TITLE: Refrain
AUTHOR: Exley_61 (exley61@yahoo.com)
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None
DISTRIBUTION: I'll do Emphemeral, otherwise practically anywhere,
just let me know.
CATEGORY: BIG UST, MSR Scully Angst and Mulder Angst
DISCLAIMER: prop. of CC productions & Fox
SUMMARY: In one instant, everything changes for Mulder. With
one look, he is prompted to search for a different truth.
A truth as seemingly elusive and as obscure as any
X-file......
QUICK NOTE: I wanted to thank everyone who emailed me and embraced
me into the Xfic world. It has been incredible. This is my second
story and I hope you enjoy. Special thanks to my betas.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please do. It's my second shot out of the
gates and I would like to know your thoughts
on it.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
REFRAIN
by
Exley_61
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I wonder if he heard the throbbing, the ache beneath the thin
plaster of my skin. I can't conceal it any longer. Time
strokes, provokes, and titillates, dilating my eyes as I have
watched him, examined him in tinted shades of demand.
It frightens me. He frightens me. I am the master carpenter of
the ultimate lie, sealing the door against temptation, against
him. I build an impenetrable facade in which I take refuge,
adhering to the call of reason, but reason does not hold against
him. He demolishes it, over and over, splintering my resolve
into shards.
Mulder.
He steals me from myself -- a master strategist. In a campaign
of a slow, minute collection of advances, he tricks me into
a smile, a laugh, a touch that absorbs through my blood and
streamlines into my heart.
There are no plans of defense to combat against this
siege, no method or desire to persuade him to release me.
I am captured, catapulted into a canyon of foreign terrain.
Foreign, for I have neglected to nurture or rather, acknowledge
the beating of a racing heart or the sunburn flush that creeps
up my neck and tinges my face.
And despite my attempted abandonment, my hunger, thirst, no -- my
yearning has allowed him to see past my reserves, crawling
through the ever-expanding fissure, bursting through the cemented
efforts of my ill-fated intention.
Though the sun's glowing rays of admittance display the truth
of my feelings to myself; it is only to myself -- or so I try
to believe. But it's a lie. He has been given a glimpse of the
sun's discovery and he doesn't, hasn't, turned away. Desperate,
I have attempted to confuse him, distract him -- to hammer down
my lidded desire behind arched stares and level words.
I don't think it's worked, not completely.
And I'm frightened. This fear fences my craving -- concealing me,
cloaking me in despair's embrace, leaving me to flounder behind
a bank of continued denial to myself and to him.
I don't need him, I don't want him, he doesn't want me.
Denial.
It spindles, sprawling out in an ever-growing,
encompassing circle that covers the fingered imprint he
leaves upon my heart, upon my soul.
I continue to battle a war already lost, never admitting
defeat -- allowing my feelings to forever remain stale-mated
in a belted lie, tightened against the truth, but not
within it.
And I can't take it anymore. Yet, I can't help feeling surprised
that I have faltered, letting the plaster crack upon the walls
of my well-tended reserve.
So I sit on the bed, in my room, sketched in shadows
interrupted only by moonlight glaring its dull glow
through the leafy veil of tree branches, branches that
brush against my window.
I hear the stereo, the CD repeats and repeats. The singer's
voice pours from the speakers, saturating my bedroom and
myself, in clear, dulcet tones.
Burying my face against the chilled cotton pillow case, I
feel the coldness creep into my skin and bathe my heart in
anxiety. I want him. It has become a deafening refrain that
can never touch his ears.
For, I can't tell him, it's our game, you see. I don't know who
created the rules, perhaps we both did. We have stood, juxtaposed
with one another, moving in our Russian dance of roulette. But
the music has stopped, and the bullet has fired, shattering
my lies, leaving an open frame of revelation that tears through
my soul. Unhinged and off balance, I display a truth that I
cannot, that I must not, allow him to see.
And I want to cry, a cavalcade of tears that will cleanse my
heart and free it of the need that is buried there. But
I can't cry, I can't --
I won't.
Frozen, I am caught in a mire of confused, conflicting sentiment
and need -- unable to demolish the wall that bars my inner-most
wants -- unable to expose them to the outside world -- to him.
No.
For what would this flooding reality mean, to us, our work,
our life, were I to give it the birth it so desperately wants?
I know that I would never be able to remain the same, no longer
able to play in the fun house of illusion --
It would be destroyed, leaving me bare, standing among the
debris of my broken mirrors. I can't allow myself that
vulnerability.
I can't.
I won't.
Falling back, my quilted bedspread catches me. I curl my body
into a shell, seeking a soothing solace that isn't there, that
I know will never be there again.
I want to cry.
My body shudders against a gripping anguish, an anguish that
attempts to push through my mortar of repression, a repression
who's seal I refuse to let shatter... and I know it.
I don't want to love him, want him, need him.
I don't want to,
want to...
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
'Open the door, Scully. Open it!' I silently command, banging
on the door yet again, the wood scratching against my knuckles.
Nothing.
Damn it! I pace in front of her doorway. Waiting, always
waiting. Driving a hand through my hair, I step up to her
door once more, knocking.
"Scully!"
Still no response. An angry growl barks through my lips.
I know she's there. I know it. I can hear music playing,
trapped behind her apartment walls.
And so I pace.
This is ridiculous, insane. I'm not going to wait out
here all night and I'm not leaving before I see
her.
Damn it! What *am* I doing here? She doesn't want to see me.
You'd think I could get a clue. Shaking my head, I grimace.
