From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000 14:56:58 -0500 Subject: FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. Fall. (1-4) by January Source: direct Reply To: a_11january@hotmail.com Title: FourSeasons, A ThousandCandles. Author: January. Email: a_11January@hotmail.com FeedBack: Praise me. Flame me. Email me. Now. Archive: Everywhere, with my headers. Rated: PG-13. GuideLines: Story, Angst, UST. Mulder pov. TimeLine: I'm very skeptic. I haven't seen Requiem and I don't believe it exists. Summary: Story of TwoFriends, FourSeasons, and a ThousandCandles. Disclaimer: FM, DS and all are CC's, Fox's and 1013's. I own non-of them. No infringement has been intended and I make no money of this. Sniff. Dedication: As always, this is to you, Numidia Reem, wherever you are. Gratitude: As always, Michelle, you are the best. Thanks for the beta. Author'sNote: I've used Metallica's Nothing Else Matters' lyrics in this story. Thanks, Metallica. FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. (1-4) By January. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM A dream. A dream is an answer to a question we never learned how to ask. A dream is our wants and needs and hopes and fears escaping us, over riding the high walls and electric fences that we unconsciously build around them to protect them. Or to protect ourselves from them. This fortress of protection crumbles-down and falls apart the moment we allow ourselves to let go. To close our eyes and rest asleep. Sometimes I dream of my mother lying still on her bed, while black snakes and spiders and scorpions crawl all over her body and face to consume her. And I stand there and watch her die yet once again, not being able to do anything about it yet one more time. Sometimes I dream of myself firing my gun point blank to my partner's face, right into her eyes, and I turn my face away as her blood sprays all over me. I taste its bitterness swirl in my mouth, while a dark face from the past looks and laughs and applauds me for killing my one friend with my own bullet. Sometimes I dream of my sister free falling endlessly and silently into a black hole somewhere in the universe while her face, her hair and her body fade slowly but persistently from my eyes and my mind. I see her dissolve and turn into a small dot swallowed by a black hole, which later becomes the center of my life. And I keep reaching and circling and orbiting around myself in search of something I can no longer see nor can I understand. Only remember. And sometimes, only sometimes, only when my demons are resting asleep themselves, that my weak, dying hopes regain their pulse, flutter their eyes, shudder off the dust, lift their heads and breathe, and come back to life, but only as, a d r e a m. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM Fall. Friday. Oct, 13 I'm lying on my couch, floating in that sweet fog in between sleep and wakefulness. I dream. I'm twelve again, carrying my backpack and going to school with Sammi's hand in mine. I'm not surprised that she's with me, it feels so natural, so right. In my dream, the cool air of this early October morning is blowing gently on my face. I see my exhaling form some small, light, baby-clouds that are escaping me by dancing skywards. I follow those baby clouds with my eyes by looking upwards, and I see the trees that are shaking in the wind, losing their dry, golden-colored leaves. They are melting, falling slowly and spirally and gently to the ground. I can see them scatter, yellow and orange and purple leaves, but only feel and hear them crackle under my fast steps. I lower my head and turn my eyes to my left and take a long look at the little girl walking to school beside me, Sam. She lifts a set of beautiful, beautiful eyes, made of smooth, pure honey, and smiles at me. In my eyes, in my dreams, her smile lights the whole world for me. My heart, my soul and everything in me sing and laugh and fly, celebrate my baby sister's smile. I remember I once read that our dreams, no matter how long they seem to us when we are a sleep, are only about three to five seconds long. I now believe that. I'm still in that surreal dream when the sound of my alarm clock brings me back to my cold apartment, to my real life. It's time to go to work, but this time I don't think I really mind it. I'm so happy to have met Samantha, even if it was only in a dream, and I can't wait to tell Scully. Scully, my friend. How long have I been in love with her? As I think of her, I can actually smell her fine mist swirl around me. I close my eyes and take a deep whiff, trying to take as much of her aroma into my chest as I can. I open my closet, and as I put my clothes on, I remember that today's my birthday. I smile happily and feel the adrenaline rush through my heart and face, as every birthday comes to me holding a rare potential; a potential of a touch of a hand on my forearm, a smile, and a gift, and a wish of a happy birthday, from Scully. I picture her smile, as she would look at me, hand me her pink-wrapped small box and something in my heart just melts like smooth chocolate trapped inside a warm mouth. I rush out of my apartment, run down the stairs, start my car, and drive off to work. On my way there, I look around and see my fantasy reflect back upon my reality; the wind, the trees, the colors. I can't believe how the color of the golden-red on those trees resembles her hair. It's like she wakes up every morning, and have her shower under those leaves, taking the shimmering red into her soft, impossibly beautiful locks. I can't wait to get to the office. I glance at the dashboard and see that I, once again, will arrive a little late. I feel a pang in my chest as I picture Scully, with her impeccable timing, sitting in her chair, at her desk, with her legs crossed, eyeing me up with her incredibly blue eyes and telling me that I was, once again, a little late. What should I tell her? That I took some extra minutes just to feed my secret little fantasy of her handing me my birthday gift, with a kiss on the cheek? Or the one of her showering under the autumn leaves? I'll skip that. At least for today. I arrive to the basement and it's, empty. It's Scully-less, perfume-less, light-less, autumn-less. I feel, and hear, a little something in my heart crack. I stand at the office door, not even wanting to get inside. I'm actually disappointed that she isn't waiting for me with a smirk on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes, ready to dress me down about my malfunctioning-punctuality. Is that a real word or did I just make history, standing here at the door of my office? I, nevertheless, enter the office and try to get busy, or waste time, or whatever, with all the files and books and stuff that are piled up to the ceiling. But none of them is taking my mind off my a-little-late partner. I continue to dream about her. About swimming in the two blue lakes of her eyes. Some time passes before I hear those familiar steps descending down the stairs and the soft shuffle of the suit jacket and the straight skirt rubbing together softly on a certain part of her body. My heart beats louder and the three seconds she stands behind the door seem like eternity while I wait for her to enter. Is she holding a small pink box with the nametag bearing my name, or will she skip it today and make me wait till next year to have my little, tiny dream come true? She opens the door, and I lift my head up, wanting to look at