TITLE: Small Change AUTHOR: Laine (loislane@bright.net) DISCLAIMER: The story line inspiration is ultimately owned by DD and a caterpillar I happened to see the other day. The characters are CCs, 1013s, FOX's and mostly, GA's and DDs. No infringement is intended, just wishful thinking. FEEDBACK: Bring it on. CLASSIFICATION: V/MS UST I'd say romance, too, but I'm a romantic. RATING: PG. Sorry, Kestabrook. It was just better this way. SUMMARY: Aw, man. Do I have to? OK, it's a Scullycentric, Scully POV, that leads up to slapping a piece of horsehide around with a stick, OK? SPOILERS: You betcha. But incredibly light spoilers for something that will ultimately be classified as a 'The Unnatural' post-ep piece. Yes, another one of *those,* hopefully with a bit of a twist. ARCHIVE: I'd be honored. Please let me know where so I can bask in the glory, k? WARNING: Cheesy metaphoric content abounds. COMMENTS: For Kestabrook, because she asked for it. Time to pay the piper, girl. And as always, for my eviltwin Lana, without whom I would surely be lost. OK, I think that's it. Here we go.... It has always come in many flavors. And it has definitely changed over the years. The first time I heard it, I took it immediately for what it was: an intimidation tactic. But as the nuances washed over me, as young and as idealistic as I was, I could still hear the layers in it. Even from that very first meeting. "Who'd you piss off to get stuck with this detail *Scully*?" It held no formality, so of course my initial assumption was that it was simply a way to belittle me. But even then, from that first time in the basement office which would become as familiar to me as my own home, I could sense the beginnings of something more. Something a little different than what I saw on the surface. I could tell that, although he didn't trust me, he liked me in spite of himself. What can I say? I'm a bright girl. With two brothers and a navy captain for a father, I certainly know how to give as good as I get. The first time I met Mulder was no exception. The one thing I knew with utter certainly was that I could not, would not, let him rattle me. So I gave him the first of an endless line of arched eyebrows and decided to go with my second reaction. Amusement. I smirked at him and ignored it for the time being. I just let it go by every time after that, too. I even turned it back on him, just to let him know I was willing to play his game, to put up the immediate barriers and do whatever was necessary to prove myself. God we were so young. He was like a caterpillar -- all cute and wiggly and fuzzy. Caterpillars are like that. You stare at them for a few minutes in utter fascination, wondering exactly how they have the presence of mind to keep all those legs moving in synch. Knowing they have the potential to become something absolutely beautiful someday, you're tempted to just reach out and smooth your fingers over them. Just to see what it would feel like. In the end, though, a caterpillar is still a worm. And if you do touch it, you know you'll be feeling just that. A worm. Its potential is all locked up inside, hidden away in the promise of something more under the deceptively innocuous and incredibly thick layers of its furry exterior. Our relationship has progressed over the years with about as much grace and speed as a caterpillar, as well. Not much. We've scurried along, as fast as all those little legs of conspiracy and trust and loss and hope could carry us. And somewhere along the way, we got tired. We stopped being furry and cute and started looking around for somewhere, some *way*, to rest. About the time the cancer was at its worst, I think, so were we. There's just so far you can go before you start to asses where you are heading. I don't think either of us liked what we saw on the horizon. Self-assesment is like that, really. You move along and everything is fine and then one day, it hits you. You're tired of being a worm. You're tired of crawling around on the ground, spending your days worrying about whether or not the great bird of truth is going to swoop down and make you into regurgitated fodder for the conspiracy nest-lings. Not to mention the drudgery of the knowledge that at absolutely any time, some liver-eating mutant or psychopathic serial killer agent could come along and step on you, thus ending your potential for beauty forever. It was that way for Mulder, I think, during the time I was missing. From what I can glean from his eyes whenever it gets inserted into a conversation, I figure he spent a whole lot of time struggling with the realization that absolutely anything could tear us apart at any time. He'd gotten used to me hanging around, poking holes in all his theories, crawling around in the muck of lies and dirt with him. Sure, he knew first-hand what it was like to have someone you cared about ripped away from you. But until that point, he had only experienced that sensation as a child. A helpless child who couldn't have done anything to stop it. The fact that he was an armed, male, adult federal agent and still could do nothing just about killed him, I think. That and the incredible guilt he wears like a shroud. When I returned, the Scullys I heard took on a new layer, each one different from the next. And each one so very different than those I remember from our early days together. I stopped hearing the initial teasing amusement as the guilt, the trust and yes, the need, started to edge their way in. But the resignation I started to not only hear, but feel as well, was what bothered me the most. A certain spark had gone out of all the Scullys and all the Mulders that were ever uttered. And the longer we crawled around on the bottom of the tree of lies we seemed intent on conquering, the worse it got. There's only so much bottom feeding a person can take. Sooner or later, you start to seek higher ground. What you don't know is that it's going to be a bitch of a climb. And you're already tired. But