From: "Shawne" Date: Mon, 19 Apr 1999 22:58:23 +0800 Subject: New: Eyes On You (1/1) by Shawne Title : Eyes On You Author : Shawne E-Mail : shawne@cyberway.com.sg Rating : PG Category: SRH Spoilers : none, but set Season Six, pre-"One Son" Keywords : MSR Summary : For once, Mulder holds Heaven in his arms instead of just watching it from afar. Archive : Knock yourself out... but let me know where. Disclaimers : Mulder and Scully belong to each other - and to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. Not to me. Never to me. *sigh* Author's Notes : This story is a =stand-alone= piece. Now we have *that* out of the way, let me also say that, indirectly, this is a companion piece to a vignette I posted earlier, "Can You Smell The Rain?" - in which I mentioned this setting, but only in passing. One of my beta readers suggested that it would be nice to expand on it, and I agreed. As you can see, however, this germ of an idea just kept growing and growing until it became its own story. Thanks, Toniann, for planting the suggestion in my mind. This story is as much for you as it is for me. :) ========================================================== How I loved your peaceful eyes on me Did you ever know that I had mine on you? --from "Eyes On Me" ========================================================== I don't quite know what is happening, or how it happened, or even why it happened. I just know I really, really like it. Even though I have an itch on the sole of my foot, even though I'm thirsty and need a drink badly, even though I'm not in the most comfortable of positions... I like it. I love it. I need it. This, what I'm doing right now, is everything I'll ever need. That's an odd realisation to have, in an airplane on its way back to Washington D.C. I have never considered the cramped seats and the sparse leg room characteristic of planes to be the stuff of which dreams are made. But I've just discovered that they are. There is nothing, really nothing, that could be better than this. An old couple is sitting across the aisle from us. They look like the archetypal advertisement for grandparents... why we have them, and why we love them. She is benign, sweet, the kind of grandmother who would bake cookies for the children, and give them money and hug them and love them no matter what. He looks sporting, cheerful, sprightly for his age - he would take the kids fishing, play baseball with the boys, bring the girls shopping. Maybe it's odd, but I find it exhilarating to have them approve of us, the way we are seated now. They're whispering to each other, darting knowing looks at us, smiling, nodding at me. Obviously, they think we look perfect together. I nod back, proud and happy, glad that I have these emotions, misguided though they might be. I catch a stray word or two in their conversation with each other, and I relish them, cherish them - "..honeymoon... perfect pair... made for each other..." Suddenly, she shifts against me, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to settle into comfort once again. Her head lifts itself for a moment, and I swear my heart almost stops. But gently, sweetly, she relaxes back against my shoulder, and resumes her slumber. Yes, this is what has me so happy, so euphoric, so overjoyed. I'm not discovering any earth-shaking truth here, nothing that would matter to the other five billion people in this world. I haven't won any lottery; I haven't discovered the cure for the common cold. No, I've just realised that there's only one thing I need to be happy. And that is... well, this. What's happening right now. This woman - the one who is sleeping soundly on my shoulder, the one who has let down her defenses for once, the one who is finally allowing me to give her the affection I know she needs but never seems to want. My arm tightens, I hope imperceptibly, around her shoulders, holding her to me, assuring myself that this isn't a dream. That she really is here, next to me, touching me. I can smell her. Her hair, her perfume, even the unmistakable brand of detergent she always uses for her clothes. I can feel her, every part of her, living and breathing regularly in my arms. I can sense her, the blood circulating through her body, the dream going through her mind. You know I don't believe in God, or Heaven, or Eternal Happiness. But if this isn't Heaven, you're going to have a pretty tough time trying to change my mind about what is. We came from Idaho today, where we chased down yet another ridiculous case Kersh specially assigned to us, his favourite charges. The piles of manure we're forced to investigate just keep getting bigger, and smellier, and uglier, and more annoying every day. And still, we plodded through it all, routinely this time. I didn't find some excuse to get out of it, neither did I claim to have stumbled upon an X-file that needed our urgent attention. And so here we were, on the first flight back that I could find. I didn't want to stay any longer than I had to. We settled down in our seats, Scully by the window, me on the aisle. I felt the necessity to complain to her about how pathetic the leg room was on these flying crates, even in business class. "Scully," I remember whining. "These seats never have enough leg room. I always get cramped when I'm sitting in them." She, of course, continued her methodical set up of her in-flight equipment as she replied, rather unfeelingly, "Deal with it, Mulder." As I watched her hook up her laptop to her mobile, as she started typing the report we both knew Kersh would demand for that same day, I was tempted to make a snide remark about how she couldn't understand my particular type of problem, given the length of her legs and given the length of mine. I decided that I didn't need to die today. Particularly not in a plane several thousand miles above help if I needed it. So I popped on my headphones and watched the cheesy movie that was being shown. I recall lifting my left arm in annoyance as she tapped me on the shoulder, telling me she needed more room to type. She pushed the arm-rest between us back out of the way, and resumed her work. Slightly annoyed by the disturbance, I hooked my arm casually around the top of her seat, and continued watching the show. And then, I think it happened. I don't know how much time had passed, but it must have been quite a lot. She logged off her laptop, and smiled at me (not that I noticed) before mumbling something I didn't quite catch. Then she closed her eyes, and went to sleep. The next thing I knew, her head had fallen against my shoulder, she'd moved closer against me... and my heart was doing a very energetic set of calisthenic exercises. My arm had, in the process, draped itself casually around her shoulders. And so here we are. I am still smiling like a lovesick fool, I think... and the couple next to us is still throwing approving, welcoming looks at me every once