her, to see her. I do anticipate a smile and a baby-soft * Good morning, Mulder, sorry I'm late*. But I only wish to see a little pink box snuggled between her fingers, promising something else, something more. Instead, I see her in a totally different picture than the one in my dream. Her demeanor is tired. Exhausted. Her eyes are red- rimmed and her face is so flushed, you'd think it's on fire. There is no autumn in Scully's hair, no lakes in her eyes and no chocolate in her mouth. I take one look at her and her body's screaming to me or to anyone that would listen; I'm sick. Scully simply looks sick. As she closes the door behind her, she gives me a look, but doesn't greet me at all, not even with a nod of the head. It's ok, honey. I'll take it as best as I can. For Dana's sake I will. "Good morning to you too," I say. She turns her head towards me and pins me to the wall with a sideways look, and I squirm under the pressure. Okay, I understand. You don't like my humoring today, so I'll spare you that, I promise. I swear. She keeps glaring at me for a second, or a century, I don't know, and then releases me with an angry roll of her eyes and a clench of her jaws. As I sit there, breathing fast and thinking even faster as what to say or do. Then I see her completely ignore me, reach her arm to her briefcase and open it slowly. She then dips her clear-polished fingernails into it and they come up holding some Kleenex tissues. She then lifts them up to her face and blows her nose quietly. Oh my God. Scully IS sick. "What, Scully? Are you sick?" "I'b fine." I can hardly recognize her words, and her voice so to speak, as she says her accustomed "I'm fine." through her blocked nose. Oh, no. "Oh, Scully." "Dod't oh-Scully be. I said I'b fide." I see her lay her arm across her desk and rest her beautiful head on it, closing her tired lashes to sleep. Two seconds later, she starts snoring very softly as she breathes through her slightly open mouth. I breathe deeply myself and watch her awhile. Her shallow breathing, her eye movements, the little twitches on the side of her lips. I can keep watching her lifetimes on end. My sleeping beauty. I want to make her rest complete. I turn the phone ringer to low and switch the lights off, intending to make do with whatever little sunlight gets into this underground, deeply buried basement. I go back to my desk and try to be very quiet while I work around her, leafing through books, searching for files, moving on my chair. And finally, I find myself returning back to schooldays when I don't type the report on the computer--too much noise. I write it. I steal glances at her every now and then, and it breaks my heart that she's so tired, so ill. I think of waking her up and suggesting to her to go home and rest, but knowing the stubborn person she is, I think it's better, for both of us really, that I let her catch on her sleep right here across her work desk. That is, until I hear her hallucinate. She says something about a case file. While she is asleep. While she is sick. I hear her and I feel my chest crush with a killer pain. Is it my fault that her life and her dreams are now on the same flat level? Basement level? Work and just that? Is it my fault that this person, sleeping right here, right in front of me, has lost her only sister, her well being, her dreams, and probably her future all because of me? I don't think I want to answer that. I don't think I want to think about that. I hear her once again sleep talking, and this is it. I leave my desk, walk to her and touch her forehead. Burning hot. I take this as my back up, my justification as I touch her lightly on the back: "Scully? Scully?" "Whah?" "Scully, I'm gonna take you home. Can you walk?" MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM As she stands quietly and tiredly, leaning on the wall closest to her, I quickly open the apartment door, turn the side lamp on and lead her in. I take her trench coat from her hand, throw it on the coat hanger, and usher her to her bedroom, where she starts to lie on the bed, not having the energy to draw the covers back. "Wait a sec," I say softly to her. I lever her and draw the bedspread and the bed sheets back to the foot of the bed, and she just throws her tired body into those layers of warmth and cotton and comfort. She tries to pull the sheets over her body, but I don't allow her, yet. I waste no time as I turn to her closet and open it, looking for something more comfortable than whatever starched thing she's wearing right now that's rubbing harshly against her baby- lotioned skin. As I go through her things, I realize what a basic closet she has; mostly very professional pantsuits and some comfortable cotton pajamas. No soiree gowns for her to revel in and no silky nightdresses for her to, oh, Scully. I look away, trying to dismiss the guilt pang I feel in my heart. Trying to compensate, I pick a light cotton pajama for my dear friend to wear and sleep-tight in. I turn around to see her still lying on bed, almost completely out of it. I put the pajama beside her on the bed: "Here, Scully. Put this on." I have to pat her a little on the cheek to wake her up. She sits and stares at me behind heavy lidded eyes and then start to slowly unbutton her shirt to change into her nightwear. I close my eyes and turn my face away and then go to the kitchen, looking for something to bring her still burning fever down. I find what I'm looking for and bring it back to her. "Here, take this." I place two tablets into her palm and then hand her the glass of not-too-cold water I just poured her. Then I run again to the kitchen to bring a wet face cloth. I lay her down on the bed and place the wet cloth on her forehead and start washing her up. I sweep the cold, wet cloth across her forehead, down her cheeks, around her lips, and down her porcelain-white neck. She is a little uncomfortable with the sponging, but I try not to notice, not to give in, to her little moans that are killing me. Half an hour later, her face starts to feel cooler to the touch. I breathe in relief. Time to let her really rest and slip into deep sleep, and dream, without even the bother of my breathings. Or my presence. I get up from my position crouching on the side of the bed to make sure that the windows are tightly shut, as the room is getting a little too chilly. I also draw the curtains down to keep unwanted daylight away from her sleeping eyes. I, again, set her bedside phone-ringer on low, and then I check back on her. I look at her sleeping form for some seconds, and I want do this to the rest of my life. I only wish I could. On my way out, I keep the door slightly open, so I can hear her if she needed something. Anything. I walk to the living room and drop my weight onto the couch. I think about this one friend I have in the entire world. Are we really just friends? Are we lovers? I smile a little as I think who knows? Who cares? I lift my eyes up the bookcase, looking for something to read the day away. I take a sudden breath, and hold a sudden tear, as I see a pink-wrapped small box, nametag bearing my name, resting on the upper shelf, next to Scully's purse and her photo collection. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. End of part one. From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000 14:58:44 -0500 Subject: FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. Winter. (2-4) by January Source: direct Reply To: a_11january@hotmail.com FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. (2-4) By January. