From: Amory20@aol.com
Date: Fri, 13 Aug 1999 00:39:26 EDT
Subject: New: Convergence by JLB
Source: xff


TITLE: Convergence
AUTHOR: JLB (amory20@aol.com)
CLASSIFICATION: V, A, MSR
RATING: PG-13/R, (implied?) sexual situations
SPOILERS: nothing specific
SUMMARY: see notes... something you've probably seen before.
ARCHIVE: sure, wherever.  if it's the first time though, i'd appreciate a 
note. :)
FEEDBACK: you bet... i love the stuff. amory20@aol.com
DISCLAIMER:  i admit it... they belong to CC and 1013... i'm shamelessly 
stealing them for a while.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: well i always told myself that i'd never write a "tramua/first 
time" MSR because i've seen it done so many times, so well that i figured it 
was silly to attempt it myself.  but... isn't there always a but... then this 
m&s scene with a dog came to me, and the story that i found myself writing 
around it was one of those first time deals.  so basically, i know i'm not 
scoring any points for originality, instead i see this as an exercise in 
realism... keeping m&s as recognizable as possible.  and i think deep down i 
see mulder and scully getting together after some kind of tragedy, trying to 
comfort one another.  so please, if you want to disagree with me on that or 
correct my characterizations, by all means, email me... i'm always up for a 
nice, thorough discussion of these characters and their lives. :)  also, this 
hasn't been beta-ed (michelle, you deserved a break after all the work you 
did on that last story!  :) so if it's a little rough, be kind.  on that 
encouraging note, enjoy!


Convergence by JLB (Amory20@aol.com)

We arrive too late.  

We arrive just in time to hear the screams, the desperate, hoarse cries for 
help right before everything goes silent.  I watch Mulder run to the door, 
kicking it open with dramatic force.  I can barely drag myself to the front 
porch.  

We're too late, and suddenly all the energy, warmth, life drains from me in a 
blinding flash.  

A wave of dizziness hits me, even before I smell the blood, even before I 
hear Mulder fire his gun, even before I see him emerge from the doorway -- 
his perfect, white dress shirt splattered with tiny droplets of blood, rusty 
and sticky.  And even though I know it's not his, even though I know he's 
fine, alive and breathing right in front of me, I feel my eyes tear, my 
vision blur.

This doesn't happen to me.  It happens to Mulder.  He's the one who gets 
pulled in, who loses himself in the details of the case.  I am always 
detached, professional.  But now I'm almost breathless, my knees giving out 
beneath me, as Mulder stands on the porch, his face so pale and tired, 
pained, watching me, asking me.  Something in his eyes flickers then, bounces 
off something in me, and ignites.  Around us, the world explodes in colors of 
autumn leaves -- red, gold, orange.  I hear them crackle under my feet, see 
them swirl in the air around me.  

I steel myself, straightening up, and join him at the door.  Side by side, we 
enter the house to tie up our loose ends.



Mulder drives us back to our motel, quietly, slowly.  Everything seems to be 
happening in slow motion -- Mulder's actions, my own dragged out to an almost 
unnatural pace.  I feel every breath, every heartbeat.  Mulder's and my own.

There are moments, like this one, when I am with Mulder, when we are 
together, and I still feel utterly alone, lost, adrift.  His presence cannot 
permeate that distance, the cold and darkness.  It's just me, alone, stuck 
inside myself, and Mulder, alone, trapped inside himself.  Physically 
together but still so far apart, so much between us that we can barely see 
each other.  

We refuse to share our fears, our pain, believing we must struggle alone, so 
a burden that should be shared, that could be managed by two, instead crushes 
us, buries us beneath its relentless weight.

I know I push Mulder away.  I know he turns away from me.  It's the way we've 
always dealt with our nightmares.  But it doesn't make sense to me. He's the 
one person who could understand, who wants to understand what I'm feeling, 
and I refuse to let him near.  Even when I need to know that the world I live 
in is larger than myself, even when I feel Mulder's heart break from across 
the room, I refuse to get too close.  Instead we dance around each other, not 
letting the distance grow too wide but doing nothing to bridge it either, 
wanting each other near but only at arm's length.         

