From: Nicola Simpson Date: Sun, 23 Jan 2000 10:20:12 -0700 (MST) Subject: NEW: The Body's Jest (1/1) Source: direct TITLE: The Body's Jest (1/1) AUTHOR: Nicola Simpson E-MAIL: nsimpson@ualberta.ca RATING: R (sexual situations and language) KEYWORDS: SAR SUMMARY: Mulder is called upon to identify a body--but unlike the last one, this one is alive and breathing at my front door. DISCLAIMER: The characters herein are the intellectual property of Chris Carter and Fox Television; no copyright infringement intended. NOTES: Sequel to "The Body's Guest," which can be found on Ephemeral, Gossamer, Spookys, and by e-mailing me directly. Better to read it first. I guess it's official--I'm out of retirement. But I'm not returning the tacky gold watch. The Body's Jest By Nicola Simpson Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,-- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world -Alexander Pope How many times had Scully's voice stilled the movement of my gun? Or prompted it? I'd lost count over the years. It'd become a kind of Pavlovian response--hear Scully's voice and drop a gun. Hear Scully's voice and reach for a gun. She had me well trained, and she never even knew it. The soft thump at my door barely roused me from sleep, but the familiar whimper that drifted underneath made my eyes snap open and my body tense. My hand wrapped around my gun as I jogged to the door and yanked it open, and she spilled across my feet. "Mulder." The one simple word closed my throat and sent me to the floor beside her. Hooking my hands under her armpits, I dragged her into the apartment and kicked the door shut. Her bare legs squeaked across the hardwood, and as I took care not to step on her hair, I finally found my voice. "Scullyscullyscullyscullyscullyscullyscullyscully." It wasn't what I'd planned to say. But it was all I could manage as I dropped to my knees and hauled her into my arms. The white hospital gown she wore shimmied up to reveal thin, pale legs, and her cold hands reached up to cradle my face. "Mulder?" Her eyes were huge and dark, like broken pieces of a midnight sky in her face. I didn't flinch at the iciness of her fingers tracing the line of my jaw or her slightly stale breath on my chin. Who cared? Scully was home. It didn't take much effort for me to lift her and carry her to the couch where there was more light, but when I tried to put her down she started kicking. "No!" She clung to me, shuddering. *Breathe,* I told myself. "Not the couch." Her face emerged from where it was hidden in my shoulder as she risked a glance at the smooth black leather. "It's too cold," she explained. "I just want to get a good look at you," I reassured her. If my hands hadn't already been full of her, I'd have smoothed them across her dull hair skimming her shoulders, her ashen face and cracked lips. A corner of her mouth twisted. "That shouldn't be too hard--this is a pretty flimsy gown." The breath whooshed out of my stomach and I felt a strange, yet oddly familiar gnawing at the base of my throat. It was joy. "Scully, it *is* you." Her lips curved in a beatific smile. "That's why they put the I in FBI, I guess." "How about the bedroom?" I suggested. "It's either that or the dining room table." Laughing shakily, I tried to ignore the fact that I could feel every knob of her spine against my arm. "No wonder you're so popular with the secretarial pool, Mulder." I navigated the darkened hallway then placed her on the bed. My arms were trembling when I released her, but not from the effort of carrying her. Her eyes widened as she stared up at her own reflection. "I was mistaken. *This* is why you're so popular with the secretarial pool." Her half-smile evolved into a grimace when I turned the bedside lamp on. "Scully, what--?" She shook her head. "Mulder, I don't remember anything." Those words had echoed in my head five years ago, and didn't mean any more to me now than they had then. But I fell to my knees beside my own bed and buried my head in the curve of her waist. "Seventy-nine days, Scully," I croaked. Seventy-nine days, six hours and forty-seven minutes. Sixty-seven days, nine hours and thirty-six minutes ago, I'd said I could wait for her. But it was so long. My eyes were dry now--I'd finished crying on the seventieth day. But when I looked up, I saw tears sliding from her eyes to gather in the hair at her temples. "My mother--" I laced my fingers through hers. "She's fine." I remembered a hideous evening at the morgue. "Well, as fine as could be expected, I guess. We need to call her." "We will." Sniffling, she raised our joined hands and dragged them across her eyes. Her tears were warm, and I thrilled at the way they clung to the hairs on the back of my hand. "We need to get you to a hospital," I added. "We won't." This she said with familiar resolve, but I just squeezed her hand tighter. "Whatever you say," I lied. "I need a bath. And I don't need help." I began to shake my head, but her palm curved over my cheek. "Please, Mulder. I need