Title: Inadequate
Author: Blueswirl
Feedback: Blueswirl@aol.com
Rating: R
Classification: V,A, MSR
Spoilers: 5th Season through "The Red & The Black"
Summary: It's always hard to say the words.
Distribution:  Feel free to post this story on any archive or web page,
as long as my name remains attached.
Author's Notes: This is a little vignette, nothing more, nothing less.  Just a
distraction from other, longer endeavors. Set in an XF universe that is sometime pre-
"The End".  What can I say -- I always believe the best of Mulder. :)  If
anyone has feedback -- good or bad -- I'm at Blueswirl@aol.com.
Watch out -- Disclaimer ahead:  the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana
Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Prods. and Fox Inc. and I'm using them
for this story without permission.  So sue me.
Feedback:   If the mood hits -- I would love you for it.  I'm at
Blueswirl@aol.com.



INADEQUATE

Blueswirl@aol.com


******

I am hopelessly, woefully, inadequate.

Not up to the task.

Not now, perhaps not ever.

One would think, after all this time, that I would no longer be afraid. 
That I would no longer doubt.  That I would have faith, and trust.  That I
could believe.

And yet, I am inadequate to the task.

She has given me every opportunity.  Every chance, every sign.  Every
reason to think that I have the ability to seize that which I dream about, night
after night.   That which I think about, day after day.

Salvation.

And yet, knowing this, I remain afraid.

Inadequate.

Alone.  

I lack the strength, I suppose.  Beneath the brave front that I try so
hard to create, I am weak.   I lack the courage to take that final step.  I lack
the confidence, in myself and ultimately in my own abilities.  

But I don't lack desire.   Not that, never that.

Maybe it's because there's so much at stake it makes the climb seem
insurmountable.  Maybe it's because I'm afraid to risk what we have that
I cannot make a move.

I wait, I watch.  I study, I think.   I plan, I dream.    And yet I do
not act.

Even after all that has happened.  Even though I have almost lost her, so
many times.  Even though I know that the next time They call her away it may
be too late.

It could happen at any time.  The chip in her neck that brought her back
from the brink of death is a double-edged sword.  It can cut us both to shreds
in an instant.  And yet, I remain paralyzed.  

If I could not tell her as she lay dying, as I crouched beside her bed
and shed empty, helpless tears, how can I ever say the words?  

Occasionally my cowardice gets the best of me, and that's when I resort
to tactics that would shame me otherwise.  When I drive past her building,
over and over, just hoping for a glimpse of her through the illuminated
windows of her apartment.   When I park, down the block, and wait, vigilant like a
stalker for her car to pull into the garage.  

Sometimes, when I'm feeling brave, I use the phone.  

It rings, once, twice, three times before she picks up the receiver.  I
wonder what she's been doing, what mundane activity I've interrupted.

"Hello?"

"It's me."

"What is it, Mulder?"  There is irritation in her voice, I think.  Is
there? Or is it only my imagination, working overtime?

I search for a reason to justify this invasion of her private time. 
"When are the autopsy results due back?"

A sigh escapes her, a tired weary sigh of frustration.  "Tomorrow
morning," she replies.  "Sometime after nine."

"Oh."

I have nothing left to say, nothing pertinent, nothing germane.  Yet I
find myself unable to end the call.  Just the gentle sound of her breath
across the line calms me, soothes me.  I need this.

I need her.

Sometimes I wake up, drenched in sweat, having fought my way out of a
dream in which she has left me standing alone.  I know upon waking that it is only
that -- a dream -- and yet all too easily it could be real.  I don't deserve
her, don't treat her fairly more than half the time.  It would serve me right
if she walked out of my life for good.  Hell, it would probably be better
for her if she did.  

But she can't.

Leave me, that is. 

Something inside me knows that she is as unable to leave me as I am
unable to hang up the phone.

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"Is there something else?"

Yes, I think.  There are a lot of other somethings that I need to say to
you. That I want to say to you, so desperately that it pains me, makes it
difficult to breathe.

"No."  I pause, needing to add something, anything.   "I'll see you in
the morning."

"Good night, Mulder."

"Good night."

I hang up the phone first, pressing the button down viciously with one
finger. I cannot bear the silence of the line if she's not on the other end.  

God.  

