From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 16 Jul 2001 03:42:18 -0000 Subject: Dark Red, Virgin White 1/1 NC-17 by Mickey Source: direct Reply To: gnrgirl@hotmail.com Title : Dark Red, Virgin White Author : Mickey E-Mail : gnrgirl@hotmail.com CLASSIFICATION : MSR, angst RATING : NC-17 SPOILERS : Through Season 7, to be safe. Allusions to "Bad Blood", "The Field Where I Died","Redux", and "Detour" DISTRIBUTION : Ephemeral, Gossamer : OK. At my site (http://www.geocities.com/alia1028). All others; bag it, tag it, tell me where it is, etc. SUMMARY : A dream catalyzes the UST-relationship between Mulder and Scully into something more FEEDBACK : Please! Please? PLEASE?! This one is for Jessica, who got me to write an X-F smutfic. Notes at the end XXXXXXX Souls come back together, different, but always together. . . . But love - soul's mate. Eternal. - Mulder, "The Field Where I Died" XXXXXXX It is as if I am awake, but I can feel that I am dreaming. I am walking, alone, through waist high grasses, the tips of my fingers trailing behind me, caressing the tips of the blades. I cannot see my body, I do not understand where I am. A strong sense of urgency propels me forward, restraining me from giving into the nearly overpowering aura of loneliness pervading my consciousness. And then I feel a presence beside me, its steps eventually coming in tandem with my own after a stumble or two. It is then, as the hand slips within my own, that I realize who it is. I am surprised it took me this long to recognize her presence. To recognize her. She moves closer to me, he hip grazing mine every few steps. I know her touch better than I know my own. The early morning sun, which had been bathing the horizon in red gold, suddenly blinks out. But instead of plunging the sky into darkness, the absence of light turns the world white. Blinding, brilliant white. A hard tug comes at my hand, the one that clasps hers. The weight, slight as it is, halts my steps. And as I look down, I know that I couldn't move even if I wished it. The brilliant white is now soiled. Rivulets of crimson trickle across the virgin white, polluting my field of vision. Her hair, impossibly redder than the blood, colors my world scarlet. Then, her hand is gone; she is gone. Across a valley that has suddenly sprung between us, she reaches out for me, her mouth open in a wordless scream. But I can't reach her. I stretch, I stretch . . . But I cannot find her fingers. I cannot find her . . . "Scully!" My own voice wakes me from my restless slumber, gratefully tearing me away from my nightmare. My hand reaches out beside me, searching for a figure that was never there. Sweat pours from my body, drenching my t-shirt. 2:23. The clock blinks at me, mocking me. Without further thought, I reach for the phone. I have to hear her voice. I need to know . . . I need to make sure she's okay. "Hello?" Her voice cracks from disuse, but the lack of grogginess proves that I haven't roused her. I breathe a long sigh of relief, this small contact enough to relax some of my tension. "Hello?" She inquires again, coughing away some of the night. Her name, my response, catches in my throat. What can I even say? "Hello?" Once more she pauses, waiting for a reply. "Creep." I hear her, ready to hang up, yet trying to illicit a response from the "crank caller". It works. "It's me." I cringe at the sound of my voice, crackling in the night. "Mulder?" All anger instantly extinguishes from her voice in a cloud of surprise and worry. "What's the matter? Where are you?" "I . . . I'm . . ." I stutter, trying to form a coherent thought. "Has something happened? Are you okay? Mulder?" Blinded by the darkness, confused, I truthfully admit, "I was worried about you." I can scarcely believe what I've just said, what I've admitted. I never could have uttered such a thing in the daylight. "I'm fine, Mulder. But I am worried about you. Are you feeling okay?" I rub my hand across my face, clearing some of the salty moisture from my eyes. "Mulder?" "Yeah? Yeah. I'm fine. I was just . . . " "You were dreaming." She makes the assertion without pause, without even a hint of question in her voice. She instinctively knows that I've been having nightmares again. She knows why I called her, even if she doesn't know the essence of my dream. "I'm fine. I just needed . . ." She cuts me off again. "I'm coming over there." "No, don't. I'm . . ." My only reply is a dial tone. XXXXXXX We're sitting on my couch , not talking, not touching, sipping politely from large mugs of tea. Tea I've gleaned from the single box of raspberry leaves I keep in trust for Scully on the occasions she's here. Like now, though I don't completely comprehend the situation. She sits, feet propped on the coffee table, hand wrapped around the thick, white mug. I want to touch her, to reach out to her. Let her know that she's wanted here. I know her too well. I can see, just from the set of her shoulders, that she's wondering if she should have come. That she's wondering if I was being truthful when I told her she wasn't wanted. But she is. Welcome, I mean. More than anything I can ever express. Anytime, anywhere, if she needs me, I would move heaven and earth to be there. "So," she breaks the awkward silence, trying to cover it up with chatter. "Do you want to tell me about it? Your dream?" I pause, debating. I want to tell her. I want her to understand how afraid I am of losing her. But in the same sense, I don't want to frighten her. More to the point, I don't want to frighten her away. I'm not certain I want her to hear this particular dream; to make sense of what it connotes. And just when I decide to stay silent on the matter, I start to talk. "I was walking in a field, nothing in sight for miles around. Just me and the grass. I felt . . . I was more alone than I've ever been. I could feel the weight of entire worlds crushing in on me. And then . . ." I risk a glance at her, desperate for a sign, any