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM Winter. Wednesday, January 11. Night, dark, black, smoke. I can't breathe, I can't see, I can't scream. I clench my jaws and clutch my comforter as I dream. Scully. Scully is taken and shaken and beaten. Scully is hit and kicked and thrown against a wall. Scully is broken and bleeding and crying. Scully is exposed, held to the floor and raped. She looks at me, her eyes calling me, begging me to come to her, to save her, while her limp, bruised body is being carried somewhere beyond dark and damp and evil. I stand still like a stone, like a statue, not able to even move, and she just keeps blaming me with eyes that are killing me. Scuhh-le. I awake from my dream to find my body violently shaking, and both my arms desperately reaching into the darkness of my apartment. I abruptly sit upright and force my mouth open to take a gulp of air. I spend a minute or so hyperventilating, trying to control my convulsions. I find my face wet with saliva and my body covered with sweat and I feel my throat squeeze shut to hold back screams and tears and fears. And then I look around me closely, to remind and convince myself that it was just another dream. Just another act of guilt or expression of fear, while the guards of my conscience went down for the night. I force myself out of my couch and head towards the window to try and push the images away. I'd open the window for some fresh air, but it's a snowing, freezing January night. I take a look through the window and the whole world outside is snow-white, literally. I watch as the snow blankets the streets with a thin layer of these incredibly soft, delicate pieces of white fluff. It's so quiet outside and so peaceful. So tranquilizing. And so deceiving, I think, as I pull down the blinds and leave the window. I'm so restless, I decide to go to work. And in two hours, I'm in my office about ninety minutes early for work. I sit at my computer, trying to type the time, and the memory of my dream, away. I work and work hard. I finish report after report, read file after file, make coffee, drink coffee, pop sunflower seeds, throw the damned bag in the garbage, but I can't seem to take the images of my dream out of my head. Every minute passes doubles and triples my worry and dread I feel towards the moment Scully arrives. About an hour and a half later, I start hearing voices and movements coming from the upper floor. The working day has officially begun and I feel like I'm still trapped, framed in last night's dream. Then I hear Scully's steps descending the stairs and I quickly sit at my desk, pick up a file and pretend to be really busy studying it. She enters, takes her trench coat and her scarf off and heads toward her desk. "Good morning." She casually greets me, sits at her desk, starts her computer and checks her email. As soon as I can, I try to establish a professional atmosphere around the office, not wanting to give her any chance to start small talking me. I try to sound as professional as I can as I ask her: "Scully, I want your medical opinion on something." With this, I start a very interesting, very in-depth conversation about amphetamines and pathogens and contagious diseases that I don't give a damn about. I ask her one question after another and she replies eagerly and enthusiastically. I disagree with her on obvious scientific facts and she defends her field of expertise waving her hands and moving her head to emphasize her points. Only when I'm sure that now there is no room or mood for small talk, or personal talk, I nod my head and admit to her that she's probably right anyway. She looks at me, twists her lips and shakes her head, and then turns to her keyboard and starts typing. A report, I think. Another hour pass in silence, each one of us appears to be busy either reading or typing or analyzing something. I say appear because I'm only pretending to do so. I haven't managed to take the residues of last night's ordeal out of my mind. Every time I carefully, secretly glance at her, all I can see is her bleeding face and accusing eyes as her helpless, powerless body being pulled away from me by an infinite number of filthy hands. And I choke on a lump in my throat and quickly tear my eyes away from her. Finally, she rises to make coffee, and offers to make me some too. As she comes back with the two mugs in her hands, the phone on her desk rings. Not looking at me, she places my cup of coffee on my desk and then turns towards her own and answers. "Hello." I hear her greet. A moment later, I hear her voice shifts into a completely different tone; a tone of worry and panic. "Mom, what's wrong? Why are you,,,?" I sharply lift my head up and watch as a thick fog of black smoke envelopes Scully's face rapidly. I feel a thin film of sweat covers my back and feel my heart beat in my throat. "What are you talking about?" Her voice is a tight, raspy whisper, and I watch as my friend's beautiful face slowly breaks into pieces and fall silently to the ground, one piece at a time. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM Charlie's funeral was held only three days after the accident. It was a heartbreak, watching the Scullys mourn yet another life in so little time. Scully's mother was the most effected in the family and yet remained the strongest. She was a source of strength, THE source of strength, actually, to her remaining daughter, to her remaining son, and to Carrie, who would have soon to be her daughter in law had time gave them a chance. I watch Margaret Scully as she wears her thick, placid mask and walk calmly among us, not even a wavering tear in her eyes. I watch as she stands tall and arrow-straight, and looks everyone in the eye, daring them to pity her. I watch her as she holds Carrie's hand tightly, offering her support and comfort for their mutual loss. I watch her and I wonder no more about the strength and passion my Scully holds. Scully takes after her mother in the two most beautiful, most amazing qualities; her petite body and her endless, infinite passion and strength. Later that night, as I offer my hand to say good-bye, I look Mrs. Scully in the eye and she looks straight back into mine. I see two bottomless lakes of passion and determination and something else. I see weakness, pleas with me that I have to take care of her remaining baby daughter. I see her beg me that she trusts me to protect Dana from whatever that might catch her, to cover for her as she's always covered for me. She makes me promise her, make an oath to her, without us exchanging a single word between us. "Mulder, wait." I see Scully approaching me from a distance and I turn my whole body to her. She stands close, lifts her face up to me so she doesn't have to talk in anything higher than a whisper. "Would you give me a ride home?" I open my mouth as I lean my head down to her and my first reaction is to tell her that it's better for her to spend the night here, with the rest of her family. But then I look into her eyes and see the desperation to leave this house of mourning as fast as she can. Scully notices my hesitation, but perceives a completely different conclusion: "Mom will be fine. Bill and Tara are staying with her." "Get your things." I cut her off, with equally low voice: Scully grabs her coat and purse and only looks at her mother good-bye. Mrs. Scully replies with eyes that are so understanding, and may I say, satisfied, that