<![CDATA[
"Impossible Things" (1/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch
I guess I'm playing around with a new series here.
I've had little choice.
Somebody needs to tap CC on the shoulder and say, "You
know, big guy, you really can't drop a bombshell like giving a beloved
character terminal cancer, and then expect your viewers to sit back
and be enthralled by an episode guest-starring a marching band."
It ain't gonna happen.
*sigh*
Is it any wonder that people such as myself are going
through withdrawal?
Thankfully, while waiting for CC and company to get back
to what is quite possibly the most exciting plot development to hit XF
in years, talented folk such as Lydia Bower, Ms. Parrotfish and the
rest have managed to keep us entertained with tales featuring Mulder,
Scully, and a nasty little thing known as mortality.
Well, just like back in the days of those WWII bond drives,
I'm pitching in here to do my part. :)
And no, these characters aren't mine, so how dare I
complain. They belong to the aforementioned Big Guy, 1013, and
Fox. And yes, I like to believe they belong to GA and DD as well.
Lord knows I don't want to see anyone else portraying these roles.
I'm playin' is all. Havin' some fun. Send this story where you will.
Just please keep my name attached to it. Thanks.
***************************************************
ARCHIVE STUFF: This is a MSRA, although still landing firmly
on the platonic side of the fence. Rated R for language, sexual
innuendo and imagery. It follows "Of Cabbages & Kings" and
makes references to said story. But, I wouldn't consider either story
part of a serial. I'm no Charles Dickens.
SUMMARY: This time it's Scully calling her partner. The night
is closing in. Can Mulder help her breathe?
***************************************************
This is for the Cafe Kids and their upcoming rendezvous in NYC.
Talk about believing in the impossible. . . .
* * * * * * * *
Fox Mulder was dreaming.
At first, he hadn't been certain he actually was. Hadn't
recognized the images threading their way through his unconscious
as being slumber induced. After all, none of the usual signposts
were there to guide him. To explain what precisely was his role in
this strange otherworld. He found no glowing doorway silhouetting
a tall slender alien form. No younger sister screaming his name in
terror. No faraway shattering of glass. No husky, fear-filled voice
telling him his help was needed. Now. Desperately.
No.
This dream was different.
Well, perhaps not so different. He had to confess that he had,
from time to time, indulged in such reveries in the past.
Sometimes whilst being wide awake.
But never with quite this degree of realism.
He was lying on his back. In this dream of his. Naked.
On something lushly cushioned. It might have been a bed. Yet, then
again, maybe not. It was hard to tell. This place where he lay was
dark, shadow dappled. The pools of light separating the darkness as
soft as the thing upon which he rested. The resulting mood was
wonderfully sensual. Mysterious. But, hardly illuminating. No matter
how pointedly he looked or how mightily he concentrated, his vision
remained limited at best.
However, that realization didn't bother him overmuch. Who
the hell cared about sight when you could feel like this?
Every single pore his body possessed tingled. All his nerve
endings hummed as if charged; their sensitivity so acute, it bordered
upon pain. Blood shot through his veins like mountain streams
through high country canyons after the spring thaw. His insides were
nearly buzzing with life.
Searching for an outlet for all that energy, he found himself
flexing his phantom fingers and toes; curling, then stretching them.
The action as much a comfort as a sign of his agitation.
His impatience.
He was primed. Ready. Waiting.
He just didn't know what for.
And yet, this interlude wasn't unpleasant. Far from it. A
light scented breeze blew in, seemingly from one of the deepest pools
of black, warm and gentle, kissing his skin. Gliding over him with
fingers of its own, dawdling over the most tender patches. The
arch of his throat. The inside of his thigh. The curve of his lower
belly. The hard heavy muscle jutting from the cradle of his hips.
God, it felt fantastic.
He swallowed the urge to moan, fearing that the rough
urgent sound of his voice would somehow destroy the illusion of
peace. Of calm. Tear him from this most enjoyable of respites.
After all, this place where he lay was infinitely quiet.
Like a church or a temple. The silence bringing with it the same
sense of reverence such places of worship inspired. The same
solemnity. The oddly weighty hush suggesting that this time, this
nothingness, was a prelude to something of vast importance. Of
grandeur. Of majesty.
And yet, this promise of the sublime did nothing to ease his
turmoil, his longing. If anything, it increased it. Even at his best,
Mulder recognized that he wasn't exactly what one would call a
patient man. He needed answers.
Always.
What is this, he yearned to know. Why am I here? Where
is this place? And yet, the faint, whispery sound of that ghostly
wind was the only reply he received. Soft and tranquil, it whistled
over him. Through him. Slowly lulling him. Quelling his disquiet.
Easing him even deeper into sleep. For a time, he fought the nearly
hypnotic effect of that soothing flow of air. Then finally, no longer
able to resist, he reluctantly closed his dream eyes, giving into it.
To the pleasure. The stillness.
And resigned himself to wait.
"Mulder?"
He would know that voice anywhere.
Even in dreams.
His eyelids had grown heavy during the short while they had
been lowered, and he found it surprisingly difficult to lift them. What
he saw when he had accomplished the task, however, made the effort
well worth it.
Dana Scully.
As he had never seen her before.
This wasn't the buttoned-down professional with whom he
had worked side by side for the past several years. This slender woman
with the tumble of auburn hair and the bluest eyes this side of heaven
looked as if she were meant never to leave the boudoir. Garbed in a
sheer pale confection of a nightgown, she stood over him, her posture
thoughtful; almost languid. Her hair curled in a riot of waves around
her flushed face, behaving as if the only order it had ever known had
come courtesy of a pair of impatient hands raking roughly through its
strands. Her eyes shone smoky with arousal. And her mouth appeared
swollen by kisses. Soft and full and ripe.
"Scully?" he croaked, wondering just what the hell he had
done to merit a dream like this.
His fantasy Scully said nothing. Instead, she slowly sauntered
around his resting place, regarding him intently. The force of that
gaze affecting him like a caress.
"What . . .?" he began in a rough voice, unable to take his
eyes off her.
"Shhh," she crooned, a small secret smile curving her lips.
He tried to comply. But it was all he could do to keep from
whimpering when she stopped at his hip, and stretched out her slim
cool hand to rest it upon his thigh, her fingers curled loosely around
the inside of his leg. Still, he managed it.
Until that small devilish hand strayed upwards to brush the
backs of her fingers against his balls.
"Ohhhh," he groaned, lifting his hips upwards, arching
helplessly. His eyes slid shut once more in ecstasy, his hands fisting
to keep from grabbing her and pulling her down on top of him.
"Is this what you want?" the dream Scully asked him in a
hushed voice, her fingertips gliding up and down his length now,
rubbing along him so gently, so perfectly, that he thought he might
weep from it.
"Yes. Oh *God*, please . . . yes."
Regarding him gravely for a moment, she then carefully
climbed atop him, straddling his hips, that fragile bit of lingerie
she wore masking the sight of her center, her heat, hovering over
him. But he didn't need to see it in order to feel it. Feel her. Not
in this world.
Not in this lifetime.
No. All he needed was the mere thought of it, and his control
unraveled, like a strand of yarn being gently pulled free from a knitted
scarf. The notion that this woman knelt poised above him, ready
and willing to be joined with him in the most intimate of couplings
was almost more than he could bear. He could feel himself twitching
to complete the bond. Yearning to dig his fingers into the soft flesh
of her thighs and pull her down. To sheathe himself inside the hot
depths of her small body.
And yet, for some reason, Mulder remained motionless. He
didn't know where the hell his dream self was finding his restraint,
but he utterly refrained from helping his partner complete what she
had begun. Instead, he only allowed his hands to set lightly on her
waist, the gossamer fabric clothing her cool and slippery beneath his
fingertips.
"Are you sure, Mulder?" inquired the woman astride him.
