From SciNut@aol.com Mon Mar 24 20:23:54 1997 Subject: "A Few Hours" 1/1 Euphrosyne (EMXC) From: SciNut@aol.com -------- I did not write this. I am forwarding this to xff with the permission of Gil Trevizo on behalf of the author. This work was originally run on the EMXC mailing list and all feedback and comments should be directed to the author at: euphrosyne@aol.com SciNut(O'tay!) host EMXC co-admin Fictalk To join the EMXC mailing list send an email to EMXC@aol.com. ============================================== T h e X - F i l e s A Few Hours, Part 1/1 By euphrosy@netcom.ca Written: February 27, 1997 Rated: PG-13, VRA Vignette, MSR (RST), Mild Angst, post MM Admin Stuff: Please forward to the XFF list and to ATXC. Aside from the Gossamer sites, please contact me first if you intend to archive, forward, distribute or otherwise disseminate this anywhere else in whole or in part. Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine, and the idea was inspired by a Simon & Garfunkle song (titled "Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m."--thanks Vickie!). Not for profit, not for gain, not really for anything except my own somewhat odd amusement. All comments, criticisms, any feedback at all greatly appreciated. Many thanks to Becky D. for her excellent editing skills of which I have shamelessly availed myself. summary. Just a short vignette, Mulder thinking. Little angst, MSR'y. This is set at some point into the near--or, if you prefer, not so near--future. A future where M&S are together in the Biblical as opposed to Disney sense. So imagine M&S as a couple. Imagine them living together. C'mon, you know it'll happen. _____________________________________________ A FEW HOURS She was physically a very small woman, his Scully. Sometimes he marveled at how, in spite of that, she still managed to take up so much space. She walked into a room and she filled it. She walked into his life and she filled it. She walked into his heart and she filled it. She slept in his bed and she filled it. Yup, she was a sprawler. He smiled, looking down at her lying beside him as he propped himself up in the bed. She was a quiet sleeper, but she liked to spread. He was the one that liked to sleep cuddled up, and she'd indulge him, sometimes, and some nights she'd need the closeness as well. But, generally speaking she would at some point turn away and take over more than half of the queen sized bed, relegating his length to a sliver of mattress at one end. There was only one advantage to this: she never hogged the blankets. Regardless of his best efforts to keep her covered, more often than not she would wake in the small hours, shivering, to crawl back to where he lay waiting, always ready to share his warmth with her. He slept better with her around, he thought. Of course, in the beginning she'd gently forced sleep upon him just as he'd gently forced her to take better care of herself. It was an unspoken deal between the two of them--she'd bully him about his eating and sleeping habits and he'd bully her about the same. For different reasons, of course. She because he really did have atrocious habits, a fact which he acknowledged readily. He, on the other hand, pestered her because deny it as she might, fact was that within her hid a silent yet relentless killer. And whether or not she liked it, whether or not she admitted it, she had to, had to be careful. And deny it she did. She hated to mention it, hated to go for the regular checkups, hated the blood work and X-rays and tests. Hated not being able to forget. Hated Mulder for not letting her. Two months ago her tests had started to come back positive. The tumor had begun to swell. The first time she'd had to go to the specialist she hadn't told him. She'd just taken the Friday off and he'd returned home to find her pale and exhausted, lying on the couch, half-asleep. She'd been ill the next morning as well, and he'd made sure, surreptitiously, that she rested all weekend. He'd also made it a point to find out when her next appointment was, about a week later. She always scheduled for Fridays, if she could, just in case she needed the extra time. More and more often, lately, she did. She'd had to leave work completely two weeks ago. He had driven her to her second appointment because her car was in the shop. He had been almost as annoyed as the doctor when they'd arrived at least ten minutes late. Not his fault; she'd been unaccountably fussy as she dressed that morning. He remembered finally losing patience, telling her he'd wait down in the car before she eventually became ready to go. He had found out, later, chatting with the receptionist, that she'd almost missed her first appointment. She'd been over a half-hour late that time and the irate oncologist really had to work to fit her in. The receptionist noted, however, that Scully had been very accommodating, offering several times to reschedule. He'd made sure to drive her to all her appointments after that. She murmured, frowning, and shifted in her sleep. He stroked a hand across her cheek to soothe her as she subsided back into her dreams. It was a quiet night, with only her soft breaths and a few sounds outside to disturb the comforting silence. The sheer curtains at the window rippled in the draft from the window, and the pale moonlight of winter drifted through to light gently along her skin, glow softly within the silk of her hair. A luxury to sit here, to watch her. Decadent, terribly so. In here, he almost believed that this was all that mattered, all there was. The outside world, the death and despair that was his work, the effects of what others could do, it all faded away like a badly constructed fiction. Something outside of this reality, this life. The world began and ended in this bedroom, this moment, and all else seemed a bit surreal, out of focus, extraneous. Hard to recount, harder yet to believe that he was more than he was here: an ordinary man with an ordinary life. An extraordinarily lucky man with this beautiful and vibrant woman peacefully asleep near him, both a part of this tranquil night. Hard to believe that morning was so near. Hard to believe that time did not stand still in this perfection, this beauty, this ease. He was tired, but he could not sleep. Knew that he should, but was unwilling to give up these last few hours. To miss, even for a moment, the sight of the vision before him, the sound of her breathing precious in his ears, the warmth of her body close to his. Unconsciously his hand drifted over to trace an absent pattern on her shoulder; he removed it as she stirred and he became abruptly aware of his action. She needed to sleep. Soon, too soon, they would have to go for the last appointment. Tomorrow morning. Despite the time that Skinner had bought them, seemingly so long ago, seemingly not long at all, at an undisclosed price paid in blood. A deal with the devil brought little return. Even that might not have been enough. A temporary cure, then, their only gain, the only option. But now, now there was an experimental procedure. A highly dubious procedure. Extremely risky, yet one they were willing to try. A procedure they had little choice but to try. A procedure she might not return home from. Tomorrow morning, after a few tests, she would be admitted. A hospital stay of at least three weeks, they said. Perhaps more. He would not think about more. And so tonight might be the last that he would have left to remember of her. He knew he would never be able to; despite everything, he could never file away every exacting detail of this, of what it was like, of how she looked, washed in silver light. How she felt. How he did. If he had a thousand nights like this, he could never recall this exactly. Not without her. A thousand nights could not be enough. Through the window, he could see the stars fading, the sky lightening to the dark gray of pre-dawn. Could hear the clock on the wall ticking with the tiny sound of time. Could feel Scully roll over towards him, curl her body next to and around his own as he sank down in the bed to draw her close. Because morning was just a few hours away. -------------------------------------------------------------------- That's it--sorry, I was listening to Simon & Garfunkle and ended up dashing this off in the space of an hour. I've never written a vignette before (for that matter, I've never written a complete story before) and I'm submitting it anyway, just because. Tell me why this was a mistake and I won't do it again . In any event, if you made it here, thanks so much for reading. Of course, if you also feel like writing me . . . I'd be forever grateful.