From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 14 Feb 2005 23:40:13 -0000
Subject: The Song of Songs by Jillian
Source: direct

Reply To: chaotic.control@gmail.com


TITLE: The Song of Songs
AUTHOR: Jillian
RATING: PG-13
SPOILERS: None.
FEEDBACK: Jillian no function feedback well without.  Send anything
to chaotic.control@gmail.com
ARCHIVE: I'd be flattered.  Please notify me first, though.
DISCLAIMER: They're not mine, but Chris never let's them have any
fun, so I absconded with them for a while.  He'll get them back. 
Eventually.
NOTES: At the end.
SUMMARY: "For love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. 
Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame."  The Song of Songs,
8:6.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 
 
Sometimes, I lie in bed with my lover for long moments of time.  We
say nothing, do nothing, and just lie.  I hold him in my arms, and we
spend what feels like endless amounts of time looking at one another;
appreciating one another's bodies, company, and love.  We are two
bodies lying together, naked and unashamed.  There is nothing to hide
from, nothing to deny and nobody to fear.  When we are together we
are anything but shameful: we are everything that is right and just
in our lives, we are what a man and woman should be.  We are pure. 
We are the truth.
 
I feel complete in his arms.  I am not one to think in such
melodramatic terms: it is only when we lie together like this that I
allow myself such an indulgence.  When we are outside, covered in
conservative suits and professional personas, I think of only the
analytic and the scientific.  But in these rare moments, just for a
little while, I let myself muse on the two of us as if I am suspended
in a dream.  Outside of this little world I am rigid and maybe even
cold on occasion, but not here.  Here I am soft and feminine and one
half of something perfect.
 
My lover's eyes meet mine, hazel, deep, and alluring.  His eyes are
a trap, a trap I allow myself to be caught in over and over again. 
His nose juts out and defines his profile; I know he thinks it's too
big, but it suits him.  I run my hands idly over his bare chest, past
the sparse hair there, down to his abdomen.  His body is lean and
toned, harboring strength under soft skin.  His narrow hips, his long
legs...I could spend hours with him, just like this.  Well, not
hours--
the temptation to touch him is too strong.  I can only last so long
looking at him without wanting to make love to him.
 
But even in that, we two lovers are unashamed.  Making love to
Mulder is everything making love should be.  It is everything sex
never was until I found him.  It is different every time; it is
passionate, pleasurable, and fun.  Sometimes we laugh, sometimes we
cry.  Sometimes our lovemaking is concentrated and serious, other
times it is fast and desperate, or silly and joyous, or lazy and
slow.  Our lovemaking is worshipful and proud, and never selfish.  It
is give and take all at once: a perfect partnership. 
 
What is so amazing is that he loves me.  He loves me when I'm
rambling about some scientific anomaly; he loves me when I'm poking
holes in his theories.  He loves me at my best, when I am kind and
beautiful.  He loves me at my worst, when I am closed-off and
selfish.  He loves me on Friday afternoons when we're eating Chinese
food after work, and he loves me at three in the morning when I'm
covered in mud and chasing shadows.  He loves the way I speak, even
the slight lisp that I never got rid of in my college public speaking
classes.  He loves the way I look, even though I'm short and
freckled.  I've never been loved like that before, so
unconditionally, so freely.  It makes me feel safe, treasured, and
comfortable.  It makes it less frightening to love him in the same
capacity: to love him even when he's driving me absolutely insane.

My lover's passion is terrifying in its intensity.  I saw it when I
first met him, and I found myself wondering what it would be like if
his passion was directed at me.  I have found the answer to that
question, and it is beyond words.  It is frightening but wonderful,
strengthening and weakening all at once.  I can feel his passion in
the beat of his heart against my naked body as we lie here together. 
I can see it in his eyes as he looks at me with desire and love.  It
is threatening and protecting: I may become lost in it, but within
his power he will never allow anything to harm me. My lover is a
study in paradoxes, but his passion is a constant.  It exhibits
itself in different forms; it evokes different emotions, but it
always burning inside of him.
 
A long time ago, I never dared to imagine that I would lie here with
him.  Truthfully, it was not all that long ago that we met; it just
feels like ages that we have known each other.  The time before we
became lovers was less than a year ago, but it feels like I have
known his body and mind so intimately my entire life.  I feel like I
have spent the full length of my existence here, wrapped in his arms.
My entire life, I have built up facades for myself, played roles: the
good daughter, the good Agent, the good Catholic.  When I lie in
Mulder's arms, I am myself.  He makes it safe for me to let go; to
let go of the rigid control and the scientific aloofness I maintain
in our work.  Letting go has never been so beautiful, so freeing, and
so right.

He'll never get me to admit it, but my lover's embrace makes me feel
safe.  Outside, the world is dangerous and corrupt, but in his arms,
I am safe and loved and pure.  
 