The look in her midnight gaze whispering to him of tangled sweaty
sheets, and sweet murmured endearments. "You know what this
means."
"Yes," he said, his tone guttural and strangled with need,
his fingers flexing on her softness just a tad.
"You know there's no going back," she warned, leaning
forward a bit, her palms balanced against his chest so that she was
able to look down clearly into his eyes.
"I know," he told her quietly, his breathing rapid and
ragged. His heart threatening to beat its way through his breast,
almost as if it were physically trying to reach the woman whose
hand rested atop it.
Scully paused for just an instant more. Then, nodded.
"I've think we've both always known," she murmured with
a smile, her face blossoming into radiance. And with a sigh, she
melted into his arms.
Mulder's own lips curved in thanksgiving, and his hands
slid from her waist up the gentle incline of her back.
Only when he tried to draw the woman above him into his
embrace, he came up empty.
Instead, she slowly disappeared. Right before his bewildered,
horrified eyes. Fading gradually away, like a photograph developing in
reverse.
Yet, he refused to believe the evidence disclosed by his own
eyes. Wildly, he scrambled up to a sitting position, grasping furiously
for her.
And coming up with nothing.
But the memory of her smile.
"=God!="
Forehead cold and clammy with sweat, Mulder flew upright
upon his couch, his hands shaking, his mouth dry, his heart hammering
like a fire alarm. Ringing with that sort of speed. That sort of
urgency.
Ringing, hell.
That wasn't his heart.
That was the telephone.
God. Oh God. Christ. Yet another addition to his very
own personal Chamber of Horrors, he thought with a kind of sickly
revulsion. The old ones weren't good enough, eh, Mulder, he
grimly mused as he fumbled around in the darkness, searching for
the phone. Had to come up with a brand spankin' new way to
torture yourself.
And that nightmare really and truly had been a form of
punishment those nuts from the Inquisition would have loved. What
better way to suffer than to take what you most long for and corrupt
it into your greatest fear?
Way to go, Ace.
Finally. His cordless. What time was it, anyway?
"Mulder," he mumbled into the mouthpiece.
"Oh. Mulder. . . . Sorry. You were asleep."
Scully.
"No!" he barked with a bit too much gusto for his taste. Pull
it together, Mulder, he silently instructed himself. It was a dream.
That's all. Everything's okay. Here's Scully now. She's on the other
end of the line. She's fine.
Or as fine as anyone can be who has been left sterile and
dying of cancer after a possible alien abduction.
Fuck.
Deep breath. Clear the throat.
"Scully. Hey," he murmured with as much aplomb as he
could muster. "You didn't wake me. I was, um . . . I was just . .
zoning. You know. Doing some stuff on the computer."
"What kind of stuff?"
He couldn't tell if she was buying it, but decided to go with
this tack just the same. "Oh, the usual. Hacking into the Defense
Department. Checking out Celebrity Nudes. You know."
That earned him a small chuckle.
Then nothing.
"What's going on with you?" he asked in a determinedly
off-handed tone, checking the watch he had left on the coffee table as
he did so. The faint light seeping into his apartment from outside made
the simple task harder than it should have been. Yet, in the end he
succeeded.
12:03.
The Witching Hour.
What was up with that?
"So, are you waiting up for the late show or something?" he
continued mildly after she had failed to immediately answer his initial
question. "I think I read somewhere that one of those Turner stations
is running a 'Thin Man' marathon. You know, the later installments in
the series may lose some of the zing of the original. But there's
always Asta to look forward to. And Myrna Loy. Gotta love a redhead
who can banter."
"Sounds great, Mulder. Maybe I'll give it a try."
But she didn't really sound as if she would.
"Scully," Mulder cautiously began, feeling his way with the
care of a tightrope walker. "Are you okay?"
No reply.
He tried for a chuckle. The effort was feeble at best. "I
mean, =I'm= usually the one doing this middle-of-the-night-telephone-
thing."
Small sigh. "Don't worry, Mulder. It's no big deal. I just
can't sleep. That's all."
"And you thought maybe talking to me would knock you
right out?" he teased as delicately as he could, not quite ready to
decide whether her words comforted or concerned him.
She responded the way he had hoped she would. She shared
with him a small soft laugh. "Oh, I don't know, Mulder. Somehow
talking to you has never exactly put me to sleep."
He smiled at the fond yet rueful tone of her voice. "Glad to
hear it."
"Actually, I was kinda hoping you might be able to take my
mind off of sleep. You know? I mean, sometimes it's best when you
let that sort of thing just sneak up on you."
Something in her voice was setting off warning bells again.
And yet, he was damned if he could figure out what precisely was
wrong.
"You been working hard at this whole sleep issue, Scully?"
he ventured quietly, back up on the tightrope once more.
"Yeah." The hushed, wounded note in that single word spoke
volumes. Mulder felt his insides clench in sympathy.
"You want to tell me what the problem is?" he finally asked,
realizing that she might balk at his direct query, and yet deciding that
the situation warranted such an intrusion just the same. What the hell.
She had let him get away with asking if she was okay. Of course, that
was a familiar enough question. Especially these days. The good Lord
knew that if he didn't make that sort of inquiry every once and awhile,
he'd never learn anything of any use. Certainly not about anything as
touchy as the state of her health. For a woman who was known for
being fearlessly forthright when dealing with matters of business or
even other people's emotional states, Dana Scully could be dizzyingly
circumspect when the focus fell on her.
"It's nothing, Mulder," she murmured with what sounded
like a touch of embarrassment. "Really. It's just . . . have you ever
had one of those nights where the walls feel like they're closing in?"
Hmm.
"You suddenly claustrophobic, Scully?" he asked lightly,
hoping that by his not grilling her for information she might, in fact,
find it easier to confide in him.
"No," she said with a single grunt of humorless laughter.
"At least, I never have been. It's just . . . the air feels heavy
tonight. You know?"
He did know. And yes, the atmosphere was weighty. Spring
had descended upon the capital that Friday as if it had a vendetta
against winter. Temperatures had soared, humidity coming right
along for the ride. By afternoon, bureaucrats and pages alike had
strolled the Mall in their shirtsleeves. Impromptu Frisbee games had
sprung up on seemingly every available square of lawn. It might only
have been late March, but D.C.'s citizens were convinced that at long
last the days of sub-freezing weather were behind them.
Spring already. Jesus. Where had the time gone? It seemed
like only yesterday that he had stood, huddled against the cold, outside
the house in which Leonard Betts had grown up. His breath puffing
in smoky little clouds of steam, he had held his cell phone to his ear,
struggling valiantly against the layers of background noise, straining
to hear his partner whisper, "Mulder, get over here right now."
How many minutes away had you been from having your
life turned upside down, Scully, he silently queried now, another phone
pressed firmly to the side of his head.
How many minutes had ticked away since that fateful instant?
How many more minutes do you have left?
Battling against an almost drowning sorrow, Mulder conjured
up whatever slight acting ability he had, and continued on with the
conversation at hand.
"The air probably feels heavy, Scully, because we're supposed
to get hit with a front that's blowing up the coast," he explained
reasonably, thankful that at that moment he didn't have to look his
partner in the eye. Didn't have to try and carry off the ruse of calm
and control face-to-face. That's right, Mulder. Discuss the weather with
her. That should be safe. Why mess with the other stuff?
Christ.
"Is it supposed to rain?" Scully asked, recalling him back to
himself. "I didn't have the T.V. on tonight."
"Yeah. This whole weather system is some leftover remnant
of that tropical storm in the Caribbean. The rain is supposed to begin
either late tonight or sometime tomorrow," he said, gradually
gaining mastery over his emotions. Stretching, he rose and crossed to
peer out his window, almost as if checking to see the accuracy of his
forecast. The air trickling in through the raised casement was very
nearly as warm as what the capital had basked in that afternoon.
