From: Dreamshpr@aol.com Date: 8 Jun 1999 10:47:00 -0700 Subject: xfc NEW: Healing (1 of 1) by Dreamshaper From: Dreamshpr@aol.com TITLE: Healing AUTHOR: Dreamshaper FEEDBACK: could you, please? I'd love it--dreamshpr@aol.com ARCHIVING: if you so desire ;) Just talk to me first if we haven't talked before. CATEGORY: MSR, A RATING: I dunno...no rampant sex...you decide SPOILERS: Not many, really SUMMARY: Scully gets drunk, Mulder gets smart DISCLAIMER: Sometimes I feel like Chris Carter's worst nightmare--look at the things I make his characters do! But I'm not, so he doesn't have to sue me ;) NOTES: People kept asking after the other random moment I posted how the Hell I kept 30 stories on my hard drive without giving in to posting them...so I decided to. Most of them are pretty much just exercises, experiments with character and such...but I like them. This one is one of the character twisters...enjoy ;) ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````` "There are steps to healing." The murmur is absent, the speakers hands seem to absorb her attention. They are closed around a glass, one making slow concentric circles on the dewy glass. "There's the original insult, the pain signals that alert the body to injury...swelling, heat, constriction of blood vessels. Eventual regeneration of what can be regenerated, healing of what can be healed. If you're lucky, you get through the process with no scarring. Sometimes the marks left behind are horrendous." A pause in the flow of words is followed by a small smile into the bubbles dancing in the glass, a husky chuckle before the glass is lifted, drained. "Sometimes there are keloids. Big, ugly versions of scar tissue that aren't predictable. There *are* reasons for them of course, there are reasons for everything. But it's easier just to see them, and deny them their reasons. Why would the body do something like that to itself?" I don't know the answers and am unnerved by the attitude she displays, so I keep my mouth shut, my eyes on her face and my hands firmly clenched on the rough table top. But maybe answers were unnecessary, the question rhetorical, because she smiles again and continues with her speech. "Keloids and scar tissue of the regular sort...they don't have nerve endings. They're insensitive. The skin around them is superalert, but they feel nothing. Most scars are small enough that you don't even really notice that you can't feel anything." I feel superalert right now, watching her like a hawk as she signals for another tall, bubbling glass and rests her elbows on the table. As she regards the tabletop rather drunkenly, I give into the urge to reach out to her and lay a hand on her cool, cool cheek. Finding it soft but finding her unresponsive, I slowly place my hand back onto the table and wait for her to continue. She's trying to tell me something with this medical dissertation, and as much as I'm afraid to hear it, I don't want to stop her either. It seems like she needs to do some healing too. "No, can't feel anything with the scars...but you can dance." She rises easily, in an abrupt--incredibly abrupt--change of mood, and heads to the dance floor. Postage stamp sized and crammed with bodies, it seems to be a sudden beacon to her. I follow her swaying hips under their businesslike suit and crowd into her space, keeping her safe from the vultures that circle the minute she slides herself into the music. I don't dance not well when it isn't slow, so while she sways and closes her eyes, I circle around her warily, keeping one eye on her and one on the rough-edged crowd so interested in the small, small redhead so lost in the beat. And when the beat changes, slows, I am ready and hustle her into my arms before someone else can. It's not possession, I assure myself. Just protection--she's in no state, and no mood, to protect herself. She has to be protected. That's what my world centers around much of the time. This woman must be safe, or all else is useless, worthless and hopeless. She must be well, or I am useless, worthless and hopeless. It's something I was forced to accept long ago, and though I still struggle with it now, and rebel against the urges--I don't deny them. I couldn't. I need her too much. So I enfold her gently, lightly, when the music slows and the lights dim. She makes no objection, just places her hands on my arms and allows herself to be caught closer. It's only a little while before her head slowly comes to rest on my chest, in fits and starts of sleepiness. She's not a good drunk, moody and tempermental, so easily melancholy. I could count on one hand the times I've seen her truly drunk--not just tipsy from wine, but inebriated completely. And all those times evoke memories of pain and a dreary acceptance of it. I don't like her drunk. I love her, but when she's