her daughter is being taken care of by someone, again may I say, whom she trusts. As I start the car and take off, Scully reclines her seat a little, rests her head on the headrest and watches through her window as the heavens weep. I wonder what's the secret of the pouring rain. How calming, tranquilizing. How cleansing. Scully seems to be deriving comfort from just being in the car, at night and listening to the hypnotic sound of the rain pouring, and I don't intervene. We spend most of the journey between Scully's mother's house, and her own in mutual silence. Sometimes I notice she's silently crying and I don't try to stop her, she needs to let it out for her own sake. Sometimes when I stop at a red light, I'd touch her hand lightly, just enough to tell her that I'm here for her, but never long enough for her to have to look at me, or squeeze my hand back. We arrive at her block and I stop the car in front of her apartment building, turn off the ignition and look at her. Some seconds pass before she realizes where we are, but doesn't do anything about it. Only a while later, she lifts her eyes and looks at me: "Will the pain ever go away?" I look at her, study both her eyes, the whites, the blues, the blacks and the tears, before I shake my head: "It will ease, but will never completely go away." "How?" I cut off the eye contact and look through the windshield in front of me and look up to the sky of pouring rain: "You'll live your life. Sometimes you'll even spend a whole day without remembering him not a once. But then, comes a Thanksgiving, or a Christmas, or a New Year or a birthday and all you want to wish for, all you can think of, is him right here with you. She looks at me intently. "You still miss your sister?" Without looking at her, I nod, and then whisper: "Yes." She turns her face away and lowers her eyes, regretting asking me something that she knows holds so much pain to me. I look at her and continue: I'll tell you what I miss. I miss having a sister to call when I'm not well, and ask her to make me some hearty chicken soup. I miss having a sister to visit on Thanksgivings. I miss having a sister who'd ask me what I thought of her new dress. I miss having a sister to buy her gifts for Christmas and take her to restaurants on birthdays." My train of thoughts stops to a halt as I feel Scully's hand covers mine and holds it tight. My train of thoughts takes a totally new direction, towards us. It's funny, in my relationship with Scully; both of us are the caring and the one being taken care of. Both of us are the gift and the given. Both of us are the comforter and the comforted. The shade that the other seeks in time of need. We spend a long while just listening to the rain pouring on the car hood and splashing on the windows, and to our own breathings as our chests steadily rise and fall. "Once, when I was five or six, I accidentally trapped my pet rabbit in a box. For five days. And when I went to take him out, he was already dead and decomposed." She looks down at her lap, and plays with her hand as she continues: "Charlie took me to the backyard and dug up this hole for me, to bury the rabbit. He stood there with me as we paid our last respects to it." I look at her, and dare I say I saw her only seven again. Complete with her hair curly and unruly and fire-red. Complete with baby tears falling down baby face and freckles. Complete with short dress and black shoes and white socks and ribbons. "He was the only one in the Scully family who never teased me about killing my own pet with my own hands. God knows everyone else did." I look at her but I only see part of her face. I reach my hand and place two fingers at the far side of her chin as I turn her face towards me. I don't remember I've ever been as sure or honest about anything as I'm right now about this: "I wouldn't have," I say. She smiles, a sad smile I think, then lifts her hand up to hold mine, the one still touching her face, and says, "I know." We share a moment, a memory, a look, a touch and two weak smiles between us. Then in only one second, she lowers her eyes and turns her face away form me as she breathes a feather-light kiss into my palm whispering: "I have to go." For the life of me, Scully, what are you doing to me? She doesn't reply to my unasked question, but instead, lets my hand drop back to my side as she picks up her purse, open the car door and walks under the rain towards her apartment building without looking back. I watch her as she runs across the street, her hair and clothes soaking wet, and her breathings form a trail of white mist behind her. I see her disappear through the front door, but I don't go yet, I wait until I see the light behind her window turns on. And then the one in her bedroom. Only then I breathe out heavily, start my car and slowly head to my own apartment. As I stop at a red light, I hear the radio in the car next to mine: You see my heart at night, at night you can hear it cry, as the teardrops fall from heaven's eyes, and somehow you know it's true, these tears they're falling for me and you. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. End of part two. From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000 15:00:42 -0500 Subject: FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. Spring. (3-4) by January Source: direct Reply To: a_11january@hotmail.com FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. (3-4) By January. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM Spring. Sunday, April 7. I awake as I feel the sun tease my eyes, touch my face and draw soft circles and squares and triangles on my skin. I inhale and warm air fills my nostrils and lungs and whole body, carrying the aroma of flowers and daisies and wet grass into me. Slowly, I open my eyes and see my apartment swim in a shimmering, golden light, and seen, but also unseen sun light make its way quietly but so playfully through the glass of my living room window, into the apartment. Into me. I happily accept it in. I take a big breath and jump out of couch and take a look through the window, and I see a typical, beautiful early April morning. The sun, the sky, the people, the laughter, the trees, the blossoms, the smell, and the feel. I smile as I imagine Scully also smiling to herself, congratulating herself for this beautiful day, drowning herself in it. What's she up to today? I pick up my bath towel and go grab my morning shower. I lift my head up, taking the cool spray of water straight to the face, enjoying it to the last drop. As I dry myself off, I hear the phone ring. I wrap the towel around my body and walk into the living room just as the machine picks it up, and I hear Scully's voice. "Mulder, it's me. Umm, are you there?" I smile to her as I pick the phone receiver, "Yeah, Scully. What's up?" Her voice reaches me filtered through the wires. "Hi. Umm, I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I'm baby-sitting Matthew for the weekend and I promised to take him out for the day, and I, uh, this is gonna sound so stupid, but I just discovered that I have a flat tire on my car. Can I borrow yours instead?" As she talks, I feel myself drown into her voice. I picture her taking care of her nephew, running after him, feeding him, bathing him, and coaxing him to sleep with a long bedtime story about hundreds of butterflies and fairytales and shimmering glitter. Do you still believe in those things, Scully? Do you want to believe? I only come to when