From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 21 Jan 2002 19:49:02 -0000
Subject: Remembering the Little Things (1/1) by C and Me
Source: direct

Reply To: berngard3@yahoo.com


Remembering the Little Things (1/1)
By C and Me  berngard3@yahoo.com
Date Authored:  8/24/00
Classification:  V
Keywords:  Mulder angst, post-ep
Spoilers:  Requiem -- aren't we all supposed to write one? (Come
to think of it, I guess this could also be post-Existence)
Rating:  PG -- suggestions and innuendo, oh my!
Archive:  Wherever, just please advise
Disclaimer:  Not mine, in this world or any other universe, huh,
Chris?
Summary:  Mulder's reflections in the interim, wherever he may
be, on what he left behind

* * *

I remember mostly your hands.  Small and delicate, yet
commanding, capable, powerful and sure.  Able to caress with the
slightest, tenderest touch.  Able to twist and mold and drop a
suspect at your feet, despite his advantage in height or weight. 
Dressed up with a bold and precisely applied polish.  Scarred and
muddied in the dirt of our latest investigation or from the blood
of that day's autopsy.  

Unadorned.  

One day I will add something to them.  Just one, simple circle of
gold or platinum, signifying everything you are to me.  The
beginning and the end.  My birth and my death.  My life en toto. 
My alpha and omega you.  

I remember little things.  I want to remember all.  It is the
thing I fear most:  that I will one day forget -- the color of
your hair, the quirk of your lips, the finesse of your touch, the
taste of your mouth, the lilt of your voice, the brilliance of
your eyes, the warmth of your sigh.  I force myself to recall
*everything*, the little and the big.

Everyone remembers the big stuff.  I want to remember the little.
Not just the first day I met you, our first case, the time --
*times* with an 's', plural -- you were taken from me, the pain
of your loss of sister and daughter.  

But the minutia also.  The sound of your heels on the linoleum of
the basement floor as you struggle toward the office under a pile
of files.  The grimace you flip me at one of my inept jokes.  The
roll of your eyes when you dismiss an outlandish theory.  The
feel of you tremble in my embrace as I warm you from the cold.  I
want to remember it all.
                                                                 
                                                                 
I recall the first day I ever saw you.  You were still in the
Academy, at that terrible required class, 'The Criminal Mind'. 
You know, the one taught by someone from ISU.  I snuck into the
back of the classroom one day, waiting for my next lecture to
start.  You were there.  Third chair, second row. 

Maybe I noticed you because of the color of your hair.  I'm sure
you were as bored as you looked.  It was a really *bad* class.  

I don't really recall if I had any first impressions of you,
other than you were so. . .small.  I wondered if you were capable
of making it through the physical regimen the Academy drove into
us all.  You looked too frail to shoot a rifle or make it through
the obstacle course.  But I figured if they let you in, they must
figure you could handle the prerequisites.  Either that or they
needed someone with your skills so badly they were willing to
waive the physical requirements.  

But that's all I really remember of the first time I saw you.  

I remember the feel of your hands on my shoulders, kneading the
tension from them as I sat at the dining table at three a.m. some
night when I couldn't sleep.  You came to me out of your slumber,
shuffling across the hardwood floor in your slippers, your eyes
barely opened.  I knew you had turned in bed and felt the absence
of my warmth, and came seeking it.  

Your hands. . .again.  Tender, yet commanding.  Ordering my
nerves and muscles to give way like butter.  

I leaned my head back against your stomach and closed my eyes and
sank into the pleasure of you.  Your scent, the slight smell of
our sex still clinging.  You made me feel home.  Not 'at home' or
'like I was home'.  But home itself.  As if I was where you
reside.

Well, I guess I am, because you are where I reside.  Inside you. 
Next to your heart.  

Those times were special.  Quiet.  Communion without sound.  You
knew my need of you then.  You knew the demons which taunt me,
forcing away sleep.

I remember you kneeling in front of me, between my legs, and
laying your head gently in my lap, me stroking your hair,
entwining my fingers around your strands.  Your breath warmed my
thigh as your kiss warms my lips.  I think you fell asleep that
night in my arms as I drew you to sit in my lap.  You were so
tired.  I never did fall back asleep, but you eased my soul just
by coming to me, letting me watch you slumber.

I remember that time we ran out of gas in rural Virginia and had
to walk four miles to the nearest gas station in the rain. .
.without an umbrella.  You told me stories of growing up in a
family of four rambunctious kids.  It was actually quite pleasant
to spend some uninterrupted time with you without discussing
cases or mutants or the latest scientific discoveries.  

Boy, were you pissed when we got to the station and it was closed
for the weekend!  No cell phone service.  No traffic on the road.
No house in sight.  It was like we were stuck in the middle of
nowhere with just each other to keep us company.  