like this--guilt rages through me, and I want to sit down with her and drink her under the table. I doubt I could. She's a sailor's daughter, an Irish girl who never met a man big enough to take her down. A drinking contest with her would only result in enough mutual moroseness to make angels sigh and fold up their wings. We are no longer dancing, just swaying, coming closer and closer as she loses more bone and becomes basically fluid but weak muscle. Just as I'm about to pull her off the floor and out of this bar I feel her breath like a secret on my face and open my eyes to find her looking up at me, quite sober for the moment, and determined. "Scar tissue, Mulder. Keloids. I'm covered with 'em." Confused, I frown. "No," I say, my first words in a long time. "No you're not." "Yes I *am*. All over me. I don't feel a thing, Mulder. Scar tissue doesn't have any nerve endings, remember?" Her eyes are so soft now, sad with that determination gone. I don't know what brought this on, but it's time to end it. By benefit of a nearly a foot of height and plenty more weight, I manage to peel her from the floor. Keeping an arm about her to guide and shield her, I hustle back to our table, drop some bills on it's scarred surface. Grabbing both our suit jackets, I press her towards the door, interrupting her drunken goodnights. The air outside is crisp and clear, redolent with the sea. I hurry her to the car, but she fights the last steps. "Mulder--I want to go to the water." Who am I to deny her the comfort she always seems to find in the ocean? I loose her from my hold, follow her out to the road and across it, thankful for the lack of traffic. She kicks off her shoes and I do the same, dumping our jackets with them on the soft surface. Keeping back for a minute, I watch her go to the waters edge, where waves roll in and suck the sand away beneath her feet. Then I cross to her, afraid to leave her alone, afraid to be near her, afraid... The water is endless and dark, the horizon invisible--the world from here looks like a big wall of water. Excepting the sand and the breaking parts of the waves, everything is dark, and the soft roar and suck of the water is the only sound. I stand behind her, at her shoulder, and train my eyes to her line of sight. Nothing in particular, just more dark water, but she seems fascinated, as if the secrets of the world were being revealed to her. Who knows--maybe they are. It startles me when she moves from the water's caress, goes back to the drier sand and settles herself. Ladylike, she extends her short legs out before her, crossing one elegant calf over the other--they're heavy with muscle, but still refined. Her head tilts back to stare down the stars, and I stay where I was, trying to make out her expression though she is backlit by the neon lights of that bar. "When I was little, I was scared of the sky." I tell her, suddenly in no mood for silence. "I thought it was going to collapse on our heads one day, like a big balloon closing in on itself." "Somehow that doesn't surprise me," she murmurs and sounds like herself for a moment--acerbic, intelligent...affectionate. "You always did remind me of Chicken Little." "Yeah? Well, you never reminded me of Starbuck, so it's all even." I tell her, smiling at her haloed figure on the sand. "No--I never reminded myself of Starbuck either." She replies and for a moment the wistful air of before engulfs her. I cross the sand, hesitate and then settle carefully behind her again. Spreading my legs open wide, I tug her back between them, resting my cheek on the top of her hair and sighing. I have always loved to be close to her like this. To be allowed so far into her space seems somehow an admission to me, and I treasure it. But it's nothing I often allow myself. Usually, my need for touch is manifested in a touch to her face, a strand of hair slid behind her ear, a hand on her back. But I love the way our bodies, so mismatched, seem to melt together when we're like this. Content now to silence since she is in my arms, I just wrap my arms loosely over her chest, feel her grab onto one forearm with a small, strong hand. There are times when she needs this as much as I. Where she might normally have pushed me away, laughed me off...with her defenses lowered and her heart heavy, she needs the closeness. And as much as I might wish her happiness in this closeness...all I can wish now is some easing of whatever it is she is feeling. Locked together in silence on the cool sand, we watch the stars wheel and tumble slowly across the sky. Looking into the heavens is a way of looking into the past. Some of those stars up there, twinkling so merrily--some of them are certainly dead, or dying. But their light comes across to us as clearly as if they were new because they are so far away--in a thousand