Perhaps that was where the phantom breeze in his dream had originated
from, he mused. But, even as he enjoyed the gentle wind, Mulder had
to acknowledge that the approaching rain had added a density to the
atmosphere that had been missing earlier. A promise of things to come.
It just hadn't reached them yet.
"I don't know though, Scully," he murmured thoughtfully,
his brow furrowed in consideration as he took in the ebony canopy
above. "Maybe that guy on the news is wrong. The moon is shining
pretty brightly. Doesn't appear to be a cloud in the sky."
"Really? I hadn't even looked outside. . . . I can't see from
this window . . . . is the moon full?"
"Almost. I guess that explains why I can't quite keep that
five o'clock shadow at bay."
She chuckled. "I guess."
Mulder just stood at his living room window for a beat,
eyeing the moon bright sky and enjoying the play of the unseasonably
sultry air over his skin.
A notion took shape in his mind. "Hey, Scully--can you be
ready in . . say, . . a half hour, 45 minutes?"
His shift in topic apparently took her by surprise. "Ready
for what?"
"Trust me, Scully," he feinted, not wanting to divulge his
plan, thus inviting her refusal. "I've got an idea."
"Always a dangerous thing."
He laughed shortly. "Ha-ha. Just get dressed. Wear
something comfortable. And I'll be by in a little bit."
"What is this about, Mulder?" she asked a bit warily.
"Uh-uh," he blithely replied. "No fair asking questions."
"Mulder . . . .," she drawled.
"Scully, are you thinking about sleep?"
She hesitated, clearly confused by the manner in which
their conversation had suddenly begun bouncing all over the map.
"Um . . . no."
"Well, there you have it," he said with a degree of satisfaction.
"Our first objective has been achieved."
She chuckled. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
He sobered for just an instant. "I think the more important
question here is: Are you?"
She paused for less than a breath. When she spoke, her voice
was low and hushed, as if she were confessing a secret. "Yes, Mulder.
I am."
He smiled into the receiver, the satisfaction he had first
enjoyed only seconds before doubling. "Well then--hold on to your hat,
Scully. 'Cause you ain't seen nothing yet."
Continued in Part II
* * * * * * * *
"There's no use trying," she said: "one can't believe
impossible things."
"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the
Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour
a day. Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible
things before breakfast."
"Through the Looking-Glass" by Lewis Carroll
"Impossible Things" (2/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch
Please see Part I for all the intro/disclaimer stuff. Thanks.
* * * * * * *
"So where exactly is it that we're headed?" inquired the
petite redhead gazing out the window of the swiftly moving Taurus.
"Go ahead, copper. Do your worst. But you ain't
gonna sweat it out of me," playfully replied her companion as he
guided the sedan down a deserted county road somewhere in rural
Virginia.
Geez, Mulder, don't quit your day job, that same driver mused
not a moment after. If that truly wretched attempt at a Jimmy Cagney
impression was any indication, a career in Vegas as the heir apparent
to Rich Little's throne looked to be a pipe dream at best. Still, his
silliness had garnered him the desired response. The corners of
Scully's lips were raised indulgently.
"It's a good thing I trust you, Mulder," she murmured, the
smile lingering still as she scanned the darkened scenery whizzing by.
"Because to be quite honest, I have absolutely no idea where we are."
No. He didn't suppose that she did. After all, he had
never shared this place with her before. And it was a little off the
beaten path for her to have run across on her own.
"It's not much further," he said with a glance in her direction.
She nodded as she watched the blacktop unspool before
them like an ebony ribbon in the unwavering glow of the car's
headlights.
Mulder checked the dashboard clock. Just shy of 1:45. And
yet, thankfully, he had shed whatever stubborn fatigue had initially
clung to him upon waking. He had momentarily questioned the
wisdom of this plan of his while sleepily shrugging his way into the
jeans and heathered gray henley he currently wore. After all, it was
late, the forecast said rain, he had no idea if Scully would really even
appreciate being dragged from her home in the middle of the night.
However, now that they were on their way together, it seemed as if
despite those considerations, he had made the right decision. The late
hour certainly didn't seem to be a hindrance. He felt awake. Alert.
Raring to go.
And apparently, Scully felt the same. When she had answered
her door clad in a long-sleeved beige cotton sweater and jeans, her
eyes had looked up at him with the same intensity, the same sharp
intelligence they always held.
And yet, he thought he might have detected shadows beneath
those expressive baby blues. Faint crescents, the color of bruises, in
the hollows beneath her eyes which lent a certain fragility to her
countenance, a certain poignancy to her beauty. A vulnerability that
made him very glad that this woman had gone ahead and picked up the
telephone, regardless of the hour.
"Come on, little girl," he had murmured affectionately as he
had draped his arm around her shoulder, and guided her out of the
building and into the auto. "We're goin' on a field trip."
Fondly remembering the sweet sensation of her small soft
body tucked firmly alongside his own, Mulder spied the landmark he
had been searching for. In the distance, a wide gnarled tree stump with
a battered enameled milk jug atop it shimmered into view.
"Ah. Here we are."
Putting on his turn signal out of habit, he pulled off the two
lane county road and onto a narrower gravel drive. Not a half mile later,
he turned again. This time the way was paved simply with packed earth,
looking to be more a footpath than any sort of actual road. Trees
and bushes hugged the trail, slapping at the automobile as it forged
through the brush, almost as if the vegetation viewed the car and its
occupants as some sort of pesky annoyance. The mechanical equivalent
of a mosquito or gnat.
"We're paying someone a visit at this hour?" Scully said with
a measure of surprise as she sat up a bit straighter in her seat, craning
her neck as if she somehow hoped to catch a glimpse of their
destination in the heart of the velvet blackness.
"Nah," Mulder replied as he clung tightly to the now jittery
steering wheel, his eyes narrowed against the darkness the same way
they would have been against the noonday sun. "Henry's not around
this time of year. He won't be for a few weeks yet."
"Henry?"
"Henry Thorpe. The guy who owns this place."
Scully turned her eyes to him once more, as if expecting he
would continue. He didn't. She pursed her lips with frustration. He
had to struggle not to smile at her impatience.
Finally, they bumped and bounced their way free of the
encroaching forest. The greenery that had impeded their progress
thinned at first, then gave way completely to a grassy meadow
dotted with butter yellow crocuses. The clearing wasn't large.
Bordered on three sides by staggered rows of trees, its remaining face
was actually the apex of a rather steep hill. But, the expanse was
lovely. Private. Below them stretched a valley, its terrain rolling and
gentle. In the moonlight, a narrow silvery trickle of a stream glittered,
bisecting the field's plane. Still more trees, serene and tall, stood like
silent fishermen along the waterway's banks.
"Yeah," Mulder murmured with satisfaction, a small smile
softening his features. "This is the place." And carefully guiding the
automobile to just short of the incline's edge, he cut the engine, set
the emergency brake, and exited the vehicle.
Leaving his partner to sit, pondering just what the hell
he had gotten her into this time.
That rumination lasted just long enough for him to get
to the rear of the Taurus and open the trunk.
"You want to tell me what we're doing here, Mulder?"
Scully inquired dryly after she too had stepped out of the car and
crossed around to behind it. "I mean--correct me if I'm wrong--but
isn't what we're doing commonly known as trespassing?"
"It's not trespassing if you have an invitation," he said,
leaning into her with a sly smile as he retrieved what he had been
searching for and slammed shut the trunk's lid once more.
She folded her arms across her chest and arched a brow.
"And you obtained this invitation sometime *after* I'd called you and
*before* you came to pick me up? This Henry Thorpe fellow must be
some kind of a night owl."
"Nah," he said as he tromped across the ankle high grass and
back to the front of the car, his arms full. Scully followed behind
him, trailing him like a shadow. "It's a standing sort of invitation."
Even in the muted light afforded them by the still softly
glowing moon, he could see the exasperation tightening his partner's
features. Hmm. Maybe it was time to come clean.