It's dusk now, the sky a brilliant orangey pink, punctuated with streaks of 
blue, purple.  Breathtaking, my sister would have said.  Even as a child, she 
cherished sun sets, sun rises.  I sigh quietly as I admire the sky myself, 
opening the window slightly so I can feel the cool autumn air, smell the 
leaves and the cold.  The air in the car is giving me a headache, the stale 
scent of blood and sweat soaking through my clothes.

We pass a small park where several people are walking their dogs and a group 
of men are playing football.  Simple things.  Everyday things.  

"Stop," I say quickly, "Can we please stop for a moment?" 

Mulder looks at me intently for a moment, his eyes heavy lidded, half closed 
even as he drives.  It's almost as if he's squinting to block out the light, 
even though we're covered in shadows.  I watch as he observes the park, and 
silently nods his head, pulling the car to the side of the road.  Neither of 
us speak as he turns the key and the engine falls silent.

Mulder is simply going through the motions -- I see the cold blankness of his 
eyes, his shoulders sagging, the tight line of his mouth.  His thoughts are 
somewhere else, but I know exactly what they are.  He's trying to think of 
some way to make this better.  For me.

We walk quietly through the park, and wordlessly agree on a bench off in the 
corner.  My trench coat falls open, flapping in the wind, and I pull it 
around myself tightly, refusing to let even the tiniest bit of warmth flee my 
body.  I can't afford to lose anymore this evening.

Mulder sighs as he heaves himself onto the iron bench, and I watch his breath 
spill into the air, a wispy puff of white that seems to float upwards. His 
hands shake slightly as he places them on his knees. I take a deep breath 
myself, and my lungs hurt from the cold.  The ache in my chest grows, expands.

I shift my body to make myself more comfortable, brushing against Mulder in 
the process.  As I lean against him, his gun presses against my side -- a 
firm, pinching stab.  Before I can stop myself, I shiver, and pull away.  

A woman, bundled up in sweats, jogs by with a dog trailing behind her -- a 
big, black lab, clumsy with huge paws that seem out of proportion with his 
body.  As they pass in front of us, the dog pulls slightly to the left to 
smell Mulder's shoes, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on Mulder's wrist as he 
bends down to pet the dog. 

When Mulder laughs, I almost forget where am I, who I am, what I do.

We watch the dog and his owner retreat, and exchange tight smiles.  Mulder's 
eyes seem to have opened a bit more, wide and clear in the fading sunlight.

"We used to have a dog," he says quietly, "We had this dog named Checkers."  
He stops for a moment, and laughs quietly.  "He was scared of everything -- 
thunder, fireworks, the wind.  Sam spent more time under my parents' bed 
consoling that dog than just about anywhere else."  He smiles again, shows me 
his beautiful teeth this time, and I feel myself sliding closer to him on the 
bench again.  It's almost as if the smile is pulling me to him.

"Did you name him Checkers?"  I ask, suddenly enthralled with the idea of 
Mulder and a dog.  Some sweet puppy crawling up into Mulder's lap and falling 
asleep.  

"Yeah.  I think that was me," he sighs softly, his smile waning slightly, 
becoming sad, serious. "He was white with these brown spots on his back that 
looked like a checker board."  He gestures with his hands, the memories 
releasing a burst of nervous energy he can't process exactly.  "It was a 
compromise really.  Sam wanted to name him something like Fluffy or Cupcake, 
but I didn't want a dog with such an unmanly name."  He murmurs something 
quietly under his breath -- it's not a laugh, but I try to convince myself 
that it is.  I force a smile, feeling the skin of my cheeks stretch, pull 
tautly.

And I know then.  I know that this is the night.  The night I've spent some 
times anticipating, others dreading.  Mulder's blown everything wide open by 
sharing this with me, by telling me this memory.  I felt the possibility 
earlier as we faced each other in front of the house, but I knew we'd need 
something more to push us across the hazy line in our minds.  

