From: Kate Rickman Date: Thu, 11 Nov 1999 17:56:09 -0500 Subject: Leaves of Spring (1/1) Kate Rickman Source: xff Reply To: kate.rickman@mindspring.com TITLE: Love for all Seasons V: Leaves of Spring AUTHOR: Kate Rickman E-MAIL: kate.rickman@mindspring.com DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere CLASSIFICATION: MSR RATING: R SPOILERS: None DISCLAIMER: Just the wall, not the bricks. SUMMARY: Scully discovers Mulder's hidden talent. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yup, out of order, just as I threatened. Thanks to Pam for recognizing Mulder's voice when she heard it. Love for All Seasons is and will be: I. Summer into Fall--archived at my site II. Coloring Fall--archived at my site III. Winter Solstice--COMING SOON IV. Winter into Spring ***IV. Leaves of Spring--this story*** V. Summer VI. more, more, more--eventually Other parts of this story and my other fiction can be accessed at http://kate.rickman.home.mindspring.com/ Once again, thank you for reading! *** Scully's Apartment June 4, 1999 I riffle through papers piled high across the coffee table. Photographs sit atop manila folders, folders leak memoranda scrawled in Mulder's sprawling hand; a generous handful of notes have scattered onto the carpet, onto the contents of Mulder's briefcase and mine, stirred together. What a mess. Today we resolved to pull together loose bits of several old cases, drawing conclusions where we could, closing as many cases as humanly possible. We loaded our arms and our briefcases then staggered to my car behind impenetrable shields of paperwork, for once making no pretense about leaving together. While I dig through the debris, looking for Mulder's case notebook, I hear the whir of my food processor. It's Mulder's turn to cook and he has forbidden my presence in the kitchen. Interesting aromas, Italian aromas, roll over me where I kneel on the floor, sifting through papers, collecting the odd bits pertinent to case number X-Z066-2. I feel something under the couch. I probe the small space with my fingers and come up with...a tennis shoe, size 13. More and more, Mulder spends his time at my apartment. His things have crept in and mixed with my things. Shoes, books, CDs, clothing, fill the empty corners of my apartment the way Mulder has filled the empty corners of my heart. Finally, I spot the slim profile of a leather notebook wedged between the lamp and my computer. I pluck it from its hiding place and open the cover, leaf through the first few pages, then stop. What the hell is this? Scully, 010/06/94 Washington DC -I screwed myself this time. I see -anger in your face, cheeks -tight as clenched fists, lips -put together in a fine seam. I curse - This isn't the Pelletier case. I flip to the middle of the book. Scully, 05/21/98 Washington DC -I loved her. Unlike you, -her soul is dark and shuttered -tight against scrutiny and me. - -I love you. Unlike her, -Your soul is joy and light, -open, my refuge from the dark. My God, these are poems. Poems written to me. Scully, 04/21/96 Home, Pennsylvania -Life leads from you to infinity. - -A natural mother, you nurture -the best in me, bring it out, -raise me above any potential -I brought to this world with me. - I had no idea. I leaf through page after page. Scully, 11/18/96 Hamilton County Scully, 1/24/97 Philadelphia Scully, 12/31/97 San Diego I flip back and forth, selecting one entitled "Scully, 01/15/98, near Taos," and read the words he's written to me. -Delicate. - -Your hands flutter among the artifacts, -Touching this, touching that -Lightly. Not even dust cowers -Beneath your delicate fingers. - -Strength. -Your touch against my arm, -Your hand in my hand, holding me -Lightly. Fueled by your strength, -I can slay dragons. Oh, Mulder. I hold the open book against my chest and remember the case. New Mexico. January 1998. Anasazi elders haunted the dreams of several communities. It sounded like a case of peyote to me. Mulder had been equally convinced it was spiritual visitation. We tracked the epicenter of these visions to an undiscovered burial ground, dating back to the 10th century. Over the years, wind and erosion had exhumed the remains. Under the guidance of a shaman, we reburied the bones in newly-consecrated ground. The visions stopped. Go figure. I remember how I worked with the bones, sorting them back into likely groups--female child, male adult, elderly woman. I remember Mulder sitting on a rock, notebook on his knee, writing with great concentration. -Your hands flutter among the artifacts.... I thought he studiously recorded the facts of the case, not the innermost feelings in his heart. With a guilty conscience, I snap the book closed on his private thoughts, quickly slipping it back into the space between computer and lamp. Not quickly enough. "Did you read my poetry?" I jump at the sound of his voice. "I'm sorry, I was looking for your case notebook and opened it by mistake." He retrieves the notebook and holds it up to the light. "My case book is black. This is navy." "I know, I'm sorry." I'm guilty. "The light was dim." He turns his face away, folding the book against his chest, holding it there. "The one I read was beautiful." Flattering. "It