I do have a clue or at least a fragment of this puzzle, only
it's not enough. It's too vague to decipher and that is
unacceptable. Answers have to be given, words said. I refuse
to allow what happened less than an hour ago dictate what I
am rapidly beginning to believe could mean my future, our
future. No, this is where I should be and I'm not leaving
here, her, us -- not without a fight.
The image of her face, of her eyes and how she looked upon
me, flashes before me. A sinking dread gathers, dropping
over my senses.
I stop and blindly look up and down her hallway, trying
to clear the vision. Rubbing my hand against my chin, I
continue pacing, unable to stop thinking upon the events
once more.
The office. I shiver, a swamping fear dipping me into
an ever deepening well of anxiety. It is as if my soul
knows a secret that is yet to be whispered in my ear,
causing my thoughts to grip upon a piercing possibility.
Maybe, just maybe, I really don't want to know what
lies behind her earlier behavior.
I stop my movements. Perhaps, perhaps I'm afraid to know.
No, no perhaps, it's a definite. And acknowledging that
discovery scares me even more, propelling me, forcing myself
to confront whatever truth is to be laid out before me. This
fear has quickly evolved into a desperate demand that races
my heart, beads my temples, and moistening my palms in sweat.
So, I'm here, wanting, needing, to see her -- battling
against my trepidation. Sighing, I plunge my hands into
my pants' pockets, flipping a coin, playing with the
gathered change.
Again, I'm assaulted by earlier's events, unable to stop
replaying the snap-shot reel of memories. I can't stop
freezing it, pausing it, upon her face. No, not her face,
not exactly. I'm unable to stop seeing the screen capture
of her eyes.
Shuddering, I grip a shoulder, rolling, loosening the
tightening muscles. I let my hand fall to my side,
drumming my fingers against my leg.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the images of her, us, in the
office. But, unable to stop them, they flicker, flaring
into full blown replay...
We were in the office, each to our own task. I had
risen from my desk, case file in hand, bringing
it over for her to look at. I plopped the manilla
folder open, leaning over to point out a particularly
odd witness statement.
Instead of glancing over my discovery, she shot out of her
seat, causing me to fall back, out of her way.
"Scully?"
She said nothing, not with words. I felt her eyes pinning
my body, freezing it against movement or response. My throat
constricted, an involuntary action as confusion clouded my
senses.
I wondered what I had or hadn't done and couldn't effectively
explain away her response, her behavior. Finally, I spoke again.
"Scully?"
I watched her as her eyes seemed to rip into me, blanketing me
in a net of contempt.
Contempt?
Punched and nearly breathless by that look, I watched, wordless
once more, as she gathered her briefcase and purse. My mouth
hinged open but words refused to issue forth, to form -- stuck
in the natal stages of thought.
All I could do was observe. She did not face me again, striding
to the door, she tore it open.
I watched, suffocating. She paused, but only for a moment
before clasping the knob more firmly. She walked through
the doorway, letting the door close gently behind her, cutting
her out of my sight and I feared, much more.
I couldn't explain it but this was something big, something that
nudged at my subconscious, needling and yet refusing to step from
the shadows. I felt a shudder race over my skin and chill
my senses.
I had expected the door to reverberate in the door frame,
coating my ears in a ringing endorsement for my lack of
whatever. But it hadn't, and she didn't. And that scared
me.
She was gone.
Gone...
I looked around the office, dazed. Falling back into my
chair, my apprehension expanded, sprawling and then collecting
into an agitation that crawled under my skin, itching. Trapped,
I was reeling, captured in the memory of that stare, of
that look.
Contempt.
A cold, dark fear latched onto my chest, clasping my
heart -- squeezing. I have seen Scully angry, irritated, but
never this, never towards me.
My throat was dry. No matter how many times I swallowed, it
remained dry -- almost choking me as the word, the thought, the
implication tumbled and rumbled, stampeding through my mind
and knocking against the crumbling walls of my confusion.
Contempt.
The look was for me, not for what I might have done, but what I
had done. I felt it, knew it to be an end result that I had
created. That *something* had crept over her features, aiming,
striking me down. The calm, definite finality with which she
seemed to slip from the office hammered at me, louder and
louder, imprisoning my thoughts with its pounding refrain.
Contempt.
Time, ticking, tapping out the minutes into fifteen, twenty
and even more passed by, blaring into my contemplations,
prodding me, triggering me into action.
Abruptly, I stood, ripping my jacket off the back of my chair,
knocking over case files and not looking back. I tore through
the crowding, shrinking, office space and burst out of the room
and down J. Edgar Hoover's empty hallways. The sound of my
footsteps ricocheted off the walls as I ran, running toward the
answer that, ultimately, only she could give...
Jerked back to the moment, I felt eyes upon me. I looked around
and saw someone, a neighbor, had passed me, going on to
the elevator.
I shook my head, clearing it. Enough! My hallway vigil
is over.
I utter another frustrated sigh, stepping to her door again.
Digging into my pocket, I pull my keys out, searching
for her's. Finding it, I insert it into the lock and
give it a turn, entering her apartment.
The rooms are doused in darkness, the lights forgotten in
the glimmer of moonlight.
I reach behind me and push the door closed as my eyes adjust
to the black. I can make out the surroundings and she isn't
among them.
I step further into the apartment, cocking my head and listening.
The music mists down the hallway from her bedroom, pulling me,
directing me to its doorway.
I am there, standing in the door frame. I see her.
She lies on the bed, curled and facing away from me. I loiter
at the door, waiting, needing her to look at me, acknowledge
me, but she doesn't.
I want to speak, intrude upon the music that pervades the room
and impregnates the air, but I don't. I note the rate of her
breathing, watching, cataloging the rise and fall of her body,
watching as the moonlight picks its way through the room and
lands upon her, spotlighting her.