I hear her voice, "It's okay, Mulder. I'll rent a car." "If I deliver the car to you, do I get to come?" I swear I can hear her smile. Half an hour later, I stop the car in front of Scully's apartment building and see Scully making her way through the main glass doors. I watch her as she comes closer with each step she takes. She is carrying Matthew on her right hip, her arm around his back, and carrying a small sports bag on her shoulder, approaching me smiling like she only existed during spring before. She is wearing a tight, white t-shirt, underneath a cream-colored, unbuttoned shirt, and a pair of old, faded jeans. She is wearing the very ordinary clothes anyone would wear on a typical April morning, but on her, they're extraordinarily atypical. My dear Scully. She enters the car smiling and breathless, and my heart melts as she introduces me to her nephew as Uncle Mulder. I turn my head towards the back seat to greet my newfound nephew with a smile, and two huge, blue eyes meet mine, with a twinkle and a small dimple. This boy is a real Scully boy. At the eatery, we stand second in line, waiting to be seated, behind a family of three, a man, a woman and a baby boy about the same age as Matthew's. I look at them and then at us. What makes us any different from them? The fact that Scully and I are neither lovers nor married? The fact that Matthew is not our son? The fact that we are here together only because we are baby- sitting someone else's child? I feel myself frown as I decide that this does not matter. Scully and I are a couple, even if we are not lovers. I stand a little closer to my woman, deliberately touching her hand lightly, to mark my territory, at least to myself. And as we are led to the table, I rest my palm on the small of Scully's back, and then realize that it's the one place on her body I can claim mine. We sit and I feel a little happy when she heartily orders something besides her usual salad-only dish. Later I watch her hands and fingers as she cuts Matthew's food into small pieces. Scully's hands are amazing. They can cut the food, the supplements of life, for a little boy, her nephew, with the same calmness and precision that they cut up dead people to learn the stories behind their deaths. As we wait for the coffee, I watch her closely as she plays and talks and laughs with her nephew, and later, as she bows her head and colors the Children's menu with Matthew, using only happy colors, red and orange and green and ocean blue. Then she absently tucks her hair behind her ear and I now have a full view of her face, the forehead, the eyebrows, the lashes, the cheeks and the lips. I watch her eyes as the color in them changes from pale gray, looking and smiling with the little boy, to the deepest, wettest blue, as she concentrates on the coloring with intense seriousness. I ask her if she wants more coffee, and she absently shakes her head without looking up at me. Later, she packs her colorings into her bag and we walk the one block to the nearby playground. As we come closer to the playground, voices and laughter of happy children reach us, encircle us, takes us to some old memories of our own childhood and our own carefree days. "Wanna race me to the swings?" Scully smiles down to her nephew and he flees screaming, wanting to win the race, with her deliberately running two steps behind him to allow him just that. I take a seat in a nearby bench and watch as Scully pushes her nephew in his swing up into the air, both of them smiling and laughing with internal happiness. Then Scully takes the other swing and soars into the air herself, her red hair blowing gently to and from her face. I keep watching and she keeps racing Matthew, to the swings, to the merry go round, to the slides, to the trees and leaves and wet grass. To the songs and laughter and rainbows. To the sweets and cotton candies and ice creams and childhood dreams. I feel Scully's happiness and laughter surge into my body and shoot through my system. If there is one thing I want in this life more than I want Scully, it's to give her happiness. Scully finally retreats and sits on the wet grass, rests her back on the trunk of an ancient, huge tree that stands in the middle of this miniature heaven landscape and closes her eyes. She appears to be so peacefully soaking up the soft sunlight into her skin and hair and lips and life. Matthew, very tired now, crawls into her lap and falls asleep. I watch the two as they gradually turn into a still picture, framed inside an animated one. Inside the frame, it's so still, so quiet, so peaceful, nothing is really moving but some soft, incredibly beautiful red locks. Outside the frame, it's a completely different story. I remember I once told Scully I never saw her as a mother before. It kills me now that I know I never will. Half an hour later, she opens her eyes and appears to be looking for someone. For me. As soon as we make eye contact, she gives me a huge, sleepy smile, surrounded by two tiny dimples and a hallow of red, disheveled hair that's blowing gently with the wind. I only noticed her dimples a few months ago. I wonder what else I don't know about her. As Scully walks towards me, she stops by an ice cream van. Now she's holding an ice cream cone in one hand, and a small, blue bag in the other as she stands next to me: "Here, I brought you this." Sun flower seeds. I smile. Hey thanks. She sits next to me and I watch as she starts at her frozen yogurt, or whatever healthy dreamsicle thing she'd opted for. After she finishes the whipped cream, she uses her fingers to break the cone into small pieces, lifting them up and into her mouth, with Matthew eating his own ice cream, sitting on the grass, beside Scully's feet. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM It's nighttime now as I stop the car in front of Scully's apartment. I carefully carry Matthew out of the car as Scully walks up front to open her apartment door for me. "Put him in my bed," She says, as she draws the bed sheets back a little. I carefully lean over and place the tired little boy on the soft, white, cotton sheets. And as I help Scully cover him with the comforter our hands touch, and then our eyes meet. We exchange a look and both of us feel the same feel, think the same thought, and share the same smile. In a fraction of a second, I cut off the eye contact almost aggressively. I will not allow this. It's easier for both Scully and I this way. I turn around and start my way to the apartment door. "Mul'er,"She whispers. I turn around to face her: "Yes?" She doesn't even hesitate a second. "Why don't you stay a while, huh? I'll make you a pizza." I don't even know what part of her sentence surprises me more. "You can cook, Scully?" "No," Comes the answer, with a playful smile. "We can always order a pizza, if you want." She places her hand on my shoulder as she gently pushes me towards the couch: No. I want to make you one." I oblige and sit on her couch as she walks towards her kitchen. From my place in the living room, I watch her as she takes her apron and carefully puts it on. She then leans down and opens some cupboards and picks up some pots and pans and utensils. I leave the couch and walk to the kitchen, and as Scully senses me standing besides her, she lifts her head up and the most beautiful, most amazing eyes meet mine. She smiles to me lovingly but not seductively, and I smile back. I like that she is not worried about the white trace of flour under her chin and down