between the panic, I feel a thrill of desire.  The panic wins.

He reaches up and touches the back of my neck, gently, right where the bee 
stung me.  His finger lingers just a moment, stroking cautiously over that 
fateful part of me.  The meaning behind the gesture is as clear as if he had 
asked the question out loud.  There is no bee now.  If I had any doubts that 
it has all come down to this moment, they have fled.  We are here, in this 
moment.  He is waiting for me to decide.

I close my eyes and my mind sways back and forth with the decision before 
me.  Lean back, or step away.  It will take just the slightest movement, but 
it is a decision that will change our lives.  Although I am frozen, it feels like 
my body is swinging like a pendulum between the two points.  Lean back, 
step away, lean back, step away.  

Lean back.  Step away.  

My heart screams to lean back, to fall back, to wait to be lifted into his 
strong arms.  My fear, however, steps forward.  It is just one small step, 
but it puts a distance between us greater than an entire room.  I still sense 
him behind me, the phantom pain of the loss, the shadowed remainder of 
his desire up against me.  More than anything, though, I feel my own fear 
bleed away as I make the decision that will determine our future.  

I have stepped away.

He sighs loudly but does not move.  We both stand there, facing the wall, 
the same wall, one single step away from having it all.  His breath still 
whispers behind me, stirring my hair and running down my scalp.

"I'm sorry."  The voice comes from somewhere behind me, from what 
seems like miles away.  I keep facing the wall, like a naughty child.

"Don't be," I say to the wall.  Those are not the right words.  I can't seem 
to find any others.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again.  His knuckles graze my back, so lightly, just 
the smallest gesture of apology.  Through the tears flooding my eyes, I 
stare at the wall in front of me, wondering why I never hung anything there 
in the large, gaping white space.  

Then, he steps back too.  Just one step.  The widened distance between us 
creates a rush of cold air along my spine.  I shiver with the loss of him and 
close my eyes against the dizziness that enfolds me.  For a moment he 
waits, and I realize he is waiting for me.  He is giving me one last chance to 
step back with him, to lean into him, to allow him to catch me.  I do not.  

And then I feel his absence as he leaves the kitchen, leaves me standing.  
Alone.  As I have always been and now, it seems, as I will always be.  I 
reach out to touch the wall in front of me, to steady myself, to keep from 
collapsing on the floor.  I hear the front door open and close.  He is gone.  
I lean forward and press my face against the wall, cool against my flushed 
cheeks and scalding tears.  I sob into its hard, unforgiving truth.

______________

END

Yeah, I know.  If you were looking for my usual sweet and happy ending, 
this wasn't the best choice.  Do I get feedback anyway?
sbarringer@usa.net

All my fanfic available at my webpage:
http://www.oocities.com/Area51/Dreamworld/2442

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