sign. She simply clutched at the mug, a lifeline to normality. "Then you were there, beside me. Holding my hand. And . . . and, um . . ." I look back at her, hoping this time for a response of some sort. Still, there was none. And yet, I press on, afraid to stop. Afraid of the silence that might ensue. "You were holding my hand, Scully. And suddenly, I didn't feel alone anymore. I felt . . . whole." I stopped, not wanting to continue. Scully looks up at me, a tear glistening in her eye. "Mulder . . . I . . ." she sighed. "You know I feel the same way about you, right?" She's taken my words wrong, thinking that I was afraid of her feelings for me. She turns toward me, I can feel her trying to meet my gaze. I want to raise my eyes to hers, tell her that she's mistaken, I truly do. But I cannot. I just let her ramble on. "You do know that, right?" I force myself to nod. "Is that what you were worried about? That I didn't . . . care about you?" She stumbles over her words. The beginnings of a sob perch on her lips. "How can you think that, Mulder?" Pleading sadness is all too evident in her words. As I finally bring myself to glance up, I see rivulets, no, rivers of tears cascading down her face. I've made her cry. Typical, sensitive me. "Scully, I never doubted that. How could I?" I touch her cheek, trying to lighten the mood. "How could I doubt it when you stick by me, no matter what I've said? When you'd lie for me, even if it meant your career or your good name?" I laugh, a tiny chuckle breaking the tension. "When you'd sing a Three Dog Night song to me in the middle of the woods?" She giggles, blushing through her tears. I think I've got it, that I've managed to allay her initial fears. And then her damned analytical side kicks in. "But if that isn't it, why were you so . . . worried?" My stomach does flip flops. I have no choice but to tell her something. I can't leave her question unanswered. And she's too intelligent to be fooled into thinking it was just uncertainty that motivated my call. Her previous question more than answers that. Once again, my mouth starts before my brain. "That wasn't the end of my dream, Scully. We were walking and . . ." My breath comes rapidly. "Everything . . . It all became white. There was nothingness all around us . . . and then I looked down . . ." I am unable to continue, my words stopping in my throat. My mind does not even want to remember that dream. Hot tears begin to slip down my face. I hear the click of her mug hitting the table, just before her arms slip around my shoulders, tugging me into her lap. "Scully . . ." I choke out between sobs, clutching at her. "It's okay, Mulder. You don't have to . . . you don't need to finish . . ." She whispers, though I can feel her curiosity boiling off her in waves. I look up at her, still encased in her arms. "I saw your blood, Scully. It was all over me, all over my hands . . . everywhere. Your blood . . . you were . . . dead . . . The emptiness I felt before, it was nothing like what hit me then . . ." I trail off, watching her tears match my own. Then she speaks, brow crinkling. "I've had the same dream." We grasp for each other, reassuring ourselves that we are real. Holding her in my arms, trying to allay her fears, as she does for me. And then our embrace changes, ever so slightly. The comfort we're gleaning turns ardent, yet still tearful. Inexplicably, we're touching each other differently, hands slipping into areas they've never before. We're pawing each other like a pair of teenagers. Mouths melding, limbs intertwining, I'm certain neither of us are pondering the ethics of our current situation. I can taste tears on her teeth, salt water distilling in the sweetness of her breath colored by the tea. Still, I can't discern if the tears are hers or mine. We move as one, tearing at clothing, tugging, pulling, attempting to arrange ourselves on my thin leather couch. We recline, her smaller figure writhing beneath my own. From here, it's simply emotion and feeling. Intense. Vivid. The moments stretch on between us, becoming hours, becoming days. Heat, liquid and languid, overcomes my mind, allowing me to quell any final thoughts of regret this may bring. Almost too soon, I'm buried inside her, straining for release. Thankfully, I bring her with me to the edge, she crashing over the tip before I, inexorably, follow. Our tears have changed now too. No longer as fearful, there is now a quiet sense of joy accompanying them. I slide her overtop me, onto my chest, preventing my weight from crushing her. We lay intertwined for indeterminable long minutes, letting the nearness of our bodies settle our minds. Letting the afterglow overcome our minds. Eventually, I gather her near-sleep mind into my arms, lifting her up. I walk to my bedroom, still holding her as we slip beneath the pristine sheets. There are no words between us, even as our eyes meet. She reaches to my face, wiping away a tear with her thumb. I, in turn, run my hand up and down her spine. This, as we both know, is no time for impassioned confessions of love. She knows I love her, just as I know she loves me. There remains few things in this world that I am sure of, and this is one of them. It's only that we are not the type to voice these things, always afraid of rejection, no matter how much we know the opposite. I just hold her next to me, her hand settling over my heart, and tug the sheet around her shoulders. I look down on her as her breath evens. Dark red splays across virgin white. But this time, it is no dream. XXXXXXX NOTES : This was inspired by the "speech" Mulder gives while under hypnosis in "The Field Where I Died". How exactly I got this, is anyone's best guess, but this is what came of it. To put it more simply, and perhaps explain it somewhat, all that came to mind was that Mulder's soul mate didn't necessarily have to be Kristen Clocke's character. After all, what love is stronger than that between a parent and child?