I force myself to move, to enter her bedroom, closer, cutting
the distance between us with the hesitant fall of my steps --
pausing mid-way toward her bed, toward her.
I lick my lips, my emotions becoming a cocktail of determination
and fear. I swallow it, letting it sink into my bones, inebriate
my senses and loosen my tongue.
"Scully?"
No response. I know she is awake. Memories crest into my
mind, recalling car rides, plane rides, and all night paper
vigils. Fastened within each remembrance are the rare times
when she has fallen asleep, pillowing against me. I can
almost feel the soft rise of her breath against my skin
again, its timed rhythm memorized.
She is not sleeping.
"Scully."
That's when I see it; her body begins to shake, shudder. I
close out the distance left between us, erasing it within
three easy strides. I stand beside her bed, my knees brushing
against the quilt. Aching, I want to reach out to her, have
her look at me, but the memory of our last parting sneaks up,
immobilizing and gluing my hands at my sides.
I shake my head, clearing it of fear. This is Scully, my
partner, my friend.
This is my Scully.
My Scully. The implication of that phrasing stalks into
my mind, demanding my immediate attention, demanding my
acknowledgment. I don't think I want to. I don't....
"Scully, look at me."
I wait, moments, minutes, hours -- there's no difference.
Finally she falls onto her back and meets my gaze, searching,
dissecting -- scrutinizing. I see her features begin to
crumble, but she bits her lip, suppressing, commanding,
controlling the reaction that surfaces, demanding it to obey
her will.
I am lost as I watch her battle -- fighting against something
so strong that I can see it strangling her determination,
leaving her intent to slide away in defeat. She turns
her head away.
"Scully?"
At the sound of my call she tears herself from the
bed, flocking to the rocking chair that faces the window. I
watch, breathless, wordless as she begins to sway in the
seat.
It is as if she is crumbling, shrinking before my very eyes
as she struggles, striving to avoid me, my gaze and I don't
know what to do.
Confusion swathes me in its blankets, bundling me against
action, any action or support that I want to give her -- that
is, if she would let me. But I know she won't. She never
does and with that reminder, anger begins to thread through
my bonded tongue, snapping the strings that hold it mute
and spurring me into response.
"Scully," I call, my tone dipped in red -- blotting out
the vision of blackened shadows that drape the room.
She doesn't say anything. I walk over to her and grab
an arm of the wooden chair, spinning it around to make
her face me. I squat down before her.
She doesn't react.
"I want to know what's going on with you, and I want
to know now," I demand. I watch her, her breathing
increases in agitation. Reluctant, she meets my stare
and again, I am blanketed in contempt. Instead of shrinking
away from that look, I meet it, trying to see past it,
or at least understand it.
"What's wrong?" I ask, unable to let a shade of desperation
mix with my anger. I firmly grip her hand. It's shaking.
She tries to free herself but I won't let her. Not this time.
I refuse to let her walk out on me again, emotionally or
physically, despite how her actions seem to shred my very
being -- a reaction I haven't acknowledged, until now.
"Scully, what is it, what... what did I do? I... I don't
understand."
The last words leak from my lips in a deflating whisper.
I close my eyes, squeezing them shut and turning my head
to the side for the barest of seconds before facing her
again. I speak, my voice stronger.
"Talk to me, Scully! I'm your friend, your...," I coax,
imploring her to eradicate the confusion that has blanketed
me, the confusion that partners with an anxiety that is
ripping my heart apart.
"I can't," she whispers, her eyes closing -- curtaining her
view from my face. I study her features, her eyes are screwed
shut. The skin over her cheek bones are pale and pulled taut
with tension.
I gently squeeze her hand and she flinches. "Scully."
Slowly, she cracks her eyes open, exposing the blue color to
the room and my gaze. I draw back, my throat catching.
The contempt is gone, replaced by a tidal wave of blue fear.
It drenches me in its brilliance. I have never seen Scully
afraid, not like this, never like this... never...
...never of me.
My voice catches, my throat suddenly hoarse as a
phantasm of possibilities possess my thoughts -- loudest
of all is, 'What have I done?' The question rears
before me again, a deafening echoing.
"Scully, tell me."
She leans forward, reaching toward my face. I feel the
coolness of her shaky hands against my heated skin. I
stare, seeking, recording the way her eyes scan my features
before raising to my own.
I notice her eyes are filled, trapping tears, tears
that plead to fall and my heart aches, spreading in
my chest, caught beneath my bones.
"Don't cry," I whisper, tender. My hand reaches up, capturing
her face within my palm.
Suddenly a guttural sob rips from her throat and the tears,
her tears, plummet in rapids, drenching her face and flowing
over my hand.
"I don't want this... I don't...," she croaks, her voice raw
and blocked with a storm of emotions that wracks her face,
tearing from the depths of her soul.
She grips me, pulling me toward her and I am lost as she
clutches my jacket by the lapels, her strength anchoring
me too her. I hear pained defeat echoing in her sobs and
I can do nothing but hold her.
I pull her from the chair, into my lap and we sink back to
the floor, leaning against the side of the bed. We rock as
I clasp her against my chest. She entwines her arms around
me, her fists bunching the material of my shirt, burying them
beneath my jacket.
I hold her, crushing against me. I can feel her heart
beating, thumping against my skin, reverberating against
my soul.
Again, time eludes me: seconds, minutes -- hours could have
past. I wouldn't know. All I do know is the weight of her
body, the heat of her touch and her anguish that flows.
Eventually, she lifts her head and meets my eyes.
Searching, she submerges me within the cleansed emotions
reflected, displayed before me.
She is vulnerable. Her vulnerability unmasks my own
and I can only stare, caught in a riot of rumbling
feelings.
