From: "Henry Lee" Date: Fri, 25 Jun 1999 01:05:43 -0400 (EDT) Subject: Compass (submission) COMPASS (1/1) [NA season 6] This story is based on characters created by Chris Carter et al., Ten Thirteen productions and Fox Television. I have used the principal characters with "reckless abandon" but I intend no infringement of copyright. This story may be distributed freely and, hopefully, with the author's blessing. This is inspired by XFBandit's "Porcelain" (1999 March 29); thanks, Daws. I believe as well that this has been inspired by staring at various computer screens for too many long hours. Archive : Gossamer okay; all others request author's permission. Rating : PG for content Category: V, MSR Spoilers: minor, Season 6 (North America) up to and including "Arcadia" Summary : A heart with fondness agonizes over absence. ------------------------- COMPASS by Henry Lee ------------------------- Tonight feels like any other night. Fitful sleep blends from and into wakefulness. With every passing day, I am consumed. Not by loss. Not by anger. Not by my need to know the truth. It's something very different altogether. I am consumed by thoughts of you, my partner. As equals, your silent share fits me so well. I can't begin to remember what it was like when we were separated. That dark time has faded slowly into the background. Sometimes, it comes back and with bitter certainty I know the feeling will never go away. But I've learned how to shape it into past experience and more importantly, I've come to accept it. You are my other half. My other me. Every you. And every me. I'm willing to give more; much more. We're staying in a Motel 6 out in the middle of Nebraska tonight. We're supposed to be investigating strange goings-on in some nondescript wheat field, checking into the possibility of the midwest version of crop circles. I've seen this scam for attention before. This is another j-o-b case. But it's all right, because the X-Files has been given back to us, Skinner's our boss, and we're back. I think you know that Skinner isn't our enemy, even if we don't really quite believe he's our friend, either. Close enough: I think we both trust him a little more than we used to. We're also just beginning to understand what's at stake now. Cassandra and Jeffrey Spender saw to that. On the other hand, this Nebraskan head-case has much less of a hold on me. But bless your beautiful heart, you believe that we should try and work with what's given to us. In fact, you said it was like a long term holding pattern with a final deadline that may be revoked at any moment. I said the difference was that we'd have some inkling of when that might actually be if and when the senior Spender started hanging around our new office some more with a Morleys' plaque on the wall that said "home sweet home." In the meantime, we're working doubly hard to gain access, scraping the bottom of the barrel for any kind of source material, trying to learn more about the colonizers and the rebels, to find out what kind of deal the colonizers made with our people to ensure their survival. To see if my father had any additional backup plans to guarantee the safety of the people on this planet. It's certainly very clear that our lives are all just a little closer to annihilation. Oddly freeing in a way to know somebody's got a countdown and the clock isn't stuck at T-minus fifty years. On the other hand, it'd be nice to know where we can actually get a look at the clock to get some idea just how much time we've got left. Okay, I'm really supposed to be trying to get to sleep, but my eyes are wide open. Thinking about stuff. I'm trying not to think about you, but that's failing miserably. I have a problem that's gained my sole attention. I am inflamed with need, longing and desire. There, I said it. Happy now? Hell, no. My thoughts betray a little crack in the core which I've hid behind my apparent cool exterior. Perhaps when I'm not careful enough, you get a glimpse into the hot inferno, simmering just underneath the surface. But I'm hoping my thoughts belong only to me. I think of everyday occurrences. Like today, for instance. Agreeing to eat at a greasy spoon called Flo's for dinner. I'm just behind you and I've got my hand lightly touching your back, guiding us to our table. I can feel you stand a little straighter to feel my touch, even as you're walking. One step after another, graceful, purposeful, confident. Watching you bite your lower lip as you gaze over the length of the calorie-laden and fat-enhanced menu, only to order the ever-present salad, but you're going to go all out tonight. You're going to brave the soup-of-the-day: cream of mushroom soup. Mmm-mmm good. The look on your face as I grin like a little boy, anticipating a heart-attack special with fries and don't-forget-the-gravy-on the-side-thanks. It works because I can get a small smile out of you. Maybe it works because we know how to play. Watching you lift your fork from plate to mouth, chewing one delicate mouthful at a time, never more, never less. Effortless and efficient. The soft polite sound of the veggie crunch. Crunch. Crunch. I wonder if it's me or the food that's undergone a sexual revival. My food arrives and I inhale my dinner. Typically, the stomach's gotta process the food. But my sight lingers on her mouth and I know my blood is finding itself on another route to an alternate and more southerly destination. Watching you sleep tonight. Boring hours in a car on some dumb-ass stakeout, staring at dark endless fields of grain, hoping to high heaven some UFO will fly out from behind the full moon, drop by and say "hello" just because we're here. I've got my bag of sunflower seeds. I'm desperately bored; so I'm popping those seeds in my mouth in full action mode. Looking at my watch and seeing with disbelief that it's 2:08 am, which is basically the same as 10:34 pm, which looks basically the same as being stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing going on. So, I turn my gaze onto