From: fialka@t-online.de (Fialka) Date: Wed, 03 Nov 1999 08:43:57 +0100 Subject: NEW: Borealis (1/1) Source: xff Title: Borealis Author: Fialka Summary: post-Biogenesis Spoilers: well, none really, as this will probably wind up having nothing to do with what's about to happen Category: V, A Archive: Auto-archives, Gossamer, etc, okay. Others please write for permission, though I generally give it. Disclaimer: Don't own them, just borrowing, promise to put them back in a reasonably unmutilated state. First posting: 3 November, 1999 Notes: I almost held out, but in the end I succumbed, five days before the Premiere. What can I say? Blame it on the S7 trailer, to which this owes direct inspiration. Feedback: The only nourishment a poor starving ficwriter gets More candy: http://home.t-online.de/home/fialka/fiction The Real Meal: The Annotated X-Files http://smart.issexy.com ------------------------------------------ BOREALIS by Fialka He lives in a world of spinning locusts, a plague inside his head. Crouched still, but no longer terrified, he is passive, letting their winged bodies beat at him. He has been too long here to be afraid. Too long now. Waiting. She came once, cool as water, and he drank and drank and drank. Now she is inside of him. He is a willow, weeping in the bend of her slow, clear river. A quiet place that comes and goes. He waits, patient under the onslaught, until at last he finds her again. If he realises the picture of insanity he makes, he does not care. His hands reach out, arms curving over his bent head. He looks like a parody of a high diver, a twisted cartoon imitation, an awkward child, eyes squeezed shut against the fall. It isn't what he is. He need not dive into her, only to bend, to trail long fingers over her body as the willow strokes the water, parting it gently. Over and over and over again. She sighs, turning in her cot. She is so clearly within him he can almost smell the sweat that darkens her clothing, can almost taste it on her skin. He gives her dreams. Dreams in which they lie quiet on a riverbank, watching the clouds overhead. Dreams in which nothing happens. He gives her peace in dreams because it is the only way he can reach her, because he can see the greenish yellow stain of fear spreading across her mind, growing larger by the minute. He can see other things too, deep purple pulsing things, but these are her private places and he does not go there. In dreams he makes her sing, because he knows she often sang as a child, softly, when she was too long alone or frightened. In dreams he holds her in a formal embrace and they dance as they did once, years before. In Scully's dreams he makes her laugh, free and unself- conscious. He has to create that laugh, having never heard it, and so he paints it the colour of her eyes when she is teasing him. In her dreams he feels the heat of the place where she sleeps, the heat of sun and sand, of the yellow terror. He feels himself in her and is astonished by how much of her he inhabits. He wonders why she has never told him this and he sees images in her mind, beating at him like locusts. His own back, turning on her, again and again and again. He is face down on the floor now, stretched to his full length, reaching across everything that has ever divided them. Time and space are nothing compared to what they have done to themselves. Whisper green leaves fall soft into her quiet river. He bends close and tells her she was right, that he should have listened. That he was right, she should have seen. That they have had the answer, all along, but they have not known how to ask each other the right question. An ocean away, she is turning in her cot, offering her mouth. He meets it, tastes his name upon her lips. Her skin is aching for touch and so he dreams her his hands, soft and certain. He dreams her himself, his fragmented rainbow refracting strangely across this unfamiliar landscape. And then she wakes. He feels her feeling him and is overwhelmed by the aurora borealis of her acceptance. He sends her the willow, the river. He leans over to caress her face as she flows beneath him. He bends to drink from her and feels her pleasure, a colour without name, a colour that is all colours, washing over him. Inside of her he sees the outline of her inside himself. He is astonished by how much of him she inhabits. He is sinking now into her clear waters, bending deeper, filling her with the strength of his belief that she will find what he needs, that she already has. He smiles beneath his arms, once more bent over his head, while his body arches, softly swaying. The locusts beat at the outside of Mulder's mind, but deep within he is one with his river, calm, peaceful. He is waiting. -------------- -------------- << *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>= Our strength is often composed of the weakness we're damned if we're going to show. -Mignon McLaughlin << *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=<< *|*>>=