I can feel my will drowning, the seal of fabricated confusion,
a confusion that I have bathed in lies, stresses -- buckling
against the monsoon of thoughts and desires that I have
contained for longer than I care to remember, longer
than I... longer.
"I hate you," she whispers as she tenderly wipes tears
from my face while crying her own, "I hate you."
I am stunned, confused, hurting and unable to mask the
whirlpool of pain her words stir within me, unable to mask
anything anymore, not with her -- never with her again. But as
quickly as those feelings submerge me, I am lifted from
them, buoyed by an already discovered understanding, a
knowing that is bared in her eyes.
I let out a series of low, shuddering breaths as the impact of
her gaze washes onto the sands of my heart, cautiously -- oh
so very cautiously -- carrying her toward me. She arrives,
her eyes closing, ending the voyage.
Leaning forward and wrapping her arms around me, she
buries her face into the hollow between my shoulder and neck.
I can feel the tears saturate my shirt in their steady flow,
her hair, feather wisps, tickles my skin as she shakes
her head from side to side, repeating over and over -- softly,
gently, in my ear," I hate you."
Eventually, she pulls back to face me again and my breath
catches, trapped between my lips as she comes toward me,
canceling any space that remains between us.
I wait, watching and nearly incredulous. She is seeking
me, reaching for me. As her lips brush mine, I question
her.
"Why do you hate me, Scully?" I whisper against her lips,
prisoner to her stare, her touch, her taste.
"Don't you know, Mulder? Can't you tell?" she asks her mouth
still against mine, her voice shuddering out the question on
the bed of a sigh.
Oh yes I know. The secret has whispered through the dam
of my subconscious, breaking from the shadows -- flooding
me in a bath of revealed truth.
Yes, I can tell, but I want her, need her to say it -- for her
to *really* know it -- know it as I now know it.
"Because of this," she answers, sealing the words with
a lingering kiss that tosses me into a deluge of heated
bliss, soaking and saturating me, "This."
I pull back for a moment, studying her eyes, netted in them,
lost within them and her.
"Scully," I say, gripping her to me as I feel my tears
continue to dive down my cheeks, faster and stronger. My
voice is jagged, rough with need -- need and... and...
and love, "I hate you, too."
Refusing to let her go, us go, I carefully wedge my foot
within the door frame of her shattered shield, a shield
that has fallen, clattering to the ground, landing
beside my own.
She reaches a hand to my face and brushes the silent wetness,
capturing it within her shaking palm, absorbing a part of
me within her skin.
"Don't cry," she whispers, the tears still falling from
her own eyes.
How could I not?
"I... Scully," I stammer, looking at her. All I can feel is
my heart cracking, punctured by the smell of her , the look of
her -- the need of her.
"Shh...," she whispers, still studying my face as
she repeats herself, "Shh...."
"No, no more silence," I reply, giving her a quivering, yet
determined smile. My words hammer, bursting any lingering
protective, no- hindering barricades that stand before
us, "No more."
Looking at her, my head shaking side to side, I mirror my
words with motion. I leave my eyes naked and open for her
to peer through. She leans forward, wrapping her arms
about my waist, her head against my chest. I hear and
feel her breath hitching against me.
I clutch her, my arms mimicking hers as we sit on the floor.
I can feel her head nodding, agreeing as she repeats my
words, my thoughts -- our need, "No more, no more walls."
She pulls back to face me again and my breath catches,
trapped between my lips as she comes toward me once
again.
I move forward as well, to meet her, but her arms hold me in
place. This is to be her claiming, her reaffirmation and I
can do nothing but let it happen, silently demand it to
happen with all of my being.
"I'm tired of fighting," she says letting her lips
touch against mine before pulling slightly away.
Fighting. Fighting against feelings, fate and future.
I have wanted her, waited for her, needed her.
I have her.
"So am I," I whisper, prisoner to her stare, her touch.
"We don't have to fight anymore," she says.
No... we don't.
And it is her resolution, her need to accept and claim --
to notify her heart and thoughts that the battle against
me, against us, is, indeed over.
I answer, covering her hand and pulling her against me.
She shifts against my body, her warm curves sinking into
mine as I seal our truce with a heated kiss that
declares, demands and decimates any lingering fear. Our
tongues tangle, tasting and tantalizing one another in
swaying, scintillating sensations.
We break apart reluctant, our mouths reaching and halting
as our eyes study each other.
"Wow," I can't help saying. She smiles and my eyes are
drawn to the swollen fullness of her lips.
Struck, I realize that I have been missing that smile
for such a long time. It had been dressing her features less
and less and my face falls at the realization.
"I've missed that," I whisper, reaching my finger tips to
trace her upturned mouth, my eyes solemn and serious.
"What?" she asks against the pads of my fingers.
"Your smile," I answer, leaning in to replace my fingers
with a gentle, sensuous touching of skin against the most
sensitive of skin, my lips stamping my need with the softest,
yet most profound of touches.
My heart is thundering, throbbing against my chest as the kiss
lingers, tweaking my blood and strumming my senses. Our kiss,
hot, searing -- a branding mark that devastates and elates,
rising, reaching and gripping my very being to dizzying heights,
beyond the scattered sky, the contemplated stars, beyond.
This is my Scully.
The phrase is no longer an implication but a verification,
a declaration of... of my life, my soul --
My Scully.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I didn't want to love him, want him, need him.
I didn't want to, want to...
but I have and I do.
~finis~
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
REFRAIN
by
Exley_61
exley61@yahoo.com
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
-Exley 61
"Woman, get back in here and make me a sandwich!"
