=====o================================================o===== 

"You Just Don't Understand" by Lise Meitner

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TITLE: "You Just Don't Understand"

AUTHOR: Lise Meitner

EMAIL ADDRESS: mrkeller@eclipse.net

SPOILER WARNING: The Fourth Season episodes: "Leonard Betts",
"Memento Mori", "Kaddish", and "Small Potatoes" and the Third Season
episode "Revelations"

RATING: G

CONTENT WARNING: None. This is a slightly different take on the end
of "Small Potatoes" from most of the pieces I've seen appear on the
list.

CLASSIFICATION: S - a story with lots of Mulder-Scully bonding, no
romance or UST. That's not the point.

SUMMARY: After meeting with Von Blundht, Mulder discovers a few
truths about the power of words and his partnership with Scully in
some very new, and very old, books. 

DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program,
"The X-Files", are the creation and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used
without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

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Apartment 42
Alexandria, Virginia
Friday May 23, 1997
6:37 pm

Mulder prowled the confines of his small apartment again, finding
himself wondering what else van Blundht had touched. The clothes
<*His* clothes!> their quarry had been wearing at the time of his
arrest had been donated to Goodwill, even his favorite black jacket,
which he had replaced before he gave the first away. He fingered the
stiff new denim possessively. <My most comfortable jeans, too.> 

He had brought in a cleaning crew to scrub the walls, furniture, and
floors, turned his apartment upside down, had gone so far as to
replace his fish. He had compulsively reorganized *all* his notes and
books, both here and in his basement office, searching for anything
that had been taken or damaged. But, nothing had. Outside of the
charcoal suit that he had returned to its rightful owner, it was as
if van Blundht had never made the trip back to DC with his partner. 

<That's not true.> He *had* been here, invading what little space
Mulder had to call his own, had left scratches raked across the arms
of his desk chair in the basement. He huffed at the thought. Then
there was his Sig, which now jammed occasionally when releasing the
clip. <I'll have to drop it off for the Bureau to rehab.> He riffled
through the stack of books on his coffee table, attempting to decide
which to keep or which to donate to the local library. 

Walt Whitman. <Keep.>  

Tony Hillerman. <Donate.> 

Deborah Tannen. He turned the paperbound trade volume over, reading
the raves printed in white on the dark blue cover, while his fingers
slid along the slick, uncreased spine. <Keep? Donate?> He had
purchased the book in 1995, when he and Scully hadn't been seeing eye
to eye on so many things. He had thought the linguist's insights
might be of some use, but events had overtaken them, so he had
continually pushed it back on his reading list. 

"Mulder? You in there?" 

The book thudded onto his leather cushions, half-hanging off the edge
as Mulder walked over to admit his guest. "Frohike?", he queried,
"What's up?" 

The diminutive man entered hesitantly, surveying the disarray in the
narrow room. "I've found information on another cancer treatment, if
you're interested." 

<If I'm interested?> Mulder shifted some of his notes off one of the
mission chairs so the Gunman could use it. "This isn't one of those
Mexican healing rituals, is it?" 

Standing close to Mulder, Frohike frowned up anxiously. <He really
has no clue, does he?> "No, Mulder. This is serious. It's one of the
new gene therapy treatments. I've discussed it with Agent Scully..." 

Mulder bent over him. "What? *You've* discussed it with Scully? When
did this happen?" <First van Blundht, now Frohike? How is it that
everyone can talk to Scully but me?> 

Easing himself away from his friend's intense stare, Frohike sat.
"Actually, she came to us, Mulder. She had read about it in one of
her medical journals, so she wanted us to contact some of the
patients who had recovered." The round-faced Gunman glanced out the
window. "In an unofficial capacity, of course." 

The agent's jaw dropped. <Why didn't she...?> He shook his head,
wondering where their partnership had taken yet another wrong turn.
<I was so sure...> 

"Mulder?" 

Sinking to the leather, he locked Frohike in a frustrated stare.   
The little man crossed his arms. "You *do* want to hear about this,
don't you?" 

Mulder had to concentrate to keep his temper even, so he distracted
himself by twisting the hem of his black polo shirt nervously. "Yeah.
Sure. Go on." He leaned back, waiting for his friend to begin
speaking, but not really focused on the somber face across from him. 