"Henry Thorpe is a farmer," he explained, dropping his
burden on the ground, then laying his palm against the car's hood
to test the temperature. A little warm. But, not too uncomfortable.
And besides, it should cool down quickly enough. "Well, that's
not true. Not really. Not anymore. He doesn't actually own a 'farm'
these days. He sold off the really productive parcels of his land a few
years back. All he held on to was the house and this portion of the
property."
Scully's hands had dropped to her hips as she surveyed first
him, then the landscape below them, her lips pursed thoughtfully.
"Well, even in the dark, I can see why. It's beautiful."
Mulder nodded as he bent down and began unfolding his
mysterious bundle. Shaking it out before him with a snap of his wrists,
he stood upright with what looked to be a sleeping bag, unzipped to
lay flat like a blanket. One more fluid flip, and the quilted expanse
of navy blue plaid neatly covered the sloping hood of the Taurus.
"Yeah. It is nice out here," he softly agreed, glancing over his
shoulder at her while he worked. "I thought so the very first time I
laid eyes on it."
"Which was?" Scully drawled dryly.
"Which was," he said while tossing a pair of pillows on top
of his makeshift nest so that they landed mid-windshield. "When
Henry called the Bureau about the aliens that kept landing in his
cornfield."
"I see," said the small woman standing beside him, nodding
her head as if she heard this sort of thing everyday.
Which, come to think of it, she did.
Mulder chuckled. "Henry is a great old guy. But he is . . .
well . . . an *old* guy. Very old now. And even then, he just wasn't
quite as sharp as he'd once been. He'd get confused. You know? Some
of the local kids had been using his fields as a kind of secret meeting
place. From what I could gather, not much had gone on past a few
small campfires and a little illicit pot smoking. Still, when Henry had
gone out and found trampled stalks of corn and burn marks on the
ground, he had immediately thought--"
"Aliens," Scully finished succinctly with a bemused tilt of her
lips.
"Aliens," Mulder confirmed with an answering smile.
"I see why you two hit it off," she murmured, dipping her head
to look up at him through her lashes.
"Hey, go easy on Henry now," he said, laughing at her barb.
"And on me too, for that matter. The poor guy had just watched a few
too many hours of 'Sightings' is all. It could've happened to anyone."
It looked as if Scully were nibbling on the inside of her cheek
in an effort to hold back what was sure to be a particularly withering
retort. In the end, she apparently succeeded. "I'm not saying a word."
He just smiled.
"So when did you and Henry meet up, anyway?" she queried
at last, hands now slipping into the front pockets of her jeans.
He rested his behind against the car and considered her
question; his hands braced against the hood as well. "Oh, it's been
years now. Probably before you had ever even graduated Quantico.
It was right after I had discovered the X-Files. But, before I had
really begun investigating them in earnest. Henry had repeatedly
called the local authorities about his . . . 'problem'. They didn't know
what to do with him, so they pointed him the direction of the Bureau.
There had been some kind of a study on crop circles that the government
had been participating in at the time. It had been in all the papers.
So I guess that seemed to the local p.d. like the best solution under the
circumstances."
"And it eventually wound up in your lap?" she surmised softly.
"Yeah," he confirmed with a lop-sided grin. "The trickle down
theory."
He shook his head, remembering. "I didn't mind though. You
know? Henry was harmless. He was just looking for a little bit of
reassurance. I think he was lonely more than anything. After all, he
was out here all on his own. No family. And then . . . of course, the
whole thing was pretty exciting to me."
"It was?" she asked, her brow wrinkled with surprise.
"Yeah," he said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. "At
the time, it was. I mean . . . I had been profiling serial killers, Scully.
Madmen. Monsters. The only thing was that they were monsters of
an all too human variety. It could wear you down sometimes. You
know? While what Henry was reporting . . . that was like something
out of 'Close Encounters of the Third Kind'."
"That's right," she murmured fondly, the breeze lifting her
hair to flutter lightly around her cheeks. "You always were a Spielberg
fan."
Mulder thought back to their first case together and smiled.
Whaddya know? She remembered.
"Everything but '1941'."
"What about 'Hook'?"
"Eww. That too."
She smiled, lazily shifting her weight from hip to hip. "So,
you and Henry have remained friends?"
He shook his head, and scratched at the ground with his toe.
"Not friends, really. But we keep in touch. I'll swing out this way
from time to time. Keep an eye on things. His house is just past that
far stand of trees there on the other side of the stream. You can almost
make it out from here. Of course, you can't really get to it by car coming
this way. The more direct route is about three miles further down that
county road we were on. Anyway, I don't mind. Henry doesn't seem to
either. Hell, he's not even here half the year. He winters in Florida.
And this place just stands vacant."
Scully nodded thoughtfully, and looked out over the valley
below. "Well, I can understand what attracts you easily enough. It's
awfully quiet, isn't it? Peaceful. I like it."
The edges of his mouth curled as he took in the sight of her
profile lit by moonlight. "Yeah. But you haven't even really gotten
a good look at the best part."
"What do you mean?"
"You keep looking down, Scully."
"We're on a hill, Mulder. I thought you wanted me to see
the view."
"I do. But I think maybe it's time for a little change in your
perspective. Come here."
She eyed him a bit uncertainly, no doubt reacting to the
husky, teasing tone in his voice, and wondering precisely what sort
of mischief was afoot.
"Come on," he coaxed, with a gentle smile. And standing
squarely on his feet once more, he held out his hand in invitation.
She hesitated just a second more. Then, her mouth turning
up in an answering smile, she clasped her hand in his and took a step
forward.
And with a gentle tug, Mulder pulled her still closer to him,
settled his hands on the curve of her waist, and turning, deposited her
lightly on the hood of the car.
"What is this?" she asked, her laughter turning the simple
question musical.
Mulder leaned his elbows on the car near her hip, his face
hovering close to hers, his eyes gleaming in the darkness like polished
onyx. "Lay back."
She looked at him for a beat. Then, cocking a brow, she
swiveled and shifted so that her head rested upon one of the pillows
he had placed against the windshield earlier.
"Wow," she whispered not soon after. "It's been a long time.
I had forgotten how amazing this kind of thing can be when you get
out of the city."
"It's something. Isn't it?"
"Yeah. It really is."
Mulder tilted back his own head and took in the sight that so
enthralled his partner.
The night sky, unhindered by buildings or envious electricity
sparkled with all the dazzle of Liz Taylor's jewelry box. Sprinkled
like grains of salt against a black silk tablecloth, the stars and planets
twinkled and shone with very nearly an exhibitionist's glee, almost as
if they were putting on a show solely for the entertainment of the man
and woman below.
The pair who made up this audience said nothing, content for
a time merely to contemplate the heavens. Then, Mulder murmured,
"Scoot over."
Scully complied.
And he joined her atop the Ford.
"So this is what you wanted to show me, huh, Mulder?" she
queried softly after awhile.
"Yeah. Do you like it?"
"Yes," she said simply.
They said nothing after that for the span of several minutes.
Instead they each lay quietly, their bodies flush against one another
from shoulder to thigh, their upper backs elevated by the slope of the car's
windshield. Without knowing exactly why, Mulder found it difficult to
wipe a small stubborn smile from his face. The subtle upturn of his
lips that had formed the moment he had settled himself next to the
woman beside him.
It was nice, this closeness. Uncomplicated, yet densely textured.
He could enjoy it simply for the sensual pleasures to be had. The softness
and the warmth pressed against him. The sharp pinpricks of brilliance
above. The freshness of the air, untainted by city smells and city noises.
The faint chirp of crickets and the distant cries of night hunting birds.
But there was more to the peace he felt enveloping him in its
embrace. A deeper cause. A more visceral need being fulfilled. And
yet he didn't have a name for it. This thing. Didn't even fully
understand it. He thought about it, though. All the time, it seemed,
these days. He had discovered, much to his dismay, that he couldn't
escape it. Not even if he tried. It colored everything he did. Everything
he thought or said. It intruded when he least expected it. Distracted
him. Teased him. Taunted him.