[FM in Arcadia]
AUTHOR: Exley_61 (exley61@yahoo.com)
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None
DISTRIBUTION: I'll do Emphemeral, otherwise practically anywhere,
just let me know.
CATEGORY: BIG UST, MSR Scully Angst and Mulder Angst
DISCLAIMER: prop. of CC productions & Fox
SUMMARY: In one instant, everything changes for Mulder. With
one look, he is prompted to search for a different truth.
A truth as seemingly elusive and as obscure as any
X-file......
QUICK NOTE: I wanted to thank everyone who emailed me and embraced
me into the Xfic world. It has been incredible. This is my second
story and I hope you enjoy. Special thanks to my betas.
FEEDBACK: Yes, please do. It's my second shot out of the
gates and I would like to know your thoughts
on it.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
REFRAIN
by
Exley_61
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I wonder if he heard the throbbing, the ache beneath the thin
plaster of my skin. I can't conceal it any longer. Time
strokes, provokes, and titillates, dilating my eyes as I have
watched him, examined him in tinted shades of demand.
It frightens me. He frightens me. I am the master carpenter of
the ultimate lie, sealing the door against temptation, against
him. I build an impenetrable facade in which I take refuge,
adhering to the call of reason, but reason does not hold against
him. He demolishes it, over and over, splintering my resolve
into shards.
Mulder.
He steals me from myself -- a master strategist. In a campaign
of a slow, minute collection of advances, he tricks me into
a smile, a laugh, a touch that absorbs through my blood and
streamlines into my heart.
There are no plans of defense to combat against this
siege, no method or desire to persuade him to release me.
I am captured, catapulted into a canyon of foreign terrain.
Foreign, for I have neglected to nurture or rather, acknowledge
the beating of a racing heart or the sunburn flush that creeps
up my neck and tinges my face.
And despite my attempted abandonment, my hunger, thirst, no -- my
yearning has allowed him to see past my reserves, crawling
through the ever-expanding fissure, bursting through the cemented
efforts of my ill-fated intention.
Though the sun's glowing rays of admittance display the truth
of my feelings to myself; it is only to myself -- or so I try
to believe. But it's a lie. He has been given a glimpse of the
sun's discovery and he doesn't, hasn't, turned away. Desperate,
I have attempted to confuse him, distract him -- to hammer down
my lidded desire behind arched stares and level words.
I don't think it's worked, not completely.
And I'm frightened. This fear fences my craving -- concealing me,
cloaking me in despair's embrace, leaving me to flounder behind
a bank of continued denial to myself and to him.
I don't need him, I don't want him, he doesn't want me.
Denial.
It spindles, sprawling out in an ever-growing,
encompassing circle that covers the fingered imprint he
leaves upon my heart, upon my soul.
I continue to battle a war already lost, never admitting
defeat -- allowing my feelings to forever remain stale-mated
in a belted lie, tightened against the truth, but not
within it.
And I can't take it anymore. Yet, I can't help feeling surprised
that I have faltered, letting the plaster crack upon the walls
of my well-tended reserve.
So I sit on the bed, in my room, sketched in shadows
interrupted only by moonlight glaring its dull glow
through the leafy veil of tree branches, branches that
brush against my window.
I hear the stereo, the CD repeats and repeats. The singer's
voice pours from the speakers, saturating my bedroom and
myself, in clear, dulcet tones.
Burying my face against the chilled cotton pillow case, I
feel the coldness creep into my skin and bathe my heart in
anxiety. I want him. It has become a deafening refrain that
can never touch his ears.
For, I can't tell him, it's our game, you see. I don't know who
created the rules, perhaps we both did. We have stood, juxtaposed
with one another, moving in our Russian dance of roulette. But
the music has stopped, and the bullet has fired, shattering
my lies, leaving an open frame of revelation that tears through
my soul. Unhinged and off balance, I display a truth that I
cannot, that I must not, allow him to see.
And I want to cry, a cavalcade of tears that will cleanse my
heart and free it of the need that is buried there. But
I can't cry, I can't --
I won't.
Frozen, I am caught in a mire of confused, conflicting sentiment
and need -- unable to demolish the wall that bars my inner-most
wants -- unable to expose them to the outside world -- to him.
No.
For what would this flooding reality mean, to us, our work,
our life, were I to give it the birth it so desperately wants?
I know that I would never be able to remain the same, no longer
able to play in the fun house of illusion --
It would be destroyed, leaving me bare, standing among the
debris of my broken mirrors. I can't allow myself that
vulnerability.
I can't.
I won't.
Falling back, my quilted bedspread catches me. I curl my body
into a shell, seeking a soothing solace that isn't there, that
I know will never be there again.
I want to cry.
My body shudders against a gripping anguish, an anguish that
attempts to push through my mortar of repression, a repression
who's seal I refuse to let shatter... and I know it.
I don't want to love him, want him, need him.
I don't want to,
want to...
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
'Open the door, Scully. Open it!' I silently command, banging
on the door yet again, the wood scratching against my knuckles.
Nothing.
Damn it! I pace in front of her doorway. Waiting, always
waiting. Driving a hand through my hair, I step up to her
door once more, knocking.
"Scully!"
Still no response. An angry growl barks through my lips.
I know she's there. I know it. I can hear music playing,
trapped behind her apartment walls.
And so I pace.
This is ridiculous, insane. I'm not going to wait out
here all night and I'm not leaving before I see
her.
Damn it! What *am* I doing here? She doesn't want to see me.
You'd think I could get a clue. Shaking my head, I grimace.