to do something for myself." "What about trace evidence? What about--" The breath she pushed out of her body resembled a hoarse laugh. "Come on. We both know there won't be any." She was right. She was clean as a newborn baby, wiped free of guilt and evil. And she probably felt dirtier than she'd ever been in her life. I helped her into the bathroom and she shut the door behind her. The water stopped running a few minutes later and very quietly, I slid down the wall outside and sat on the floor, my chin propped on my knees. It wasn't until I heard the squeak of bare skin on wet fiberglass that I wished I'd turned on the radio or something. My mind raced over the events of the last three months--the empty car, the empty apartment, the headless body in the morgue. I needed to work backwards, to remind myself that the person who left me with a vague smile at the motor pool desk wasn't the same person sitting naked on the other side of the bathroom door. It worked. At least until I heard another squeal, a splash, and a soft "Damn it!" drift under the door. "You okay?" I waited a few seconds, then tapped at the door. "Scully?" I heard water lapping against the side of the tub, and a long, shuddering sigh. My heart pounded in my chest as I sucked in a sharp breath. "Scully? Are you all right?" It was a dumb question, but it fell out of my mouth without hesitation. Just how easy was it to drown in two feet of water anyhow? My throat swelled as her hitching sobs slipped under the door. She hadn't drowned. She was crying. I scraped my hand over my face, not sure which was worse. After thirty seconds of being tortured by her muffled weeping, I decided that crying was definitely worse than drowning. Screwing my eyes shut, I rose to my feet. The doorknob twisted in my hand and I stepped into the steamy bathroom. "What is it?" The crying stopped. I opened one eye to find her red-faced and puffy-eyed, and sitting in the pristinely white tub. Naked. Very, very naked. My other eye snapped open before I could remind myself that I was supposed to be a gentleman. There were no bubbles, no bright blue bath salts to conceal her--let's get real, this is a bachelor pad--nothing but crystal clear water rolling over her thighs as she raised her knobby knees protectively to her chest. I caught the flash of a rosy nipple and the cloud of darkness between her legs as she tried to turn away from me. "Do you mind?" I leaned against the doorframe, my heart cracking at the impotent hostility in her voice. "I mind that you're crying." Why could she cry, and I couldn't? I envied her the ability to let out the rage and fear swelling in her chest. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she lifted a hand from the water to wipe them away angrily. It just made her face wetter and the color in her cheeks heighten. "I can't remember, Mulder." She scowled at me, hunching over and wrapping her arms around her legs the same way I had a few minutes ago. The delicate muscles in her back flexed, drawing my gaze down her spine to the curves below the water. "I don't remember how I got this..." She jerked her chin to the bruises mottling her shoulder. "Or this," she added, holding out a thin arm that the B&O could have traveled on. "God, Mulder, what did they do to me? What did they do that was so horrible I can't bear to look at my own skin?" Her eyes closed as she trembled with anger and fatigue. At least, I thought it was anger and fatigue. It sure as hell wasn't the same kind of anger and fatigue that tore through my body, leaving me weak with hesitation and fumbling over my own feelings. I'd lived with these feelings for so long now--they didn't surprise me or overwhelm me. But it made it a little harder to recognize them in other people, especially Scully. Cool, rational, steadfast Scully. "I can't open my eyes, Mulder. I don't want to touch myself," she admitted. "Do you want help?" I stepped close to the tub and knelt down, my hands smoothing over the bare skin of her back to reach for the facecloth. She flinched, but she didn't pull away. "It's okay," I mumbled. Jesus, her skin was so white. "You're tired, you're hurt, and you're tired." I tried to smile at her, but she kept her gaze plastered to the tiled wall. "It's okay to need help." She said nothing, slapping the water with her right hand in disgust. "Hey, watch it! You're getting me all wet." Her eyes burned brightly with apology, but she didn't speak. I let go of the cloth and pressed my palms on either side of her neck. Now she spoke. "What are you doing?" Moving my hands up to frame her face, I shushed her. My fingers grazed the fine lines around her mouth, and when she asked me again, I spread my right thumb over her lips, quieting her. She waited in silence, her knuckles whitening around her knees until my hands lay flat on her forehead. "You have a fever," I finally said. My palms tingled, but he wasn't sure if that was from her burning skin or from the arousal streaking through me at the way her eyes darkened