years, these stars that Scully and I watch will not be where they are. I wonder...hope...that some form of us, our souls reborn...I hope we are alive when the stars have shifted. I don't want to die and not exist anymore, I don't even want to go to Heaven. I just want to live, again and again. I want more chances. I want to do it right. When Scully gradually relaxes and loses her tension in my arms, when her breathing evens out into that of sleep...I press a kiss to her cool hair. For a moment, I have my wish--I have done something right. But moments are not forever, and this one passes as they all do. So I gently disengage myself from her, lay her back gently in the sand. Hurrying as well as I can in the tugging sand, I drag our jackets and shoes to the car. Leaving the passenger side open, I jog back to her. She is an easily carried bundle, small. Not light, but not heavy, just solid and firm. It's no hardship to bring her back to the car, and she slides into the passenger seat much more easily than I had anticipated she might. I buckle her in delicately before kneeling back on my haunches to look at her. In the neon lights of the bar, distress is clear on her face, her mouth is set, her eyes move restlessly under her lids. Her breathing is not as even as I could hope and her fingers twitch gently, grasping at something that isn't there. I hurt for her, and for myself. I want to be the one she reaches for, I don't want to have to follow her like this again...I don't want her to ever hurt like this again. <> And I don't want that to be true either. I want her to love me. I press another feather light kiss against her cheek, grazing my lips just barely over the corner of her mouth. Then I rise stiffly from my crouched position beside her and stumble around to the other side of the car, grateful I hadn't been drinking. My muscle coordination seems iffy enough as it is. The drive to our motel is short, and I blank my mind on the way. I don't feel like thinking anymore. I jog out of the car when it's safely parked in the motel lot, getting to her door as quickly as possible. Opening the lock is done is fractions of a second, and I carefully brace it open before heading back to get her. Carting her across the pavement in my bare feet, I bite my lip to stifle any noises--the gravel is sharp, but the last thing I want to do is wake her. Muscling open her door with a sigh of relief, I cross to her bed, lay her gently on it. Smoothing her hair gently across the white cotton of the pillow case soothes me, as does peeling her skirt and nylons down, unbuttoning her blouse and taking off all her jewelry but the tiny cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. These are all things I imagine a lover might do... When I step back to leave, she moans in her sleep and curls up on her side. One hand grips into her stomach and the other rises to fist by her face. I can't leave her like this. I haven't left her side all night...I won't do it now. I peel off my shirt and pants, watching her toss in the vague moonlight. Careful, so careful not to wake her, I slide behind her in the narrow bed. <> She settles down once I am wrapped lightly around her, behind her. My chin finds its rightful place atop her hair, one arm slides beneath the pillow while the other slips over her hip. My legs curl up into the space behind hers and find a perfect fit... I've never lain with her like this, I've never been this close to her. It might have been arousing...if her sadness wasn't a scent in the air. I press the hand resting on her stomach into her skin, massaging gently, running my hand over the scars there. <> My eyelids grow heavier and heavier and my breathing slides deeper...but I don't sleep. I just rest behind her in something of a trance state, moving only that one hand in the same lazy circles she used on her glass...breathing in her scent, feeling her ribs rise and fall, counting her heartbeats and the seconds that pass between them... I don't know anyone in this world who feels more than she does. She's all fiery, passionate loyalty and courage, deep determination and gentle caring. I can't imagine where this came from... But I can regret the hell out of it. And I do, for a couple of hours. Till a quiet moan signals that she is rising from her sleep. In anticipation, I close and curl myself more closely around her, not wanting to let her go...not willing to give up the safety that can be found in the holding of her. I can tell when she's fully awake only because her body tightens and jerks, ready for flight. "Scully...Scully, it's me." I whisper urgently in her ear, and she settles down with a certain stiff set to her spine but a lack of fear. "Mulder?" She whispers, scratchy and hesitant, then coughs. "What are you doing here?" "I carried you in," I tell her, gentle, enjoying