Title: Cacophony
Author: Scullysfan
Classification: VRA
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. I'll take care of
ATXC myself. Anyone else, please ask first. Thanks. : )
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the
property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not
mine and no copyright infringement is intended. Barbara, who is
=indeed= a character, belongs to me.
Summary: Sometimes silence is the loudest sound one will ever
hear.
Author's thanks and notes at the end.
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at
Scullysfan@aol.com.
For Marguerite who has had a cacophony of her own lately, and
for Lydia and Skip whose valor has amazed me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In one moment, silence closed over her like murky river water.
Until that pregnant second gave birth to never-ending hours, she
had no idea silence could be loud, threatening to deafen her
with its clatter.
Screeching tires. The squeak of sports cars' horns clashing
with the bellow of diesel engines.
The sound of her own breath being ripped from her lungs.
The sickening thump made as killing machine met human.
Wailing sirens, barking bulldogs costumed in the blue of D.C.'s
finest, voices shooting vital signs like spitfire -- dissonant
sounds drowned out by a deluge of silence.
Rumbling wheels speeding on asphalt accompanied the strained
tune of a creaking stretcher. Hurried hands tore open plastic
containers of sterile gauze, even as instruments fell clanking
to the floor, cymbals in a bizarre score.
Beeping a warning, the ambulance backed into the emergency
department's unloading bay at George Washington University
Hospital. Bodies and equipment and gurney disappeared into
still more bodies, equipment, and gurneys -- the noise of a new
arrival swallowed up by even more raucous sounds.
She heard none of it.
Monotone voices instructed signatures to be placed ...here ...
and here. Right there. Date it, please. Papers rustled like
crackling leaves in an October breeze. A stapler married the
pages with a loud blessing. Humming, the copy machine impressed
insurance cards onto the memory of cheap paper.
You can wait over there. Through those double doors. The
doctor will be out as soon as she has something to tell you.
The carpeted waiting area dulled clomping footsteps, though
they would have gone unnoticed anyway. Jerry Springer's guests
screeched from an ancient television perched high in the corner
of the room. Vinyl chairs and bare legs made an obscene pair.
In the middle of it all, a hulk of a man wept like a child --
great gasping sobs that masked the quiet tears of the teenagers
surrounding him and the murmurs of an emergency resident
offering comfort he did not have to give.
And still silence reigned.
It refused to abdicate its throne even for a head of state --
head of neurology, that is. Her voice, brisk and confident,
broke through the racket in the waiting room. I'm Dr. Pat
Bank. Let me get you caught up on where we stand. Suddenly a
hailstorm of ugly words fell on ineffectual ears, seeping only
into a brain that understood them all too well.
...relatively insignificant internal injuries... broken
ribs... bruised kidney... don't anticipate problems there.
However... moderate to severe cerebral contusion... CT scan...
swelling in the motor cortex... may experience weakness.... know
more when... coma... hours or days... have to wait.
Following those unwelcome words, thirty more minutes of
eternity and a lonely walk down freshly waxed hallways brought
silence to dwell in a tiny curtained-off cubicle in an intensive
care unit that rivaled the activity and clamor of Dulles on
Memorial Day weekend.
Hours passed serenaded by the steady beep sounding out each
coveted heartbeat, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes rushing to
the death rattle gurgling up from the throat of the man on the
other side of the curtain. Shouts for epinephrine, an eighteen
gauge needle... grim, flat pronouncement of an expiration --
they should have disturbed, if not the patient lying in this
cubicle, at least the loved one sitting by the bedside.
Closed ears refused to hear such harshness, to pick up
insignificant sounds. They were tuned to one frequency and one
alone.
Sitting there beside the bed, one small hand pressed against a
larger, limp one, eyes flitting from heart monitor to yet
another device measuring intracranial pressure to a face lax in
unwilling sleep, ears sought the only sound that could possibly
break the silence smothering Dana Scully.
Fox Mulder's voice.
~~~~~~~~
Dr. Bank stopped by frequently to check on her patient,
reassuring Scully that the areas of the brain controlling
respiration and cardiac function had been unaffected, so Mulder
had no need for a respirator. They were administering
medication to decrease the swelling. A close eye was being kept
on his output, just in case that bruised kidney proved to be
more of a problem than they'd originally thought. Everything
that could be done, had been. All they had to do was wait for
him to come out of it.