"You like dogs, don't you?" he asks me, stuffing his hands in the pockets of 
his coat, leaning towards me so our shoulders touch.  His coat is opened, and 
the tiny spots of blood on his starched shirt seem to burn against the white 
fabric.

"Yes," I nod my head, "I had a couple growing up and then there was..."  I 
choose not to finish because I don't feel like dealing with any more loss 
tonight.

"Queequeg," Mulder supplies, his voice hoarse and strained.  I freeze, 
shocked for some reason that he remembers the name, that he'd say it.  

I turn to him, and answer with my eyes.  They may be watery and red, but 
there's something more there, and I know Mulder will see it.  A response to 
the conversation, to his memory, to our evening.  To what we both know is 
going to happen.

He nods his head slowly, and I watch his face soften, a dreamy, sleepy smile 
taking shape on his mouth.

"Aww, Scully, your nose is getting all red," he drawls, laying his index 
finger on the tip of my nose, "We need to get you out of this cold."  

His finger remains for a moment, burning hot against the chilled skin of my 
nose, then brushes softly against my lips as he draws it back.  We turn away 
from each other, suddenly shy, and head back to the car. 



We end up in Mulder's motel room, though I'm not certain why.  I watch him 
pull the key from his pocket, and simply follow.  I don't ask, and he doesn't 
suggest.  It just happens, as we both know it will.  On instinct alone.

The door shuts behind us with a soft click, and that small noise signifies 
everything I feel. It's just us here -- Mulder and I together -- if we will 
allow it.  Everything can be left behind us for the night; we can leave it 
all on the other side of the door if we simply make that choice.  But I know 
we won't take the easy road, if we get there at all. 

Mulder stumbles over to the bed, stopping only when his knees hit the edge.  
He plays with the frayed comforter for a moment, sighing loudly.

"I see it," he says quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his 
fingers and squeezing his eyes shut, "Every time I close my eyes, I see all 
the blood and..."

I nod and watch him slowly remove his coat.  He moves to the mirror, studying 
his reflection closely for a minute.  I can almost see the drops of blood 
reflected in his eyes, feel his disgust at wearing the entire scene on his 
shirt.  And suddenly he's savagely ripping his clothes off -- his jacket 
falling to his feet, his tie sailing across the room to land on the bed, his 
shirt torn off in such haste that buttons fly everywhere, several hitting the 
mirror like a small hail storm.  He throws the shirt to the floor, stares at 
it for a second, and then kicks it harshly, banishing it to the corner of the 
room.

What I notice immediately is that Mulder isn't wearing an undershirt, no 
T-shirt.  I'm confronted with the smooth skin of his back, a little pale 
maybe but still shining, glistening.  His shoulders tremble slightly, and I 
take a step towards him.

"It's okay, Mulder," I whisper, closing my eyes, "It'll be okay."  I feel 
myself shaking but force myself to stand up straight, to appear strong and in 
control.

"How?" he asks hoarsely, "How can it ever be okay, Scully?  After everything 
... how can it be okay?"  He turns to me, his eyes half closed, sleepy and 
sad, his lower lip trembling like a little boy's.  The dim light cuts across 
his chest, and my eyes are suddenly drawn to the line of hair that trails 
down his stomach, disappears at his belt.  

I'm dumbfounded.  He's voiced my own fear, he's asked the question I can't 
bring myself to, and now his body is demanding my full attention.  I need to 
touch him, feel him, need to see how soft that hair is, how warm his skin is. 
 

But I can't move.  I'm stuck on the spot, my coat suddenly seeming very large 
and heavy.  

He drags himself to the bed, and drops down onto it as if his body weighs 
more than his frame can support.  As he shifts into a sitting position, more 
slumped over than upright, I move to the bedside table to turn on the light 
-- the room is bathed only in the fading sunlight, which has only grown more 
dim since we arrived -- but he grabs my wrist.  Gently but firmly, he pulls 
on my wrist and I fall forward, landing beside him on the bed.