He should have minded.
But, he didn't.
Because he had found that he liked thinking about it. About
her.
In that way.
And besides, this train of thought seemed to be pointing to
something. A breakthrough of sorts. A discovery. The kind of
epiphany he had read about pilgrims experiencing at holy shrines.
Scully as his very own personal religion.
Yeah. There was a kind of sense in that.
Just as long as she didn't somehow transmute from deity into
martyr.
"Did you ever have a telescope when you were growing up?"
Her voice was soft, almost dreamy. He rolled onto his side,
propped his upper body on his elbow, his cheek on his fist, and looked
down at her. She met his gaze, her eyes liquid and wide, her hair
spread on the pillow beneath her head like strands of molten copper,
wisps of it lifting now and again to kiss both their cheeks.
"Remember who you're talking to here, Scully," he murmured
wryly, his voice sounding oddly gruff to his ears.
She smiled, a full toothy sort of grin. "Sorry. I don't know
what I was thinking."
He smiled back.
"We had one too. You know? My dad had bought one for the
whole family one Christmas. He was always looking for ways to spend
time with us when he was on leave. Activities we could all do together.
That sort of thing."
"Sounds like a good time was had by all," Mulder said lightly,
grimly musing over the differences between his own childhood and that
of his partner.
"You wouldn't say that if you could have seen four pairs of eyes
all trying to steal a look through the eyepiece at the same time," Scully
retorted dryly.
He chuckled. "What did you have to do--take a number?"
"Just about."
"So what did you look at when it was your turn?" he asked with
affection, gazing down at this woman whose low husky voice fit in so
perfectly with the almost clandestine mood of the evening, the intimate
stolen quality of their time together.
"Oh, I don't know. Lots of things."
"What was your favorite, though?"
She thought about his question before answering. "Cassiopeia,
I suppose."
He arched a brow. "Cassiopeia? The 'Queen of Heaven'. Why?"
She shrugged, just a little lift of her shoulders. "I don't know.
Probably because it was easy to see."
Mulder smiled. "Looking for an easy way out, Scully?"
She grinned up at him. "You know me."
Yes, he did. And the woman didn't have an easy bone in her
body.
"No, really. It was always so easy to spot the throne. That
crooked little W. You didn't even need the telescope. And I liked how
it was always there."
"Cassiopeia was?"
"Yeah. It seemed as if no matter where you were or what time
of the year it was, you could find those stars."
Her eyes dipped away from his then, a sheepish little smile
shaping her mouth. "I liked that, what with my dad being gone so much.
It kinda seemed like if I could always see those stars, then he could
too. You know? I liked that connection. It made me feel as if I were with
him."
Mulder nodded. And despite the sweet sincerity with which
she had shared her story, he just couldn't resist teasing his partner a
bit. "Wasn't that Linda Ronstandt song from a few years back about
something like that?"
"Something like what?"
"You know, the song from the cartoon about the little lost
mouse."
It was just bright enough for him to make out the threatening
arch of her brow. "Leave it to you, Mulder, to ruin a perfectly good
childhood memory," she grumbled good-naturedly.
He grinned, feeling like a kid who had just dipped the pigtails
of that little girl he liked into the inkwell behind her.
And she smiled back at him, all her supposed pique vanishing
in an instant.
God, it would be so easy to touch her, he thought, losing
himself for a moment in that smile. To lay his palm atop her own
hands, folded and resting upon her abdomen. To trail a finger down
her arm. Thread his fingertips through the hair fluttering at her
temple. Trace the shape of her tender mouth.
So simple. So tempting.
So utterly off limits.
Get a grip, Mulder.
Swallowing a sigh, he flopped over onto his back once more.
Much as he enjoyed the view, he simply couldn't continue to look down
at her that way. Not when they lay so closely together. Not when he
needed to reach out to her as badly as he did. Taking a deep breath, he
plunged his hands into the pockets of his jeans to help control the
impulse.
"There it is now."
He followed the slim line of her index finger with his eyes.
She pointed low on the horizon, almost directly in front of them.
"Cassiopeia?"
"Hm-mmm."
"With Andromeda and Perseus and the rest of the gang?"
"You know the story?"
"I know lots of stories."
"Tell me one."
Mulder hesitated. Her request had surprised him, and it took
him several minutes to think of an appropriate tale. Finally, he looked
to the stars for inspiration.
"Do you know the myth behind the Pleiades?"
"The Seven Sisters?"
"Yeah. Do you know it?"
"Not well. Tell it to me."
Mulder cleared his throat. "Well, . . . to begin at the beginning
. . . once upon a time there were seven sisters."
"Is this the Brothers Grimm or Greek mythology?"
"Sheesh," he groused affably. "Everybody's a critic."
"This from the man who compared my story to that of an
animated rodent," she muttered silkily.
He laughed. "Okay. Okay. Let me try again."
And he did.
"These seven women . . . they were beautiful. They were the
daughters of Atlas and . . . Pleione, two of the old gods."
"Did that give them special privileges?"
"No more so than if they had been the daughters of any other
gods," he said with a shrug. "But, they ran with a fast crowd."
"Made up of whom?"
"Oh, the usual. . . . Zeus, Poseidon, Ares. All the sisters had
various gods for lovers. All but one."
"What was wrong with her?"
"Nothing. But those gods had a tendency to be fickle. She
opted for a mortal instead. Less chance of him turning into some
sort of animal and sneaking into an unsuspecting virgin's bedchamber."
"Smart girl," she commented dryly.
"Only to a point. The gods had the last laugh."
"How so?"
"She's the one star you can't see with the naked eye."
"Bastards," she murmured.
"Absolutely," he agreed, struggling not to laugh. "So anyway,
one day these seven are out doing whatever it is that women did in those
days, when Orion stumbles across them."
"The Hunter?"
"I thought you didn't know this one?"
"I don't. Go on."
"Well, suffice it to say, he likes what he sees. And he makes a
play for them."
"All seven?"
"He was a giant."
"Mulder, that makes no sense."
"Scully, sometimes you just have to go with it."
Silence while she thought that one over.
"All right." She didn't sound convinced.
He decided to forge ahead anyway.
"So, they take off. The women are terrified. Running for all
they're worth. But it's no use. Orion is gaining on them."
"Well, he *is* a giant," she murmured.
"Do you want me to finish?" he asked in mock exasperation.
"Please."
"So, they call out to the heavens for deliverance. The sister
who was shagging Zeus putting in a plea specifically to him. He hears
her cry, and saves them all."
"How?"
"By turning them into doves. They flew off into the heavens
where Orion couldn't reach them."
"Hmm. . . . Wouldn't it have been easier for Zeus to just smite
Orion down?"
"*Smite* him down?"
"Yeah. With a thunderbolt or whatever."
Once again, he fought the urge to chuckle. "I suppose. But
then the Greeks would have had no explanation for the Pleiades."
She considered this for a breath or two.
"I don't know, Mulder," she mumbled dryly at last, her voice
rumbling low in her register. "It sounds like the old boy's network at
work to me."
"You've lost me."
Now, Scully propped herself up so she could look him in the
eye. From where he lay, Mulder could see a certain amount of merriment
dancing in her gaze. "You know what I mean," she said with a small
hint of a smile. "This whole story reminds me of nothing so much as a
Golden Age tale of sexual harassment."
"Excuse me?" he squeaked, wondering just where the hell she
was going with this.
"Think about it," she urged. "Orion was the one at fault. But,
was he punished? No. He faced no consequences whatsoever for his
actions. None. Those poor women were the ones who had to pick up
and move. Start all over again, so to speak. Talk about your relocation
programs."