The Gunman eyed him closely, then released his breath in a sigh.
"Well, it involves the suicide gene. Maybe you've heard of it?"
Mulder was impassive, so Frohike continued. "Viruses containing
thymidine kinase are introduced into the region of the brain where
the cancer is growing. They enter any cells that are dividing, which,
in the brain are only the cancer cells..." 

Mulder bounced off the sofa. "Right. Then you inject Ganciclovir,
which kills the TK infected cells. I saw the show too." Wrapping his
arms around himself, he stared out his window. 

"Mulder!" Frohike crossed over to his side. "This isn't a TV episode!
This is about Scully!" He stepped away at the taller man's glare. 

Mulder pursed his lips. <I know that.> 

The Gunman punched his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose.
"What you *don't* understand is how low a success rate this procedure
actually has. It's a treatment of last resort, not first, something
for someone who's desperate, who has exhausted all other
possibilities." 

Mulder blinked. "What? Why are you telling me this?" 

Frohike glowered back. "That's what I want to know. What's happened
to you, Mulder? Where have you been? It's been a month now, but
between cases you've been searching this place and the Basement like
there's buried gold somewhere." 

Mulder began pacing, the unspoken rebuke utmost in his mind. <She
doesn't have many months left.> He stopped. "Yeah. I hear you."
Suddenly anxious, he stood by the Gunman. "Thanks." 

Frohike nodded. <Someone had to say something.> "Mulder, just... just
go talk to her, all right?" 

Holding the door, the agent waved Frohike out. <That's what she keeps
saying. 'We just talked, Mulder, nothing more.'> Since the incident
with van Blundht, Scully had shut herself off from him, keeping their
conversations limited to only the cases they were working on. 

Oh, she was always there for *him*, just as she had been at the
Correctional facility when he had met with van Blundht today.
<'You're no loser, Mulder.'> Part of him had been grateful for her
words of support, but part of him had wanted to shout at her: 'I'm
not the fragile one here! You're the one with the tum...' But he had
only muttered something cryptic about not being Eddie van Blundht, a
statement he was sure she wouldn't understand.

Trailing silently out to the car, she had hurried to the left side,
taking the wheel without asking if he wanted to drive. He had let
her, assuming she had *wanted* to retain control over as much of her
life as she could. They didn't talk about the cancer, because he
assumed she *didn't* want to talk about it, that she wanted to keep
everything as normal as possible. After all, she had talked about
'all those things she still needed to prove' and chose to answer all
his queries with 'I'm fine, Mulder.'. Both of them knew that wasn't
the case, but he had let it go, again, assuming that she didn't want
him to take charge of her or smother her. It had worked, originally,
following her lead to the Weisses and the Golem, although she
wouldn't admit it. 

She was putting in longer and longer hours, delving into more depth
on their X-Files, taking on more autopsies for the rest of the
Bureau. He had assumed she was attempting to *prove* she was fine, to
everyone, including him. But he didn't know how to tell her it was
enough, that there was nothing she needed to prove. He assumed she
would eventually realize he understood, like she always did, so was
content to let things go on as they had been, just concentrating on
their cases. 

<This is silly.> He knew he had overreacted by kicking in the door
upon returning to DC after the janitors had let him out of the
control room. Their quarry had no murderous intentions towards either
him or his partner, *that* the soda, sandwich, and apple had made
clear. But to think that she was willing to let the NotMulder make
advances like that, after all the rumors and innuendo they had put up
with, just grated on him. <Was this what their relationship really
boiled down to?> His eyes fell on the tottering volume again,
trailing over the title. <Maybe *I* just don't understand...>
Dropping onto the cushions, he flipped the front cover over to begin
to read. 

                            --*****--

Apartment 42 
Alexandria, Virginia 
Friday, 8:59 pm

Turning the last page, Mulder sighed. <This sounds like us a lot of
the time. So many things assumed, so few things stated.>  

He recalled her words: 'We just talked, Mulder, nothing happened.
Nothing! Really!' Rubbing his eyes, he sighed again. They had
revisited this point over and over, getting nowhere. 'We didn't talk
about anything. Nothing to do with the X-Files, or any of my other
cases, or even about anything medical, just ... nothing.' 

Then he would lean into her face, growing impatient, territorial.
'But he was about to...'

She would frown, shake her head, then stomp away off to another
autopsy, or change the subject to their latest case. 