Scully let Dr. Bank's final words wash over her. We just have
to wait for him to come out of it. And he =would= come out of
it.
Leaning forward to rest her elbows on the bed alongside
Mulder's hip, she brushed fingertips back and forth across his
right hand, carefully skirting the tiny needle taped there.
"Mulder?"
If his voice was the only sound capable of shattering her
silence, perhaps the reverse was true. Determined to do better
than her first shaky whisper, she tried again.
"Mulder, I know you're in there. It's time for you to come out
now. Are you..."
The beginnings of a one-sided interrogation were interrupted by
the arrival of one of his nurses. Barbara had already proven
herself to be quick of wit and action, straight-talking and
blessedly unobtrusive. Moving briskly, she changed out an empty
bottle of IV meds for a full one, and with a check of the needle
in the hand Scully held and a pat to her shoulder, she was gone.
Though she didn't expect anyone to come in right away, she
still stood up and leaned over, putting her mouth close to his
ear, unwilling for him to think she had words for anyone but
him.
"Mulder... I have a proposition to make to you. You and I both
know we're equally reluctant to let each other have the last
word. Now don't laugh at me in there. But I promise, if you
will hurry and wake up, I'll let you have the last word in what
we were discussing before..."
She cleared her throat, trying to drive away the tears
gathering in it. ".... just before. You hear me? I'll listen
this time. But you'd better hurry. This isn't an unlimited
offer."
Her lips curving into a soft smile, she turned her head until
she could press them to his cheek, sealing her promise with a
kiss. Bargain made, she sat back in the chair, his hand still
trapped in hers and fervently wished for him to take her up on
it.
The last word. For once, she would willingly let him have it --
anything to erase from her memory the foreshadowing exclamation
that fired from her mouth, hitting its target seconds before
metal met flesh and bone. Shut up, Mulder!
They had been arguing, each convinced of the validity of their
own positions. Despite their disagreement, he had been in a
good mood -- trying to tease her out of her bad one,
inadvertently pushing all the wrong buttons until something
snapped. Her response had been one common to anyone growing up
with several siblings, the search for peace and quiet ever
elusive. It was said without thinking -- tinged with a modicum
of amusement and soaked in exasperation. Shut up, Mulder!
She had ordered his silence, and he had turned back to respond,
his grin fading even as his long legs carried him off the curb
ahead of her. Distracted by her words, he'd never seen the
speeding BMW, but she had -- she had watched it slam into him,
throwing his body up onto the hood of the car from where it
slid onto the street, his head snapping back from its hard
impact.
The memory sent an involuntary tremor through her body, and
disentangling her hand from his, she stood up, deciding that
inactivity invited unwanted scenes into her mind.
So she paced, and she straightened the already straight sheet,
stopping now and then to rest her hand on him -- to feel the
warmth of his leg under the palm of her hand, to grasp a muscled
forearm, to let her fingernails rasp over the stubble on his
jaw. And she recalled times when hearing him had superseded
even their usual methods of communication. The power of touch
and the subtlety of words exchanged through expressive eyes were
all well and good, but sometimes even she craved reassurance
that her world with him wasn't a silent one.
Even the little things once barely noticed sparked a new
appreciation and a desire to hear them again:
The crack of a splintering sunflower seed as he rolled it
between his teeth -- stray shells in her carpet would seem a
small price to pay right now.
Breathing labored from a brutal run -- sweat stains could be
washed from couch cushion covers.
Shouts of triumph for every hard-earned Knicks basket -- she
could read the journal article when the game was over.
Guttural groans voiced into the side of her neck, his face
pressed there as his lower body pumped erratically into hers --
soon they would become a whispered litany of encouragement as
his fingers brought her to the same completion.
Lightly rubbing a Q-tip soaked in a lemony solution across his
lips, she remembered the first words that mouth ever spoke to
her.
Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted!
Just a little arrogant, and very determined to frighten her
away, he had amused and intrigued her with tales of alien
abductions and had touched her with the story of a lost little
girl, told in a low voice to candlelight dancing with rivulets
of rain on the window.
For seven years his voice had carried sometimes wonder,
sometimes defeat, but always a regard for her. A regard
composed of the melody of respect, admiration, need, and love,
played by a flawed but equally loved instrument.