you for something different to look at. You've folded comfortably in the passenger seat and you're sound asleep. Your head is leaning towards me with your left hand curled into a small little fist tucked under your cheek. I know what's going to happen next. I'm not going to stop it. Roll camera. Mulder fantasy #73. Your head leans over far enough and you've landed on my shoulder. You swallow as the next image flies across your dream's view. You shift a little and I know you're shifting into another comfortable position, but you haven't left my shoulder. Strands of your hair droop over your face. It must feel ticklish. Doesn't it? You've just taken a very deep breath and you just let out a nice long sigh. I watch in complete fascination as your right hand reaches out and holds onto my arm. You squeeze softly. Yes. I'm here. What are you dreaming about? Am I in there with you? A little chill starts at the base of my spine, while a little thrill propagates elsewhere. I'm tempted to palm your cheek to feel the heat there and so I can caress your face. I want to touch you. But I hold back. Instead, I finger away the straying hair from your face so I can get a clearer look. You're drooling a little and while a little part of me is taken aback, I'm thinking that it's okay, too. I'm also thinking about thumbing it away. Hell, I'm thinking about simply leaning down and licking it away, but I don't believe there's a need to push my luck either. Some time later - an hour? two? - you awake with a start. For a moment, I can see the slight distraught look in your eyes as you try to figure out where you are. I don't know if my gaze ever left your face since I decided you were the better distraction. I must have an interesting look on my face, because I swear that's a blush that's crept up rather invitingly. A long silent pause washes over us. I finally pipe up and announce for the both of us that the stakeout has been a complete waste of time and that I've been effectively hypnotized by the swaying grain. Sensibly, we wave the white flag and we're back at the motel. I'm in your room and we're tying up a couple of loose ends and maybe we'll even consider getting the hell outta here tomorrow morning. Which brings us to the next point. I love looking at you while you're not looking. But this time, you're awake. I like it like this; it's dangerous and you might catch me looking. I don't know what I'd do if that happened, but it'd be worth it. You're typing away case notes on your notebook and what little we've got shouldn't take very long. I'm sitting on your bed and I'm comfortably propped by your pillows. I'm taking a little bit of time to savour the fact that you lie here at night. That I get to share a little bit of your place here. I reach down and slide my hand back and forth gently over the sheets. I'm trying to extract your warmth from sheets that's been long cooled. I'm really supposed to be going through the case files, trying to figure out where the holes in this stupid case is supposed to be. I'm easily tired of it and my eyes are just killing me. I place the files down and shove them towards the end of the bed. I take off my glasses and place them on the bedside table. I'm pinching the bridge of my nose, trying to improve the circulation of blood somewhere up higher into my foggy head. I take this opportunity to watch you. You're totally focused with your thoughts and how you're relaying them to the finger action on the keyboard. For several minutes, I'm fascinated as I watch you translate ideas and observations into bytes and files. You said it, Scully - smart is sexy. Before my brain translates fantasy into ill-timed actions, I exercise an admirable amount of self-restraint and I decide to take leave. You look up and you've got this look on your face. The look that says that you've recognized something on my face and you're wondering in that instant just what to do about it. I've just been caught. Guilty as charged. Please. If you say something right now, I might just go flying off the ledge. I would make quick the distance between us and start kissing you, doing things to you that'll make you scream with pleasure. No, no. Bad. Very bad. Smack me on the upside. An eternity of another second passes and I come up with an all-purpose line: I'm tired and I'm going to turn in. You look at me and immediately I'm wondering if you know that I've been looking at you all day. I can see that little indentation just between your eyebrows. Translation : wonder no more, wunderboy. You probably know that I've been gawking at you all day. Mercifully, you say good night. You look at me with another Scully special and I've just been deconstructed. I feel as if I've been stripped down and I look down to see with disappointment my clothes remain where they are. I'm in a flooded puddle, wondering how the hell I'm going to get my legs moving in the appropriate direction. Out the door, that is. I'm lying on my bed and I turn a familiar corner in my mind. There it is: a sense of deep abiding love and respect combined with years of abstinence and long nights in fantasy. Can you sense the way I feel about you when I look the way I do when I look at you? The way that your eyes seem to speak volumes. The way that your mouth purses in concentration. The way that your lips touch each other when you speak. The way that your breath caresses the parcel of air on my skin. The way that your skin seems to look so soft where I can tell in the instances when I touch you. Desperation, longing, yearning and what it's like as we've both ended up in the same place with royally screwed up lives. I do want a more normal life, Scully. But it doesn't have to have be a house with a white picket fence in some neighbourhood out of the Twilight Zone and we've got 2.4 kids running underfoot trying to get to baseball practice or basketball games. Normal is one whatever it is that I have with you. Anything else is a very big bonus. One of the things that you've taught me was to step back