From firelite11000@aol.com Sun Aug 25 10:53:18 2002 Date: 10 Aug 2002 21:14:16 GMT From: Firelite11000 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: ** REVISED ** "Purely Emotional" Hey all. I wrote this a couple of years ago and recently revised it. Feedback would be wonderfully appreciated as I'm thinking about starting to write again. Purely Emotional By C. Charlotte CCharlotte110@aol.com Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and all other regularly appearing characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and FOX. I don't claim them and am just borrowing them to weave my little web. Distribution: Anywhere, everywhere and Gossamer. Just please keep my name and email address attached and drop me a link so I know where it is. Feedback: Gladly accepted at CCharlotte110@aol.com Rating: PG13 Keywords: angst, MSR, Scully POV Spoilers: Emily, Millennium, Triangle, End Game Summary: Sometimes the path toward what you really want is rocky and filled with obstacles. ************************************************ Click, click. Type, type. More clicks and more types. That's all he ever gives me now. Maybe a few glances, a few sentences when necessity warrants it. Never any excessive touching. The hand on my back is gone, no touches on the arm or cheek to get my attention. And certainly no more jokes. Sometimes the air is so riddled with tension that it becomes hard to breathe and one of us ends up leaving. More often than not, he is the one who rises silently from his chair and exits the office with an excuse to search the FBI library. Neither of us know what to do about the 'situation'. We both just come to work, stumble through the work day, say a few quiet good-byes and retreat to our respective hells. It's oblivious to me how one horrible case, a torturous night, and a simple kiss could have turned our carefully constructed partnership into a sloppy mess. A careful seven-years-in-the-making partnership built entirely on trust and the relationship between two equals, shattered over a purely emotional response, the kiss, to a time of distress for us both. Child kidnapping cases have never been particularly easy for either Mulder or myself for personal reasons. Reasons that we work so hard to hide beneath the surface and reasons that occasionally surface as demons within their own contexts. Pearcy Rosemont was a 43 year old man suffering from a history of mental delusion who simply wanted to avenge the death of his daughter, by what he believed, were causes of negligence on the part of local law enforcement in a high-profile murder case that was taken to court over 15 years ago. He chose to do so by kidnapping the daughters and sons of those officers and federal agents living in the greater D.C. area. I can hear Mulder rustling on the opposite side of the room. I sit there at my desk, imagining his nimble fingers flipping through the pages of our latest case. In my head I can see his hazel-green eyes skimming over the black words, searching for the shred of a connection between seemingly unrelated events. He exhales and I close my eyes for a moment, concentrating hard on the image of him that I'm creating within the confines of my mind. He gets up and I raise my head, following him around the room, silently, with my eyes. He seems perplexed as he checks under various piles of paper. "What is it?" I ask him in a low tone. "I need the stapler. I can't find it." he replies in just as flat a tone. I rummage around and hold it up triumphantly, cradling it in an extended hand in his general direction. He strides over, his dress slacks making reassuring swishing sounds as they brush up against the skin of his legs. He takes it from my hand, our fingertips brushing for a fraction of a second. He freezes, his hand halfway around the stapler while I continue to hold a tenuous grip upon the object as well. Time seems to stand still for a second and the only thing I am aware of is the feeling of Mulder's skin against my own. A sensation of fire and ice. Just as quickly as the feeling comes, it is gone. Mulder pulls his hand away, mumbling a lame apology for the touch, and retreats to his side of the office, curling into his shell for the rest of the work day. I close my eyes and turn back to the computer screen, staring at it but not really comprehending the words on the screen. That is much the same way I feel about Mulder. I can see him, and at times feel him, but I never truly understand who he really is. I think I used to once. That was before the kiss and before he shut me out. My eyes glaze and I unconsciously drop my gaze to a file lying on my desk. I register a feeling of slight shock as I realize it is my final report on the Rosemont case. Post-traumatic illness. That's what I decided Pearcy Rosemont was suffering from. It was a nicer way to say that he had perfected a fine form of insanity. But is the lie I'm living any better? I sit here at this desk every day and toil through the endless mountains of paperwork, supposedly searching for the truth and at the same time quelling the real feelings that I have for my partner. *He* kissed me. That must mean something in the long run. Neither of us were intoxicated, or on pain medications. We were both the true Mulder and Scully and we were in the proper time era. And while emotional distress can cause a person to do irrational things, I don't think that this kiss was a mistake. And I don't think Mulder considers