And she missed it. The silence caused by a voiceless Mulder
had her mirthlessly wondering how long it took to learn sign
language.
Tossing the cotton swab in the wastebasket, Scully carefully
lowered the guard rail at the side of his bed and gingerly
perched on the mattress. She braced one arm on the other side
of his body and leaned toward him. "Mulder, when you wake up
and feel well enough, I want you to tell me another story. I
want it to be just like last night. Remember?"
~~~~~~~~
Working overtime against the unseasonably muggy heat, Scully's
air conditioner had made her bedroom a chilly contrast to the
outdoors. Nestled under a couple of blankets and one of her
grandmother's quilts, she breathed deeply of the crisp air
outside their cocoon as she scooted more fully into the nook
Mulder's body formed behind her.
The long arm draped over her waist tightened in a soft squeeze
as he sighed and snuffled into the hair behind her ear. She'd
come to recognize the sound as evidence of contentment and not
for the first time, it piqued her curiosity.
"Mulder..." Her question wasn't a whisper, knowing it was his
habit to lie awake well after she had fallen asleep. "...did
you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?"
His response carried equal parts confusion and amusement, with
no answer forthcoming, "What?"
"A teddy bear. You know -- Winnie the Pooh, Paddington... soft
and cuddly, four limbs, and a snout."
"Is there any special reason you're inquiring about my
childhood companions?" Lightly, as though hardly at all, he
skimmed the pads of his fingers over the baby soft skin of her
forearm where it lay on the bed.
Undeterred by the soothing distraction, she pressed on. "It's
just... I've noticed a fondness for holding me this way." She
shrugged. "Seems like something you might have picked up with
the assistance of a stuffed animal."
His silence sparked the dawning of another revelation. "Or was
the companion of the living, breathing variety?"
"No! No..." Kisses dropped along the side of her face dulled
his sharp retort. "... his name was Theodore, and I think he
kept me sane."
Wrapped in his arms, she let his low, husky voice take her on a
halting trip back to his twelfth year as he told her of
Theodore. A light brown, potbellied stuffed bear whose paws
sported worn spots from being held by the sticky hands of a
younger sister. She had named him Theodore because that was
the dressed-up name for Teddy. Hardly a night passed that
didn't find her curled around him, drawing on the security only
a child can find in an inanimate object.
Scully strained to hear as his whisper dropped to barely an
audible breath as he spoke of the night Theodore lay cold in a
small bed, abandoned by his owner. He had proven to be false
security after all.
A gentle rocking accompanied the story of a young boy, left
feeling like so much false security himself, who every night for
months afterwards, clutched a voiceless bear. Falling asleep to
the clink of ice cubes against glass, the muffled shouts of
responsibility and blame and betrayal, he woke early to return
Theodore to the pink and white eyelet bedspread --twelve year
old boys didn't cling to their sister's teddy bear.
He didn't say whatever became of the bear, his voice trailing
off in remembrance and sleep. And she who was twice lost and
found lay awake, feeling both protected and protective.
~~~~~~~~~
"Or maybe I'll tell you a story next time, Mulder." She grazed
his lips with her own, tasting him beneath the tangy lemon. "Did
you know I had a real rabbit when I was about Emily's age?"
Intent on leaving no inch of his face devoid of her touch, she
didn't hear Barbara return until she spoke.
"Dr. Scully? It's time to turn him. Why don't you help me?"
Carefully arranging the endless tubes and wires, together she
and Barbara rolled Mulder to rest on his left side, conveniently
not the one with the broken ribs and bruised kidney. As Scully
gathered the sheet to draw it back over him, Barbara moved his
legs into a bent-at-the-knees position.
At her quizzical look, the solidly built nurse with the salt
and pepper hair explained, "Having his legs straight would pull
on his back -- this should be more comfortable for him."
Helping Scully settle the sheet over his still form, she patted
his hand and said, "There we go. If you'll stand right there
for a minute, I'll get something to put behind him so he doesn't
roll back..."
"That's okay. You don't need to get anything -- I...I won't
let him fall," asserted Scully.
Whether it was the earnestness in her voice or the plea in her
eyes, she couldn't tell, but Barbara made her way around the
bed, hardly slowing down to rest her hand on Scully's shoulder
as she left, throwing a good-natured command over her shoulder.
"Okay, but don't let Dr. Bank catch you!"