I do have a clue or at least a fragment of this puzzle, only
it's not enough. It's too vague to decipher and that is
unacceptable. Answers have to be given, words said. I refuse
to allow what happened less than an hour ago dictate what I
am rapidly beginning to believe could mean my future, our
future. No, this is where I should be and I'm not leaving
here, her, us -- not without a fight.
The image of her face, of her eyes and how she looked upon
me, flashes before me. A sinking dread gathers, dropping
over my senses.
I stop and blindly look up and down her hallway, trying
to clear the vision. Rubbing my hand against my chin, I
continue pacing, unable to stop thinking upon the events
once more.
The office. I shiver, a swamping fear dipping me into
an ever deepening well of anxiety. It is as if my soul
knows a secret that is yet to be whispered in my ear,
causing my thoughts to grip upon a piercing possibility.
Maybe, just maybe, I really don't want to know what
lies behind her earlier behavior.
I stop my movements. Perhaps, perhaps I'm afraid to know.
No, no perhaps, it's a definite. And acknowledging that
discovery scares me even more, propelling me, forcing myself
to confront whatever truth is to be laid out before me. This
fear has quickly evolved into a desperate demand that races
my heart, beads my temples, and moistening my palms in sweat.
So, I'm here, wanting, needing, to see her -- battling
against my trepidation. Sighing, I plunge my hands into
my pants' pockets, flipping a coin, playing with the
gathered change.
Again, I'm assaulted by earlier's events, unable to stop
replaying the snap-shot reel of memories. I can't stop
freezing it, pausing it, upon her face. No, not her face,
not exactly. I'm unable to stop seeing the screen capture
of her eyes.
Shuddering, I grip a shoulder, rolling, loosening the
tightening muscles. I let my hand fall to my side,
drumming my fingers against my leg.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the images of her, us, in the
office. But, unable to stop them, they flicker, flaring
into full blown replay...
We were in the office, each to our own task. I had
risen from my desk, case file in hand, bringing
it over for her to look at. I plopped the manilla
folder open, leaning over to point out a particularly
odd witness statement.
Instead of glancing over my discovery, she shot out of her
seat, causing me to fall back, out of her way.
"Scully?"
She said nothing, not with words. I felt her eyes pinning
my body, freezing it against movement or response. My throat
constricted, an involuntary action as confusion clouded my
senses.
I wondered what I had or hadn't done and couldn't effectively
explain away her response, her behavior. Finally, I spoke again.
"Scully?"
I watched her as her eyes seemed to rip into me, blanketing me
in a net of contempt.
Contempt?
Punched and nearly breathless by that look, I watched, wordless
once more, as she gathered her briefcase and purse. My mouth
hinged open but words refused to issue forth, to form -- stuck
in the natal stages of thought.
All I could do was observe. She did not face me again, striding
to the door, she tore it open.
I watched, suffocating. She paused, but only for a moment
before clasping the knob more firmly. She walked through
the doorway, letting the door close gently behind her, cutting
her out of my sight and I feared, much more.
I couldn't explain it but this was something big, something that
nudged at my subconscious, needling and yet refusing to step from
the shadows. I felt a shudder race over my skin and chill
my senses.
I had expected the door to reverberate in the door frame,
coating my ears in a ringing endorsement for my lack of
whatever. But it hadn't, and she didn't. And that scared
me.
She was gone.
Gone...
I looked around the office, dazed. Falling back into my
chair, my apprehension expanded, sprawling and then collecting
into an agitation that crawled under my skin, itching. Trapped,
I was reeling, captured in the memory of that stare, of
that look.
Contempt.
A cold, dark fear latched onto my chest, clasping my
heart -- squeezing. I have seen Scully angry, irritated, but
never this, never towards me.
My throat was dry. No matter how many times I swallowed, it
remained dry -- almost choking me as the word, the thought, the
implication tumbled and rumbled, stampeding through my mind
and knocking against the crumbling walls of my confusion.
Contempt.
The look was for me, not for what I might have done, but what I
had done. I felt it, knew it to be an end result that I had
created. That *something* had crept over her features, aiming,
striking me down. The calm, definite finality with which she
seemed to slip from the office hammered at me, louder and
louder, imprisoning my thoughts with its pounding refrain.
Contempt.
Time, ticking, tapping out the minutes into fifteen, twenty
and even more passed by, blaring into my contemplations,
prodding me, triggering me into action.
Abruptly, I stood, ripping my jacket off the back of my chair,
knocking over case files and not looking back. I tore through
the crowding, shrinking, office space and burst out of the room
and down J. Edgar Hoover's empty hallways. The sound of my
footsteps ricocheted off the walls as I ran, running toward the
answer that, ultimately, only she could give...
Jerked back to the moment, I felt eyes upon me. I looked around
and saw someone, a neighbor, had passed me, going on to
the elevator.
I shook my head, clearing it. Enough! My hallway vigil
is over.
I utter another frustrated sigh, stepping to her door again.
Digging into my pocket, I pull my keys out, searching
for her's. Finding it, I insert it into the lock and
give it a turn, entering her apartment.
The rooms are doused in darkness, the lights forgotten in
the glimmer of moonlight.
I reach behind me and push the door closed as my eyes adjust
to the black. I can make out the surroundings and she isn't
among them.
I step further into the apartment, cocking my head and listening.
The music mists down the hallway from her bedroom, pulling me,
directing me to its doorway.
I am there, standing in the door frame. I see her.
She lies on the bed, curled and facing away from me. I loiter
at the door, waiting, needing her to look at me, acknowledge
me, but she doesn't.
I want to speak, intrude upon the music that pervades the room
and impregnates the air, but I don't. I note the rate of her
breathing, watching, cataloging the rise and fall of her body,
watching as the moonlight picks its way through the room and
lands upon her, spotlighting her.