Right now, that's all that matters.
 
* * * * * *
 
When I look into her eyes, it's hard to believe that I managed to
find such an amazing woman.  Sometimes I don't understand why she
stays with me: I only cause her trouble.  But when she looks at me
like this, I know why she stays.  She stays because she loves me. 
Why on earth she loves me, well, that I'm still not sure of.  But I
am sure of one thing: I love her more than I've ever loved anyone. 
She is the one person in my life who has not abandoned me, and I know
that she never will.  I know within my heart that Scully would never
leave me.
 
When I'm holding my lover's body against mine, I can't help but run
my eyes over her form.  Her russet hair is a stark contrast from the
crisp white sheets beneath her; it burns with the fire that is so
carefully concealed inside her heart.  She has eyes that redefine the
word blue, eyes that command my attention and shine when she gets
angry or passionate.  I usually forget how small my partner is,
because her physical and mental strength is overwhelming.  Scully is
bigger than her body in every way.  She can complete a physics
equation, take down a violent criminal, deliver a convincing speech,
figure out a cause of death, reapply her lipstick, and make me laugh
all in the span of about five minutes.  And it only takes that long
because she does it all in heels.
 
Her small body is perfect, especially in my eyes.  She has skin that
is soft and white, skin that begs to be touched.  Her lips are
perfectly pink, decadently full, and torturously soft.  They are lips
that love to release bits of scientific information, reasons why I'm
crazy, and sometimes--when I am a lucky man--they release words of
emotion and endearment.  My eyes move down to her long, elegant neck
from which a symbol of her faith hangs.  Scully is my faith, she is
my religion.   I try to be entirely devout in my faith, but every
once in a while I oversleep and miss church.  She is always there to
bless and forgive me later.
 
I move my gaze down from her cross to take in the full extent of her
beauty.  Her shoulders are dashed with freckles, and she has a
chicken pox scar near the place where her left arm meets her chest. 
Below the tiny scar, her breasts are not large but are round and sit
perfectly on her frame.  Her stomach is flat and her hips flare out
just enough.  Her legs are toned from long jogs and they are smooth
against mine.  She is petite and tremendous all at once, powerful and
luxuriously womanly.  My lover is perfect and I can't stop looking at
her.
 
    When I hold her, it's as if nothing else exists.  We are in our
own little world in her bed, the only people inhabiting a better
earth.  There is no conspiracy, no shadowy men, and no cigarettes. 
They do not exist because everything in this world is perfect.  When
we are together, we are perfect.  Everything is right for a little
while when we close the door and hold one another.  
 
    This woman has saved me so many times.  Not just my life, not
just my body, but my sanity.  My soul.  She has always come to the
rescue.  Even before we were lovers, she rescued me more often than
she knew.  Now I let her rescue me every chance she gets, with her
sweet kiss, with her loving touch, and with her longing gaze. 
Sometimes when we make love, it's almost like rebirth.  She makes me
forget about all of my guilt and my anger and my pain and for a while
it's just us.  I'm baptized in her, in the name of Scully.  She takes
away my sins and makes me feel like I have done something right.  I
haven't driven her away; I haven't made her want to leave.  She loves
me and that never ceases to amaze me.  The power behind her devotion
matches mine, and it is outstanding.  Even if the sins return to me
when we leave this little world of ours and become consummate
professionals again, I know that she will always be there to redeem
me.  
 
    So when she moves her face closer to mine, her lips reaching out
in a kiss, I am more than happy to kiss her back.  We are perfect and
right and wonderful and everything I have been seeking in my life. 
We are so proud of our love, the same way we have always taken such
pride in our partnership.  There was a time when I thought becoming
lovers would pervert our partnership somehow, ruin our friendship and
our ability to work together.  I was wrong.  Being Scully's lover has
done the opposite--it has made our partnership more pure.  It has
made both of us pure.  I could kiss her forever, but we both know
that with the sun we both must rise and enter the larger world.  We
must put on our business suits and resist our desire to touch one
another in front of the whole world.  We must leave our bedroom and
join the outside universe, where things are not as pure as my lover
and I make each other.
 
But for now, I'll drown in our love and kiss her again.  The real
world is waiting for us, but we're going to show up an hour late this
morning.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

NOTES: This story was inspired by The Bible, of all things, most
notably the book which it is titled after.  It's known often as Song
of Solomon, or Song of Songs, or The Song of Songs, which is
Solomon's.  I went with Song of Songs because it's prettier :D. 
Ironically, I was studying the less-than-joyous Book of Job for my
Literature class when I found myself re-reading Song of Songs, a love
poem between a newly married couple, proudly celebrating the joy of
love and of making love.  And that's where this came from.  And what
do you know; it's just in time for Valentine's Day.  Thanks for
reading, I hope you enjoyed it.  Let me know either way at
chaotic.control@gmail.com