Grinning to herself, she kept one hand on his back as she toed
off her shoes and cautiously sat on the bed, swinging her legs
up so she could lie down. Tunneling the arm closest to the bed
between his neck and the pillow, she wrapped her other arm high
across his chest, making sure to avoid tender ribs. She rested
her forehead against the back of his neck and fitted her hips to
his, the tops of her feet grazing the backs of his calves.
Resting that way, holding him securely in her arms, the silence
ceased to be as frightening -- a peace washed over her, bringing
lassitude in its wake. The rhythmic beat of his heart against
her chest kept time with its electronic counterpart, laughter
rang from the nurses' desk -- Barbara's rising above all others,
the soft and confident prayers of the tall chaplain with the
sweet, sympathetic face on the other side of the curtain all
conspired to lull Scully further into the soundless void in
which she had existed for untold hours.
Had her whole being not been on alert for it, she might have
dozed on, but slumber was no match for the faint rasp of
silence's disintegration.
"Scu...Scully... did you... did you have a teddy bear... when
you were little?"
END
Author's notes: Stalkerfic and spoonfic all rolled into one --
don't worry, I'll get spooning out of my system eventually. ; )
This particular story was sparked by Scully's question ("Mulder,
did you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?") popping
into my head while I was reading a wonderful little book sent to
me by my best friend (Hi, Kris!). "The Art of Spooning" is
sweet and funny and will tell you everything you ever wanted to
know about spooning. Once I had the spooning scene set in my
mind, I decided it needed to be a memory in order for me to make
this a stalk of Marguerite. Scully's playful, but exasperated
"Mulder, shut up!" in "Trevor" made me wonder how she would feel
if those were the last words she ever said to him -- no matter
how little ill intent they carried, I could imagine her wishing
them back.
The character of Barbara and the barely mentioned chaplain are,
I'll admit, Mary Sues by blood -- Mom and Dad resemble their
characters remarkably well in real life. g
Author's thanks: To LuvMulder for answering questions and
pointing me in the right direction for cool things I could do to
Mulder's noggin. To Lisa and Jill for mush checks. To Laney
for nudging and editing.
Author: Scullysfan
Classification: VRA
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: Do not archive at Gossamer. I'll take care of
ATXC myself. Anyone else, please ask first. Thanks. : )
Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder and Scully are the
property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. They are not
mine and no copyright infringement is intended. Barbara, who is
=indeed= a character, belongs to me.
Summary: Sometimes silence is the loudest sound one will ever
hear.
Author's thanks and notes at the end.
Feedback: Any and all comments longed for at
Scullysfan@aol.com.
For Marguerite who has had a cacophony of her own lately, and
for Lydia and Skip whose valor has amazed me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In one moment, silence closed over her like murky river water.
Until that pregnant second gave birth to never-ending hours, she
had no idea silence could be loud, threatening to deafen her
with its clatter.
Screeching tires. The squeak of sports cars' horns clashing
with the bellow of diesel engines.
The sound of her own breath being ripped from her lungs.
The sickening thump made as killing machine met human.
Wailing sirens, barking bulldogs costumed in the blue of D.C.'s
finest, voices shooting vital signs like spitfire -- dissonant
sounds drowned out by a deluge of silence.
Rumbling wheels speeding on asphalt accompanied the strained
tune of a creaking stretcher. Hurried hands tore open plastic
containers of sterile gauze, even as instruments fell clanking
to the floor, cymbals in a bizarre score.
Beeping a warning, the ambulance backed into the emergency
department's unloading bay at George Washington University
Hospital. Bodies and equipment and gurney disappeared into
still more bodies, equipment, and gurneys -- the noise of a new
arrival swallowed up by even more raucous sounds.
She heard none of it.
Monotone voices instructed signatures to be placed ...here ...
and here. Right there. Date it, please. Papers rustled like
crackling leaves in an October breeze. A stapler married the
pages with a loud blessing. Humming, the copy machine impressed
insurance cards onto the memory of cheap paper.
You can wait over there. Through those double doors. The
doctor will be out as soon as she has something to tell you.
The carpeted waiting area dulled clomping footsteps, though
they would have gone unnoticed anyway. Jerry Springer's guests
screeched from an ancient television perched high in the corner
of the room. Vinyl chairs and bare legs made an obscene pair.
