Chapter VI
She asked me to take her home the other day.
Well, first she asked me where our home was and what it was like, then she told me that the doctors had cleared her to leave the clinic on condition that she make an appointment with a local psychiatrist for an ambulant treatment.
So we're approaching our house now, stirring up the dirt on the gravel road behind us. It hasn't rained in weeks and the soil is dry. She threw me a questioning look every time I took a turn further away from the city and farther out into the countryside. She furrowed her brows when I opened the gate to our premises and she's staring at our unremarkable house which comes into sight now that we've climbed the little hill that keeps it from view from the street.
"It's kinda rural, isn't it?" she states the obvious.
"We like it that way," I simply tell her. Now is not the time to explain what brought us here.
I steer the car directly in front of the porch and kill the engine. We sit in silence for a moment. Scully leans forward and peeks through the windshield at the house. She doesn't move and I can't say why. Maybe she expected something completely different. Maybe she's waiting for the memories to appear. Maybe she's afraid to take this next step toward her old life, a life she still knows so little about.
Eventually, I decide to make her take it. So I get out of the car, walk around the back in order not to block her view, open the passenger door and hold my hand out to her. When she takes it, I pull her out of the car and up the few steps onto the porch. Holding her hand, I keep the screen open with my hip and fumble the keys out of my pocket. I open the front door and step inside, but she remains rooted to the doorstep. It feels like a jab into the stomach to realize that she's apprehensive to enter her own house.
"Come on, Scully. No need to worry, I cleaned up," I coax her, and she smiles.
She lets me pull her inside, letting go of my hand when she's three steps from the front door. She puts her hands in her pants pockets, looks around, takes in the surroundings. She looks like someone on a house viewing, asking herself whether she could feel comfortable living in this house. Then, to my immense relief, she says, "I like it."
"You do?"
"Yes, it's homey."
"I hoped you'd say that."
She stretches her hand out to me. "Care to give me a tour?"
I show her around and I see her smile at little things, like the vase with fresh flowers I put on the dining room table or the painting on the wall we got at the local flea market. When she sees the pencils stuck in the ceiling of my office, she throws me a puzzled look but doesn't say anything. Shit, I should've taken them down!
Another tricky moment is when I show her our bedroom. Her eyes rest a bit too long on the bed for me to let it pass without comment. "You'll have the bed to yourself. I, uh...I will sleep downstairs on the couch."
"You don't have to," she says contrary to my expectations. "I mean, it's a big bed, and we're married. If you promise not to try anything, I guess we can give it a shot, don't you think?"
Oh yes, baby, we can!
I've been sleeping alone in this bed for too long. Although it will be difficult to keep my hands off her, not to spoon her and pull her close until her back warms my chest, but I'm more than willing to pretend I'm a monk, so "Sure!" is all I croak.
She moves forward and takes a look at the bathroom.
"Aww, a tub! Wonderful!"
"You insisted we'd get a tub. There wasn't one when we bought the house."
"I only had a shower at the clinic. I so wanted to take a bath every now and then," she tells me.
"Why don't you draw one right away? Take your time and relax a little. I get your things up here."
"Oh, I'd love to!"
"Go ahead then! You find your clothes in the closet over there," I point to an antique piece of furniture we bought in a little shop a few miles down the road, "your underwear in the bottom drawer."
My last remark makes her blush which is so cute but also a bit sad. I can't believe we're at a point where me speaking of her underwear causes a reaction of uneasiness.
I open the cabinet under the sink and hand her a bottle of bath foam. "Here, this is your favorite."
She takes it from me, her fingers grazing mine shortly.
"Thank you, Fox. You're really sweet."
When she comes down after her bath I'm preparing dinner. She found her clothes obviously. She's dressed in a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt, her hair is put together in a ponytail. Her face is cleared of all the makeup and I can see the freckles I've always loved. They make her look so pure and raw, so charmingly girlish.
She's beautiful. The mole on her upper lip is drawing me in. It's the appealing sensual counterpart to the innocent freckles. I never understood why she covered it up. I find it very sexy.
"Hey," she says, "you cook? It seems I've found myself the perfect husband."
I could tell her that I had enough time to practice cooking when I still had to hide and couldn't leave the house, but I don't. It's our first evening at home together, and I don't want to spoil it with tales of government conspiracies.
"I made chicken salad with low-fat dressing and pasta primavera. And before you ask, you like it," I say with a grin.
"You know my favorites better than I do."
I think I know where the slight sad ring to her voice is coming from. It must feel awkward to have someone else tell you what you like and what you don't.
"It'll all come back to you, Scully. I'm sure of it."
She shoots me a weak but thankful smile.
We have our dinner mostly in silence. It's a comfortable silence, one that settles easily as we're both enjoying our time together. She compliments me on the food and I talk her into having some ice cream for dessert, that's mostly it. When the table is cleared and the dishes are done, I pour us two glasses of wine and ask her to come outside and sit with me on the porch swing to watch the sunset.
"Don't tell me that this is my favorite spot of the house, Fox, even if it is. Please," she begs.
I can hear how unsettled she is, that feeling like a stranger in her own house is taking its toll on her.
