From: Daydream59 Date: 20 Oct 1998 02:26:08 GMT Subject: *NEW* Terpsichore 01/01 MSR by Daydreamer Title: The Muses: Terpsichore 01/01 Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com Rating: R Category: VA Spoilers: None Keywords: MSR Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please! Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Comments: Thanks to all who previewed this for me - your comments were invaluable and much appreciated! Summary: Part of a nine part anthology based on the Greek Muses and the artistic field each represents. Terpsichore is Dance. Terpsichore 01/01 The case had been horrific. Seven little girls, each one brutally abused and murdered. Each one yanked from the safety and security of her own bed, her own home, in the dead of night. Two so young, so small, they were still in cribs. Stranger abductions. Stranger murders. They'd been called in to investigate a potential supernatural aspect, which had been quickly ruled out, and Mulder had been persuaded -- almost blackmailed -- into staying and using his profiling talent. He hated it. Hated how it affected him. Hated what he saw, what he felt, what he did. And Scully. Scully had been affected in a way he hadn't seen in years. She'd been jumpy. Anxious. Almost unstable. She'd left briefings without a word and walked away in the middle of conversations. He'd watch her dance of denial throughout it all, and wished she'd let him help. It was understandable that this case would affect her differently. More deeply. Personally. Each of the little girls taken was between 2 and 5 years old. Each blonde, each blue-eyed. Each one an image of Emily, or what she would have been. But finally they had caught the monster that had created this madness. The case was closed. Grieving parents could grieve in peace. That the threat was at an end was something for which other parents could thank God, their lucky stars, and the FBI. One particular FBI agent in fact; a petite redhead who had gone with barely any food or sleep for weeks as she personally performed each autopsy and oversaw all tests and screenings that came from them. She'd repeatedly flown back to DC to redo a test or examine the results in person, then wearily, but determinedly, she had returned to continue the fight. It had been her hard work that had eventually found the elusive clue that linked the murders together, narrowed the suspect field, and made it possible to pull a murderer off the street. They'd caught the first flight back east, eager to be away from the pervasive influence of a murderer's madness. Exhausted, Scully had fallen asleep on his shoulder on the plane, and he'd taken liberties he'd never dare when she was awake. He'd wrapped her gently in a blanket, seeking to warm her from the cold that had invaded her soul. He'd lifted the armrest between their seats, and pulled her head down into his lap. He'd held her, stroking her arm, rubbing her still tense shoulders, and even allowing himself to run his fingers through the silky softness of her hair. He'd watched, helpless, as her body twitched and her eyes tightened. Undeniable proof that even in the safety of her sleep, reality haunted her. He'd watched her dance with the demons, and knew he'd walk through hell itself if it would relieve her of her purgatorial suffering. She'd awakened as they had prepared for landing, embarrassed to find herself draped across his lap, her hand pillowing her head in an awkward position. As if he hadn't been *extremely* aware of where her hand, and head, had been for the last two hours. He'd laughed, telling her he had no choice but to let her lay down as she had nearly collapsed on him. She'd sat up quickly, apologizing, and he'd waved it off with another laugh, hoping the bulge in his pants was not visible. It was part of their own personal dance. Step, retreat. Step, retreat. They'd been doing it for over 5 years now. Something intimate would occur, step, and they'd back away, retreat. Then, inexorably, there would be another moment of intimacy, step, step, only to see them both running back to their own safe spaces, retreating again. They'd finally straggled off the plane -- she'd allowed him to carry her bag this time, a true indication of how tired she was -- and they'd made the trip to her apartment in companionable silence. Once there, she'd surprised him by inviting him up, then surprised him again when she moved directly to a wine rack he didn't even know she had. She hadn't perused the selection at all, just taken the first bottle her fingers found, and poured two glasses. She drained hers immediately and poured again. He was sipping his now, content to watch her as she moved through the apartment, unpacking, preparing her wash, dusting the surfaces that had lain untended during their weeks long absence. The dust itself confirmed what he suspected; that even though she had been in and out of DC during the case, she had not gone