Disclaimer: Didn't invent them, don't sue. This is just and expression of admiration for a great show and two wonderful actors who made us dream.
Comment: I am currently under the influence of a heavy X-Files and MSR obsession. This is not to be taken seriously. I picture this like something Mulder writes down in a notebook, like Scully when she was in the hospital.
Touch
by Miranda
Now my love resides in her body as well as in her spirit, and that makes it so much more of a miracle. Even when we are not in the same room I can feel her, the real presence of her, the blood running through her veins, her smell, her secret places. Sometimes this makes me slightly embarrassed (I suspect somehow I shouldn't have these kind of thoughts about her while we are staying at her mother's house), but I cannot - I *will* not resist this. It's just too strong, too new, too wonderful and intoxicating. Now, finally, at the end, it all falls into place, and the emotions that have threatened to tear me apart all these years now have a home, a place to live in, to grow, to thrive: her body. A body I can put my hands on, to feel life shooting up my arms, so fast and powerful it almost makes me dizzy. A mouth to kiss, white, smooth skin to caress, A kind of intimacy I never thought could exist for me.
We were intimate before, yes. We have shared fears and hopes, we have taken refuge in each other's beliefs when our own seemed to loose meaning - when everything we had achieved dwindled again into nothingness and oblivion, we have saved each other, time and again. That was a miracle in itself. Every morning when I woke up, every night before I went to sleep, I asked myself how I had deserved this blessing. There was never an answer, so I came to the one logical conclusion: I had not. This was not meant for me. My task, my mission, the only reason I was even allowed to meet her in the first place, was to protect her, to guard her, and at the proper time, deliver her safely into the arms of whoever she was destined for. Never mind that in every other aspect of my life the one thing I had *never* believed in was destiny. This, this belief was something so deep-rooted, it was part of me, like the ugly ties or the color blindness. It was a natural law, like gravity: most of the time you don't ask why or how it works - it's just there.
There were times, of course (oh, so many of them), when I was simply too tired, too sick, too afraid, too worried or generally too obsessed with myself to remember this "law" of mine. Those were the times when I allowed my thoughts to reach out her, to cry out to her. And what a relief it was, in the midst of despair, to let myself believe that she was out there somewhere, waiting for me, reaching out for me as well. The thought of her always gave me back my perspective, my center. And when I saw her in pain, oh, I would have cut open my heart to let her creep into it and keep her safe from harm forever.
But it always came back to me, sooner or later, the certainty that this, what we shared, that *she* was not meant for me. Then I thought, maybe I could somehow *earn* it, this perfection I was stupid and lucky enough to stumble upon... if I could find my sister... find a cure for her illness, find and punish the people who had caused it... find the truth... But it was never enough. There were always more lies behind the truths, more enemies hiding in the darkness of my own mind, more reasons to hate myself for ruining her life. And so it became a habit, this gentle turning away of my head, this inner restriction whenever I held her in my arms. (Well, I *tried* to hold back, only some times it worked better than others.) At first, I was holding my breath, waiting for her to take the step that would lead her out of my life. Later, I began to see the necessity to push her, to *make* her take that step. But by the time I finally crept out of my coward shell and made the decision, it was already too late.
Because it was all so different. Nothing was like I believed it was. Of course, I should have known. I, of all people. Things never turn out the way you expect them to. And miracles - well, miracles *do* happen. Sometimes they are even *meant* to happen.
So now we are together. We are one, in the flesh and the blood and the mind and the soul, soon to be joined in front of God an the world, if she will have me (she doesn't know this yet, but drawing on reserves of old-fashioned-ness I didn't even know I had, I asked her mother for her permission, and Margaret gave me the ring her husband gave to her, so I could give it to Dana). I am not afraid anymore. I know there is darkness ahead of us, the future is nothing but unanswered questions, and more fear, more pain and loss, more disappointment. But now I have one belief, stronger than any other I have had before, and I know it can and will carry both of us through it all, for as long as it may last: I simply, firmly, fervently, country-songishly believe that we belong together. We were meant to be. And in some way I can't quite explain (maybe because it isn't *supposed* to be explained), it is her body from which this belief has sprung.
The way her legs show when she's sitting on the bed, reading, with only a bathrobe on, those little gasps and laughs I never heard before, the way she knows how to touch me, within and without, the way her eyes darken with desire and are still so luminous, so *hers* - it all comes together into a relentless fist of certainty that smashes right through my doubts, past the dark places in my soul and my memories, past my regrets, my guilt, the petty demands of my ego, straight to the place where I still am a boy and there are only absolutes, where there is only instinctive, warm, primal knowledge: *this* is the truth, it says. And then it lies still, and the fist opens up.
Such a long way a have come, to find the truth in the most unexpected, the most familiar, the most mysterious of places: the touch of a lover.
****************************************************************************************************
Does it suck? Is it nice? Just nice? More than nice? Did it *gasp* move you in any way? Should I *gulp* write more? I know it's just a piece of fluff, but is it the *good* fluff? Talk to me! Leave a review or write to soavezefiretto@hotmail.com
Oh, one last thing: English is not my native language. I am thankful for any corrections in grammar or style.
