Author's notes

Original posting date: Sat, 01 Aug 1998 11:53:13 -0700

Class: Vignette, Scully Rating: G

Notes: This is the second of two short M and S vignettes. They're unrelated to each other save for character recognition.

Archive: Sure, why not?! I'd like to know where they go, but it's not really an issue.

Disclaimer: Still don't own them. Bummer.

Eye to Eye


You know, I almost never look into his eyes. When we have a conversation, about anything really, I focus on something else - anything else - usually a button or his tie. Sometimes I think I could catalogue the full range of his outrageous tie collection. Oh, sure, sometimes I'll glance up at his eyes, to make a point, gauge his reaction, see if he's mentally ditched me, but we've never had a full-on, eye-to-eye discussion.

OK, we did. Once. Sort of. In the hallway. But we all know where that was headed. Damn bee. Marvelous bee. Whatever. But that little occasion just illustrates for me why we don't have eye-to-eye conversations.

Not that we don't see eye-to-eye. Never that. We've seen things that way for a long time now. Too much so, at least for the master manipulator's of our world to like, I'll bet. But seeing eye-to-eye and making prolonged eye contact are two specifically different, and, if you ask me, dangerous things.

It's not that I can't look him in the eye. I mean, level-wise, I suppose if I were to stand on a box or something we could physically look straight into each other's eyes. Or if he were to kneel-- no, don't go there.

Dangerous, yep, definitely dangerous. Who said once that the eyes are the window to the soul? I wonder if it's his soul I'm leery of or my own? Whose am I trying to protect I wonder? His? Mine? Ours? I think that if I were to just give in and stare right into his eyes as we were discussing a case that... oh, I can see it now...

"Mulder, I have the tox results you were looking for." I Move closer and hand him the report, my eyes moving from his hands taking the report, up his tie, the green one!, and face to his eyes. Answer his question. "Although it was nearly indistinguishable with the amount of tissue breakdown that had occurred, there was a... um... slight... something..."

Silence. Still, utterly terrifying, silence. 'Dead air' as they say in broadcasting. I can see his face falling still in confusion, searching my eyes, wondering what's wrong with me.

What's wrong with me? Just what I knew would happen if I gave in. I'm trapped in his gaze, lost in the depths that I see there. How do those poets and writers say it? I'm sure they'd say something about 'puppy dog eyes' or 'soft, hazel glow' or even 'the warm velvet softness of his light brown eyes.' Ick. It's not that, I'm just stuck here. If the eyes are the window to the soul, I got stuck in the window. How utterly humiliating.

I don't like being stuck, so I'll just continue to commune with his tie, or the third button on his shirt.

We do have a comfortable way of talking I guess. I stand before him, usually at an angle - maybe to give myself an escape? Anyway, I can easily tilt my head up to meet his gaze, but more often I keep my head level–as is my trademark I suppose–and occasionally glance up at him. For his part, he meets me halfway I suppose. He tilts his head forward, cocked slightly at an angle, almost as if to try to catch every word I have to say.

Our conversations mirror us, I imagine. Meeting halfway, each making an effort to reach out to the other but never completing that last gesture, not covering that last inch–or mile–to touch, but almost always finding a way to trade our visions, to see eye-to-eye, at least figuratively, for a while. I wonder what tie he's going to wear today?