"Leave it off," he whispers roughly, "I don't want to look anymore, Scully."

"Mulder, we can't sit here in the dark all night..." I say flatly, wanting to 
do just that.  Just sit beside him in this cool room, the dark hiding all the 
ugliness, and feel the heat of skin.  And sitting here, though neither of us 
will say it, will do anything that decisively conveys this idea, we both know 
that we're closing the distance.  That we both want each other near.

Mulder turns to me, his eyes flashing brightly in the shadows, and half 
smiles, as if he's too tired to go the distance.  

"Take your coat off, Scully.  Stay a while," he says quietly.  

I move to slide the trench coat off my shoulders, and Mulder is there to help 
me out of it, taking it into his hands and folding it carefully, as he knows 
I would, before placing on the chair beside the bed.  

We're moving slowly.  It's the only way we can do this.  And I can't let it 
be premeditated either.  It has to happen naturally or I'm certain I'll 
resist.

"Let's just sit for a minute," Mulder says quietly, "Just sit."  He runs his 
hand through his hair, drops it to the back of his neck as he rolls his head 
on his shoulders.

I slide closer to him so our thighs are touching, and wrap an arm around his 
shoulders, pulling him down towards me.  He rests his head on my shoulder, 
and carefully winds his arms around my waist. Sighing, I place my hand in his 
hair -- so soft, thick -- and slowly rock him.

The room is entirely dark now, quiet and cool.  I can see a sliver of the 
darkening sky through the opening in the curtains -- it's a rich, dreamy 
blue, so vibrant, strong, I can imagine what it would feel like to touch it 
... thick, silky like satin. 

We've been like this before, Mulder and I.  We've clung to each other, held 
on when everything around us seemed to be sinking, crumbling.  It's familiar, 
comfortable.  Safe.  

And yet, now, with Mulder's warm, bare skin under my fingers, there's an edge 
that hasn't been there before.  A possibility maybe ... an inevitability that 
excites even as it frightens.  

I find myself speaking even though I have no conscious thoughts.  "I didn't 
know you had a dog," I say quietly, my hand still busy in his hair.

"Yeah," he whispers against my chest, "We were pretty normal there for a 
while."  I feel him tense as he utters the word -- normal.  I wonder, as I 
have countless times in the past year, exactly what that word means to me, 
what it means to Mulder.  What it means for us.

"It's funny that there are still so many things we don't know about each 
other," I say quickly.  I move a hand to his back, caressing him lightly, 
carefully.  He shivers, and I pull him even more closely against me, but 
instead of lending him some of my warmth, I catch his chill.  We tremble 
together for several seconds.

"Do you ever really know someone?" he asks, letting a deep breath out across 
the collar of my blouse.  "Can you really know everything about someone 
else?"  His voice is tight, pained.

"No.  No, I suppose you can't."  My voice falls to a whisper.

"I want to know you," Mulder says darkly, so much pain, passion in his tone.

"You do," I tell him, my hands pressing more firmly against his back, "You 
do."

He lifts his head from my shoulder, and stares at me, his eyes black and 
shining.  I can see him weighing my words, testing their validity.  I feel my 
own eyes tear, and I slam them shut, confronted first with nothing but 
blackness but it soon gives way to blood -- all that blood, thick and smeared 
on the walls, on the carpet, on pale, translucent skin, speckled on Mulder's 
snow white shirt like a repulsive robin's egg.  

I am dimly aware of Mulder's hands cupping my face, his warm breath puffing 
across my cheeks, my forehead as he presses a soft, ghost-like kiss to the 
top of my head.  

"Open your eyes, Scully," he whispers, his voice heavy and thick, "Look at 
me."