<So, he was about to kiss her. You'd kissed her, hadn't you? You'd
held her in the hospital, told her the Truth would save us both, and
kissed her on the forehead. Then they'd come right back to work,
heading off to New York and the Weiss case. Why should she leap to
the wrong conclusion if he, who she thought was you, had kissed her
again? Why should you?> He bolted off the sofa, thinking over the
advice in the text to something he'd learned at Oxford, but had never
really understood. 

Men offer companionship to get sex. Women trade sex for
companionship. 

That had been van Blundht's angle, how he had gotten to those women.
Take the shape of someone each had really wanted to get to know
better, let them talk, and... 

<Well, not all women.> Phoebe certainly hadn't been interested in
companionship, or romance, particularly. <But Scully's not Phoebe,
you dolt. She's on the road with your almighty self almost
constantly, and she's got this *thing* in her brain.> He began pacing
again. <Think like a profiler, not like some self-centered alpha
male. She has this growth in her head that will kill her if we don't
find a cure, so she wants to tell somebody about her life.> He froze
in his tracks. <Was it really that simple?> Grabbing his cel phone,
he headed for the door. 

                            --*****--

Apartment 5 
Washington, DC 
Friday, 9:27 pm 

After gazing out her spyhole, Dana Scully leaned against the wall and
sighed. <I'd better pack my bags.> She had seen that her partner was
without, only, unlike last time, he was holding a paper tray with two
orange cups, a stained brown bag wedged between them. 

"Sculleee? You okay?" The familiar call was muffled by the wood.   

Scully opened the door. "Yes, Mulder, where are we going?" She
watched him gaze down at her, surprised, with a faint tinge of
something else. <Fear? Embarrassment?> She stood back, since he was
hovering on her doorstep. 

"Going, Scully?" Shuffling slightly, Mulder peered anxiously at his
partner, who was shoeless under a faded FBI T-shirt and jeans. <Has
she lost more weight?> "Did Skinner call you?" 

Now it was her turn to look astonished. "No, he didn't. I thought
when I saw the coffee, that..." 

Mulder glanced at the white caps, steam curling out of the openings.
"Oh. This." He held them out to her. "No, these are for you, I mean,
us." 

She accepted the tray, stepping away from the door. When he refused
to follow her, she looked over her shoulder. "Mulder! Come in. Ow!"
She shook her left hand. "It's leaking. Let me pour these into
something more permanent." 

He circled her sofa, surprised at the materials spread out on the
living room table. "Scully?" 

She reappeared, the bag in her teeth while she carried two oversized
mugs. 

Mulder took the sack and one of the hot cups, settling carefully on
the couch. "You're not reading the latest medical journals?" 

She glanced at him. <Do I have to work *all* the time for you to be
satisfied with me, Mulder?> Crossing her legs on the bolsters, she
sipped quietly. "No, I'm not. But, it *is* related to the Weiss case,
and I *do* have the latest results from the DNA analysis of the
smallpox in the bees..." 

He shook his head. "That's fine. I didn't want to talk about that.
What?" He watched her, staring at him, wide-eyed. "What is it?" He
cringed when she shrank back against the cushions. "Scully, what?" He
slid over to her. "Are you okay?" 

"I think I should ask *you* the same thing, Mulder, or should I say,
Eddie?" 

He frowned. "What? I was just curious about these tomes of yours." He
waved one hand at the thick historical texts on the table, while
noting that she had defiantly jutted her chin at him. <Does she think
I want her to work all the time?> 

Standing quickly, she closed the books and arranged them in a neat
stack, tucking a three ring binder at the bottom. "Oh, it was just
the Weiss case, Mulder. After hearing Ariel's story, I decided to
bone up on my Eastern European History." 

As a sudden thought struck him, he slid to the edge of the cushions.
<Have I been that distant?> While Scully carried the stack to her
bookcase, setting the volumes in a blank space on the middle shelf,
he reflected over his actions the past month. <Yes, I have.>

"It's silly, I know. It has nothing to do with work, or the Golem.
But," she explained as she glanced over at him, "I'd never heard of
Khabbalism; I didn't know there were mystics in Judaism, like St.
Theresa, or Hildegard von Bingen." 

He thought back to the Kevin Kryder case. <She's attempting to
connect with me.> Mulder crossed the room to stand beside her, taking
one ivory and gold volume with gilt-edged pages off the end. 

