From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 14 Jul 2001 03:08:24 -0000
Subject: Chasing Darkness by Ana Hawkman
Source: direct

Reply To: anahawkman@hotmail.com


Title: Chasing Darkness
Author: Ana Hawkman
Category: MSR, post-ep
Spoilers: Orison
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The characters of 
Fox Mulder and Dana Scully 
belong to Fox and 1013 
productions, not me.
Feedback: I lahf it. 
anahawkman@hotmail.com
Archiving: anywhere, just email 
me so I can visit.

Author's note: I was just wondering 
if anyone in this vast world of fic was 
planning on voting for me at the Spookies 
this year. Just a hand count to see if I 
have a chance... drop me an email!


That first night, when I woke up crying 
on Mulder's couch, was the beginning 
of something. Something that I'd outwardly 
scoffed at... and something that, in the 
quiet of my own apartment, I couldn't help 
but wish for with everything I had. 

I trusted Mulder... that went without saying. 
I trusted him as a professional, as a 
partner-- I trusted him with my life. But did 
I trust him completely? Would I ever dare 
to cross the line and open myself completely? 
Would I ever trust him enough to allow 
myself to become vulnerable... to expose 
my own soul, my own heart to him? Eventually, 
I would learn without much choice.

It took me a long time to accept his sparse 
and intense moments of sincerity; sometimes 
I would brush off a look or a touch that meant 
more than I wanted it to. I would retort to his 
kind words with a blank nievety we both 
knew I didn't posess. During our seventh 
year together, my final, shaking wall 
collapsed, and all of the traumatic events 
that had occured within the time I'd spent 
on the X-Files came exploding forth.

I think I held my feelings at bay because I was 
afraid of burdening my partner. I'd always been 
worried about him on a somewhat personal 
level-- worried sometimes that the pain and guilt 
he experienced on a day-to-day basis were too 
magnified towards his tender heart. I would 
rather die than add my problems to his continually 
expanding pile.

I sat up to catch my breath, trembling beneath 
the soft blanket that had been tucked carefully 
around me at some time during the night. 
Brushing hair from my face in an absent yet 
despirate attempt at control, I wiped tears angrily 
from my face, willing the endless stream to 
cease. I realized, with a bit of panic, these were 
not the type of tears to be controlled; they were 
born of a deep, raw emotion that refused to be 
supressed.

"Scully?" A soft, hessitant voice from the 
doorway of his bedroom. I didn't answer, for 
I wasn't sure I could keep my voice from 
quavering in this external burst of emotion. 
He sat across from me, on the coffee table, 
mindless of his weight versus the furniture's 
design.

Reaching a hand towards my face to brush 
even more tears away, his fingertips trailed 
across my skin more gently than my own 
had. His palm to my cheek, he asked me 
in hushed tones if I'd had a nightmare. I 
shook my head in denial.

"So you were already awake?" He asked, 
his voice rough with sleep. I shook my 
head again, biting my lip hard enough to 
draw blood in order to keep from crying. 
"C'mere," He murmured quietly, moving to 
the couch and holding his arms open for me.

I curled up against him like a small child, 
crying in the safety of his arms. I recieved 
not the pity I had expected from him, but 
the comfort I despirately needed. Stroking 
my back softly, he cradled me like a baby, 
keeping me safe. At that moment, I felt as 
if nothing could ever hurt me... and berated 
myself heavily for not accepting his kind 
offers made in the past.

When I calmed to periodically shuddering 
breaths, be kissed my forehead softly. 
"How're you doin'?" He asked, pressing 
his lips to my temples, my nose, my 
eyelids. 

"I love you," I answered, my voice almost a 
whisper. My answer was not in response 
to his question, but I wanted to say it. I 
*needed* to say it. There was a long pause, 
and I grew nervous. Determined not to apoligize 
for or retract the comment- *my* truth if not 
his- and waited patiently for his response. 
After a few more long moments, I spoke again. 
"I love that you get excited about your career. 
I love that you're so dedicated to finding your 
sister. I love how you bring me coffee and 
cinammon rolls every morning. I love that you're 
selfless and that you care so much. I love that 
you'll hold me when I'm scared." I didn't think 
I'd ever spoken so much on a personal topic to 
him in one shot, but I felt better after saying it. 
Like I'd been filled with helium and I was giddy. 
Flying.

"No one has really ever loved me before, Scully," 
he murmured, the pain of rememberance evident 
in his voice. "But I promise you that no matter 
who says that they love you... they can't possibly 
feel what I do." his voice cracked, and he took a 
moment to compose himself before continuing. 
Pressing his lips against my ear, his breath was 
a warm puffing against my skin. "I feel you in my 
*soul,*" he whispered intensely.

I took a sharp breath, his words touching me in 
a place I never even knew existed. I squeezed 
him tightly, breathing deeply his familiar scent-- 
cologne and aftershave.

"I'm sorry, Scully, this isn't good timing. You've 
got to be *so* tired... let's get you to bed, huh? 
We can leave talking until tomorrow?" I nodded 
against his shoulder and he scooped me up, 
tucking me into his bed. I was immediately 
surrounded by the smell of him, the sheets 
softened and warmed by his presence. I lay on 
my back, watching him climb in next to me, 
closing my eyes as his gentle lips and fingers 
worried over the bruises on my neck.

I fell asleep for the second time that night, not 
to the bubbling noises of the fishtank and the 
squeaking of old leather, but to warm kiss 
noises and a familiar voice saying "I love you."

I had no nightmares.





finis
anahawkman@hotmail.com