as she looked up at me. I'd waited three months to see those eyes fixed on me again. Now that they were, I didn't have a fucking clue what was behind them. "I'm tired." "I know." Believe me, I knew. My hands steadier than I thought they could be, I fished the facecloth out of the lukewarm water then wrung it out. She didn't protest as I dragged the cloth up the smooth expanse of her back and into the soft hair at her neck, and down the arms still wrapped around her body. My gaze was glued to hers as the cloth trailed up her sides, skidding across her ribs and nestling in her armpits. Her eyes were full of secrets, and I decided not to meet them head on. I didn't wait seventy-nine days not to ask any questions. But they could wait until tomorrow. "I don't need you to take care of me," she said, her voice small. "I know." She tilted her head to the side as I wrapped the cloth around my index finger and scrubbed behind her ear. "I know what your problem is." Only one? I raised an eyebrow the way I'd seen her do a thousand times before. "Has it got red hair and an irritating need to be right all the time?" And naked. Don't forget naked. Her head lolled to the other side. "No. You like taking care of people. You wouldn't know what to do with yourself if you didn't have someone to nurse." The cloth fell into the water with a plop. "Am I right?" She dipped into the water to retrieve the cloth, and handed it back to me. As water trickled down my arms into my sweater, I let go of her long enough to shove the sleeves up. But it didn't make much difference. There was nothing I hated more than wet wool--unless it was on a sheep instead of me. Ignoring the second and third thoughts climbing through my brain, I pulled the sweater off over my head, leaving my upper body bare. Her gaze flickered to my chest, and the water rippled as she shivered. "Aren't you tired of nursing me, Mulder?" "No." It was a simple question, and a simple answer. Her knees wobbled and fell away from her chest, revealing the ruddy flush on her breasts and the curve of her belly. "Cold?" She shook her head, her lips parting slightly. "It's just the fever, I guess." But she shivered again as I dragged the cloth over her collarbone, diving into her cleavage. I didn't look. Hey, I'm not crazy. It would be much too dangerous. Remaining focused on her eyes, I tried not to flinch when I felt a stiff nipple under the wet cloth between my fingers. This was *Scully*. I could handle Scully, couldn't I? "I missed you," she whispered. "I don't know where I was or what they did to me, but I remember wishing you were there." A sledgehammer to my chest would have been quicker. And less painful. I knew how much courage it'd taken her to admit that. I wondered how much courage it would take her to forgive me for not finding her. "No offense, but I'm glad I wasn't." She broke away from my gaze to stare at the lime-encrusted taps. "Do you think I'll ever remember?" "Maybe. We could try hypnosis again," I suggested. She only cocked her head, her lips twisting in silent rejection. "Or not. I think you're clean enough." I wrung out the cloth and draped it over the edge of the tub. I needed to get out of there before I did something I'd regret--like climb into the tub with her. Faster than I could get up off my knees, however, her hand arced out of the water like a rainbow and latched on to my arm. "I don't want to remember, Mulder. But I will if you want me to." I froze. Damn it, Scully, I don't want that responsibility. It was bad enough that she was gone for three months and all I could do was sit around with my thumb up my ass. It wasn't fair of her to give me what I wanted, what I needed. I rose from the floor, staring at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. "Water's getting cold. Time to get out," I said, then made the mistake of looking back at her. She nodded, her eyes closed again. It didn't look like she was ready to go anywhere in a hurry. I don't know why I did it. But three things registered as I thrust my left hand into the water under her knees, and snaked my right arm under her armpits--she was wet, warm, and heavier than she looked. Now her eyes flew open. "What are you doing?" "My Prince Charming routine. Blink and you'll miss it." I lifted her out of the tub, carried her to the bed, then deposited her on the end of it. When I returned with some towels, she was shivering in a damp spot that blotted a quarter of the bed. And her eyes had fluttered shut again. I scrubbed her dry until her skin glowed, my eyes shut the entire time. I swear. Her lips curved as my hands swept over her, then I tossed the last towel back into the bathroom. