TITLE: My Face Is My Own (1/1) AUTHOR: K. Brown EMAIL ADDRESS: kbrown3@law.capital.edu DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Wherever. If you archive it, let me know. SPOILER WARNING: Everything up to Arcadia RATING: PG CONTENT WARNING: UST CLASSIFICATION: V, A SUMMARY: Scully's thoughts after throwing Mulder out of the bedroom in Arcadia. DISCLAIMER: I am not trying to step on anyone's toes, or infringe on anyone's rights. I am not making money. Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, and Ten Thirteen, and Robert Creeley belongs to himself. Don't sue me, or I will not be able to afford any more X-Files dolls. And that would be bad. This is my first time posting. I wanted to write about Scully's thoughts on what could have happened in the bedroom, and after reading Amanda Rex's wonderful "The Saddest Lines," I was inspired in a totally different direction from where I was headed. You don't need to read her story to understand this, but I would recommend doing so because her story is so beautiful. And I borrowed a couple of lines. Hers is based on a poem by Pablo Neruda. Mine comes from a work by Robert Creeley, "A Form of Women." Thank you, to Amanda Rex and Amanda Zweerink, for encouraging me. ---------- A Form of Women, by Robert Creeley I have come far enough from where I was not before to have seen the things looking in at me from through the open door and have walked tonight by myself to see the moonlight and see it as trees and shapes more fearful because I feared what I did not know but have wanted to know. My face is my own, I thought. But you have seen it turn into a thousand years. I watched you cry. I could not touch you. I wanted very much to touch you but could not. If it is dark when this is given to you, have care for its content when the moon shines. My face is my own. My hands are my own. My mouth is my own but I am not. Moon, moon, when you leave me alone all the darkness is an utter blackness, a pit of fear, a stench, hands unreasonable never to touch. But I love you. Do you love me. What to say when you see me. -------- This hits too close to home. Home. A four-letter word that is as much a curse to me now as any obscenity uttered in the heat of passion. How many nights have I lain awake, imagining this scenario, married to Mulder, sharing his home? Never had I dreamed of sending him downstairs, resigned to the couch. But this hits too close to home. For a moment I had forgotten. We were as we had always been, Mulder and I, sharing an easy banter that had left us. The simple camaraderie I cherished more than any enflamed glance or flirting touch returned to us, a welcome respite from the constant pain we bare valiantly upon our shoulders. But we're not the same anymore, Mulder and I. For a moment I had forgotten. He teased me, as he always had, throwing innuendo, trying on the mask of spouse to see if it would fit. For a moment, I think it had. And I was scared. How easily I, too, could have slipped on that mask. I have worn it, as I lay awake at night. Now, my face stings. The stench of avocado still surrounds me, though I scrubbed until my skin burned. How ironic that the one moment when I could have revealed myself to him, given to him everything that I am and was and could be, torn from my face the mask of stoicism that has become my shield and my lifeline, I approach him with my face blanketed in slime. Here is the creation you have made, Mulder. I am not the same anymore. He has made me who I am, pushing me toward boundaries I never knew existed. Showing me things I never imagined. Making me confront the things I feared. Making me question everything I knew to be true, making me question truth. I loved him for it. I loved him. But now I question him. He no longer trusts me. He has slipped on the mask of liar. I do not know who he is anymore. I am alone in a place of utter blackness. He has made this place, and he has left me here. The street outside the window is a fairy tale land of sameness, of order, of calm. Once upon a time, I asked Mulder if he ever wanted to leave his life, and this was what I hoped he'd want to come home to. This is what I imagined coming home to. A normal life. A life without fear, pain, suspicion. Sameness, order, calm. Our home. Now our hell. My hell. And he has left me here. Home. Where the heart is. My heart is somewhere downstairs, lying on the couch. Once upon a time, I would have thought about going to him, touching him, claiming him as my own. And within him, within his arms, I would have found home. I could not. I cannot. He no longer trusts me. I do not know who he is anymore. I am not the same anymore. Tomorrow, when the sun comes up over this home we have made together, I will put my mask on. I will almost forget that he has left me. The innuendo will be thrown my way, and perhaps I will be lost in a moment of remembering what once was. But we are not the same anymore, Mulder and I. He has his own mask now. I could have revealed myself to him, given to him everything I am and was and could be. But I must hold close to me what is left. I cannot share what little he has left me. He took my innocence, my trust, my heart, and he destroyed them. But he will not have everything. I will wear my mask, and I will not let him see me. My face is my own.