Comment: I am currently under the influence of a heavy X-Files and MSR obsession. This is not to be taken seriously. I picture this like something Mulder writes down in a notebook, like Scully when she was in the hospital.
Touch
by Miranda
Now my love resides in her body as well as in her spirit, and that makes it so much more of a miracle. Even when we are not in the same room I can feel her, the real presence of her, the blood running through her veins, her smell, her secret places. Sometimes this makes me slightly embarrassed (I suspect somehow I shouldn't have these kind of thoughts about her while we are staying at her mother's house), but I cannot - I *will* not resist this. It's just too strong, too new, too wonderful and intoxicating. Now, finally, at the end, it all falls into place, and the emotions that have threatened to tear me apart all these years now have a home, a place to live in, to grow, to thrive: her body. A body I can put my hands on, to feel life shooting up my arms, so fast and powerful it almost makes me dizzy. A mouth to kiss, white, smooth skin to caress, A kind of intimacy I never thought could exist for me.
We were intimate before, yes. We have shared fears and hopes, we have taken refuge in each other's beliefs when our own seemed to loose meaning - when everything we had achieved dwindled again into nothingness and oblivion, we have saved each other, time and again. That was a miracle in itself. Every morning when I woke up, every night before I went to sleep, I asked myself how I had deserved this blessing. There was never an answer, so I came to the one logical conclusion: I had not. This was not meant for me. My task, my mission, the only reason I was even allowed to meet her in the first place, was to protect her, to guard her, and at the proper time, deliver her safely into the arms of whoever she was destined for. Never mind that in every other aspect of my life the one thing I had *never* believed in was destiny. This, this belief was something so deep-rooted, it was part of me, like the ugly ties or the color blindness. It was a natural law, like gravity: most of the time you don't ask why or how it works - it's just there.
There were times, of course (oh, so many of them), when I was simply too tired, too sick, too afraid, too worried or generally too obsessed with myself to remember this "law" of mine. Those were the times when I allowed my thoughts to reach out her, to cry out to her. And what a relief it was, in the midst of despair, to let myself believe that she was out there somewhere, waiting for me, reaching out for me as well. The thought of her always gave me back my perspective, my center. And when I saw her in pain, oh, I would have cut open my heart to let her creep into it and keep her safe from harm forever.
But it always came back to me, sooner or later, the certainty that this, what we shared, that *she* was not meant for me. Then I thought, maybe I could somehow *earn* it, this perfection I was stupid and lucky enough to stumble upon... if I could find my sister... find a cure for her illness, find and punish the people who had caused it... find the truth... But it was never enough. There were always more lies behind the truths, more enemies hiding in the darkness of my own mind, more reasons to hate myself for ruining her life. And so it became a habit, this gentle turning away of my head, this inner restriction whenever I held her in my arms. (Well, I *tried* to hold back, only some times it worked better than others.) At first, I was holding my breath, waiting for her to take the step that would lead her out of my life. Later, I began to see the necessity to push her, to *make* her take that step. But by the time I finally crept out of my coward shell and made the decision, it was already too late.
Because it was all so different. Nothing was like I believed it was. Of course, I should have known. I, of all people. Things never turn out the way you expect them to. And miracles - well, miracles *do* happen. Sometimes they are even *meant* to happen.
So now we are together. We are one, in the flesh and the blood and the mind and the soul, soon to be joined in front of God an the world, if she will have me (she doesn't know this yet, but drawing on reserves of old-fashioned-ness I didn't even know I had, I asked her mother for her permission, and Margaret gave me the ring her husband gave to her, so I could give it to Dana). I am not afraid anymore. I know there is darkness ahead of us, the future is nothing but unanswered questions, and more fear, more pain and loss, more disappointment. But now I have one belief, stronger than any other I have had before, and I know it can and will carry both of us through it all, for as long as it may last: I simply, firmly, fervently, country-songishly believe that we belong together. We were meant to be. And in some way I can't quite explain (maybe because it isn't *supposed* to be explained), it is her body from which this belief has sprung.
The way her legs show when she's sitting on the bed, reading, with only a bathrobe on, those little gasps and laughs I never heard before, the way she knows how to touch me, within and without, the way her eyes darken with desire and are still so luminous, so *hers* - it all comes together into a relentless fist of certainty that smashes right through my doubts, past the dark places in my soul and my memories, past my regrets, my guilt, the petty demands of my ego, straight to the place where I still am a boy and there are only absolutes, where there is only instinctive, warm, primal knowledge: *this* is the truth, it says. And then it lies still, and the fist opens up.
Such a long way a have come, to find the truth in the most unexpected, the most familiar, the most mysterious of places: the touch of a lover.
****************************************************************************************************
Does it suck? Is it nice? Just nice? More than nice? Did it *gasp* move you in any way? Should I *gulp* write more? I know it's just a piece of fluff, but is it the *good* fluff? Talk to me! Leave a review or write to soavezefiretto@hotmail.com
Oh, one last thing: English is not my native language. I am thankful for any corrections in grammar or style.