I force myself to move, to enter her bedroom, closer, cutting
the distance between us with the hesitant fall of my steps --
pausing mid-way toward her bed, toward her.
I lick my lips, my emotions becoming a cocktail of determination
and fear. I swallow it, letting it sink into my bones, inebriate
my senses and loosen my tongue.
"Scully?"
No response. I know she is awake. Memories crest into my
mind, recalling car rides, plane rides, and all night paper
vigils. Fastened within each remembrance are the rare times
when she has fallen asleep, pillowing against me. I can
almost feel the soft rise of her breath against my skin
again, its timed rhythm memorized.
She is not sleeping.
"Scully."
That's when I see it; her body begins to shake, shudder. I
close out the distance left between us, erasing it within
three easy strides. I stand beside her bed, my knees brushing
against the quilt. Aching, I want to reach out to her, have
her look at me, but the memory of our last parting sneaks up,
immobilizing and gluing my hands at my sides.
I shake my head, clearing it of fear. This is Scully, my
partner, my friend.
This is my Scully.
My Scully. The implication of that phrasing stalks into
my mind, demanding my immediate attention, demanding my
acknowledgment. I don't think I want to. I don't....
"Scully, look at me."
I wait, moments, minutes, hours -- there's no difference.
Finally she falls onto her back and meets my gaze, searching,
dissecting -- scrutinizing. I see her features begin to
crumble, but she bits her lip, suppressing, commanding,
controlling the reaction that surfaces, demanding it to obey
her will.
I am lost as I watch her battle -- fighting against something
so strong that I can see it strangling her determination,
leaving her intent to slide away in defeat. She turns
her head away.
"Scully?"
At the sound of my call she tears herself from the
bed, flocking to the rocking chair that faces the window. I
watch, breathless, wordless as she begins to sway in the
seat.
It is as if she is crumbling, shrinking before my very eyes
as she struggles, striving to avoid me, my gaze and I don't
know what to do.
Confusion swathes me in its blankets, bundling me against
action, any action or support that I want to give her -- that
is, if she would let me. But I know she won't. She never
does and with that reminder, anger begins to thread through
my bonded tongue, snapping the strings that hold it mute
and spurring me into response.
"Scully," I call, my tone dipped in red -- blotting out
the vision of blackened shadows that drape the room.
She doesn't say anything. I walk over to her and grab
an arm of the wooden chair, spinning it around to make
her face me. I squat down before her.
She doesn't react.
"I want to know what's going on with you, and I want
to know now," I demand. I watch her, her breathing
increases in agitation. Reluctant, she meets my stare
and again, I am blanketed in contempt. Instead of shrinking
away from that look, I meet it, trying to see past it,
or at least understand it.
"What's wrong?" I ask, unable to let a shade of desperation
mix with my anger. I firmly grip her hand. It's shaking.
She tries to free herself but I won't let her. Not this time.
I refuse to let her walk out on me again, emotionally or
physically, despite how her actions seem to shred my very
being -- a reaction I haven't acknowledged, until now.
"Scully, what is it, what... what did I do? I... I don't
understand."
The last words leak from my lips in a deflating whisper.
I close my eyes, squeezing them shut and turning my head
to the side for the barest of seconds before facing her
again. I speak, my voice stronger.
"Talk to me, Scully! I'm your friend, your...," I coax,
imploring her to eradicate the confusion that has blanketed
me, the confusion that partners with an anxiety that is
ripping my heart apart.
"I can't," she whispers, her eyes closing -- curtaining her
view from my face. I study her features, her eyes are screwed
shut. The skin over her cheek bones are pale and pulled taut
with tension.
I gently squeeze her hand and she flinches. "Scully."
Slowly, she cracks her eyes open, exposing the blue color to
the room and my gaze. I draw back, my throat catching.
The contempt is gone, replaced by a tidal wave of blue fear.
It drenches me in its brilliance. I have never seen Scully
afraid, not like this, never like this... never...
...never of me.
My voice catches, my throat suddenly hoarse as a
phantasm of possibilities possess my thoughts -- loudest
of all is, 'What have I done?' The question rears
before me again, a deafening echoing.
"Scully, tell me."
She leans forward, reaching toward my face. I feel the
coolness of her shaky hands against my heated skin. I
stare, seeking, recording the way her eyes scan my features
before raising to my own.
I notice her eyes are filled, trapping tears, tears
that plead to fall and my heart aches, spreading in
my chest, caught beneath my bones.
"Don't cry," I whisper, tender. My hand reaches up, capturing
her face within my palm.
Suddenly a guttural sob rips from her throat and the tears,
her tears, plummet in rapids, drenching her face and flowing
over my hand.
"I don't want this... I don't...," she croaks, her voice raw
and blocked with a storm of emotions that wracks her face,
tearing from the depths of her soul.
She grips me, pulling me toward her and I am lost as she
clutches my jacket by the lapels, her strength anchoring
me too her. I hear pained defeat echoing in her sobs and
I can do nothing but hold her.
I pull her from the chair, into my lap and we sink back to
the floor, leaning against the side of the bed. We rock as
I clasp her against my chest. She entwines her arms around
me, her fists bunching the material of my shirt, burying them
beneath my jacket.
I hold her, crushing against me. I can feel her heart
beating, thumping against my skin, reverberating against
my soul.
Again, time eludes me: seconds, minutes -- hours could have
past. I wouldn't know. All I do know is the weight of her
body, the heat of her touch and her anguish that flows.
Eventually, she lifts her head and meets my eyes.
Searching, she submerges me within the cleansed emotions
reflected, displayed before me.
She is vulnerable. Her vulnerability unmasks my own
and I can only stare, caught in a riot of rumbling
feelings.