And I can hear everything he's not saying -- "Forget it, Scully.  Forget it 
all and concentrate on this, on us."  My eyes flutter open, and Mulder is 
everywhere, the only thing in my line of vision.  His dark, flashing eyes, 
his perfect mouth, tan skin.  And he's all I can feel -- his body pulled 
firmly against mine, his thumbs stroking gently across my cheek bones, his 
strength and warmth pooling on the surface of my skin.  

It's give and take, as it's always been with us.  He needs me, and I need 
him.  We're here to support each other, and then be supported.  It's team 
work at its best -- fine tuned, perfected, slowly sliding to a new level.

"Let's not think anymore, Scully," he breathes against my ear, his lips 
brushing against the skin, warm, wet.  "We do too much of that sometimes."

Leaning back, I take a long look at him -- the flushed skin, sleepy eyes, 
parted lips.  I nod my head dumbly, suddenly very dizzy, weak.  My tongue 
feels heavy in my mouth, and I know that if I try to speak right now, nothing 
intelligible will come out.  

Mulder smiles slightly, a sad, strained smile, and clutches my face more 
firmly.  Suddenly I feel myself moving towards him ... or maybe he's moving 
towards me.  I can't tell.  Perhaps the entire room is moving, colors 
swirling in front of my eyes, every nerve ending in my body dancing, my heart 
racing.  Something is definitely happening ... and it couldn't be more 
natural.

His lips on are mine in an instant -- a heartbeat I think fleetingly, as the 
pressure increases, as he becomes more insistent.  I marvel at the fact that 
his lips aren't chapped at all, perfectly smooth and moist.  So gentle, so 
sweet.  And then all thought stops... I simply feel the kiss, revel in it.

It isn't frenzied or frantic.  It's slow and easy, and accomplishes its goal 
perfectly -- comforting us in a way nothing else can. 

Finally we brake the kiss, and I'm almost afraid to open my eyes, afraid to 
let the moment end.  Mulder sighs softly, and my eyes open for him, to see 
him.

"You're here," he whispers, stroking my hair, "After everything, you're still 
here."  

"Yes," I say emphatically, "yes."  

And with that word, all the excuses, the justistifcations, rationalizations I 
so carefully constructed to keep myself safe, to keep us both safe, prove to 
be as flimsy as I had always feared.  I hear them shattering, breaking apart 
under the weight of Mulder's touch, kiss.

We stare at each other for a moment, motionless, breathing in unison -- hard, 
erratic.  His eyes are so soft, soft and dark, seeking me out in the shadows 
of the room.  I don't have to tell him that this isn't going to fix 
everything.  I don't have to tell him that we're still going to hurt 
afterwards.  He knows.  Mulder understands.  

But that distance won't be between us any longer. We won't have to hide from 
one another, from ourselves.  We'll have what's been ours from the beginning, 
but openly, freely.  And when we hurt, when we close our eyes and see all the 
blood, bodies, horrors, we'll have each other to hold, take comfort in. 

"Scully..." he whispers finally, dropping his mouth to my neck, "Scully, is 
this okay?"  He moves his mouth away but continues to hover so I can feel his 
breath.  

I pull his head up, and slide my mouth over his.  It's strange, I realize, 
but I know the exact moment that he's going to part his lips, the precise 
second his tongue will enter my mouth, the exact spot on my neck he'll 
stroke.  And he seems to anticipate my every move as well, making my head 
feel very light.  But maybe it makes sense -- we've watched each other 
closely for seven years, studied the behaviors and mannerisms until they 
became like second nature.  It's like this for one simple reason -- we know 
each other.  

I don't realize he's started working on the buttons of my blouse until he 
reaches the last one, and I close my eyes again, content to just feel his 
hands on me, feel him slipping the silk from my shoulders.  The room is cool 
but my skin feels so warm, blistering almost, and I wonder what it feels like 
for Mulder, if his fingers burn as they trail across my body.  

When he eases me back against the bed, I reach for his belt, and he smiles at 
me, shyly.  His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip, and I come undone, 
wrapping my legs around his hips so tightly I squeeze a sharp breath out of 
him.  