Five years.  Five years of joys and sorrows, successes and failures.
Suffering and pain.  Too much of that, for both of us.  And yet, I
wouldn't trade a second of it.

I wonder, would she?

She has denied it, more than once.  Promised me that even if she had the
chance, she still wouldn't change a day.  But the timid, frightened part
of me suspects that she lies.  Suspects that she knows how fragile I am inside
the shell that I have so carefully created.  Suspects she knows that her
joking partner who always has a quip to toss off at the appropriate moment is an
entirely different person beneath his seemingly callous exterior. 

Lying on my couch late at night I try to rationalize things to myself.  I
tell myself that it isn't me who is inadequate.  It's the words themselves.  
How can twenty-six letters randomly arranged even come close to explaining
what it is I think and feel?

It's like asking a blind man to describe the shadings of a rainbow.

It's like asking a deaf man to conduct a symphony.

It's like pretending that ice can be thawed without melting away into
nothingness.

I nestle myself deeper into the worn black leather, twisting my body
sideways so that the couch can accommodate the length of my legs.  I slip one hand
beneath my head, and the other between my legs.  

Twenty-six letters.   Only twenty-six.  They are woefully inadequate to
reach the depth of my soul.

Attractive, beautiful, courageous, daring.  

I close my eyes, and yet I can still see hers.  Ocean blue windows that
tell me everything and nothing all at once.

Eden.  She is my Eden.  And my family.  Without her, I would be truly
alone.

Gorgeous....

God....

Sometimes I think she's unaware of how gorgeous she is.  Other times, I
know that she's conscious of her looks, of the way that they affect those
around her, even when she pretends she doesn't notice.  Those times are rare,
too rare, but when they come around I savor them.  Savor the glimpse of who
she is when she's not trying so hard.  Trying so hard to be humble.

My hand finds the buttons on the fly of my jeans and loosens them, one at
a time.

Intriguing.... she's the very essence of the word.  More than anything I
would love to understand her.  She understands me, probably more than I
understand myself.  I should find that comforting, but I don't, not usually.  It
scares the shit out of me, most days.  Because if she understands me, it means
she knows who I am, deep down, and that alone should make her turn away from
me. Make her run as far and as fast as she can.  And yet she doesn't.

She stays.

With me.

My hand slips inside.

Ah....

Jealous.  I wonder if she's ever been jealous.  No reason for her to be
jealous of me.  None.  

I am hers.

I'm jealous all of the time, where she's concerned.  Of every man she's
ever looked at.  Of every man she's ever touched.  

Touch me....

Ah....

She is kind.  Loving.  Maternal.

My hand stops its frantic motion at the thought.  Maternal.  In my life,
that's a strange, complicated word.  A word imbued with far too much
pain.  And yet, somehow, it describes her anyway.  The way she seems to know,
instinctively, when I need her touch, her smile, her voice.  The way she
is always there to protect me from harm, to ease my pain. 

But there are other, better words.  Magnificent.  Magnetic. 
Mysterious....

Mmmm....

My legs shift again, my bare feet pressing against the smooth cool
leather of the couch as I twist, restlessly.

Nice.... so nice....

Oh....oh....oh....oh-oh-oh....

Pretty, more than pretty.

Perfect.  Perfectperfectperfectperfect.....

A groan escapes my lips as my hand moves faster and faster, my head
rocking back as I reach for her for her for her always her --

The sound of the phone jars me back to the blank cold bleakness of
reality and I sit up, startled, my breath coming in harsh, labored gasps.  It's the
fifth ring before I've gathered myself enough to pick up the phone.

"H-Hello?"

"Mulder?"

"Yeah, it's me."

A pause.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I say.  Her words.  But she doesn't have them under exclusive
copyright.  Besides, at this point she's lucky I can still say anything
at all.

"Okay."  She hesitates again, though I'm not sure why.  "It's just -- "

"Just what, Scully?"

Another long silence.  Too long.  

"Scully?"

"It's nothing, Mulder.  I'm -- I just -- I had a weird feeling, that's
all. And I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I'm fine," I repeat, and suddenly, somehow, I am.  

We say our goodbyes and hang up our phones and I find myself wondering if
perhaps I'm not the only one who finds mere words inadequate.


*******


END







Thanks for reading.   Feedback *greatly* appreciated at
Blueswirl@aol.com. 





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