it one either. There are too many signs along the road that support my theory. There was the kiss on New Year's Eve. My whole ordeal with cancer. The loss of Emily and the depth of Mulder's support during the months that followed. And the sexual innuendoes are never-ending. And there are the smaller times, times that we were both fighting physical ailments and doped up out of our mind, but as some people say, sometimes it takes drugs to make you admit your true feelings. There was the time that Mulder almost drowned himself. And then admitted he loved me. There are the numerous times he has been shot, or stabbed, or suffocated, or infused with an alien retro virus and then, while recovering, expressed his gratitude that I was there with him. But for some reason instead of once again expressing his gratitude the night we finished the case, he radically altered our partnership and slammed the door in my face. ************************************************ Laying in my hotel bed, I turn the fan so that it's cold and reassuring breeze hits me square in the face. The Rosemont case has led us out to Louisiana where Pearcy is rumored to have a summer house. A summer home where he has, theoretically, taken the eleven children to. Myself, Mulder and eight other agents will engage in a strike tonight that will ultimately, we hope, provide for the safe return of the children to their families. Rising slowly, I dress methodically in the riot gear clothing I was given the day before and meet Mulder in the lobby of the shabby lodging. Half an hour later we are in the black SWAT van and on our way to the clandestine location that has so assiduously been kept secret from the public, and especially the media. And an hour prior to that event we are back in our motel, Mulder lying quietly on his own bed and I on the floor, by his head. Our intervention had ultimately caused the death of Pearcy Rosemont and two innocent children. Two innocent daughters of a police officer and an agent in Drug Trafficking. The television plays noiselessly, both of us thinking about our involvement with an operation that was designed to ensure the safety of that handful of children. An operation that we ourselves were deeply involved in planning. And as is painfully obvious, we are holding ourselves responsible for those three deaths, as are the other eight agents who participated. He exhales a shaky breath and finally just flips the television off. Neither of us speak and the couple that were just recently arguing next door are now quiet, utter silence descends upon the room. He sniffles and I tip my head back to see him desperately holding onto the few shards of control he has managed to contain thus far. He makes room on the bed and I climb up off the cold floor and onto the only marginally more comfortable mattress. It sags under our combined weight, and dips in the middle. The slight movement seems to be enough to launch Mulder into an attack of fear as he shuts his eyes tightly and balls up his fists, fighting back the tears prickling against his eyelids. "It's okay, Mulder." I murmer, smoothing stray strands of hair down with my fingers. His lips move in a soundless utter of words, words that seem to be a silent prayer to whatever god he believes in to hold back his fears for just one more day, and perhaps one night. I wrap my arms around him, burying my face into the soft down of his hair and clutching onto him in a more forceful grip when his body begins to tremble against my own. A single, tearfilled whimper is released from his lips before the floodgates open and the tears are released. My shirt is quickly soaked, the silken material sticking against my shoulder. My own body gives a shudder as I feel his long and well-muscled arms thread their way around my waist and hold on with a tight grip. My own tears rain down into his hair and onto his head and I fight to gain control of my emotions. Sniffling, I force down the lump rising in my throat and the feeling of queasiness within my stomach. There is one thing to concentrate on here and that is the welfare of Mulder. Nothing else will matter to me until I am sure that my partner is no longer distressed. That has always been my ultimate goal. His crying quiets and I feel confident to release my grip the tinest bit... ************************************************ Mulder's angry voice snaps me from my reverie and I find myself staring into his face, the skin relatively pale and the eyes large and deep green in the light. Tiny pyramids of gold are mired in the surface of his orbs and I barely restrain myself from grabbing him by the tie and pulling him down into another kiss. "Well, gee Scully, thanks for paying attention every now and then! I mean, hey I am only your partner." he snaps, glaring at me and removing his hands from my desk, wiping them on his suit pants as though to remove something unsatisfactory he assumes would come from the surface of the polished cherrywood desk. My desk. I drop my eyes and let a small sigh escape from between my parted lips. "Sorry. I was thinking about the Rosemont case." I offer as an apology as my fingers skim the surface of the glossy 10' by 14' of Pearcy and his daughter, taken nearly 19 years prior. The girl has the purest blond hair, almost golden in the picture, and blue eyes, the color of Carribean waters. Emily would have looked like her had she the chance to grow up. But neither Emily nor this girl ever had a