Mulder was only able to keep a straight face for all of about
two seconds before he finally gave in to laughter, Scully joined in right
after him.
"The more things change, the more they stay the same?" he
queried through his chuckles.
"Think of my take on things as a new feminist interpretation,"
she retorted, her smile wide, her eyes shining.
They just grinned at each other for a time. Then, Scully
spoke.
"Thank you," she said, her eyes nearly as soft as her voice.
Oh God, there was danger here, Mulder recognized ruefully.
Risk at seeing his usually oh-so-serious partner in this relaxed and
playful a mood. Peril in the way she was looking at him, approval
and affection swimming in her gaze.
"For what?" he mumbled.
"For sharing this place with me," she whispered. "For being
the one I can call in the middle of the night."
"You can call me anytime, Scully. You know that."
She nodded solemnly. "I do."
He studied her face for a moment, striving to discern just what
precisely was going on in that wonderfully complicated brain of hers.
Only Scully wasn't giving up her secrets all that easily.
So, he decided to try a direct approach. After all, it had
worked before.
"Why =did= you call me tonight?" he asked quietly at last.
He could see Scully almost physically retreat.
"I told you," she said, her voice carefully neutral.
"You told me that you felt as if the walls were closing in,"
he said, replaying their earlier conversation in his head.
"That's right."
"Why do think that was?"
She sighed and, collapsing her arm, lay on her back once
more beside him. "Mulder, please don't play shrink. Not tonight."
He pushed himself to a sitting position and turned to face her.
He had been right. There was something here. And at that moment,
he felt a hell of a lot more comfortable trying to discern precisely what
that something might be than he did looking up into her laughing eyes.
"I'm not playing shrink, Scully," he said calmly, trying to
capture her gaze. She wouldn't let him. "I'm not playing anything.
I'm trying to be your friend."
Her eyes flickered to his. "It's nothing. All right? I know
that now."
"What's nothing?"
"Leave it alone," she warned, although her words came out
more weary than threatening.
And, at last, he finally did touch her. He laid his hand upon
hers. Let it rest there, warming her. Then, gave her a little squeeze.
"I want to help."
Her lips twisted. "There's nothing you can do about this."
"Try me."
She took a deep breath. Then, looked him in the eye. "I
had a headache, Mulder."
Those five simple words sent a chill crackling through him.
Its bite hitting him so hard that he imagined he could actually feel
icicles forming on his insides. "A what?"
"A headache. The first I've had . . . in awhile."
He shook his head, still not wanting to believe what her
innocent confession suggested. "I don't . . ."
"It started pounding," she explained, "right here."
She pointed to a spot in the center of her forehead, just above
her eyebrows.
She looked at him for a moment. Hard. Letting what she had
said sink in. Then, she dropped her eyes and gave a little shrug. "It
got me thinking."
And now, dread beginning to fill him from the bottom up,
Mulder found himself thinking as well.
Continued in Part III
* * * * * * * *
"There's no use trying," she said: "one can't believe
impossible things."
"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the
Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour
a day. Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible
things before breakfast."
"Through the Looking-Glass" by Lewis Carroll
"Impossible Things" (3/3)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@earthlink.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~krasch
Please see Part I for all the intro/disclaimer stuff. Thanks.
* * * * * * *
"You don't think--?" Mulder began, hating the way his voice
crinkled when he spoke, creeping dry and weak from between his lips.
"No," Scully said firmly, sitting up as well so that the two of
them were now very nearly huddled together in the center of the
Taurus' hood. "No, I don't."
He nodded a bit hesitantly, not quite daring to believe that
all she had suffered was a false alarm.
"It was a sinus headache, Mulder. Pure and simple. Probably
brought on by that front you were telling me about earlier," she assured
him calmly, her gaze unwavering and true. "I took a couple of
antihistamines and it was gone a few hours later."
He nodded again, with a bit more certainty this time. Although
his hazel eyes remained troubled.
"But, I won't lie to you," she said softly, her own eyes dipping
all at once from his. "It scared me, Mulder. You know?"
He wet his lips before replying as if taking time to gather
strength. Yet, when at last he spoke, his voice still sounded feeble to
his ears. "Yeah. I know."
After that, they just sat wordlessly for a time. Scully, legs
curled around her, the bulk of her slight weight leaning on one hand
while the index finger of the other traced the lines of the flannel plaid
upon which the agents rested. Head bowed, she studied the pattern
with her trademarked intensity, brow furrowed in concentration. For
his part, Mulder searched the star speckled sky. Feet flat on the hood,
his arms looped around his bent legs, he surveyed the heavens, looking
for answers there, just as he always did.
The silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable. Just
heavy. Almost as if sensing their disquiet, the warm moist wind breathed
over them, rippling their clothes, lovingly tousling their hair. Fondly.
As if they were both children again. With little need for keeping combed
and pressed and polished.
Then, Scully peered up at her partner from beneath her lashes.
He sensed her gaze immediately, and turning to regard her once more,
ceased his reverie. Even with night as a filter, Mulder could still make
out her eyes' vivid jewel tone hue. She smiled a sad little smile. "You
know, most of the time, I can forget about it."
He looked at her questioningly.
The smile strengthened. "The cancer. I can. I mean . . I still
don't feel sick. My energy is good. The nosebleeds are more nuisances
than anything else. And besides, I haven't even had one in awhile.
Physically, I just don't detect many changes. I don't . . . I don't know--
do . . do I look sick to you?"
His eyes swept over her familiar features. The delicate
construct of bone and muscle and cartilage and skin that comprised
this most beloved of faces. A face he knew better than his own.
"No," he told her softly. Yet, even as he said the words he
wondered if perhaps he might be lying to her. If he truly could, in fact,
ascribe to fancy rather than fact the subtle hollowing of her cheeks.
The slight pallor he had often feared he spied there.
Then, he decided to tell her the one thing he absolutely,
positively knew as truth.
"You look beautiful, Scully."
And for just a moment, neither of them even drew a breath.
Rather, they sat, each turned towards the other, shoulders touching,
his mouth level with her temple, and looked at each other.
At first, he had to struggle against the almost overwhelming
urge to turn away. What were you thinking, Mulder, wailed a small
frantic voice inside his head. A little moonlight, a little intimacy, a
little scare, and your brain turns to mush? What the hell kind of good
do you think that sort of thing is going to do? Christ. As if things
weren't already complicated enough.
Yet, he couldn't avert his eyes. Couldn't relinquish their hold
on hers. Because to do so would be to admit doubt. Embarrassment.
And despite the discomfort he suffered, he flatly refused to
let Scully believe he felt either where she was concerned.
At this point in their relationship there just wasn't room for
such things.
Nor time for them either.
And so, they took a moment and simply gazed at each other.
It seemed to Mulder that they did so not because either of them was
unfamiliar with what they would see. He knew without question that
Scully was as acquainted with his countenance as he was with hers.
But rather, each appeared to be trying to tell the other something.
Something that mere words were too clumsy, too limited to express.
Then it struck him, as he mused with a touch of wonder over
the way moonlight reflected in his partner's lovely eyes, that this
something was the exact same nameless sensation that had been
plaguing him for weeks. The one haunting him as surely as the scent
of her skin or the sweet shape of her lips.
Oh my God.
Scully felt the same.
He had always hoped that she might, of course. Had, every
so often, suspected that she did. But, he had never known for certain.
Never possessed the proof, tangible and immutable. And although he
had no camera to record the moment, no witness to support his theory,
Mulder was no fool. He might believe in extreme possibilities, but that
didn't mean he was delusional. After all, he made his living looking for
clues, searching for evidence. Observation and analysis were his stock
and trade.
Besides, it wasn't as if Scully was making it difficult for him.
The honesty that was as much a part of her as her vibrant hair shone
there in her eyes as brightly as a whole sky full of stars.
"Scully . . . ," he said softly, his voice rough and unsure.