you make the journey anyway, because something inside of you says you're supposed to. You just travel up and up and up, with no goal in particular in site. Sure, we might have thought we were trying to reach the ever-elusive truth. But in reality, we were just really sick of being on the bottom. It was a dark time for us. The furry little skin we started out in just didn't seem to hang on us right any more. We started losing our fur and our cuteness, if you'll pardon the sickening comparison, and our skin started wearing thin. I think when the cancer was at its worst, so were we. And so were the Scullys I heard. The word, like our skins, had become thin and raw and desperate. We had scraped far too long up against the bark on our climb, and we wanted desperately just to stop. I could see it in those ever-changing hazel eyes of his just as surely as I could feel it in my own soul. But there was never any time. We were racing against a clock and against each other. And the Scullys kept changing and wearing down just like we did. I used to think the best Scully I ever heard was the one he breathed out in relief just before taking me carefully into his arms the night my cancer went into remission. I had no way of knowing I was wrong at the time, so I breathed it in as he pushed it out, one long endless sigh and breath. It was at that moment, if I'm forced to pinpoint it, when we just decided to stop. Just like that, the decision was made. So we stopped. Not the quest. Just our useless wanderings. We wanted a positive goal, and we had learned enough by then to know we needed time to regroup and draw out a plan of attack. If we were going to run with the big dogs, we needed to figure out a way to stay above them, lest we be squashed in the scuffle. And that's how it started, really. We spun a nice little cocoon for ourselves and began focusing all our time and energy on us. An outsider probably wouldn't have seen it that way. Anyone else would probably say we became more centered around finding the truth than ever. The fact of the matter is we became more centered around each other, around the world of two we had enshrouded ourselves within. And we learned we could wear it like armor against the wind and the rain that assaulted us. Even with all that came between us, it was still *us* it came between. The rest of the world really didn't factor in. And if we seemed better focused on the quest, on the mission at hand, it's because we drew strength from what our little world had to offer. But the Scullys of that time were filled still with desperation and longing. Although the true change had begun, we still were unable to reach our potential. The web we had spun in order to protect ourselves, and each other, from the outside world, had served to separate us with its density as well. We were closer than ever and even more out of reach. And when we lost the X-files yet again, it only seemed to get worse. For awhile. We had been shoved ruthlessly from our safe haven, from all that we had known or had ever wanted to know, out into the harsh sunlight of the world. Everything that had happened to us up to that point had left us permanently changed. And the Scullys became defensive and just a touch bitter. Truth be told, so did I. Before I began working with Mulder, I staunchly believed everything happens for a reason. That which does not kill us serves to make us stronger and all that. I stopped believing this notion some time ago. How could I possibly hold onto such naivete in the face of what I have seen? I am beginning to wonder, however, if I might have been too hasty in throwing this particular philosophy out the window. If not for all we have faced down together, if not for all we have fought for and held each other through, we never would have been forced out into the open. And although our wings were wet and dark and folded closely against our bodies at the time of our initial emergence, we could not escape nor deny away the fact that we had been forever changed. For the better. By the time we got the X-files back, we had begun tentatively stretching our wings, just a bit, to see what would happen. We started noticing new things about each other, things we had seen before but now perceived in a whole new light. And the Scullys he spoke became ever more endearing and increasingly breathtaking. And now I know. All the Scullys I have ever heard could not have prepared me for tonight. All the changes I could argue as inevitable but remain incredibly thankful for no matter what their source or cost have all led up to this. A game of baseball. "Get over here, *Scully.*" If I were the type of woman who got weak in the knees over a man, that Scully would have just done it. It is everything about the word, everything about this moment he has created to say it, and the layers of meaning behind it, that makes my heart misbehave and turn over in my chest. Of course I have no choice but to comply. And standing here at home plate, with the black, sparkling sky stretched out above us, I understand exactly what Mulder means when he tells me to just let it fly. We've been working to this point slowly, steadily, for years. I knew the changes; I felt them and recognized them as they happened. But it has all been so agonizingly slow that I find myself slightly surprised we've made it. Yet here we are, extending our wings, taking that first, tentative flight together in a way only Mulder could devise. It is shockingly normal, incredibly touchingand most of all, indescribably real. We have changed and grown and learned that living doesn't mean stopping. And that continuing the quest doesn't mean we must remain in a dark place. So here we are. spending time, just being beautiful, together. From up here, there's just not much that can get in our way. We've started to fly. Soon, our journey will let us soar. And I, for one, can't wait to see where we land. _end_ feedback given a safe cocoon of its very own at loislane@bright.net