was just something I wrote." "A wonderful something." I touch his elbow gently. "You have a gift." "Not really. I just scribble." Shy. "Well, I liked it." I did. How could I not? "Thanks." He pushes the book into a drawer and closes it completely. "I only read one." Well, two...maybe three. "Which one?" "The one about...my...hands." "...Your hand in my hand, holding me/lightly. Fueled by your strength/I can slay dragons," he recites from memory. "That one." For a moment, we stand quietly. "I can." He takes my hands in both of his and holds them tenderly, turning them palm up. He traces my life line with the tip of one finger, following it around the mound at the base of my thumb. "Can what?" I shiver at the delicacy of his touch. "Slay dragons..." He presses a kiss to each of my palms in turn, igniting the fire deep inside me "...with these." Oh Mulder. I cup his face between my hands and brush my lips against his lips. Mulder groans in response, slides his arms around me, pulls me tight against his body. I lose myself in the warm heat of his mouth, the softness of his lips, the smell and taste of him. Without warning Mulder slips one arm behind my knees and sweeps me into the air. "Mulder!" I squeak, feet dangling. "I saw it in a movie once," he laughs, striding down the hall toward our bed. "In the kind of movies you watch?" I laugh, incredulous. "Sure," he pauses in the bedroom door, eyes gleaming in the dim hallway light. "You'd be surprised how much I've learned from those movies." He kisses the sensitive place at the nape of my neck. Ahhh. He hits the sweet spot every time. My neck turns to rubber and rolls loose on my shoulders. I sigh deeply. Ummm...Mulder's lips and..."lasagna," I gasp in his ear. "Cooling on the counter," he whispers in response, laying me gently across the comforter. "The salad is crisping in the refrigerator." He nuzzles the side of my neck while his agile fingers dance down the front of my blouse. "The garlic bread is buttered and garlicked and ready to toast... " my blouse falls away and Mulder dips his head, kissing my bare shoulder "...later." "Later." I agree, more interested in sustenance of another kind right now. I push him against the mattress with one hand and pull at his belt with the other. The buckle clunks against the floor as I helpfully shrug out of my blouse and pull at his fly. Mulder somehow sheds his trousers and briefs with a graceful twist, exposing his beautiful body to me. My bra hits the floor next, closely followed by my slacks and pantyhose. Finally we lay naked together. I feel his heat, his life, the blood hammering through his veins as he slides into me. Pleasures explodes through my body and I thrust hard against him, gasping. Mulder's eyes close as my breath rolls across his face; he draws a deep breath and rocks his hips rhythmically against me, pressing deeper, finding my soul and burning his love into it. My nerves spark, tiny bursts of electricity prickle across my skin in waves as my body responds to him, moving faster, meeting his thrusts. Mulder's ragged breath is loud in my ears, louder than the drumbeat of my pulse. When he whimpers in the back of the throat, I am lost. After the maelstrom, Mulder rolls onto his back, taking me with him. I lay in his arms, his love still warm inside me, and listen to the slowing rhythm of his heart beneath my ear. "So...Scully?" He strokes my hair as a mother would, releasing small tangles with his gentle fingers. "Hmmmm?" I snuggle against him, sated, happy, boneless. Loved. "Now that we've had an appetizer, how about some dinner?" I nod against his shoulder, thinking ahead to dessert. *** The next morning, the aroma of coffee drags me from my sleep. I yawn and stretch, reaching for the headboard, feeling each vertebra pop into its proper place. As my hands fall back onto the blanket, I hear a crisp rustle. I roll to one side and find a piece of paper in Mulder's place. A poem. I find my glasses on the nightstand and read the few lines scrawled there. Scully, 06/05/99 In Our Bedroom -My sun rises in you each morning. - -Your breath - restores my life, -Your faith - renews my hope, -Your pulse - drives blood through my veins; - -Without it, - without you, - -I would wither and wish to die. - -This morning I watch you sleep. - -Your radiance - warms me. -Your hair, - a red corona. - -You are my sun. I fold the paper carefully across the words, then fold it again. I lay the thin slip between pages of my Bible then close it, preserving Mulder's words like a flower. I find my slippers and pull on my robe against the morning chill, then pad in the direction of coffee. In the kitchen, Mulder leans against the sink, clad only in jeans, feet bare, a mug of coffee steaming in one hand. Muscles cross his back in taut relief, flexing beneath his skin as he raises the mug to his lips. Quietly I pad up behind him; he sighs and relaxes against me as I slide my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his back. *** END (1/1) The moral of this story: poetry leads to sex. ;-) Little did my 8th grade English teacher suspect. -- kate.rickman@mindspring.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ http://kate.rickman.home.mindspring.com