"I don't like being afraid, Mulder," she murmured with a lift
of her brows, the smallest hint of a smile flitting around the corners
of her mouth.
And he knew as certainly as he knew his own name that at
that moment she wasn't only referring to her illness.
"No one does," he told her just as quietly, his hand stretching
out to gently smooth away a fall of auburn strands. A few shiny pieces
had been ruffled forward by the wind to lay across her pale cool cheek,
and he found he couldn't resist taking advantage of their waywardness.
His fingertips slid almost like a phantom along her velvety skin. "But
sometimes fear is understandable."
She moistened her lips, gravely regarding him.
"That doesn't make it any easier," she finally said in a husky
voice.
"No," he sadly agreed, his hand returning to his lap. "It
doesn't."
Silence.
She nodded a bit tiredly, her shoulders drooping. "So what
do you do when it all seems to be too much?" she whispered ruefully.
"When you worry that if you close your eyes you won't ever open them
again."
Mulder hesitated. Psychologist or no, he was sorely out
of his depth here. How the hell was he supposed to offer comfort
and reassurance when he was as gravely in need of them as she? Try
though he might to banish it, the saying 'Physician, Heal Thyself'
kept rolling around inside his head like a Barry Manilow refrain.
Suddenly, he seized upon something. Something that he
thought might just get them through this. This night. And perhaps
other such nights as well.
He reached down and grabbed hold of the hand that had earlier
been trailing restlessly over the sleeping bag. Hooking his thumb
around hers, he lifted their joined hands to his mouth, and pressed a
soft kiss to the back of hers.
He felt a tiny shiver trickle through her in response.
Still saying nothing, he then took his other hand and
sandwiched hers between his own so that it lay there, small and warm
and safe. And waited, holding her hand.
"What are we doing?" she quietly asked, her eyes large and
liquid as they searched his for the answer to her question.
"We are hanging on," he said with a tender smile and a gentle
squeeze of his hand. "Riding it out. Doing what we need to in order to
survive."
She considered him. His words. For a beat or two. Then,
within his grasp, her hand shifted. Her fingers threaded through his,
smoothly. Fitting perfectly. Like a puzzle piece that had happily found
its mate.
"You know, this may not be exactly a 'mountain', Mulder,"
she murmured wryly, her eyes aimed at their linked hands. "But it is
a hill of sorts."
He slowly nodded, recognizing at once her reference. "I know.
It is. Are you saying that you feel like someone might be trying to lure
you down?"
Her gaze flickered to his. Her head bobbed once.
He took their hands from where they rested against his leg,
and held them up, displaying them as if to illustrate the firmness of
his grip. "It's okay, Scully. I've got you."
It took a minute, but the corners of her lips finally raised.
"You won't let go now, Mulder, will you?" she asked lightly.
"I won't. I told you. I promise."
Her smile widened upon hearing the fervent sincerity in his
voice.
Their eyes clung. And a slow sweet smile spread over his face
as well.
And with one more slight tightening of his fingers around
hers, he lowered their hands once more so that they rested between them.
Another idea had taken root within his brain's fertile soil. One he hoped
might entertain her. Take her mind off the fears that he recognized
would not simply vanish that night. No matter how dearly he wished it
might be so. "In fact, I'll even go you one better," he boasted then with
an arch of his brow.
"How's that?"
"I'll drown out that voice."
"The one that's always trying to tell me what to do?"
"That's the one."
She chuckled. "I see. And exactly how do you plan on doing
that?"
His smile turned playful. "By talking, of course."
Her smile mirrored his. "And what are you going to tell me,
Mulder?"
"I don't know, Scully. What do you want to hear?"
She hesitated for just an instant, her lips twisting in a curious
sort of way. Then, laying back against the pillows once more, she
whispered, "Tell me another story."
And he did.
Hands still intertwined, he rested there beside her and in a
hushed tone told her all he knew about the stars. He shared with her
tales of Castor and Pollux, the Gemini twins, and their voyage on the
Argo. He spoke of Draco. And of Dionysus' crown, the Corona Borealis.
He told her how the God of Pleasure had cavalierly tossed it up into the
heavens to prove to his beloved, Ariadne, that he was indeed divine.
Mulder described for her how jealous Hera had turned Callisto, one of
Zeus' many lovers, into a angry she-bear. And how, unknowing of her
transformation, the confused creature had attacked her own son, Bootes,
a shepherd. Then, he showed Scully where in the firmament Zeus had
placed these two unfortunates after their rescue. Pointed out the stars
that comprise Ursa Major and the Herdsman.
Mulder even wracked his brain trying to remember all twelve
of Hercules' Labors. Yet, in the end, he wound up filling in the blanks
with scenes stolen from episodes of the syndicated series. Scully didn't
seem to notice. She didn't interrupt him with questions and commentary
as she had before. This time, she seemed content to listen, lying quietly,
a suggestion of a smile softening her lips. Mulder would feel her eyes
on him from time to time as he spoke. And from time to time, his
gaze would find hers in the windswept night. And that still unnamed
something he saw there drove him to continue; long after faint trails
of clouds had begun hiding the stars that were featured in his yarns.
Way past the point where his voice had turned gravel rough from effort
and from the hour.
And there were only two stories captured in that starry night
that he couldn't relate to her. Two constellations he refused to name or
explain.
Cancer.
He would not allow that word to leave his lips that night.
And Lyra. The lyre which had supposedly belonged to that
most gifted yet cursed of musicians, Orpheus.
Mulder just didn't feel up to telling this woman the story of
a man who was desperate enough and foolishly brave enough to
descend into the underworld in search of his beloved. Didn't think
he could bear to speak to her of a tale that seemed to promise its listener
a happy ending, only to turn at the last minute, plunging its hero into
madness and thrusting its heroine back into the arms of death.
No. He felt quite certain that trying to relate the tragedy of
Orpheus and Eurydice would only strangle him.
Still, he talked unceasingly, one story melting into another.
Until at last, dawn just over the horizon, a faint prickle of rain dotted
their cheeks. Grimacing, he and Scully slid stiffly off the Taurus' hood,
grabbed the bedding, and ducked inside the car. Just missing the worst
of the deluge.
"Are you all right to drive?" Scully asked quietly as she
buckled herself into her seat and ran her fingers through her dampened
hair.
Mulder turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled
to life. "Yeah. Don't worry about it. I'm fine."
Drops tapped against the windshield like a chorus line of
dancers at a Busby Berkeley audition. "You sure?" she murmured,
her hand coming up to capture a yawn. "It's late."
He smiled. It appeared as if his partner was the one who was
finally fading. Her features had taken on that wonderfully soft blurry
quality that so often proceeds slumber. Her cheeks were flushed from
their sudden dash to avoid the downpour. Her eyes regarded him from
beneath heavy lids and lashes. Her hair sat mussed atop her head, its
disarray fetching in the extreme.
"Actually, it's early," he said softly, his voice a bit raw, as he
flipped on the car's wiper blades and defogger. "But that's okay. I feel
good. Why don't you go ahead though, and see if you can grab a few z's?
I mean, after all . . . that was the point of this, right?"
At first it seemed as if she might protest. But after one more
yawn escaped her, she relented. "Just don't drive us into a ditch,
Mulder," she whispered as, sinking down a bit in her seat, she closed
her eyes. "The roads are probably slippery."
"I'll be careful," he quietly assured her as he gazed in her
direction. She sat slouched, turned slightly towards him, her neck
bent and arched as she searched for the most comfortable angle at which
to rest her head. Her small hands rubbed restlessly over her arms as if
seeking to erase a chill. And yet, despite her apparent discomfort, he
could already see her body relaxing, slowly easing its way into sleep.
Swiveling around, he rummaged behind him and dragged his
leather jacket out from under the dampened bedding they had brought
with them from outside. He hadn't worn the coat; only brought it along
in case the weather changed.
Which, of course, it had.