chance to really grow up. One girl's life was cut short by a menace of society. Another life ended by a menace of the body. He stalks away, throwing his body almost petulantly into his swivel chair which winds around in shock from the suddenness of his weight, He growls, stops the chair by forcing a foot under his desk and grabbing onto the grey surface with his hands. "What is it that you need, or needed, Mulder?" I ask slowly, trying to clear my head of all the sudden trains of thought. "Nothing, Scully. I don't want to bother you with my own problems when you obviously have pressing issues of your own." he says sarcastically, biting off every word and spitting it out in a well-controlled and terribly bitter tone. Red flashes before my eyes and I can almost feel the anger building within my bones and flooding into each vein, en route to every sensitive spot in my body. In an instant, I am transported back to that night. ************************************************ I release his body tentatively and hold him for a bit longer when he scrambles for purchase as soon as my arms are no longer providing him with a safe harbour. Almost fifteen minutes later, he seems ready to pull away and sits up, wiping his eyes with his right hand and shakily running the opposite hand through his hair and attempting to right the strands into some form of his previous hairstyle. He gives in futilely several minutes later and allows the weed-wacked look to remain. Glitters of pain and remorse flash across the crystalline surfaces of his eyes and he parts his lips, moves them to say something, and just as quickly puts those thoughts to rest. He smiles weakly at me and I pull his trembling body back against me. He resists for a fraction of a second and then regains his rightful place against my chest, his head nestled in the groove between neck and shoulder. He breathes deeply a few times and I can distinctly feel his heart beating against my chest in a slow and steady manner. He pulls away seconds later and cradles my face in his hands. He brushes a fingertip over the tip of my nose, smiling gently, before leaning down and pressing his lips against my own. I smile but all too soon it is over and his hands are no longer on my face, but by his sides. And looking into his eyes I see the one thing I never expected. Pure terror. ************************************************ My eyes dilate and for a second I wonder if I will pass out from the shock of it all. My hands clench at a file on the desk, releasing and retightening in an effort to try to stop the anger pooling. Suddenly everything explodes in a wide and bright ball, repressed feelings ripping out into the broad spectrum of color and every last drop centered directly towards Mulder. Any prior reservations I had about confronting Mulder have flown out the window as I rise from my seat and slam a hand down onto the desk. His eyes are suddenly upon me and I can see all my own feelings mirrored within his eyes. He silently watches me, his lips pursing in anger. "You know what?! I've had enough of all of your self righteous bull-shit Mulder!" I explode. "You act as though I'm some type of disease and you don't come near me, you barely give me a straight answer, and when you do it's usually LACED WITH SARCASM!!" I'm sure I'm screaming by this point, only parts of images flash before my eyes in a distorted color scale of red, orange and yellow. Angry streaks of green and blue occasionally flash by. Mulder backs away slightly, allowing the sheaf of papers in his hands to drift down to the floor in their own lazy manner. His eyes are wide and he seems surprised by my sudden outburst. Good, damn it. He should be. "You can barely touch me without wincing. Am I really *that* repulsive to you?" I continue, my voice now a controlled whisper that is choked with the beginnings of tears. He shakes his head, kneeling down to collect the papers and keeps his gaze carefully trained on the featureless floor. He rises again and places the leaflets carefully on my desk before advancing to my side and grabbing my wrist and pulling me up against him. He tips my head back, slowly and gently, testing every move and waiting to see what my reaction will be until he allows himself to continue. I relax from my anger and allow him to touch me, his fingers grazing and creating a sensation that I have not felt in a generation. "I'm sorry." he whispers. "I thought I made a mistake when I....when I-...." ".....kissed me." I finish for him. "You can say the word Mulder." He nods and draws my head into his hands, cupping each cheek and wondrously running the pads of his fingers over my skin in languorous motions. "You're not repulsive to me in the slightest way, Scully." he says, speaking finally in a low and even tone. "I was afraid. Afraid that I had overstepped some invisible boundary that night. I was afraid you were angry. I didn't know what else to do other than ignore and try to bury it. My feelings." I nod and bring my own hands up to his face. He smiles gently and I feel my hands moving in a motion of their own, tracing the outline of his jaw and mouth on an accord of their own. His grip suddenly tightens and he moves his head down near mine, his hands no longer on my face but neatly laying against my waist and pulling me up against him. In a searing second, he captures my lips for the second time. In that moment, time freezes. For once in my life, something feels right. E N D