her neck. She is not worried that her hair is not as perfect as it usually is. She is not worried that she is not wearing her high heel, and that now the height difference between us is so obvious, and that she looks so vulnerable without her six layers of skin she wears every morning with her suit and her badge. "Want some help?" She looks at me over her shoulder, and gives me a half smile, or is it a smirk. "You wanna help me? What do you know about making a pizza, Mulder?" "Umm, I can sprinkle the cheese on top?" She doesn't reply, she just gives me a sideway look and turns around to continue doing whatever it was she was doing. I now can see the smear of flour clearly on Scully's face, so I instinctively tear a paper towel and wet it a little with warm water. I go and stand in front of Scully and start wiping the flour, down her face and chin with firm but gentle strokes. "When did you learn to cook, Scully?" She shakes her head slowly beneath my hand, "It's not really cooking, Mulder." And I have to adjust my position in front of her to get a better access to a trail of flour at the back of her neck, just underneath her hairline. "It's just a, um, a pizza." I listen to her voice. Her voice. It is slow and full and deep and so saturated I,,, I try to concentrate on wiping the last strand of the white spots behind Scully's ear when I feel both our breathings grow heavier, almost stay still. I lift up my eyes from the landscape of her cheek to meet the two blue lakes of her eyes, and we embrace and dance and sleep moments of spring in each other's rims of the souls. I only come to when I see her pupils dilate. Feel her drown into me. This is when I know that I'm approaching the red line. That I should draw right now. Right this moment. I tear my eyes back to the that white spot on the white skin, "Stand still. Almost done." I take another swipe or two at it, pretend that I'm examining my work, making sure I didn't leave any traces, and then nod my head and walk away to the sanctuary of her living room. I sit in the couch and absentmindedly surf the channels, hearing Scully's slow movements in the kitchen behind me. Fifteen minutes and thirty-five channels later, I hear the oven door squeak shut. I look over my shoulder and see Scully serving the pizza in a dinner plate. I leave the couch and go to her. "Smells nice." Still busy with cutting the pizza, she meets my eyes and smiles. "Mulder, can you get two sodas from the fridge?" I go and take the two cold cans. "Scully, do you still have that Tabasco from the other night?" She points towards a cupboard with her chin, "Upper shelf." I go get it and place it on the coffee table along with the soda cans, and sit on the couch. A moment later, Scully follows up and places the dish next to the two sodas and sits next to me. She takes a slice, serve it on a table napkin and hands it to me. Here, Mulder, take a bite and tell me what you think of my cooking." "But it's not really cooking." She slowly smiles to me, but her eyes are threatening me from under her lashes, giving me the don't-you- wisecrack-with-me-Mulder look. I smile back and lift up the pizza to my mouth. I take a bite and chew on it slowly. Mmm, tastes like, tastes like,,, "Well, Mulder, what do you think?" "Umm, tastes like,,," "What? Tastes like what?" Like pizza, I think. Yeah, tastes like a typical pizza." She looks at me puzzled, "Well, is that a good thing or a bad thing." "A good thing, of course. I mean, the base is neither undercooked nor burnt. The sauce is just in the line between sweet and sour. Pepperoni is well done whereas the cheese remains soft and chewy. What more can I ask for?" The look on her face is still expecting something, but what can I say more than I did? "Mulder, where did you learn to complement a girl on her cooking?" I smirk to her, "Let's just say that the last girl who cooked for me was my mom." Scully raises her slice to her mouth, shaking her head, "I don't believe that." "No? Who was the last girl who cooked for you?" She shoots me a look and then chuckles softly as she places the slice on the napkin. "Well, not counting my Mother, like you just did, I think it was Melissa. It was the summer after my graduation from med school when I went to spend some time in the West Coast where she lived. It was a Saturday and we went shopping for seven straight hours. We got home and barely crawled to bed. When we finally did wake up, it was already two in the morning. We couldn't go out to eat and we couldn't order in, so she made a pizza and I took the recipe." "It's a nice recipe, Scully. It really is." She just nods her head and hums a thank you. "Scully, could you pass me the Tabasco?" "Sure." I pour a few drops of the chili sauce on top of my slice. "Someone once told me that Tabasco cures everything." "Yeah? Like cures stomach ulcers when you drink it, trachoma when you use it as eye drops, and baldness when you massage it into your scalp?" I don't reply, I just laugh. "Beats penicillin if you ask me." I smile as I sprinkle a few more drops of the red stuff on my pizza, thinking of all the things I want to be cured of. We finish eating but neither of us bother to clear the table or wash hands, we just wipe them clean with the table napkin. Scully picks up the remote and does me the courtesy of surfing the channels for a few minutes before we both agree on an old movie. Scully moves closer to me to lean her weight sideways on my shoulder. We watch the film and Scully is so engrossed that she actually laughs, or frowns, at all the right places. I see her mouth open with disappointment when the young man gets rejected by the girl he loves. Then I see her laugh as she finally agrees to marry him, and he holds his stag night in a minivan. The most beautiful thing anyone can watch is Scully closing her eyes and throwing her head to the back and laugh, loud and crystal clear. Now Scully is watching with teary eyes as the two young lovers finally exchange vows. And just before The End appears, we hear Matthew cry softly. Scully sits up right and smiles happily. Too happily I think. "Mulder, it's our baby." I shoot her a look and she remains looking at me with such clear, intense happiness in her eyes that I've never seen before. It's like she didn't really hear her choice of words. The only thing I can do is to smile to her and nod, not really knowing what else to say or do, and her smile spreads even wider as she jumps to her nephew. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back." I comply and stay there, thinking about what had just happened. Scully, what are you thinking? What are you doing? Do you think you can play house with me? Do you think I can fulfill your dreams? Scully I'm the one who took away your chance of a real house and a real man and a real child of you own. I can't lie to you. I can't join you. But then I decide that if I took all those things from you, I will not take away your dream. I will give you a chance, but only for a dream. I enjoy hearing Scully talking and cooing to her nephew. They sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' together, and gradually, their voices get lower and quieter. Twenty minutes later, I decide to go check on them, and I find Scully lying in her bed, holding her nephew in her arms, both sound asleep. "Scully?" I whisper very softly, but I get no reply. So I pull the bed sheet from the foot of the bed and cover her nice and toasty. I watch her face for a second or two, and then turn around and walk to the door. "Mulder." "Yeah?" I turn around to her, but she's still sound asleep. I take a few steps closer to her and study her face closely. Her eyes are moving under her lids, a sign that she is dreaming. What are you dreaming, Scully? Are you dreaming those conventional dreams? Are you dreaming of finding your man and falling in love and getting married and raising a family? Is that man in your dreams, me? Do I want it to be me? "Good night, Scully." I whisper, as I close the door behind me and go my own way, to my own apartment. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. End of part three. From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Mon, 11 Sep 2000 15:02:35 -0500 Subject: FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. Summer. (4-4) by January Source: direct Reply To: a_11january@hotmail.com FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. (4-4). By January. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM Summer, Saturday, August 31. There isn't a worst day for the air conditioning to break down than today. It's an August midmorning where the temperature outside is about a hundred. We also have the humidity inside. I already took off my coat jacket and untied my tie and rolled up my sleeves, but still, I feel my shirt stick to my back with the thin layer of perspiration that my body secreted in objection to the weather. It's a sticky Saturday, but Scully and I have to work on our expense report to tender before the end of the month. We work together at my desk for about three hours before she finally gives up and goes to her own desk for a short, much needed break. I look at her and she finally throws the protocol at arm's length, and takes off her suit jacket and loosens her white shirt around the neck. She sits lazily in her chair, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, arms resting at the arms rest, head thrown a little to the back and eyes closed. I see her chest rise and fall, releasing a tired sigh. "This is hell, Mulder. This is exactly how they described hell to us in Sunday school. Talk about teaching using practical methods." I smile a little and decide to do something about this torturing heat: "I'll go to the vending machine, what do you want to drink?" Without looking up, she nods her head lightly. "Yeah, water and ice, please." I grab my wallet and leave the basement. Two minutes later, I come back with the goodies to see Scully still in the position I left her in. Could it be that she fell asleep? "Scully?" She opens her eyes, and they light up the moment they see the water and ice. I only think I hear a thank you, as she reaches out, takes the bottle of water from my hand, busily unscrews the cap, and then have a very long, very slow, very desperate swig. I, I try not to look. I go back, sit at my desk and try to get very busy with my own can of soda. I just about manage to open the can of cola before my eyes give away and go back to where my partner is. I see her move the bottle away from her mouth and lift her small hand to gently wipe her now-wet, cherry- colored lips with the tips of her fingers. Then she appears to be looking desperately for something else, and when her eyes fall on the plastic cup full of ice cubes, her lips automatically and thirstily part. She reaches out her hand, dips her thump and her pointer finger into the plastic cup, gets a cool, wet ice cube and lifts the poor little thing up and into her mouth, where it gets to be teased and crushed and melted and swallowed by my "hot" partner. I try not to listen to its cries for help. After Scully finishes her torture on the now-RIP- piece of ice, she looks much more happy and refreshed. She then looks around for a second, as if looking for an escape route from this little Saturday nightmare, then asks me: "How much work left?" "Only this last past week's, and then we are free." She closes her eyes in disappointment. "A week's worth of receipts? No." She twists her lips a little, not having the desire or energy to start working again. And before she could decide what to do next, my private line rings. "Mulder." I answer my phone, and I hear a male voice asking me if I was Mr. Midler. "No. It's Mulder, m, u, l. No, M.U.L, yes, Mulder. No, not Max, it's Fox." Scully's soft giggles reach me from across the office. I look at her and she's trying hard not to look at me. "Yes, Fox. And no, I don't own a house." As soon as I speak those words into the phone, the guy does me the courtesy of hanging up on me. "Max Midler?" Scully asks, a beautiful smile still on her face. I nod my head: "Yeah, that's my new pseudonym." "Who was that anyway?" "A window company trying to sell me crap." "Don't worry Mulder, it's not your fault your name is so, umm, ehem, weird." And her voice cracks with little, butterfly-like laughters. "Come on, Scully, not that weird." Scully crosses her eyebrows, as if getting an idea, a funny one, too: "Imagine this, Mulder. You are meeting someone for the first time, and you introduce yourself. - Hello, sir, my name is Mulder. - Mulder? Is that your first name? - No, of course not. My first name is FOX." And she falls laughing at me like a little, beautiful, irresistible nutcase. Glad I could put a smile on your face honey bun. After her laugher resides, she looks at me apologetically and smiles: "I'm sorry, Mulder. I guess I just needed the laugh." "Oh, it's ok. You know I don't mind." "Yeah, I know." Her eyes take a darker shade of blue, as they travel through the basement window to the world outside: "It's just that it's Saturday, and I was thinking, you know, that maybe we didn't have to work on the weekend." I look at her and see her leaving her laughter behind her, and slipping back into that empty, sad place she usually resides. A moment later, she lowers her eyes for a second, and her hair reacts by sliding softly over her face, to rest on her cheeks. It breaks my heart when she breathes out, lifts her head up and slowly reaches out to open a file on her desk and starts to read it. "Scully, go home, take a bath, and wear something nice. I'll pick you up at around seven." MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM Around five, I finally submit the expenses report, that I've finished without Scully's help, to Kimberly and leave the bureau. I get into my car and drive slowly through the rushed DC streets, paying only half of my attention to the road in front of me, and the other half to what was to happen tonight between Scully and me. I shake my head. Nothing will happen. I'm not taking Scully on a date. It's only a simple dinner for the two of us. I enter my apartment and grab a cool shower to wash the day away. I think of Scully. She must be doing the same thing right now, slowly sponging and cleansing her petite body, shampooing her hair delicately and brushing her teeth using double mint toothpaste. That's what I imagine she would taste like if I. . . I try not to pay much attention to my choice of clothes, as this isn't anything special, this is just a simple dinner for Scully and me. Like every other one we previously had. Twenty to seven, I'm driving my car over to Scully's. It's a late summer afternoon, and the sky looks a little, what? Pink? Mixed with streaks of heavenly blue and incredible mauve. Amazing. Breathtaking. Scully opens the door and for a split second, I think I'm at the wrong apartment. I'm nearly apologizing to the lady and turning away. It is her distinctive scent that draws me back to my partner. I look at her again, standing at the door, wearing her smile and her perfume and her lipstick and her black dress. The latter I think is one of those silk, small Chinese dresses, with the high collar and the very short sleeves. I've seen Scully almost naked before, I've seen her completely naked, but I've never seen her as beautiful before. As sexy. "Come on, Scully. We're gonna be late." That's the only complement I pay my awaiting partner. But late for what? I don't even have a reservation. As she takes her seat in the passenger seat besides me, she asks: "So where are you taking me tonight?" I'm suddenly aware that it's not the usual * Where are we going this time?