Her small hands flew to the spine, gently cradling it. "That's a new
translation of the Five Books of Moses. They're beautiful. It's
poetry, finally, not some stilted list of begats." Lifting the
weighty hardbound away, she carried it back to the sofa to tuck her
feet up and slip on her reading glasses. "Listen to this, Mulder."
She thumbed through the text until she was at a page covered with
black and white reproductions of manuscript illuminations, a white
box with two lines printed in the center.  

"At the beginning of God's creating of the heavens and the earth,"

She flipped the page.

"when the earth was wild and waste,
 darkness over the face of Ocean,
 rushing-spirit of God hovering over the face of the waters-

 God said: Let there be light! And there was light.
 God saw the light: that it was good.
 God separated the light from the darkness.
 God called the light: Day! and the darkness he called: Night!
 There was setting, there was dawning: one day."

Mulder waited, thinking back to his solo visit to the Hebrew Library,
how words had the power to destroy, or, create. <Or heal.> His
partner's voice broke into his musings. 

"God said:
 Let us make humankind, in our image, according to our likeness!
 Let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, the fowl of the
   heavens, animals, all the earth, and all crawling things that
   crawl about upon the earth!
   God created humankind in his image,
   in the image of God did he create it,
   male and female did he create them."

He recognized a different cadence, a separate speech, underlying her
readings. <I don't speak Hebrew.> Mournful, he chewed his lip,
nodding as she spoke.

"Thus were finished the heavens and the earth, with all their
  array.  
 God had finished, on the seventh day, his work that he had made,
 and then he ceased, on the seventh day, from all his work that he 
  had made.
 God gave the seventh day his blessing, and he hallowed it,
  for on it he ceased from all his work, that by creating, God
  had made.
 These are the begettings of the heavens and the earth: their
  being created."

Finished, she lifted her face, her green eyes lighter than he had
seen in weeks. "You see? In a sensitive, literate translation,
there's no real disagreement between modern evolutionary theory and
the Genesis account." 

He allowed himself to be pinned in her clear gaze. <No unbridgeable
disagreements between science and belief. Between you and me. Is that
what you're trying to tell me, Scully?> 

Closing the book, she placed it reverently on her white coffee table.
"I'm sorry, Mulder. What was it you wanted to talk about?"   
Shifting to the center of the couch, he leaned towards her, and
tapped his nose. "I got this from my mother's side, if you're
wondering." 

Slipping off the frames, she folded the earpieces down to twist the
lenses in her fingers. After a few seconds, she glanced up at him. "I
was curious, but I didn't want to pry. With all the terrible things
that have happened to you and your family, it hardly seems to
matter." 

He shrugged. "That's okay. We never talked about it much at home. We
*were* on the Vineyard, after all." He waved at the texts. "Mind if I
borrow some of that knowledge over there? I'd like to learn a little
about my ancestors." He brushed the back of her hand with the tips of
his fingers. "We can talk about it, if you have the time." He glanced
at the floor. <If you have the time... good going, G-man.> 

She pumped her chin once, then, relaxing slightly, set the glasses
beside the translation and unrolled the top of the bag. <I'll bet
these are those super-sweet powdered doughnuts he likes.>

As she peeked inside, he grinned. <Surprise!> 

She pulled out what appeared to be two paper-wrapped biscuits,
studded with tiny black specks. "Scones? You picked up scones with
currants? For *both* of us?" 

He sent her a look of mild astonishment as he reached towards her
hand, leaving the larger of the two tall golden pastries to her. "But
I thought you *liked* scones, Scully." 

She arched one eyebrow. "I *love* scones, Mulder, but you usually
bring doughnuts, especially right before we go on a case."

Taking a huge bite, he leaned back, waiting until he had swallowed
before replying. "This isn't about a case." The coffee already
lukewarm, he took several long sips. "I told you, I just wanted to
talk." 

She dropped both feet to the floor. "Now, I know there's something
wrong, Mulder. Is it your Mom? Is she okay? Do you need my help with
something this weekend?" She watched him shake his head, confused.
"Then, what is it?" 

He drained the mug before setting it on the low table. "I just wanted
to..." He shifted uncomfortably. <Now or never.> "Why are you
considering gene therapy, Scully? Is the tumor growing?"

Now it was her turn to look shocked. "Frohike told you?" She sighed.
"I'm not, not really. I just wanted to check out my options, that's
all." Nibbling at one sharp corner, she studied his face. "I hope to
find a treatment that would allow me to continue to work, and, no,
the mass hasn't enlarged." 

He slid over beside her. "Why didn't you come to me about this?"