"Here," he said, and gently settled it over her, tucking its edges
around her. "This'll help warm you up."
Her eyes blinked up at him sleepily. "Thanks."
He nodded, and took one last look at her. Then flipping on the
car's lights, he put the auto in reverse and went about getting them safely
down that hill.
In the end, it didn't prove all that difficult. He hadn't been lying
earlier. He actually did feel amazingly alert. One of the advantages of a
being a lifelong insomniac, he wryly recognized as the Taurus flew
through the Virginia countryside. You get used to functioning with
little to no sleep.
Somewhere along the way, much to his delight, he found a
soulful little jazz station high on the FM dial. He had never run across
it before, but made a mental note of its number and call letters, because
this particular DJ was playing the brand of jazz he liked. Not that loud,
brassy Dixieland stuff. But mellow, smoky sounds reminiscent of dimly
lit after hour dives and really smooth scotch on the rocks. Of people
who have lived life, know its beauty and its sorrow, and who aren't afraid
to express that experience in their music.
At first, he had worried that the radio might waken Scully. But
then, he had decided to chance it just the same. Sharp though he felt as
if he were, it didn't pay to take that sort of thing for granted. And the
soft, even sound of her breath coupled with the soothing thrum of the
rain threatened to lull him into dreamland right along with her.
Before turning on the radio, he had found himself listening to
her. To her rhythms. Her rustles. They had slept beside each other in
the past, on stakeouts, or on other assignments that had forced them to
share accommodations. It wasn't as if the intimacy of it should surprise
him, or even fascinate him.
But it did.
Maybe it was because he had nothing else to focus on. Nothing
else to dream about, muse about, worry about. But her. While he freely
recognized it as obsessive, he not only found himself regulating his
breathing so that it matched hers, but his eyes kept straying to her as
well.
Talk about dangerous.
After all, it might be the remnants of a tropical storm they
were traveling through and not a hurricane itself, but conditions were
such that vigilance was imperative. He needed to pay attention to the
slick rolling blacktop. Not to his gently slumbering partner.
Yet he found it almost impossible to do anything else.
She had finally settled on her side, facing him, nestled beneath
his coat. Her nose peeked out over the black leather, her fingers curved
loosely around its collar. She had adjusted the seat before she had
nodded off, lowered it as far as it would go. With its nearly bed-like
angle, she had been able to bring her legs up beneath her, bending them
at the knees, almost as if she were trying to curl into a tight little ball
made of nothing but warm soft woman.
Mulder wished he could just curl up right alongside of her.
Impossible.
Just drive, Mulder. Keep your eyes on the road and drive.
Even with the weather, it didn't take them long to return to D.C.
Yet, once he was there he didn't know what exactly to do. Scully had
slipped into a deep and soothing slumber, and he hated the idea of
waking her. Even if to do so would mean that she would actually get
to sleep in a bed and not in a Bureau motor pool car.
So, he kept on driving. Winding through Georgetown's streets
like a tourist. Circling the White House and the various monuments.
Rolling slowly down narrow side streets. Listening to the radio, the
thwap of the windshield wipers, the rain, and Scully.
Always Scully.
But at last, he glanced down at the gas gauge. Hmm. That
little needle looked to be bouncing awfully close to the big red E. Oh
great. All he needed to do was run out of gas while indulging in this bit
of nonsense and Scully would have his head. Like it or not, time was up.
Their idyll was at an end. He needed to take her home.
Reluctantly, he at last pulled up outside her apartment building.
Daybreak was probably less than an hour away, and yet with the thick
clouds overhead, the sky remained as dark as it had been before they
had left this spot seemingly an eternity ago. The rain fell steadily,
as had the temperature.
Scully didn't stir when the car was put into park. Mulder had
thought the cessation of movement would rouse her. But it didn't
appear that would be the case. Nibbling on his lower lip while
considering his options, he came to a decision.
He just hoped it was the right one. And that he didn't make a
fool of himself.
Getting out and carefully closing the driver's side door behind
him, he jogged around to the curb and unlocked the passenger side.
Taking care not to jostle his partner unnecessarily, he unhooked her
seat belt, slipped his hands beneath her back and knees and stood,
keeping her head covered as best he could with his jacket.
"Mulder . . . . what?" she mumbled, starting in his arms, her
limbs going stiff.
"Shh, it's okay, Scully," he murmured soothingly. "We're home
is all."
"You can put me down," she whispered, one hand coming up
to rub wearily against her cheek.
Mulder turned and kicked closed the car door.
"What--and ruin all my hard work?" he teased as he began
walking smoothly towards her building. "Just relax. You'll be in bed
in a matter of minutes. Then you can go back to sleep."
"Mulder . . . ." The single word flowed past her lips as a long
drawn out rush of a sigh.
Hearing his name spoken in such a way by her honeyed voice
was almost enough to make him drop the woman in his arms.
Or crush her to him. Right there in the pouring rain.
"Scully, I'd really love to argue this with you," he said gruffly
as he climbed the stairs leading to her front door. "But, I'm getting
soaked here. Let's do this inside."
Whether it was her own fatigue or pity for his condition, she
said no more. Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder and let
him carry her the rest of the way.
The only snag in the whole thing was fitting the key into her
apartment door without tumbling Scully onto the hallway floor. She
did what she could, draping her arm around his neck to help support
her own weight. That, of course, brought her head upright.
And her face dangerously close to his.
Still, they managed it. Mulder maneuvered them into her
darkened apartment, shut the door behind them, and draped his
now nearly sodden jacket over a hallway chair.
They just paused there for a moment in the entryway, letting
their eyes adjust after the relative brightness of the corridor's fluorescents.
It didn't occur to him to set her down. And she seemed to have somehow
come to terms with being cradled against his chest.
So they stood, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. And
enjoyed the faint heat of each other's bodies.
"Um . . . do you want to get changed or anything?" he asked
a bit diffidently, shy now that she was indeed awake and yet strangely
unresisting of this closeness.
"No," she said quietly, her breath puffing against his throat,
her arm still wrapped around his neck. "It's okay. I'm really too tired
to care, you know?"
He nodded.
And began walking towards her bedroom.
The bed's covers were pulled down and rumpled. Their disarray
a reminder of Scully's earlier attempt at sleep. Setting her gently on the
edge of the mattress, Mulder thought that the woman before him just
might have a bit more luck with the endeavor this time around. She
sat looking at him, positively wilting with weariness, and allowed him
to remove her shoes and guide her beneath the comforter.
"Good night, Scully," he said softly, reaching out to brush a few
errant strands of hair from her brow. "Sweet dreams."
He had turned and almost reached the door when he heard her
speak, her voice hushed and throaty.
"Mulder?"
She lay on her back, her face turned towards him, her eyes
luminous in the inky dawn.
"Hmm?"
"Stay."
An almost violent shiver rippling through him, Mulder
searched those eyes, wondering if what he thought she meant could
possibly be what she had intended.
She looked right back at him, longing unmistakable in her
gaze.
And he knew that at that moment he could choose to interpret
her simple entreaty in whatever way he liked. Assign it any meaning.
Act upon it as he desired.
And Scully would approve.
He took a deep breath and answered her with his ruined
voice. The one that had spun fantastic tales beneath a moonlit March
sky. "Go to sleep, Scully. I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."
He thought he might have spied something akin to
disappointment flickering across her features. Then, she nodded, and
closing her eyes, whispered, "Thank you, Mulder. For everything."
And he crossed out of her bedroom and into her living room.
Sitting heavily on her couch, he clutched a throw pillow to his stomach,
and laid his head back against the sofa's back. Sighing, he closed his
own eyes.
And dreamed about the impossible.
THE END
* * * * * * * *
"There's no use trying," she said: "one can't believe
impossible things."
"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the
Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour
a day. Why sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible
things before breakfast."
"Through the Looking-Glass" by Lewis Carroll
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