We returned to your car, another four miles of drizzle.  Thank
heavens you  -- the ever-prepared Girl Scout, Agent Scully -- had
an old sleeping bag in the trunk, together with 'rations', as you
called them:  a few candy bars, bottled water, crackers and. .
.cheese whiz.  We pulled dry changes of clothes out of our cases,
and turned our backs as one by one we hid under the opened
sleeping bag on the back seat and pulled off the wet items.  Then
to get warm we got comfortable on the back seat -- this time
together, you cradled between my legs, leaning back against me --
and talked late into the night under the warm down of the bag.  

It was bittersweet when a Sheriff's cruiser pulled up some time
around dawn, thinking our vehicle abandoned, and waking us out of
sound sleep.  Had an awkward time explaining how two intelligent,
trained, FBI agents failed to notice the most basic gauge in
their car.  But once back on the road, we couldn't stop laughing
about our experience.  I felt closer to you after that, as if we
passed some sort of test of our abilities to remain decorous even
when we were alone.   Some trial shared, respect defined.

Do you remember that time we played Two Below with the local cops
in that small New England town?  Where was it again?  I don't
think. . .I. . .recall the name.  Well, it doesn't matter. 
What's important is that it was autumn and the trees surrounding
the park were ablaze with the height of color.  You had never
seen the trees in New England before in the Fall, so after we
finished our case, I took you for a drive through the Vermont and
New Hampshire countrysides.  

And we stopped at that picture perfect town with the white
steepled church and old farmhouse buildings.  And we stayed at
that small bed and breakfast run by that woman named Sue.  Just
the two of us.  A day off after some case or other.  Sue baked us
brownies.

And you ran through the leaves tucking that football under your
arm.  You were more sprite than half the home team, and I was so
proud of you.  I don't recall who won.  But you looked like
autumn, your red hair streaming behind you, jeans and a dark
green sweater of mine because you forgot to pack anything more
casual.  And you laughed, the little lines deepening at the
corners of your eyes in true mirth.  You punched me in the arm --
*hard* -- when I tackled you and took you down.  Yeah, I know, I
was only supposed to touch two hands below your waist somewhere
-- and I did often enough that afternoon in the course of the
game -- but I couldn't resist a full body grab and seeing you
writhe in the leaves.

I remember that time you cut your finger with the chef's knife as
you made me dinner.  You were *so angry* with me you couldn't see
straight.  Some little argument we had over a case blew up to a
full gale by the time I made my way to your door that night. 
Gracious as always you let me in and offered me dinner.  You were
making. . .salad -- gee, go figure!  And as you chopped the
mushrooms you weren't watching because I made some stupid comment
and you were throwing me one of those withering glances as the
knife came down on your fingertip.  

That made you a hell of a lot more angry.  I thought you were
going to repeat the Famous Kirsoff Brother's circus act and
impale me against the pantry door with that blade!  But seeing
your blood flowing into the sink because of my dumb remarks had a
way of instantly silencing me.  I grabbed your hand and held it
under the water, cleaning the cut, then bandaged your finger. 
And I was so chagrined when you winced as I swabbed it with
alcohol.   I really didn't want to hurt you anymore.  

That whole scene certainly stopped our fight that night.  We both
apologized, and it was actually a pretty good dinner -- minus the
mushrooms.  I think I hated it the most all the times we fought
and took our ire into the personal sphere.  I never meant to hurt
you, Scully.  Never.  But I know I did over and over again.  'I'm
sorry' just doesn't cut it.  

I remember how you lapped at the lime sherbet dribbling down your
cone, defying it to melt in the Arizona sun.  How you held my
head in your lap once I'd awaken from my nightly terrors, your
palm cool on my forehead, your eyes brimming with their own
concern.  How your coat would flare behind you as you chassed
toward a crime scene or away from me indignantly.  How you rolled
your eyes to the ceiling to see the pencils I flipped there bored
out of my mind waiting for your return from Maine.

I remember walking hand in hand with you on the beach down in
Georgia in the winter.  It was chilly, but the gulls dipped and
called over us as the surf rolled gently into our feet.  Man it
was cold!  I'm glad we went back to the house and lit a fire.  It
was the only thing which finally got me warm.  

And you curled in my arms, your back to my chest as you steepled
my hands between yours.  We sat in front of the fire, and made
love on the soft gray blanket.  The firelight caught the gold in
your hair as I nuzzled into you.  You told me I made you feel so
safe and secure.  I didn't have the heart to break the mood and
remind you of Pfaster or Tooms or Duane Barry.  

You make me *feel*.  The range of my emotions crash over me,
splinter and define themselves more clearly because of you.   You
have taught me the true measure of love, devotion, fidelity,
friendship, courage, and faith.  

I don't know where I am, Scully.  I don't know if I'm on this
earth or out of it.  But I feel a bond as strong with you now as
when you are standing in front of me.  It's almost as if a
gossamer thread spooled out, letting me travel far from you, but
never snapping, never weakening, always there, drawing me back to
you.  You are the only one with whom I have ever felt this
connection.   You are truly my one in five billion.  But let me
modify that, too.  You are my one and only in this whole vast
universe.  I know this now.  You are always with me.  Because I
remember the little things.

****

The End