In the middle of it all, a hulk of a man wept like a child --
great gasping sobs that masked the quiet tears of the teenagers
surrounding him and the murmurs of an emergency resident
offering comfort he did not have to give.
And still silence reigned.
It refused to abdicate its throne even for a head of state --
head of neurology, that is. Her voice, brisk and confident,
broke through the racket in the waiting room. I'm Dr. Pat
Bank. Let me get you caught up on where we stand. Suddenly a
hailstorm of ugly words fell on ineffectual ears, seeping only
into a brain that understood them all too well.
...relatively insignificant internal injuries... broken
ribs... bruised kidney... don't anticipate problems there.
However... moderate to severe cerebral contusion... CT scan...
swelling in the motor cortex... may experience weakness.... know
more when... coma... hours or days... have to wait.
Following those unwelcome words, thirty more minutes of
eternity and a lonely walk down freshly waxed hallways brought
silence to dwell in a tiny curtained-off cubicle in an intensive
care unit that rivaled the activity and clamor of Dulles on
Memorial Day weekend.
Hours passed serenaded by the steady beep sounding out each
coveted heartbeat, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes rushing to
the death rattle gurgling up from the throat of the man on the
other side of the curtain. Shouts for epinephrine, an eighteen
gauge needle... grim, flat pronouncement of an expiration --
they should have disturbed, if not the patient lying in this
cubicle, at least the loved one sitting by the bedside.
Closed ears refused to hear such harshness, to pick up
insignificant sounds. They were tuned to one frequency and one
alone.
Sitting there beside the bed, one small hand pressed against a
larger, limp one, eyes flitting from heart monitor to yet
another device measuring intracranial pressure to a face lax in
unwilling sleep, ears sought the only sound that could possibly
break the silence smothering Dana Scully.
Fox Mulder's voice.
~~~~~~~~
Dr. Bank stopped by frequently to check on her patient,
reassuring Scully that the areas of the brain controlling
respiration and cardiac function had been unaffected, so Mulder
had no need for a respirator. They were administering
medication to decrease the swelling. A close eye was being kept
on his output, just in case that bruised kidney proved to be
more of a problem than they'd originally thought. Everything
that could be done, had been. All they had to do was wait for
him to come out of it.
Scully let Dr. Bank's final words wash over her. We just have
to wait for him to come out of it. And he =would= come out of
it.
Leaning forward to rest her elbows on the bed alongside
Mulder's hip, she brushed fingertips back and forth across his
right hand, carefully skirting the tiny needle taped there.
"Mulder?"
If his voice was the only sound capable of shattering her
silence, perhaps the reverse was true. Determined to do better
than her first shaky whisper, she tried again.
"Mulder, I know you're in there. It's time for you to come out
now. Are you..."
The beginnings of a one-sided interrogation were interrupted by
the arrival of one of his nurses. Barbara had already proven
herself to be quick of wit and action, straight-talking and
blessedly unobtrusive. Moving briskly, she changed out an empty
bottle of IV meds for a full one, and with a check of the needle
in the hand Scully held and a pat to her shoulder, she was gone.
Though she didn't expect anyone to come in right away, she
still stood up and leaned over, putting her mouth close to his
ear, unwilling for him to think she had words for anyone but
him.
"Mulder... I have a proposition to make to you. You and I both
know we're equally reluctant to let each other have the last
word. Now don't laugh at me in there. But I promise, if you
will hurry and wake up, I'll let you have the last word in what
we were discussing before..."
She cleared her throat, trying to drive away the tears
gathering in it. ".... just before. You hear me? I'll listen
this time. But you'd better hurry. This isn't an unlimited
offer."
Her lips curving into a soft smile, she turned her head until
she could press them to his cheek, sealing her promise with a
kiss. Bargain made, she sat back in the chair, his hand still
trapped in hers and fervently wished for him to take her up on
it.
The last word. For once, she would willingly let him have it --
anything to erase from her memory the foreshadowing exclamation
that fired from her mouth, hitting its target seconds before
metal met flesh and bone. Shut up, Mulder!
They had been arguing, each convinced of the validity of their
own positions. Despite their disagreement, he had been in a
good mood -- trying to tease her out of her bad one,
inadvertently pushing all the wrong buttons until something
snapped. Her response had been one common to anyone growing up
with several siblings, the search for peace and quiet ever
elusive. It was said without thinking -- tinged with a modicum
of amusement and soaked in exasperation. Shut up, Mulder!