She shrugged. "It didn't seem significant. We've been busy with so
many other things..." 

He touched her arm. "Nothing is more important than finding a cure
for you." 

She jumped. <Why did he say that? Now, after everything...> "Nothing?
Mulder, what do you mean? We have so much work to do."

He sighed. "I mean we need to find a cure for you, Scully. You won't
let this thing beat you, and neither will I, okay?" 

Both eyebrows arched. "Okay. But, if I may ask, why now? Did van
Blundht say something to you I didn't hear through the monitors?"

He backed up across her cushions until he was at the far edge of her
couch, focusing on the bookcase across the room. "No. <It was
enough.> You heard everything I did. I can just be really thick-
headed sometimes." He flicked his eyes at her chuckle. "I assume you
want things a certain way, then something happens that shocks me, and
I have trouble realizing things weren't the way I assumed, at all." 

She lifted one corner of her mouth. "Nothing happened, Mulder.
Really." 

He nodded. "I know. And you talked about nothing, too." Patting the
back cushions of the sofa, he gathered his courage. "That's why I'm
here. I want you to feel you can talk to me about nothing, Scully." 

She waited. 

Mulder tipped his head. "Really." He let out a short laugh. "I know
that sounds odd, coming from me, but if you thought you could tell it
to me once, I'll listen to it again." He held up his hand. "Promise." 

"No interruptions? No off-the-wall theories?" 

He nodded. "No jokes about robot creators of a machine that can make
anything starting with N." 

She tossed her head, moving her auburn pageboy off her cheek. "So, it
set out to make nothing of everything before they convinced it to
stop. I've read 'The Cyberiad' too, Mulder." 

He grinned. "I'm all ears." 

She shook her head. "You'll be bored." 

He dipped his face forward in one swift, frustrated motion. <Why is
she making this so hard? We used to be able to talk, back...> He
sighed. <Because *you've* made it that way.> "Try me."

She took a long breath. "I told him about my life in the twelfth
grade." 

He waited. 

She tucked her chin for a moment. "No, you won't want to hear that,
Mulder."

He bounced across the bolsters until he was beside her, one arm
stretched along the sofa back, replying in his dry drawl. "It has to
have been better than my senior year." 

She gauged his body language. He was sitting on his left ankle,
looking as if he had just hopped over the back and dropped in place.
Mulder slid his left hand forward until it touched her shoulder,
prodding her lightly. His right hand was curled around his knee, not
plucking at the piping on the cushion as it would when he was bored
or restless. Her partner had tipped his head, those odd bangs he had
adopted falling forward over one eye while he chewed his lower lip. 

Her vibrant eyes narrowed slightly. <He really can chose the
strangest hairstyles at times.> Both his dark eyebrows were arched
slightly and he was nodding his eagerness, which was all she really
needed to read him.

He leaned towards her slightly. "Tell *me*, Scully."

<This might actually work.> She settled in, twisting around until her
back was against the cushions and her shoulder just contacted his
side. <He's not moving.> Curling up beside him, she wrapped her arms
around her knees. "Okay, I had this *huge* crush..."

                            --*****--

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Not quite what you'd expected, right? I enjoyed "Small Potatoes"
thoroughly, but thought the distance we saw between the lead
characters right at the end quite poignant, and wanted to do
something about it. Also, a whole month had elapsed, according to the
screen tag, and *still* no notice of Scully's cancer. This story was
an attempt to bridge both gaps. 

The title is a shortened version of the one for Deborah Tannen's 1990
book "You Just Don't Understand: Women and Men in Conversation". I've
often wanted to mail a copy to 1013 as I watch them struggle to write
dialog for the intelligent, independent woman that is our Doctor
Dana.

"The Five Books of Moses" is an astoundingly beautiful new
translation of the Pentateuch from the Hebrew scholar Everett Fox.
His treatment of the Fall of Man provides insights I never knew were
in the text, and nicely sets a good deal of Christian Theology on its
ear. 

Stanislaw Lem's "The Cyberiad" is a classic of science fiction humor,
what with one dragon times one dragon yielding 0.6 dragons, as well
as the aforementioned robot inventors, Trurl and Kalapakus. I
couldn't dig up my copy, so I have no idea how old it really is. If
you like Douglas Adams, check it out the next time you're at a
library or bookstore.

E-mail, as always, is welcome. 

Originally released to ATXC and XFF 4/22/97 revised 4/26/97, second
revision 6/20/97

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