From: cysegr@my-dejanews.com
Date: Tue, 23 Mar 1999 06:49:39 GMT
Subject: new MSR: "In Water"

"In Water"
by Cysegr, Cysegr@yahoo.com.

Spoilers: none
Category: Scully, V, MSR
Rating: R
Archive: yes, anywhere, with my name.
Feedback: please, anyone, anything, anytime, cysegr@yahoo.com. This is only #2
for me, I need guidance!

I like pearls. I don't usually wear a lot of jewelry; long, dangling earrings
and flashy tennis bracelets are not my style, and they're certainly not
practical. But I've always liked pearls; and I've always liked gold, though
the gold is just about genetics.  It brings out pretty tones in my hair.  And
perhaps its softness-- perhaps that appeals to me too, the knowledge that
gold is soft.  I know that's a part of why I like pearls.

Of course, they remind me of the sea. One time Ahab even gave me, Melissa,
and mom, each a well-made faux pearl necklace for Christmas.  So pearls, too,
are in my blood.  But mostly I like the softness of pearls, when I'm at a
party, or a nice restaurant, like tonight. They were smooth and warm against
my skin, in contrast with the brittle, dangerous-looking rocks adorning the
women seated at tables around Mulder's and mine, those small diamonds and
gems which seemed to weight down papery women. The women look like they rely
on that jewelry, drawing things from it: the quick gleam reflected in one
woman's eye, the oppressive gravity of another's presence, the sharp,
bloodletting confidence in all of their words. I was glad, watching them,
that I wore pearls.

Mulder was tracing rings along the lip of his wine glass with the tip of a
finger, wholly absorbed in that task, while I made these observations.

Now, as we sit holding hands in the back of the taxi, his eyes are only on
me, on my freckled shoulder, on the thin ribbon of a strap holding my sheath
gown, on the fine hairs escaping from my French twist near the base of my
skull. I can feel the now familiar flush of desire breathing across my skin.
Our windows are fogging slightly, the drenching Autumn rain running off the
cab, outside, as we ride through the outskirts of my neighborhood.

This dinner, tonight, was my idea, though I think it's something he's
secretly wanted us to do together for a while. He, of course, insisted on
paying for the entire evening, despite a recent suspension. I don't mind his
paying for me under normal circumstances, but today we fought over it all
afternoon. We made ourselves forget that argument tonight, as we sat together
sipping white wine and staring out over our view of DC. After a few minutes
he moved his gaze to my face, and eventually I had to kick him, under the
table, to get him to look away. I cannot get used to his studying me, when he
is not looking into my eyes. He smirked, saying I was too easily embarrassed,
and began to reciprocate my kick by rubbing his sock-clad foot against my
ankle, and then slowly up my thigh.

We enter my apartment laughing, both of us dripping from the rain, and he
takes my coat from me, hanging it, then takes off his own coat and jacket. My
gown is damp, and clings to me as I calm down, and shiver a little, caught in
his gaze. He walks towards me, grips me gently by my shoulders, and kisses
me. As we kiss I reach up and touch his rain-darkened collar, undoing one
button, and stop suddenly as my gown slips down my body under his hand,
pooling at my feet. I gasp slightly, and then laugh as he chuckles, my
fingers continuing down the front of his shirt. His chest, I think, is very
nice.

We kiss, and undress completely, making our way slowly to the bathroom, me
giggling as he accidentally douses his head and one shoulder in freezing
water, turning on the shower. I always turn the bath faucet on when I'm done
showering; he must have used the shower last. I leave him to run into the
bedroom, grabbing two clean towels from the laundry bag, then return and
crawl into the steamy deluge with him.

We nearly kill each other every time we try to shower together. We bicker
over who gets to wash what, and in what order. I always shampoo him twice, to
get the gel out of his hair. I was surprised to learn just in these past two
weeks that he even uses hair stuff; after all, I don't. He called me sexist
but he was just embarrassed. He always insists on scrubbing behind my ears,
hard, even though I say he's taking his mom too seriously. You don't need to
wash behind your ears every single day. He claims it's my perfume-- smells
nice at arm's length, gives you a headache during sex. We agree that he
should never have to shave until morning.

We climb out onto the cold tile and towel each other off.

I actually told him, as we dined on fettucini alfredo and salmon,
respectively, about my epiphanies on the subject of jewelry. I let myself get
caught up in my own theory, eventually stating that I believed it possible to
dissect someone's personality, to profile a criminal, even, based solely on
the knowledge of what kinds of metals and stones that person wore. This is
one of the new aspects of our relationship, now; we can indulge in complete
bullshit discussions. We can think up the dumbest notions, and share them,
and neither of us will hold the other to any of it, both of us just enjoying
a piece of time together when we don't have to mean what we say or ever find
the right answer.

His response to my psychological musings on pearls was to conjure up an
elaborate, if wholly and deliciously trite, metaphor that paralleled the life
of a pearl and his love for me. He was the oyster, he said, and I was a
little grain of sand that worked her way into his shell, and irritated him
until he nurtured his perception of her into the one small, beautiful thing
gave his life worth. Then he quickly told me not to get all freaked out, he
knew his life had value of it's own, blah blah, please don't pick apart his
nice metaphor. I told him I wasn't planning to.

We make love in my bathroom, on the ceramic sink, his feet barely able to
brace against the slippery bath mat. My back shivers in pleasure on the cold
surface of the mirror, and eventually I upset and crack a tall glass bottle
of cold cream.

When we finish in there, I chase him into bed, scrambling to pinch his ass,
until he gets sick of me and flips on top of me to kiss my neck. And I
realize that it is only in these minutes, perhaps this last quarter hour or
so before we turn off the bedside lamp and fall asleep, when we are truly
together and alone, that I am able to give in to myself completely. Lying
beneath his kisses, it strikes me that despite my pearls, I too, outside of
this bedroom, grasp for strength in things, or in routines and roles, that
really can only drain me, as they defy who I am.

I lean into his body and whisper my thanks for even this much.