She had ordered his silence, and he had turned back to respond,
his grin fading even as his long legs carried him off the curb
ahead of her. Distracted by her words, he'd never seen the
speeding BMW, but she had -- she had watched it slam into him,
throwing his body up onto the hood of the car from where it
slid onto the street, his head snapping back from its hard
impact.
The memory sent an involuntary tremor through her body, and
disentangling her hand from his, she stood up, deciding that
inactivity invited unwanted scenes into her mind.
So she paced, and she straightened the already straight sheet,
stopping now and then to rest her hand on him -- to feel the
warmth of his leg under the palm of her hand, to grasp a muscled
forearm, to let her fingernails rasp over the stubble on his
jaw. And she recalled times when hearing him had superseded
even their usual methods of communication. The power of touch
and the subtlety of words exchanged through expressive eyes were
all well and good, but sometimes even she craved reassurance
that her world with him wasn't a silent one.
Even the little things once barely noticed sparked a new
appreciation and a desire to hear them again:
The crack of a splintering sunflower seed as he rolled it
between his teeth -- stray shells in her carpet would seem a
small price to pay right now.
Breathing labored from a brutal run -- sweat stains could be
washed from couch cushion covers.
Shouts of triumph for every hard-earned Knicks basket -- she
could read the journal article when the game was over.
Guttural groans voiced into the side of her neck, his face
pressed there as his lower body pumped erratically into hers --
soon they would become a whispered litany of encouragement as
his fingers brought her to the same completion.
Lightly rubbing a Q-tip soaked in a lemony solution across his
lips, she remembered the first words that mouth ever spoke to
her.
Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted!
Just a little arrogant, and very determined to frighten her
away, he had amused and intrigued her with tales of alien
abductions and had touched her with the story of a lost little
girl, told in a low voice to candlelight dancing with rivulets
of rain on the window.
For seven years his voice had carried sometimes wonder,
sometimes defeat, but always a regard for her. A regard
composed of the melody of respect, admiration, need, and love,
played by a flawed but equally loved instrument.
And she missed it. The silence caused by a voiceless Mulder
had her mirthlessly wondering how long it took to learn sign
language.
Tossing the cotton swab in the wastebasket, Scully carefully
lowered the guard rail at the side of his bed and gingerly
perched on the mattress. She braced one arm on the other side
of his body and leaned toward him. "Mulder, when you wake up
and feel well enough, I want you to tell me another story. I
want it to be just like last night. Remember?"
~~~~~~~~
Working overtime against the unseasonably muggy heat, Scully's
air conditioner had made her bedroom a chilly contrast to the
outdoors. Nestled under a couple of blankets and one of her
grandmother's quilts, she breathed deeply of the crisp air
outside their cocoon as she scooted more fully into the nook
Mulder's body formed behind her.
The long arm draped over her waist tightened in a soft squeeze
as he sighed and snuffled into the hair behind her ear. She'd
come to recognize the sound as evidence of contentment and not
for the first time, it piqued her curiosity.
"Mulder..." Her question wasn't a whisper, knowing it was his
habit to lie awake well after she had fallen asleep. "...did
you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?"
His response carried equal parts confusion and amusement, with
no answer forthcoming, "What?"
"A teddy bear. You know -- Winnie the Pooh, Paddington... soft
and cuddly, four limbs, and a snout."
"Is there any special reason you're inquiring about my
childhood companions?" Lightly, as though hardly at all, he
skimmed the pads of his fingers over the baby soft skin of her
forearm where it lay on the bed.
Undeterred by the soothing distraction, she pressed on. "It's
just... I've noticed a fondness for holding me this way." She
shrugged. "Seems like something you might have picked up with
the assistance of a stuffed animal."
His silence sparked the dawning of another revelation. "Or was
the companion of the living, breathing variety?"
"No! No..." Kisses dropped along the side of her face dulled
his sharp retort. "... his name was Theodore, and I think he
kept me sane."
Wrapped in his arms, she let his low, husky voice take her on a
halting trip back to his twelfth year as he told her of
Theodore. A light brown, potbellied stuffed bear whose paws
sported worn spots from being held by the sticky hands of a
younger sister. She had named him Theodore because that was
the dressed-up name for Teddy. Hardly a night passed that
didn't find her curled around him, drawing on the security only
a child can find in an inanimate object.