home at all. She continued to drink as she worked, not talking but glancing his way occasionally. She finished her second glass before he finished his first, and poured once more. She walked to him, stepping between his legs and topping off his first glass. Her hands circled his and gently lifted it to his mouth. He sipped obligingly, then lowered the glass again. She was staring at him, watching his every movement with a heretofore unseen cast to her eyes. Holding his eyes with her own, she slowly dipped her finger into the sweet wine and raised it toward his lips. Astonished at her actions, he caught her wrist in midair, holding her carefully in place. Neither moved as he struggled to fathom her behavior. She broke away from him, and again drained her glass without stopping. As she walked back toward the kitchen, she poured again, then giggled as the wine sloshed over the side of the glass. Rising quickly, he stepped forward to take the bottle from her. The wine was making her giddy, and she smiled at him as he gently pulled the bottle from her hands. She captured his hand in her own in a brief tug of war over the bottle, then giggled again as she released both bottle and hand. She walked a little ways away, placed her glass on the table, then lifted her arms above her head and spun madly before his amused eyes. She twirled unstopping until she dropped, dizzy, to her knees. Face flushed, eyes bright, she looked up at him and said, "I took ballet. Did you know that?" He shook his head. He hadn't known it, but it made sense. There was an innate gracefulness in her every move. "I always wanted to be a ballerina," she said. "Not very original for a little girl, but -- I don't know -- there's a beauty in ballet." He nodded, then knelt to be closer to her, and smiled encouragingly for her to go on. Inside he was thrilled beyond belief to be offered this tiny glimpse into her soul, to have it offered so freely. It was a gift beyond measure. "Missy and I used to organize dance recitals on the base. Wherever we were, we'd find out who took dance, and then we'd spend the entire year working up to a big summer performance. We planned everything, did our own choreography too. It was wonderful, and I was convinced I was going to be a great ballerina." She rose to her feet, kicked off her shoes and quickly moved through the standard positions. He recognized them -- Sam, too, had taken ballet. 'It really must be something every little girl goes through,' he thought. She recaptured her wine glass, sipped this time, and gave him a speculative look. Walking to where he knelt on the rug, she plucked both glass and bottle from his unprotesting fingers, then carried them to the small sideboard. She returned to stand over him, once more capturing him in her crystal blue gaze. He stared up, mesmerized, fighting an inward battle he'd fought so often before. He was sinking into her soul, losing himself in her, when she spoke, breaking the spell. "Come. Dance with me." He laughed, disappointed and relieved. "Scully, I can't dance -- not ballet." But she was pulling him to his feet, and he was rising, unwilling to deny her anything. "You don't have to dance," she said. "Actually, you just sorta stand there. It's what most of the guys do anyway." He laughed again and stood awkwardly in the middle of her living room as she pushed back chairs and tables and made a space for her dance. He stood watching her, her body rippling as she pushed and shoved the heavy furniture and it never occurred to him to offer to help. He was enjoying the moment too much, drinking it in, impressing it forever on his mind. And then she was moving, moving toward him, tiny little steps, graceful arm movements, dancing to music only she could hear. He was captivated. Her body moved so fluidly, it seemed to flow across the floor towards him. And before he knew it, she was pressed up against him, her body alive with motion. She writhed against him until he could take no more, then he took a tiny, hesitant step backward. She laughed and reached for his hand. Lifting his arm above her head, she fully extended her own and held his hand with the slightest of grasps. She began to spin again, twirling and twirling and twirling, until even he was dizzy with her movement. She hummed as she spun, a barely audible, breathy little sound made deep in her throat. He watched in amusement as she continued to whirl, her breathing growing labored as she turned faster and faster. But as the twirling went on and on and on, and she grew unsteady on her feet, her muscles trembling with the effort and her breath ragged, he became concerned. "Scully. Scully. Stop," he said gently. She shook her head and continued the frantic whirling. "Scully, you need to stop now." He tightened his grip on the hand she held extended over her head and tentatively reached out to try to lay a hand on her rapidly spinning body, but it was like trying to catch the