As we finally begin to move -- slowly at first, easing into as if we both 
expect the other to disappear in a puff of smoke before we can reach 
completion -- I hear myself scream.  Not out loud, but deeper inside me, in 
my head.  I tell myself that this is how it always felt, that I just can't 
remember because it's been so long ... years ... but no matter how hard I 
try, I can't believe that anything has ever felt as real, as solid and warm 
as Mulder's body pressed against mine.  

And when it finally happens, when I finally let that scream leave my body, 
share it with Mulder, I know that nothing has changed.  I know that Mulder's 
shirt is still crumpled in the corner of the room, soaked with the blood of 
some innocent.  So I hold onto him, let him bring me back to myself, and 
remind me why we have to go on, why we can.



Hours later, maybe days for all I know, we lie together in bed, both of us 
barely conscious but clutching one another desperately, as if the room might 
open up at any moment, flames swallowing us whole.  I'm vaguely aware of 
Mulder's shoulder beneath my head, and I instinctively burrow further into 
his body, surprising both of us, I think, by licking his skin fiercely and 
giving the area an experimental nip.  He gasps loudly, and takes hold of my 
hand, rolling me onto my back so we lay side by side, hands clasped.

"You're awake," he says softly, "I was wondering."  

I yawn, and squeeze his hand in response.  

"I can't believe..." he whispers, pulling my hand to his mouth for a soft 
kiss.

"I know."  I turn on my side so I can reach up and kiss his cheek.

We're silent again for several minutes, my body pressed alongside his so we 
can feel one another everywhere.  

"What kind of dog, Scully?" he asks suddenly, his mouth resting against my 
hairline.  "What kind of dog would you like?"

I smile as he begins rubbing my back gently, almost as if he isn't aware he's 
doing it.  

"I don't know.  I think maybe a big dog," I say, "Like a lab or a golden 
retriever.  A dog with lots of energy."  

"I can see you with a golden retriever.  Throwing tennis balls, sticks."  I 
feel him smile against my forehead.  

"Why?"  I ask, pushing up on my elbow to face him.

"Because one day I'm going to get you a dog and I want to make sure I get the 
right kind," he says simply.  He smiles then, that breathtaking, perfect 
smile that always seems to soothe me -- lots of teeth and glowing eyes.

"Do I get to pick the name?" I ask, grinning.

"Maybe.  No obscure literary figures though."

"And nothing too girly, right?"  

"Well, I guess that depends if we get a boy dog or a girl dog."  His smile 
deepens, his entire face softening, glowing.  I feel so warm, so comfortable. 
And yet I won't allow myself any illusions.  I can't let myself forget.

"Mulder, we have to go down to the police department and file a report.  We 
have to do that..." My voice shakes as I close my eyes, and wet my lip.

"I know.  We'll go..." he stops and grabs his watch from the bedside table, 
"We'll go in a couple of hours."  He closes his eyes, and lays his hand 
across his face.

And I feel it then, the distance, coldness seeping back into the room with 
us, and I fumble with the sheets, trying to pull them against me as tightly 
as possible.  But Mulder rolls onto his side then, pulls me against him, and 
I let go of the rough fabric, sliding my hands against his skin instead.

He is warm and close.  Everything I need for him to be.  

"Scully..." he whispers, "Scully I don't know what--"

"It's okay," I tell him, reaching up to brush the hair from his eyes, "We're 
okay."  

Mulder pulls back and looks at me, seriously, his eyes clouded, damp.  "I can 
believe that," he says finally.  He smiles gently, and slides down to rest 
his head against my chest.

Sinking back into the bed, I hold him against me, cover my body with his. 
When I close my eyes, Mulder is the only thing I'm aware of, the only thing I 
sense.  We fall asleep together, our breathing in synch, his head still over 
my heart. 


the end.
feedback is warmly welcomed at amory20@aol.com ... i'd love to hear your 
thoughts. :)
http://members.aol.com/amory20/page/index.htm