Scully strained to hear as his whisper dropped to barely an
audible breath as he spoke of the night Theodore lay cold in a
small bed, abandoned by his owner. He had proven to be false
security after all.
A gentle rocking accompanied the story of a young boy, left
feeling like so much false security himself, who every night for
months afterwards, clutched a voiceless bear. Falling asleep to
the clink of ice cubes against glass, the muffled shouts of
responsibility and blame and betrayal, he woke early to return
Theodore to the pink and white eyelet bedspread --twelve year
old boys didn't cling to their sister's teddy bear.
He didn't say whatever became of the bear, his voice trailing
off in remembrance and sleep. And she who was twice lost and
found lay awake, feeling both protected and protective.
~~~~~~~~~
"Or maybe I'll tell you a story next time, Mulder." She grazed
his lips with her own, tasting him beneath the tangy lemon. "Did
you know I had a real rabbit when I was about Emily's age?"
Intent on leaving no inch of his face devoid of her touch, she
didn't hear Barbara return until she spoke.
"Dr. Scully? It's time to turn him. Why don't you help me?"
Carefully arranging the endless tubes and wires, together she
and Barbara rolled Mulder to rest on his left side, conveniently
not the one with the broken ribs and bruised kidney. As Scully
gathered the sheet to draw it back over him, Barbara moved his
legs into a bent-at-the-knees position.
At her quizzical look, the solidly built nurse with the salt
and pepper hair explained, "Having his legs straight would pull
on his back -- this should be more comfortable for him."
Helping Scully settle the sheet over his still form, she patted
his hand and said, "There we go. If you'll stand right there
for a minute, I'll get something to put behind him so he doesn't
roll back..."
"That's okay. You don't need to get anything -- I...I won't
let him fall," asserted Scully.
Whether it was the earnestness in her voice or the plea in her
eyes, she couldn't tell, but Barbara made her way around the
bed, hardly slowing down to rest her hand on Scully's shoulder
as she left, throwing a good-natured command over her shoulder.
"Okay, but don't let Dr. Bank catch you!"
Grinning to herself, she kept one hand on his back as she toed
off her shoes and cautiously sat on the bed, swinging her legs
up so she could lie down. Tunneling the arm closest to the bed
between his neck and the pillow, she wrapped her other arm high
across his chest, making sure to avoid tender ribs. She rested
her forehead against the back of his neck and fitted her hips to
his, the tops of her feet grazing the backs of his calves.
Resting that way, holding him securely in her arms, the silence
ceased to be as frightening -- a peace washed over her, bringing
lassitude in its wake. The rhythmic beat of his heart against
her chest kept time with its electronic counterpart, laughter
rang from the nurses' desk -- Barbara's rising above all others,
the soft and confident prayers of the tall chaplain with the
sweet, sympathetic face on the other side of the curtain all
conspired to lull Scully further into the soundless void in
which she had existed for untold hours.
Had her whole being not been on alert for it, she might have
dozed on, but slumber was no match for the faint rasp of
silence's disintegration.
"Scu...Scully... did you... did you have a teddy bear... when
you were little?"
END
Author's notes: Stalkerfic and spoonfic all rolled into one --
don't worry, I'll get spooning out of my system eventually. ; )
This particular story was sparked by Scully's question ("Mulder,
did you have a teddy bear when you were a little boy?") popping
into my head while I was reading a wonderful little book sent to
me by my best friend (Hi, Kris!). "The Art of Spooning" is
sweet and funny and will tell you everything you ever wanted to
know about spooning. Once I had the spooning scene set in my
mind, I decided it needed to be a memory in order for me to make
this a stalk of Marguerite. Scully's playful, but exasperated
"Mulder, shut up!" in "Trevor" made me wonder how she would feel
if those were the last words she ever said to him -- no matter
how little ill intent they carried, I could imagine her wishing
them back.
The character of Barbara and the barely mentioned chaplain are,
I'll admit, Mary Sues by blood -- Mom and Dad resemble their
characters remarkably well in real life. g
Author's thanks: To LuvMulder for answering questions and
pointing me in the right direction for cool things I could do to
Mulder's noggin. To Lisa and Jill for mush checks. To Laney
for nudging and editing.