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Wake up for a minute and get into bed." Sleeping for a hundred years sounded pretty appealing right now, though. "Naked?" "For God's sakes, no." But it was tempting. I thrust my hand into a dresser drawer and pulled out a T-shirt. I could hear the cotton rasp against her hair as she tugged it over her head, and I turned back and cursed the way it hid her secrets as she sat on the bed. "God, Mulder, I feel like I've been asleep for a thousand years. Do you know how Sleeping Beauty was wakened?" she asked, a smile still haunting her pale face. "A knock at the door and a passel of federal agents in dark suits and sunglasses? Besides, I think you're thinking of Rip Van Winkle." My gaze flickered down the hallway to the door. Had I remembered to lock it? "No, a kiss." "I thought that was Snow White." Her smile faded slightly. "Maybe it was." I sighed and perched on the bed beside her, suppressing a shiver at the bath water trickling down my chest. "I thought Sleeping Beauty was cursed because she found out she was a princess." "Not exactly. And I'm not a princess," she reminded me glumly. "You never know." She could be anything. The princess... the witch... Her hand crept into mine. "Sleeping Beauty was cast out for her own protection. Snow White was just cast out." "You weren't cast out, Scully." "I disappeared." I shrugged, doing my best to tamp down the rage that kept me going for the last three months. There would be plenty of time for vengeance. Not that I'd done a bang-up job so far. "And who am I supposed to be in this fairy tale?" She squeezed my hand. "You said it yourself a few minutes ago--Prince Charming." Great. Like I needed the pressure. "I'd rather be the poison apple." Her head tilted toward me. "You never know," she mocked. Shifting on the bed, I tried to ignore the third-degree burns the barest skin of her thighs was leaving on my knuckles as our fingers knotted together. My heart beat faster. "So you want me to kiss you. Is that the way the fairy tale goes?" "I don't want you to kiss me." She frowned. "I need you to kiss me." It was a fine distinction, in my book. And hey, ordinarily I wouldn't hesitate. Seventy-nine days, six hours and forty-seven minutes of loneliness did strange things to a man. But this was different. "Scully, I don't thi--" She leaned forward and ate my words, pressing her lips against mine until my knees shook. I lay her back on the bed, my hands roaming up her sides to tangle in her hair. It was hard to resist touching her skin, especially when her breath was hot in my mouth. And she'd been gone so long. "I want you," I confessed. I always had. I nibbled on her lower lip then glossed over her chin and made my way down her neck to lap at the moisture still clinging to the hollow at the base of her throat. The moisture that I'd put there with a wet cloth, and now with my own mouth. I drew away, my hands trembling. "But I can't do this right now. You're not yourself." Her face froze into an expressionless mask. "How would you know? You never really knew me, Mulder." I jumped up from the bed, remembering a certain headless body. "Sure I did--*do*." Didn't I? "You've kissed me before," she reminded me. "Yeah, but that was New Year's," I said lamely, as though the date absolved my guilt. I shouldn't have kissed her. She'd been gone forever and now she sat on my bed in my fucking Knicks T-shirt and all I could do was feel her up with a dripping wet facecloth and suck the breath out of her lungs. What an asshole I was. I couldn't meet her eyes, so I stared at her hands instead. Slim and pale, they cupped her knees, her knuckles jabbing the air around them. I knew these hands. My gaze wandered up her arms, memorizing the small mole before the crease of her elbow, then roamed down her legs. I had to remember this. I had to remember every sinew, every curve, every hair, because next time she might not be returned to me. "Get into bed, Scully." I pivoted on one heel and stalked out of the room, not wanting her to see the ghosts in my eyes. My dreams woke me, bringing me back to the slick sweat that covered my body and, now, the couch. She'd been right--it was too cold. Wrapping a ratty afghan around my shoulders, I braved the dim hallway and cracked the bedroom door open. It was strange to see her in my bed. I hadn't lied before--I *did* miss her. But I couldn't get past the guilt lodged in my throat, the sick feeling of knowing that she'd been lost because of me. She knew it too, but for some reason she didn't blame me. It only made me feel worse. She hadn't turned the lamp off, and warm light spilled across her hair. She lay on her stomach, the blankets pushed down to the curve of her ass. My T-shirt rode high on her ribcage, twisted around her body and darkened with the fear of her own dreams. What did she dream? Did she dream of me, or of Them? And which did she call a nightmare? Not wanting her to get cold, I tiptoed over to the bed and started to pull up the covers. As my fingertips grazed the smooth skin of her backside and my gaze fell on her unblemished lower back, I remembered the body in the morgue and knew two things with perfect clarity. Seventy-nine days, six hours and forty-seven minutes wasn't long enough to forget Scully. And this wasn't her. THE END To be continued in "The Body's Test"