* Tonight, I'm taking her, to where I want to take her. "I know this small eatery," I think Scully would be a little disappointed at my choice, and that her expectation must be a little higher than a small eatery, but again, I remind myself, this is not a date, just a simple dinner for the two of us. We chitchat along the way to the restaurant, about the work and about other things too. She moves her head and tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles. She appears to be relaxed and ready for this, whatever it is that we are doing. When we reach the address, I can't seem to find the place, and have to take a U-turn to try again. Again, I can't find it. Instead of my eatery, I find a small, unknown restaurant in its place. It has this weird name, ThousandCandles, written in red and black on the wood and glass doors. "This isn't supposed to be here, Scully." "Well, fact remains. . . " I smile and stop the car in front of the restaurant. As I open the heavy, wood and glass door, I feel a soft breeze of wind and perfume and Sandal Wood aroma blow gently to my face as the atmosphere suddenly changes just at the threshold. I take a moment and turn my head and look over my shoulder to the street behind me. Outside it's summer, and lit, and open. Inside, it's chilly and heavy and the air is thick with perfumes and colognes and smoke and jazz music. I take a wider look and this restaurant looks more like a fancy bar; with its low ceiling and small tables and thousand candles. With the people in suits and tuxes and dark, backless dresses. It's also a little dark in here as the place appears to be lit by only candles. Candles of all sizes and colors are distributed finely on walls and tables and hanging low from the ceiling. And we have to carefully maneuver our way in, as the middle-aged waiter guides us through the small room, around the small tables. We reach our table and the waiter pulls the deep red, velvet chair for Scully and then smiles politely as she takes her seat. He then hands us the menus and leaves. I lift my eyes up and look Scully in the eye, but don't know what to say. She seems different. The place is different, but Scully and I have been to different places up and down the country more than I care to count or remember. No. It's not the place, it's the air that comes with it. The feel, the low glow coming from the countless little flames distributed meticulously around and on the tables. The atmosphere that's charged with static and longing and waiting and heavy breathing. I look at her closely, and her face looks so pink under the glow of the five candles on the table. Her eyes take a different shade of blue and her hair a different shade of auburn and her lips a different shade of red. She appears to be in another planet anyway; sipping slowly on her glass of water, looking around the tables and the people. People around us are holding hands, stroking cheeks, smiling and kissing. A couple on the next table are sitting close and holding hands intimately. The young man slips a ring on his girl's finger. She smiles and says something to him, and then she lifts up her arm and brings him closer and lovingly kisses him. Scully and I look at each other, and before either of us could say anything, our orders arrive. As the waiter places our plates in front of us, Scully keeps secretly and longingly glancing at the couple at the next table. "Enjoy your meal." The waiter interrupts her thoughts, smiling. Scully lifts her head to him and smiles politely. "Thank you." I hear Scully's voice and realize that she had already absorbed the heaviness and deepness of this place. Her voice comes out saturated with the same particles that are filling the air around us. Before we start to eat, Scully looks at me and appears to be about to say something, but she's interrupted by a faint sound of applauding. We both turn our heads to see a tall, dark, pencil-thin lady singer walking slowly up-stage to join the jazz group. She then smiles to the audience, sits on the metal stool set there for her, and starts singing. So close, no matter how far, Couldn't be much more from the heart, Forever trust in who we are, And nothing else matters. Her voice is so hoarse and raspy, as if she was crying up until moments ago. As if she had just swallowed broken glass. Her words come from the heart, as if she is bleeding them. "Dance with me." I hear Scully say. I look at her and she returns my look behind heavy lidded eyes. Before I have time to reply, she reaches out her hand for mine and I give in to my partner. Both Scully and I leave our meals untouched and walk to the small dance floor in the middle of the restaurant. When we are there, with only two other couples, she doesn't hold me the conventional way for slow dancing; she unbuttons my suit jacket, and from underneath the garment, puts both her arms around me, and holds me, and rests her head underneath mine. I rest my palms on her waist, and then hips with nothing to separate my skin from hers but a thin, fragile layer of pure, black silk. Never open myself this way Life is ours we live it our way All these words I don't just say And nothing else matters. We don't dance; we sway with the music. We hug, we hold, we touch, we long, and we long for more than just to dance. Trust I seek, and I find in you Everyday for us something new Open my eye for a different view And nothing else matters. Scully shifts a little in my arms and then moves her arms to rest them on my shoulders, hugging me closely around the neck, her head resting on my heart, her lips wet and opening and closing two millimeters away from my skin. I find myself hugging her closer. Pulling her closer. She exhales heavily and I feel her breathings go down my collar and into my heart and shoot with my blood through my system. I lift up my hand and stroke her almost aggressively time and time again on her face and behind her ear and inside her hair. She opens her two blue lakes of her eyes and looks at me, and I fall and drawn and sleep in them. And I dream in them. I dream that all the tables and walls and faces and places around us crumble and thaw and melt away, leaving us on a white beach, beside a black ocean, with only a thousand candles around us to light the night for us while we danced the night away. I dream. I always dream. I only dream. But a dream is an answer to a question we will * never* learn how to ask. MSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSMSM FourSeasons A ThousandCandles. End of the Story. Praise me. Flame me. Email me. Now. Author's note: This story took me a spring and a summer to write :-) Nothing Else Matters is a beautiful song by Mettalica. Thanks for the inspiration. And yes, Michelle, Mulder's soda was indeed a diet Pepsi, and Scully's perfume was Oceanus. 42 1