in a while. Marriage is like a special secret shared by those who are married, kept from those who aren't. I've noticed that married couples can communicate telepathically at times, simply by exchanging sympathetic glances or trading conspiratorial smiles. They share so many of the same experiences that those gestures can, in themselves, speak volumes without the necessity for words. It feels nice to be included, even by mistake. Suddenly, I realise that the old woman is leaning over her arm-rest, talking to me in low tones. I push the headphones down around my neck, and turn to face her. "Your wife must be tired," she whispers, smiling at me. I smile back joyfully. "The two of you make a beautiful couple... don't they, Harold?" She turns to her husband, and nudges him with her elbow. He nods amiably, and gives me a wide friendly smile. I nod at both of them eagerly, and mutter my thanks across the aisle. I realise that my mouth is twitching now, trying to force itself into the shape of a crescent moon. I decide that it's no use trying to keep the grin off my face - I am too happy. Instead, my arm tightens even more around Scully, and I move closer to her. Then I discover that I can feel her smiling. I look down, and catch the smile playing around her lips just before it disappears. It makes me feel even better that today, she seems to be sleeping soundly. No bad dreams to contend with, no tears, no pain. I can't help thinking that we fit. The way her head nestles exactly between my shoulder and my chin, the way her little body feels so warm and perfect against mine. So many realisations today - from such a mundane event. She must have been tired, to have fallen asleep so readily and with so few of her defenses up. And yet, this, having Scully sleep peacefully next to me, my arm around her, her hair brushing against my face... this means the world to me. I've never really needed words with her, not with Scully. She understands, somehow, even if she might not share the same beliefs. When I found somebody who was always willing to listen to me, even at my most far-fetched, that had made me happy enough. I had never expected anything else. This is a reward greater than anything I deserve. I'm sure she knows that I watch her, that my eyes are on her every chance they get. Because it makes me happy, to see with my own eyes, to have visual proof, that she is still with me, still alive. I've kept my eyes on her ever since she stepped into my office six short years ago. I always will. And that's all I ask for. The chance to watch her, to see this woman through everything that might challenge her, daunt her. To follow her with my eyes, hoping that somehow they might protect her, give her strength. Holding her is something I know I don't deserve. Looking down at her, I can't help but smile. She is still breathing evenly, her eyes shut. Her hand is curled into a small fist - perhaps a manifestation of her desire to always have some kind of protection for herself, some kind of strength. I love this. The voice that breaks across the silence of the cabin is clouded in static, and I barely bother to make out the words. The captain is announcing something about entering an air pocket, and to have our seat belts fastened in case of turbulence. With one hand, I somehow manage to snap mine into place, then turn to make sure that hers is secure. The temptation is too much to resist. After touching her midsection gently, by accident, to check her seat belt, I lift my hand to stroke her hair. It is soft, yielding... beautiful. She is still here, I realise. It is absolutely amazing - I am touching her, caring for her, loving her... and nothing has taken her away. Nothing is making me stop. My clichd, love-addled heart wants to sing, probably badly, but I quell it. Instead, I drop my head down to rest on hers. We still fit, I realise to my great relief. We fit perfectly. I am smiling dreamily now, I know, envisioning scenarios best not mentioned. The couple next to us have taken to sleep too, wrapped in each other's arms. Scully, I can almost believe we are married. Then, the plane dips. She jerks awake, bewildered, confused. I jerk my arm back, frantic, worried. What if she hits me for taking advantage of the situation? What if she hates me? I realise that my arm is stuck unnaturally up in the air, and I do what first comes to mind. I pretend to be waving to a stewardess for attention. It is barely seconds later that my flushed brain processes the fact that there is no stewardess in sight, and I am looking decidely insane. So I fake a yawn instead, hoping she hasn't noticed. "Mmmm..." Her eyes are blurry, glazed slightly, and she seems a bit unsure of herself. She turns her head from side to side, the sleep not quite leaving her system yet. "Mulder, what's going on?" My hand, the one that is causing all the trouble, is trembling now, still held up moronically in the air. I drop it on the seat between us, into the divide, and press it against the distance that now seems to stretch miles wide. I swallow, fighting back irrational tears. Why does this matter so much? I clear my throat, and turn to her with as reassuring a smile as I can manage on such short notice. "Nothing, Scully. Don't worry." She frowns slightly, and continues to look unconvinced. Her hand drops between us as well, and covers my still shaking hand. She looks at me with questioning eyes, gorgeous eyes, and I almost bite my tongue off. But I can sense she is tired, so I add, "Go back to sleep." Blinking, she nods, and her fingers lace their way through mine, comfortingly, unconsciously, as if they were searching for something. Her head drops back against the head-rest, and her eyes close. The beatific smile returns, and once more, my eyes stay riveted on this vision that is before me. Time passes. The ache in my throat remains. I squeeze her hand lightly, then whisper, softly, to myself, "Don't worry, Scully. I have my eyes on you." I pause, then add, inaudibly, "Always." Tired now, I close my eyes, and wish for sleep to come. I try to fight the unreasonable disappointment, knowing that, eventually, she would have woken up anyway. That it had to end sooner or later. I try to forget. But suddenly, I feel her hand tightening around mine, warm, comforting, alive. I sense her head moving towards my shoulder, and then I hear her lips against my ear. "I've always had mine on you, Mulder." ========================================================== AUTHOR'S END NOTES : The title of this piece was half-taken from Faye Wong's song for the Playstation game "Final Fantasy VIII", . No, I do not play the game, but yes, I *have* heard the song. Full lyrics available on my page http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Temple/1685/XF.html All feedback lovingly hugged and washed and kept nice and cuddly 24 hours a day. Special offer available only at shawne@cyberway.com.sg ;)