wind. "No, no, no," she chanted. "No, no, no. Turn around, turn away, Turn aside, turn today. Seasons turn and people too Watch your back, they'll turn on you." This last was gasped out as she released his hand and slumped unmoving to the floor. He dropped to his knees beside her. "Scully -- Dana -- are you all right?" She didn't respond and he saw that she was crying silently, the tears streaming down her face. He reached out and gathered her into his arms, pulling her into his lap, holding her tightly as the sobs escaped. "I'm glad you're there to watch my back," she whispered, the words slipped out between the silent, wracking sobs. He squeezed her to himself, and answered, "So am I, Scully, so am I." Her sobs began to quiet and she slowly stilled within the embrace of his arms. He waited for her to begin the dance again -- their dance. The dance of retreat and avoidance. The dance of denial and regret. But she stayed within the circle of his touch and gently laid her head upon his shoulder. "There's no turning back now, is there Mulder?" He wasn't sure what she was referring to, back from the madness of the case? Back from the twisted evil they fought on their jobs? Back from -- what? But it didn't really matter at this point, and he answered softly, "You can never really turn back, Scully. You always have to move ahead." She shuddered once, then sighed, and leaned more fully against him. Her soft body twisted slowly in his lap and her hands reached up to cradle his face. "I'm not drunk anymore," she whispered. His body tensed. Didn't she know the effect she had on him? She wriggled again and he felt himself harden. He carefully took her hands in his own, and stilled her movements. "I know." This was it. He could feel it coming. Their dance. She would push him away, and he would rise and laugh. She would send him home, and he would go. She'd offer an embarrassed 'sorry,' or 'thank you,' and he would wave it away. And so they would continue the dance. She was unmoving now, her eyes fastened to his eyes as she waited. Waited for what? What did she want? She shook herself again, then rose a bit shakily to her feet and pulled him up behind her. He stood, her hand still clutching his as she took two steps to close the gap between their bodies. She was staring at him, her eyes two pools of liquid pain, and he wanted nothing more than to take the pain away. He lifted his hand and pulled her tightly to him, knowing she would feel his arousal and torn between his shame and his desire. What dance was this? He wrapped her in his arms and her hands reached up to lock behind his neck. They stood there, in the center of the room, and then she slowly began to move. It was so small, so slight, he almost missed it as she began to sway within the circle of his arms. But he found himself moving with her, following her gentle rocking movements, dancing to a different tune. This was not their usual dance. Her body was tight against his, and he knew she could feel him through his pants. She deliberately moved against him, an enticing friction that teased and taunted him. What dance was this? Please, what dance was this? He looked down to see her nipples, visible through both bra and silky shell, hard and taut as they strained against the dainty fabric. The scent of her arousal wafted forth and he grew drunk on the moment. A new dance. This was a new dance. He looked down and met her eyes, seeing the acceptance, the invitation, the desire that filled her soul. He raised a hand to stroke her arm, his fingers trailing lightly from shoulder to wrist and she moaned at the contact. Emboldened, he leaned down and gently brushed her lips with his own. He withdrew slightly, to see her reaction, but she followed, and pulled him down again, her lips seeking his. A new dance. A new dance. A new dance. The blood was pounding in his head, pooling in his groin, and all hope of coherent thought was rapidly being lost. He swallowed, hard, and made one last attempt. "Scully -- I ..." "Shh..." Her fingers were upon his lips now, tracing their outline and he pulled a single, perfect digit into his mouth, sucking gently. "Shh," she whispered again, her breath hot against his chin as she gazed up into his eyes. "I'm not drunk." He released the finger, and she brought it to her own mouth, touching her lips gently with his moisture. "I know what I want." He groaned aloud then, and clutched her to his body, pulling her to him as if he could pull her into his very soul. She stayed tight against him, then gently pulled away and took his hand. Turning, she began to walk down the hall, leading him toward the bedroom. And with each step forward, he slowly began to realize that this was not a new dance, but the oldest dance of all. End Daydreamer Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire! http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/2113/ and please sign the guest book so I'll know you stopped by!