and consider things more carefully. We have all the reasons not to cross that line; we can make huge lists. And I have one important reason why we should. I bend my head forward and look at the wall, pretending that it isn't there. In the adjacent room, you are approximately thirty feet away from me. Two rooms, a wall. One physical and the other more impenetrable for the time being. In this moment, all I want is to bury myself so far into you, to be lost and enveloped by you. I want to take you to a secret place that I want to show you. I want to whisper all the things that I want to say but never do. I want you. I turn my eyes up into the darkness and to the ceiling. I close my eyes briefly and wish beyond all measure of hope. I turn my head and look over to the other side of the bed. It's empty. The place which belongs to you is unoccupied. It hits me hard because of how I'm feeling right now. At Christmas, I finally acknowledged to myself how I was afraid of being alone and how afraid I was completely letting go. I look past the bed over to the little travel clock I brought with me. It's 4:27. Sleep? Don't think so. Do I want to think about work? Definitely no. The TV was off for once, but it's back on now. I'm flipping through the specialty channels to see if there's a redhead being featured. Just my luck. There's one now. I turn down the volume. I pull up the covers and fold my arms. But I'm not really seeing the sexual gymnastics occurring on the tv screen. Instead, I'm looking at the wall, reliving memories of Oregon, Alaska, Russia, Canada, Antarctica, all of it in seconds. I'm taking the time to consider what we have together. Right now, it's about all I can do to wrap my brain around that one central thought. I sit up on the bed and place the two pillows behind me so I'm more comfortable. I slouch a little farther down and I've folded my hands behind my head. I'm looking at the featured flick, but nothing is being registered. I'm not getting anything out of the feature I decided I was going to watch. I aim the remote at the tv and press the Power button. As if I could press "On" and she would be here. No questions would be asked and we would find all the answers. The tv screen dissolves into a dot. This was a little trip into the midwest. A little trip into the woods. And a little trip to the falls. When we entered the house in Arcadia and first introduced ourselves as Rob and Laura Petrie, I started my act as loving husband. Okay, I admit it; I was waay over the top. And I looked forward to touching you in lots of ways that a husband shows to the world just how much he loves his wife. Honestly, can anyone blame me for trying? But when it was safe, you backed away suddenly. Sorry if my presence so repulsed you. I allowed myself a moment of petulance and an instant with a sharp bitter taste. I knew what you were trying to do by keeping me grounded in the reasons why we were there. I nodded dumbly and I didn't really want to see it in your eyes. What surprised me was how your gesture had suddenly hurt. While we were talking to Gogolak, did you think that I wouldn't notice the fact that you'd left your hand on mine? And you realized this and slipped your hand off mine believing I hadn't noticed? Or when I said "the thrill is gone" when I saw that freakin' face mask! Some things were simply not meant to be known before its time. Geez, green stinkin' goo on that beautiful face. Oy. I always knew you had a neat streak within you. When it comes to the attention to detail in nailing important scientific proof, I should have known. But by God, I had no idea, absolutely none that your ideas of playing house were so totally different from mine. I shouldn't have been surprised but a long-standing fantasy had come true. In the end, I loved playing house with you. A twinge. I close my eyes once more to let the moment pass. Sometimes I wake up and the first sensation is Scully-scent on my nose. Before I dare open my eyes, the first thought I've got is that we've been intimate and we've taken the leap together. Finally! Stupid me, I open my eyes and I'm brought crashing down by the barriers we'd already set. Lately, I have had trouble reconciling the memory of your scent against the real thing. Sometimes, as I remove my clothing or when I move my shirt or other from one place to another, I smell your scent. What is it that you wear that clings to me so? Might it be some light perfume that you wear? Is it the shampoo or the conditioner? Or is it the soap that you use to clean every delicious inch of your body? God. I wrap myself with all of the elements that make up Dana Scully. I think, I know it's easier that way. Hope is dangerous because I always take myself to a place where all things are possible and I get to have my heart's desire. But it's all I've got. Hoping is when it comes to Samantha and the all-encompassing conspiracy. Hoping is when it comes to you. A whole lot of it is about hope. I believe that when all is said and done, the last final unknown to be sought out will be what happens to us and what we're going to do with each other. But this thing we have, we keep making it up as we go along. I'm here and as long you're there, I could never be alone. Thinking about you lulls me into a quiet restful state. I close my eyes. I can finally rest. I breathe deeply and I surrender. Your scent ... imagining you're in my bed next to me. My last thought ... before sleep takes ... me. I think ... about ... About what you said to me. Said to me when we ... when we ... entered Area 51. Looking so earnest. Your eyes. The words. Wishing ... Wanting normal lives. Normal ... You. Scully. Me. Us. Normal ... is whatever ... Whatever we make it to be. Promise. -- END -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Acknowledgement: lyric fragment attributed to Placebo. Please address all comments to . First posted to alt.tv.x-files.creative at 2213h UT on Wednesday, March 31, 1999. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------