"Actually, it's mine," I reply, and it's the truth. I've always loved the moments we spent out here, her body leaned against mine or her feet on my lap, watching the sun setting slowly behind the little hill. We spent many nights out here, wrapped in a blanket, staring up the starry sky.
"Sit with me, Scully," I encourage her, and she places herself next to me. I hand her the wine, she takes a tiny sip, then sets the glass down on the porch without saying a word. We both stare at the horizon, waiting for the sun to finally set. The temperature falls a few degrees as soon as the sun is gone, but it's still agreeably warm outside.
I wouldn't mind sitting like this for hours with her beside me. We could talk about the constellations in the night sky or about some other harmless topic, peacefully concluding this day that marks a significant step back to our original daily routine. I can sense her exhaustion, though. She leans herself heavily against my torso, her hands rest on her lap, and her short legs dangle limply off the swing.
"You're tired," I declare.
"I am," she admits. "I took my medication before I came out. It always makes me drowsy."
I didn't know. I was never around for her nightly routine as long as she was in the clinic, had always left before she started getting ready for bed.
"We should call it a night, Scully. It's been a long day for you. Do you still intend to share the bed? I wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch, really."
She contemplates for a moment. "I'd actually appreciate if I didn't have to sleep alone. I think I could use some caring tonight."
"No problem, I have a lot of caring to give." I smile at her and she smiles back. "I'll give you a head start to the bathroom and join you in a bit. I'll just finish my wine."
When I'm at the threshold to our bedroom about twenty minutes later, I have to steady myself against the doorframe, taking in the wonderful sight that's offered to me.
The space on the side of the bed which was empty and cold for months is filled again with the tiny body I missed so much. Scully is lying at her side of the bed with her back to me. She can't see I'm watching her, so I can take my time. I wonder whether it's a coincidence she actually chose her side. Her robe is thrown over the backrest of the chair in the corner, there's a glass of water on her nightstand, and the comforter is folded back like she has always folded it back...everything is like it used to be, how it's supposed to be, and I'm indescribably happy.
I know I'm not allowed to make love to her tonight. She asked for comfort, not for passion. I will give her comfort. It won't be easy to keep my desires in check, but I'll give her what she needs. What she needs the most is time, and I can wait. I waited seven years for us to stand by our feelings, I waited three months for her to be returned to me, I can wait however long it takes for her to feel safe enough with me to let me love her again.
"How much longer are you going to stand there?" she mumbles sleepily. "Come to bed."
I clear my throat, can't help feeling caught. I'm not even sure whether I thought what I just thought or whether I actually voiced it.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you awake."
"You're not keeping me awake, but I need you in here. Get changed and come to bed," she demands silently but with determination, and I am thrilled.
I hurry into the bathroom, brush my teeth, splash some cold water on my face, put on some flannel pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt, and return to the bedroom. I slip under the covers and are greeted by a warmth inexperienced during the past months, a warmth only the body of the female you love can provide. Not that I didn't try surrogates - hot-water bottle, heating pad, thermal blanket - but nothing worked.
I don't know how close she wants me, so I lie on my back and position myself right next to her without touching her. Close enough to feel the body heat she radiates and close enough to hopefully offer her the kind of protection and comfort she was looking for when she invited me in, but also far enough not to intimidate her. I learned my lesson from the frenzied first kiss and the story of Skinner catching us in the act.
Suddenly, I notice she's reaching behind, searching for me. I offer her my hand and she grabs it. She pulls it toward her, taking me with it, and before I know it, I am spooned behind her, my front perfectly aligned with her back. I'm in heaven. I feel my body melting into hers, clinging to it as if my life depended on it.
And then I feel something building up in my groin and I curse myself. I instantly direct my thoughts to dirty laundry and greasy pizza cartons in an effort to cool down, to keep my arousal low-key, but it's fruitless. Eventually, I pull my pelvis back a little, to prevent my erection from poking into her backside, but it's too late.
"It's alright, Fox," she mumbles, already half-asleep, "it's a natural reaction. Where there is a stimulus, there is a response. When certain receptors are sensorily or mentally stimulated, the brain sends signals to trigger a hormonal response. Neurons convey the message through the central nervous system and cause a reaction, there's not so much one can do about it. The male erection is nothing but a biochemical reaction."
Well, hello there, Science-Scully!
"I feel honored to be a stimulus to your central nervous system, Fox, given the condition I'm in."
What? A stimulus to my central nervous system?
My arousal doesn't feel like a simple sober textbook biochemical reaction. Not at all! It feels like a divine force capturing my body. I know that seeing me as a receptor of external stimuli and my body as a conveyor of neuronal messages helps her to deal with the situation. Her wounded soul tells her she wants me near but her head cannot really cope with my reaction to the nearness. By allowing me to be so close, it's impossible for her to overlook my love and devotion, and being unable to reciprocate my feelings, chalking them up to a biochemical reaction is her coping mechanism toward finding her inner equilibrium. I totally understand, even if it's almost physically painful to suppress my bodily reaction.
I brush a gentle kiss on her cheek close to the corner of her mouth. I can feel it rise into a slight smile.
"Go to sleep, Scully. I'm gonna get this under control, I promise." I'll have to help myself getting rid of the tension probably. Later, when she's asleep.
"I know. I trust you," she says, and pulls me close again, "good night, Fox."
"Good night, Scully."