her awareness in my arms. "You fell asleep on the beach--when I put you down and went to leave, you seemed distressed." "I'm fine." She says automatically, voice no stronger than before. "Of course you are. You just get drunk and miserable all the time, I know." She doesn't like that, and puts some muscle into her attempts to free herself. But I have more muscle and manage to keep her close--I don't even lose my position. Finally, out of breath, she sighs. "Mulder--I'm fine. You can leave. I promise, I won't be...distressed...if you go now." I can't help but grin. No, I doubt she would. She seems to have passed through the depression of earlier. But I don't want to go... So I don't. "What was that tonight, Scully?" I ask instead, caressing the plane of her stomach gently and enjoying it's surprised jumps. "I don't know what you mean." She says, cool and clear as a nun. "Oh? So you've forgotten telling me all about scars and keloids and the lack of feeling?" My voice lowers and I speak directly into her ear, wishing I could see her face but not wanting to move. Silence. "Did you forget telling me how you're all scars? How you don't feel anything?" I can't help but push... And for what is likely to be the first time, I push hard enough for her to fall. "I do, all right?" She whispers in a heated rush. "I do remember telling you--by God, I do remember feeling it." "What do you feel?" For a long moment, there is nothing. She doesn't speak, doesn't move--doesn't seem to breathe, and I find myself holding my breath in response. But then her voice breaks the silence, and I close my eyes in relief. Scully has decided to talk. "I don't know, Mulder." She says and her voice is far away, considering. "I don't know what I feel. I mean...I feel like...my heart is scar tissue, Mulder, covered in it so many times that it just gave in and *became* it." "Do you really believe that?" I nuzzle the words into her ear. "Do you really?" She considers, then curls farther into herself. "Yes," she murmurs. "Yes, I do." Without breaking my hold, I roll her over. I can't allow that, I can't not fight that--not when she is my priority, her safety and happiness my main concern. I look down into her eyes, finding them luminous and tired, and I smile. "I don't, Scully. I don't believe for an instant that you don't feel anymore." "Mulder...I've been hurt. I've healed a thousand times and been hurt a thousand more. There's no room left for anything but scars." "We've both been hurt--the entire human race has been hurt a billion times, Scully. Doesn't mean we stop feeling." I press a kiss to her forehead, feel her shoulders hitch. Press a kiss to her cheek and feel her sigh against my skin...press a kiss to her lips and feel the world stop. Distantly, I know what I'm feeling isn't real--the sky hasn't fallen, the stars haven't gone supernova, life as we know it has not changed. But with the feel of her silky lips under mine, her silky skin against mine...I wonder for a split second if the distant part of me is wrong, and everything has changed. "Did you feel that?" I whisper when I break away to breathe. "Did you?" "Yeah," she whispers hesitantly, surprised. "I did." I nuzzle her chin, smiling. "It's because I love you." I tell her, certain. "Had anyone else done that, you never would have felt it." "Or I'd have killed him." She agrees and kisses me lightly, just barely pressing her lips to mine. "Or I would have." She laughs silently, just a small shake of her shoulders, and I smile, resettle her against me. "Scully--this was just a moment. Moments end. I thought that earlier, and it seems as certain now. Moments end, the feelings you *weren't* feeling will all come back--it was just a second in your life. Do you understand what I'm saying?" She considers, pushes back a bit to look seriously into my eyes. "I think I might, Mulder. I think I did even when I was feeling it." A small grin, barely perceptible, passes across her lips. "Getting drunk, getting miserable--it was all an excuse to get in your arms." I roll my eyes. "If I believed that, I'm sure you'd find a bridge to sell me, or persuade me to hug Brother Bill." "Lord, no. Bill would kill you first." I smile back at her, and move to kiss her again. "But...why don't you kill me first?" I whisper, suggestive and with a waggling brow. "Because," she says with a sweetly demonic grin. "Then who would I get drunk with?" That's not a train of thought I want to follow, so instead I kiss her again, and let the world, the scars and time disappear. END ```````````````````````````````````````````````````````` I love random moments in time ;) So much fun to play with...I swear, I'll make a series out of 'em one day ;) Anyway. Feedback is always a good thing ;) Send it and be my bestest friend forever! Dreamshaper (dreamshpr@aol.com)