I can feel my will drowning, the seal of fabricated confusion,
a confusion that I have bathed in lies, stresses -- buckling
against the monsoon of thoughts and desires that I have
contained for longer than I care to remember, longer
than I... longer.
"I hate you," she whispers as she tenderly wipes tears
from my face while crying her own, "I hate you."
I am stunned, confused, hurting and unable to mask the
whirlpool of pain her words stir within me, unable to mask
anything anymore, not with her -- never with her again. But as
quickly as those feelings submerge me, I am lifted from
them, buoyed by an already discovered understanding, a
knowing that is bared in her eyes.
I let out a series of low, shuddering breaths as the impact of
her gaze washes onto the sands of my heart, cautiously -- oh
so very cautiously -- carrying her toward me. She arrives,
her eyes closing, ending the voyage.
Leaning forward and wrapping her arms around me, she
buries her face into the hollow between my shoulder and neck.
I can feel the tears saturate my shirt in their steady flow,
her hair, feather wisps, tickles my skin as she shakes
her head from side to side, repeating over and over -- softly,
gently, in my ear," I hate you."
Eventually, she pulls back to face me again and my breath
catches, trapped between my lips as she comes toward me,
canceling any space that remains between us.
I wait, watching and nearly incredulous. She is seeking
me, reaching for me. As her lips brush mine, I question
her.
"Why do you hate me, Scully?" I whisper against her lips,
prisoner to her stare, her touch, her taste.
"Don't you know, Mulder? Can't you tell?" she asks her mouth
still against mine, her voice shuddering out the question on
the bed of a sigh.
Oh yes I know. The secret has whispered through the dam
of my subconscious, breaking from the shadows -- flooding
me in a bath of revealed truth.
Yes, I can tell, but I want her, need her to say it -- for her
to *really* know it -- know it as I now know it.
"Because of this," she answers, sealing the words with
a lingering kiss that tosses me into a deluge of heated
bliss, soaking and saturating me, "This."
I pull back for a moment, studying her eyes, netted in them,
lost within them and her.
"Scully," I say, gripping her to me as I feel my tears
continue to dive down my cheeks, faster and stronger. My
voice is jagged, rough with need -- need and... and...
and love, "I hate you, too."
Refusing to let her go, us go, I carefully wedge my foot
within the door frame of her shattered shield, a shield
that has fallen, clattering to the ground, landing
beside my own.
She reaches a hand to my face and brushes the silent wetness,
capturing it within her shaking palm, absorbing a part of
me within her skin.
"Don't cry," she whispers, the tears still falling from
her own eyes.
How could I not?
"I... Scully," I stammer, looking at her. All I can feel is
my heart cracking, punctured by the smell of her , the look of
her -- the need of her.
"Shh...," she whispers, still studying my face as
she repeats herself, "Shh...."
"No, no more silence," I reply, giving her a quivering, yet
determined smile. My words hammer, bursting any lingering
protective, no- hindering barricades that stand before
us, "No more."
Looking at her, my head shaking side to side, I mirror my
words with motion. I leave my eyes naked and open for her
to peer through. She leans forward, wrapping her arms
about my waist, her head against my chest. I hear and
feel her breath hitching against me.
I clutch her, my arms mimicking hers as we sit on the floor.
I can feel her head nodding, agreeing as she repeats my
words, my thoughts -- our need, "No more, no more walls."
She pulls back to face me again and my breath catches,
trapped between my lips as she comes toward me once
again.
I move forward as well, to meet her, but her arms hold me in
place. This is to be her claiming, her reaffirmation and I
can do nothing but let it happen, silently demand it to
happen with all of my being.
"I'm tired of fighting," she says letting her lips
touch against mine before pulling slightly away.
Fighting. Fighting against feelings, fate and future.
I have wanted her, waited for her, needed her.
I have her.
"So am I," I whisper, prisoner to her stare, her touch.
"We don't have to fight anymore," she says.
No... we don't.
And it is her resolution, her need to accept and claim --
to notify her heart and thoughts that the battle against
me, against us, is, indeed over.
I answer, covering her hand and pulling her against me.
She shifts against my body, her warm curves sinking into
mine as I seal our truce with a heated kiss that
declares, demands and decimates any lingering fear. Our
tongues tangle, tasting and tantalizing one another in
swaying, scintillating sensations.
We break apart reluctant, our mouths reaching and halting
as our eyes study each other.
"Wow," I can't help saying. She smiles and my eyes are
drawn to the swollen fullness of her lips.
Struck, I realize that I have been missing that smile
for such a long time. It had been dressing her features less
and less and my face falls at the realization.
"I've missed that," I whisper, reaching my finger tips to
trace her upturned mouth, my eyes solemn and serious.
"What?" she asks against the pads of my fingers.
"Your smile," I answer, leaning in to replace my fingers
with a gentle, sensuous touching of skin against the most
sensitive of skin, my lips stamping my need with the softest,
yet most profound of touches.
My heart is thundering, throbbing against my chest as the kiss
lingers, tweaking my blood and strumming my senses. Our kiss,
hot, searing -- a branding mark that devastates and elates,
rising, reaching and gripping my very being to dizzying heights,
beyond the scattered sky, the contemplated stars, beyond.
This is my Scully.
The phrase is no longer an implication but a verification,
a declaration of... of my life, my soul --
My Scully.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
I didn't want to love him, want him, need him.
I didn't want to, want to...
but I have and I do.
~finis~
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
REFRAIN
by
Exley_61
exley61@yahoo.com
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
-Exley 61
"Woman, get back in here and make me a sandwich!"
[FM in Arcadia]
